The Mystery of the Mad Mesmerist 5 (hypno celeb)
Disclaimer: This story contains male/male sex, s/m role-play, and hypnofetishism. If you are not of legal age, (eg.18+) or offended by such subjects, then stop reading, you pervert! Perhaps you are living in a backwater community that frowns on such explicit materials. In such a case, stop reading, FEEL MY HUG, and know that I feel genuinely sorry for you. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The fuse continued to burn closer and closer to Tony's chair.
Tony followed it with wide eyed terror. The gas was really speeding it up. Seventy feet. Sixty.
He could see no way out. He could barely move much less struggle to get free
Fifty feet. Forty.
Mesmero was immobile. He stayed frozen in his imaginary block of ice.
Thirty feet. Twenty-five. Twenty.
And then Tony had a brainwave.
"FIRE! FIRE MELTS ICE! NOW WAKE UP!!!"
Fifteen feet. Ten.
And it worked! Miraculously, Mesmero blinked, looked around, took in the scene.
Eight. Six. Four. Three. Two.
"Holy--" With that unfinished thought, Mesmero stepped forward. With mere feet and seconds to spare he lifted Tony, chair and all, out of the pool of gas, out of danger.
There was a soft 'whump' as the pool caught fire. The small room was filled with smoke.
Coughing, Tony told Mesmero, "My back pocket... There should be a knife. Hurry!"
Mesmero found the knife and lost no time in cutting Tony's ankles, thighs, chest, and biceps. He slashed at the gag, slicing through the silk cleanly. Then he bent the teen over his shoulder and made his way out of the burning room. He closed the door behind him to contain the fire.
Up the stairs. At the top he pushed open the junk pile and put Tony down just outside the stairwell.
He made a quick cut to Tony's wrist rope and let the young man struggle free on his own and stretch his limbs to get their feeling back. Then Mesmero went in search of a fire extinguisher.
* * *
A robin sang.
Its shrill, piping notes cut through Joe's head like a dentist's drill. Moaning, he tossed a pillow in the general direction of the window. Fortunately, the pillow missed the window and the bird but it had the desired effect. The bird flew off.
Joe collapsed back onto the bed, feeling like something the cat had thrown up. His head pounded and every sound was amplified. A hangover. Correction. The mother of all hangovers.
Joe tried to remember what happened last night and drew a blank.
His mouth felt furry. He got up and slowly made his way slowly out into the hall. The door across the hall opened at the same time as his did and Frank emerged. He was holding his head.
They looked at each other.
"Can you remember anything?" Joe asked.
"No. Can you?"
"Not a thing."
"That's weird. I can't imagine what we did to have this happen. We don't usually indulge like this. At least not this much."
"True. Uh, Frank? I don't suppose you could help me to the bathroom?"
"Only if you help me, bro."
The two brothers supported each other around the back of the waist. As always Joe ignored the tingle of pleasure that went through his body when a strong, male arm grasped him. Not just Frank's of course. Just any strong male arm. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. But still, there was a part of him that knew Iola's soft, womanly embrace would never be enough.
The Hardy boys made it to the bathroom. Joe swished his mouth with cold, fresh water and brushed his teeth while Frank leaned over and held his head under a cold shower.
The phone rang.
Even though the door was closed, the sound was enough to split Joe's head in two.
"GET THE PHONE!" they both yelled.
Fortunately, Mrs. Hardy managed to get the phone on the middle of the second ring.
There was a pause and then a cautious knock on the bathroom door. "Joe? Joe, darling, are you ok enough to answer the phone? It's for you."
"Yeah, Ma, ok. I'm coming. Tell them I'm coming."
With effort, he emerged into the hallway and took up the upstairs extension.
"Yeah!? Wha' tiz it?"
"Yeah, yeah," Joe answered grumpily, "Who's this?"
And just like that, blessedly, the headache and pain floated away. Joe's head cleared and his will melted away like a snowball in hell.
"I'm listening" he said.
"I want you to get Frank on the line or preferably on another extension so you both can hear me."
