Starting Over

It took about 2 months before Dani couldn't contain her curiosity any more, when she asked, "What the hell are you writing a book about? How far along are you?"

I looked up from my formerly ratty couch, now replaced with a good one, but covered with a throw (so I could wash the cum stains out, as needed) and squeezed her right boob, tugging on the distended nipple.

"Oh, no, you don't, no more sex from me until you answer the question," she said, as she jerked her bare boob out of my questing fingers and hand and re-covered it with her tiny, triangular bikini swim-suit top. This was a bald-faced lie, of course, as she was sitting on my sofa, naked from the waist down, with legs spread open and her distended clit peeking from her sloppy-wet vaginal lips.

Laughing, I answered, saying, "Look, Dani, it was back after my first divorce. My ex-wife had gotten literally everything from the 'scorched-earth' divorce. You remember I said she'd even managed to fuck my lawyer, so as to get everything I had, leaving me in dire poverty (he was found out and disbarred for that, later). The divorce came close to finishing me, as I was sleeping in my van and eating maybe once a day, cooking found veggies and boiled potatoes on a little camp stove. No computer, not even a cell-phone. But public libraries were still free, so I spent a lot of time there, in heated or air-conditioned comfort."

"One day, when I was bored to tears, for no particular reason, I decided to read a romance novel. Ordinarily, I hated that genre of literature, but I suddenly thought to figure out why I didn't like them. So I settled down to do some literary research. I must have read through 30 books, including some non-fiction stuff, about 'How-To-Write-A-Romance-Novel'. As it turned out, there are some hard-and-fast rules and a lot of soft advice rules about writing romance."

"For instance, go way back in time, and read The Last of the Mohicans. That's romance with a capitol 'R'. It's not just Boy-Meets-Girl. There a lot of twists and turns in that book. But, as it turned out, it was so popular that all the rest of the author's books were just sequels and prequels to that first story."

"So, just as a joke to myself, I sat down at one of the library's computer terminals and started to bang out a romance story. I used every cliche I could think of. Every plot twist that the other books came up with, I shamelessly copied."

"Because I used to own a kilt, I set the locale in Scotland and made the protagonist a Scottish woman. I added dark mystery, by having her wear a titanium-metal collar, as a deep sign that she was, at heart, a submissive person for her One True Love, but that knowledge was to be covered up with steady professional competence. She was to be a McDowell, from the Borders area between Scotland and England. Her family had owned a tower castle there, now in ruins."

"Oh, Dani," I went on, "I threw in everything I could imagine, even managing to figure out that I'd need several prequels, as her personality 'remembered' items from former lives, as physically illustrated by the metal of the collars she wore: titanium for now ... steel for the 1900's ... an iron 'torq' for the Victorian era 1800s ... a bronze 'torc' for the late 1700's ... and gold + amber for the earlier times. Always dropping little hints that there were earlier and later avatars of her ... always with the barest hints that actually, she might be personally immortal. But nothing more than hints or tiny inconsistencies. Oh, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, saving all the junk on a flash-stick I kept with me all the time. Then I edited and I edited and I edited, trying to keep the level of intrigue and interest going, page by page. I wound up with 5 whole books of romance trash."

"Then I started the dreary task of trying to find a publisher, without an agent. I did have a stroke of luck, when I chanced on a husband-wife-and-daughter team, ready to begin a small publishing business.

But, there came a hitch. It was, well, me. I was Dan Reznick, former Sysadmin to a tech corporation from Columbus, Ohio. There was nothing romantic about any part of me. Sure, I could have adopted a female 'pen-name' but even a casual Internet search would have revealed the truth."

"What my publishers wanted was a Scottish woman as the 'author'. Lovely, with long, dark black hair. Speaking with a distinct Scottish 'burr' to her words and voice. Someone with a completely Scottish name. Someone who could lay claim to at least a little Scottish nobility. Someone who could refer to a family castle in Scotland. Someone vaguely sexy, who was also mysterious, possibly with a vague 'past' hinting at 'dark secrets'. Someone to represent me before the 99% female reading public, on an 'as-told-to' basis. Someone that could appear on the book's preface ... a darkly brooding woman's picture on the dust jacket ... someone who could 'claim' to be Abigail Deeth McDowell."

"So, Dani, now I've gotta find such a woman, and I don't have a lot of time, with initial publication date just a couple of months away."