Master? That was strange, thought Mrs. Hardy from where she was listening from around the corner as she sometimes did. It was her motherly duty of course, to keep tabs on her sons, even if they didn't like it any more. Mrs. Hardy had figured out that Joe was gay a long time ago but had kept quiet about it. She had accepted it by now but it had taken her a while and she wanted to wait until Joe decided to accept the truth before she did say anything. But Master? Could Joe be involved in one of those perverted internet role playing games? Mrs. Hardy decided to keep an eye on her youngest son.
By this time Joe had called Frank over and handed him the receiver. Mrs. Hardy crept away, downstairs to finish breakfast. Had she stayed, she would have heard: "This is Frank. Who's call - what - I - I'm listening." There was a long pause as they both listened, heads together against the receiver. Then:
"We understand." said the Hardy Boys as one.
* * *
Chet was hunched over a steaming mug of thick, black coffee and a bowl of Coco Flakes. He wore only some black boxers and a white wifebeater. The phone rang.
"I am the brain."
Suddenly, Chet's t-shirt became uncomfortably tight. Amazed, he watched his pecs grow and stretch against the fabric. His biceps swelled as did his legs. He looked in the mirror and saw his face grow more masculine, defined, and his chin grew square and hard. He felt the new strength course through his veins and through his balls. He was a powerhouse now! But then Chet remembered. In order to get this new power he had to give up something. He had to give... He was giving...
"I am the brawn. I'm listening." He told the brain, in a deep, strong voice.
"Good. You will finish what you are doing and then go to the Hardy Brothers' house. You will get there at exactly 10 AM. Then..."
Chet continued to listen for several more minutes. Then:
* * *
Jeff Enron was having a spectacularly rotten day. He woke late, the shower turned ice cold thanks to his youngest son flushing his car keys down the toilet which then caused it to back up and flood the bathroom. Downstairs, he discovered his wife giving him dirty looks. When he had the audacity to ask why, she just shot him an even dirtier look, pointed at the calendar and served him a cup of tea and some hard, unbuttered toast. Upon inspection, Jeff discovered that yesterday had been her birthday.
Since he now had no car, Jeff had to take the bus to work. The bus took twice as long as the drive and made him half an hour late. He had to stand the whole way and just before he got off a man with a long overcoat, a full beard that was yellowed with nicotine and a stink that suggested he had not taken a bath in a least a week sidled up next to him. The old man smiled widely, revealing a single gold tooth, winked, flashed him, and sneezed hugely all over him.
Jeff exited the bus. It began to rain. Jeff began the three block walk to work. On the way, he discovered the old man had picked his pocket.
Jeff was a teller at the Bayport First National Bank. As he entered the bank, sopping wet, the rain stopped and there was a huge rainbow.
Jeff's boss was a stickler for the rules of which there were many and got hysterically upset if anyone was a few minutes late. So you can imagine his fury when Jeff dragged himself in half an hour late at 9:30 AM looking like a drowned rat. Jeff's boss screamed at him unceasingly for a half hour, his face red as a beet. He threw things. Jeff knew better than to duck but the worst was when a brass paperweight hit him in the forehead, nearly knocking him unconscious.
Finally, at 10:00, Jeff's boss has screamed himself out. Jeff had to promise to pick up his boss's dry cleaning and wash his car every week for a month. Only then, was Jeff allowed to escape his boss's office and keep his job.
Jeff went over to his teller's window, ignoring the dirty looks that everyone gave him, as usual. Everyone in the bank treated Jeff as if he alone had caused the scandal just because he had the misfortune of having that famous last name. But Jeff had grown used to it. People needed a scapegoat.
At 10:30, the bank was robbed by four men wearing black ski masks.
"Everyone down on the floor!" one of them yelled, shooting a gun into the air. Everyone obeyed fearfully.
"Which one of you is the Bank Manager? Point him out now, and the rest of you can go. If not, I start shooting people one by one every 10 seconds. 10, 9, 8-"
Jeff knew he could not stand by and let someone get shot. He opened his mouth to speak.
"That's him! Him over there! Mr. Enron... over there, behind the counter!"
Jeff's eyes widened as he realized someone had fingered him...and not in the good way. Looking over, his eyes widened in outrage. His boss, the real manager, had snuck out of his office and taken his place on the floor of the bank's public area. And now he was cowardly fingering Jeff to get his sorry ass out of here!