Dani, at first just open-mouthed in shock, actually giggled, and said, "Well, what about our Abbi? She's Scottish, you can hear a bit of an accent when she talks. You know, the one who hardly ever leaves her apartment and wears all that cover-up clothing when she does. I've been trying to draw her out for months, but she's so up-tight. She needs the paid work. She's a trained actress. If you hire her, then she can pay me the back rent for the last two months and maybe eat something better than the scraps she's living on now."

I said, "You mean the pale white girl in the one-piece bathing suit that doesn't talk to hardly anybody. The one that answers everything I say in one or two words. The one that won't even look at the other topless little cuties that infest this place."

"Yeah," said my lover Dani, "that one."

A frontal attack seemed best, so, when I assured myself that Abbi, in her ratty one-piece cover-up swim-suit, was sitting under an umbrella, deep in a shaded corner, I brought over a picnic lunch for two and simply spread a mid-day feast out in front of her. Two sandwiches, with multi-grain bread, with tasty pastrami deli meat, slathered with mayo and mustard, with lettuce, tomato and cheese. Two bags of chips. Two bottles of spring water. Paper napkins. Paper plates. I spread a paper tablecloth before her, to catch crumbs.

I refused to take 'No, thanks, please' for an answer, saying, "I've got a possible deal for you, but we can't talk business until we've eaten." Which she then did, attacking the food like a starving swarm of locusts.

My 'deal' was all of the meals she could eat, rent + utilities covered too, plus a copy of a simple contract, asking for her services as a historical documentary actress. I'd prepared a cash-filled envelope as an advance on a steady salary.

Lastly, there was a simple agreement, allowing me to use mild hypnosis on her to emphasize certain traits of her Scottish culture and ancestry, as the author's representative of my to-be-published book.

She simply said, "Yes, I'll sign on as your representative. Consider me hired."

I gave her my prepared envelopes, containing enough advanced cash for Dani's back rent + utilities, plus a modest amount more for food and some other clothing. Abbi immediately walked over to Dani and passed over the rental amount to her, and then stood a little straighter, with pride restored, as she strolled away, back to where we sat.

She strolled with a decided hip wiggle, which I, being male, appreciated.

Seizing on my manuscripts, she carefully reviewed everything, including my notes for the sequels and prequels, and made several suggestions as to changes of wordings, grammar and use of expressions, to be more in 'tune' with modern and pre-modern Scottish turns of speech and phrasings.

It turned out that she'd trained herself, as an actress, to specialize in historical documentaries and films, which, as employment in Southern California, didn't pan out enough to support her. Finding Dani's apartments was a stroke of dumb luck, for her.

Surprisingly, Abbi agreed to be hypnotized by me, instantly, saying, "I trust you, completely, as of right now." Demonstrating that, she rolled down the top of her black one-piece swimsuit, to display the tops of her milk-white boobs, just over her nipples.

Smiling shyly, she said, "When can we start? How about right now, over in your apartment, OK? And no, I don't need a witness present. Tell Dani that I meant it when I said I trusted you completely. You'll help make me into your possibly immortal Scottish Mystery Woman author and I'm gonna love becoming her."

Abbi also said, smiling a lot more broadly, "I think you'll like making me into her, too. Sexing included. I'm an actress, so I like becoming someone else. It's gonna be lots of fun."

Then she floored me, by saying, "Oh, yeah, I forgot to say, I'm not a virgin," then asking, "Can you get me to wear a black bikini ... a zip-front little black cocktail dress ... and a no-back, sweeping black, floor-length formal dress (with CFM heels and nothing on underneath), with sexy pride? That would be what your modern Mystery Woman would wear this century, wouldn't it?"

I wondered what fantasies I'd stumbled into.

[Where did I become a hypnotist? Well, I chanced upon a couple of cheap books, when I was dirt-poor, after my first divorce, then discovered I was good at it. I got chances to practice, mostly by word of mouth, around the various singles-groups 'meat-markets,' as cheap entertainment. Ditto fire-eating, too, which, after a couple of minor burns, kept me eating and paid for my car's gasoline, since I was sleeping in it, back then.

A lot of people have strange ideas about a hypnotic induction or a hypnotic state of trance. There is no instant control of a subject's mind and will. No 'look into my eyes ... snap my fingers ... OK, bitch, drop 'em ... get down ... spread ... fuck me...' No blank face, glassy-eyed stare. Instead, you have a person who, at least on the surface, appears to be a willing participant.

All the induction does is to get the subject to focus on something (can be anything that catches the attention, such as a candle, a gem slowly rotating or a twinkling crystal, swinging between two slowly moving bare boobs) and a person to utter a slow, relaxing series of suggestions, which only later can be commands.

A common theme is that the subject, at least for the first inductions, 'knows' what the hypnotist is saying and doing, and just goes along with it, always thinking that she/he can break loose at any moment ... but never does.

The hypnotist does have to be careful about the words, grammar and intonation that is used, because the subject, within trance, becomes very concrete and immediate in their thinking. Innuendo and euphemisms are not useful. Use basic words, and, if the topic at hand is sexual in any way, use the 'bad' words (like fuck, cunt, cock, etc.) instead of 'doing it' or 'my ding-a-ling'.

Enough on this, as there are lots of references on Literotica and elsewhere about the ease (or difficulty) of induction and suggestibility after trance. Just keep in mind that many of the references are contradictory, based on the premise that the stories submitted are mostly fiction or are anecdotal, based on personal experience alone.]

Abbi, though, went 'under' within a minute of an instant hypnotic induction, and by a half hour, was in a deep trance. I added the words RANCHO FUBAR as a command to return to this state of trance, and the words WAKE YOU to bring her out. She could remain in trance while having a normal-seeming conversation or performing complex tasks, such as proof-reading my manuscripts.

However, she didn't—or couldn't—ask questions or innovate during trance: I had to ask the questions, which she answered with the complete truth as she saw it ... just as long as I kept my end of the conversation short, concrete and to-the-point. I could also get Abbi to follow a post-hypnotic command, as long as she probably would have agreed to it (even as a distant fantasy), pre-trance.

No, I did not exploit her sexually while tranced ... until, after the first couple of weeks working together, she stayed under command to speak candidly and truthfully, she said, "My character is so self-assured ... so sexy ... so flirty, except—as you wrote her—with her One True Love, when she becomes delightfully, creatively submissive. Since I've got to be her representative to the publishers and the public, I have to be just as self-assured, flirty and sexy, too ... and then also be creatively submissive, to you, since you are essentially my One True Love while I'm being her."

She suddenly added, "Since my character wears a titanium collar, oh-so-discretely, it looks like I have to wear something like that, too, to suggest that—as the pretend author to 'my' public—I'm kind of flirty, fun and submissive to the 'right' man, OK?"

A titanium collar went on Abbi's neck within a week and—to my knowledge—never came off her neck again. She often insisted on getting my fingers around the metal, to pull her neck and body around.

Since Abbi was still under trance, I suggested to her that she should do things that were flirty and sexy, as so different from her usual retiring, repressed normal background. She said, "Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. I need to start, right now. Tell me what to do, first."

"OK, Abbi, please roll down the top of your swimsuit and let your bare breasts out."

She gasped, then giggled, saying, "I've alway wanted to be a naughty, show-off girl, but I never had the courage to begin. Oh, this is fun. Look at me!" Her fingers caught at the top of her conservative, black, one-piece suit and she pulled down the top, exposing her small but well-shaped boobs, surmounted by a set of pretty big nipples, on a ski-slope shaped base. There was almost no sag when they were free. Abbi then laughed a little madly and swung her newly-freed tits side to side and bounced them by hand.

I commanded, "Abbi, you feel good about letting your sexy body out. Doing that will make you tingle all over." Then, as necessary, I said the wake-up command. She blinked a couple of times, then looked down at her bare, bouncing top ... and smiled, saying, "Look what I just did. You better cover these up. Let's use your hands. I want to tingle all over."

She added, "I want a new swimsuit. This old one covers up 'way too much. You get to help me try on a new one, this afternoon."

Later that evening, as we sexed, Dani commented on how hard and stiff my cock was, right after Abbi's bikini shopping trip.

By the following day, our Abbi—as my author's representative—was clad—barely—in a new black bikini swimsuit, mostly made of black mesh netting. She said, "The more I take off and show-off, the more tingles I get. Everybody gets to see me being so naughty. I like it. Oh, wheeee!"

She added, "Please put me back in trance and make me do sexy things, then let me remember them all. Pretty please?" She was under trance in all of 30 seconds, when I said the command words, 'Rancho Fubar'. He eyes weren't glazed, nor was she talking in a monotone. To outward appearances, she was our Abbi, just very concrete and suggestible.

Walking the few steps over to and around the pool area, I commanded, "Abbi, you are a flirty Scottish wench. Walk proudly. Head up, tits out. Swing those hips. Hold my hand. Put it over you belly and on your bottom. Get a little wet. Be proud of your hard nipples, push them out."

Then I added another command sequence, saying, "Here's a lounger. Lay down and relax. Put your hands over your head, just like I tied them there. Now open your thighs and legs. Pretend I tied them open, too." She did, giggling and laughing, as she twisted and displayed her suddenly 'tied-up' pale body, at the pool's edge, as the dozen or so other girls admired the abrupt change in their formerly retiring apartment neighbor.

Again, that evening, Dani stroked me to orgasm in less than a minute before I came all over her well-tanned tits. She said, giggling, "What did Abbi do, now?"

As my author's representative (actually, the public's image of my romance novel), Abbi suggested that she copy the entire manuscript in her partially 'copper-plate' hand-written script, using no-erase emerald-green ink, to establish herself as the face of authorship. I would simply be the, 'As-told-to' guy. That took up much of her afternoons and evenings, as she went through three bottles of emerald ink and several reams of paper. But it did establish that one Abbi McDowell, a Scottish lady (actress) did 'possess' a handwritten manuscript of THE HIGHLAND'S LUST ... as-told-to Dan Reznick.

Thus, I contacted my publisher to be and told them that I'd fulfilled their requirements as to the my authorship's public face. I mailed them a DVD of Abbi's portrayal of Abigail Deeth McDowell, the Mysterious Scottish Noblewoman, a little distant, while at the same time sexy and flirty, wearing a titanium collar, and always in search of Her-One-True-Love.

They ate it up!

Abbi and I were due to fly out to NewYork City, to sign contracts, etc., when, at her suggestion, Dani and I created her final hyper-naughty scene. On the assumption that, if she could enjoy and perform with what we created, she could take whatever nastiness NYC could dish out.

What did we and Abbi do?

By pre-arrangement, Dani got hold of as many apartment renters as possible, which turned out to be about a dozen and a half girls/women (even the two older social workers, arriving masked): 18 women and 1 man—me). I'd modified the wood-framed bed that I'd bought for Dani and I, to include three well-placed D-rings. Dani arranged for 4 cameras and bright lights.

Back out of trance, Abbi suddenly called out, "Everybody, touch me. Make me feel so naughty. I'm tied up. Oh, I like it now. I wanna be sexy. Prove to me that I'm sexy." She looked right at me and added, "You, too. Touch me all over. Do sex to me."

There were a dozen and a half girls there, which meant that there were 18 lets of lips and tongues roaming all over Abbi plus 36 hands delving into all her bodily openings, pulling apart and exposing her most intimate woman-parts and, in general, making me feel like one huge throbbing cock. Abbi 'entertained' several lesbian and lesbian-wannabe's and I fucked her to a fair-thee-well, there in the sunlight, in the pool's lounger.

Abbi screamed and passed out ... about half a dozen times. She regained awareness each time and immediately demanded more, more and yet more touching, probing and deep fucking. I'm pretty sure that anything New York City could throw at our Abbi would be unable to match the intensity and overall lust that she insisted we do to her that day and evening.

Two days later, after a first-class flight from San Diego to NYC, Abbi was introduced to my publisher-to-be as the Scottish Mystery Woman named Abagail Deeth McDowell.

My novel, THE HIGHLAND'S LUST, went into its 17th printing yesterday. The two prequels are in their 3rd printing. Three more, with one reaching back into the bronze age of Scotland, are still 'to be written', with her public almost slavering to know more and yet more about Abigail Deeth McDowell and her everlasting search for her One True Love.

I'm now a multi-millionaire, but acting very quiet about it (just the way I wanted). I transmit a discreet amount—which equals a 6-figure paycheck per year—to one of Abbi's accounts, plus she gets paid + expenses for traveling, talking and being photographed, locally or in Scotland, at the tumble-down 'castle' she secured for the publishers and herself.

[Which was actually just a 'tower shelter' they used during cross-border cattle raids, or for shelter in retaliation for their own raids. But it was in Scotland ... it was made of stone ... and it sorta looked like a castle. Sigh!]