"That's not true! You are, and you know it!" Jeff yelled out angrily.
"Sir, oh sir, why are you doing this?" the manager said in this phony - baloney voice that made Jeff's skin crawl, "I just got out of our meeting where you - sniff - foreclosed on my house. Why are you doing this?"
Great. Now he was not only the manager, but a villain as well.
"Stop that! You're the manager! Somebody... anybody! Back me up here!"
Nobody said anything.
"For God's sake! For the last time, just because my name is Enron, doesn't mean I had anything to do with the scandal!"
Nobody said anything.
The head robber gestured to one of the men. The largest of the four, strode over and grabbed him around the lapel and around the chest. Jeff struggled but it was no use. The guy's grip was iron strong, much stronger than it should have been.
"All right everyone! You are all free to go," said the spokes-robber. Everyone, including the real manager began to file out.
"You're making a big mistake," Jeff told him, "I'm not the manager. I can't open the vault or anything. That's him over there, slinking out the door like the gutless coward he is!" Jeff raised his voice at the last to make sure his yellow backed boss could hear. Nonplussed, his boss left, cool as a cucumber.
Of course, no one believed him. "Stop trying to pass the buck. It's getting tiring."
"Good. Well, as you can guess, I'm greedy and in a hurry. So let's have the vault combo and no back talk please. We're in a hurry."
"Didn't you hear me? I can't. I'm not the manager."
"Boy 3!? You know what to do."
Wordlessly, the man holding Jeff grabbed his left hand and bent his pinky back.
Instantly, Jeff was on his knees, drowning in a sea of red-hot pain.
"Now, unless you'd like to give the word to make the pain - permanent - I suggest you open the vault." the robber said.
"Yes, yes, yes! Anything! Please stop! Dear God in heaven, please stop!" Jeff cried.
"Boy 3! Down, boy!"
Chet released his finger but did not let go of his hand.
Jeff thought furiously.
"Uhhh, well the thing is, I don't have the combination handy. I don't keep them memorized. They're in my office." Jeff prayed they were.
Jeff made his way into the president's office followed closely by Chet who kept hold of his hand in a bone crushing grip.
"Please," he said in a low voice, "Don't hurt me! I have a wife and children."
"I hear and obey only my Master," the thug said in a strange monotonic voice.
That was weird! thought Jeff.
Jeff took a great amount of pleasure in ransacking his boss' office. He took the pictures off the wall, looking for anything taped to the back, and then threw them away carelessly, listening in malicious glee as the glass smashed on the floor. He tore books off the shelves, rifled through all the papers on his desk and just for the hell of it threw the photo of the boss' fat and butt ugly family across the room Frisbee style. He moved on to the desk drawers, looking quickly yet carefully for any evidence of codes. When he was done, he dumped all the papers on the floor.
He hit pay dirt on the second drawer. As he pulled it out and threw it away he caught sight of a piece of paper taped to the underside. On it was every code the manager needed to know, including computer codes, personal PIN numbers and the vault combo.
Vastly relieved, Jeff picked up the drawer and tugged his hand away. Boy 3 tightened his already seemingly bone-crushing grip.
"Hey, Magilla! You can let go now! I've found the codes!"
"I hear and obey only Master," the thug intoned.
Very weird! decided Jeff.
Carrying the drawer in one hand and man in black in the other, Jeff went back out to join the other three bank robbers.
"Here you go," he said sullenly, "Everything you want to know and more."
"Excellent. I'm glad you stopped pretending and decided to co-operate. Doesn't it feel good to tell the truth?"
Jeff pointed a finger and opened his mouth to speak. Paused. He closed it and lowered it. He gave up. "Yes sir," he said."
"Good. OK, boys, TIE HIM UP!"
"What! No! Why?! You've got what you wanted. Let me go!" Jeff struggled to no avail as he felt Magilla's iron grip encircle his forearms once again.
"Not a chance! You're our insurance policy. No-one will touch us if they think you're still in danger."
"Boy, did you choose the wrong man! Everyone could care less if I was in danger!"
One of the thugs tossed a roll of duct tape at Boy 3. He caught it deftly and wrapped several bands around his chest. Then he wrapped tape several times around his left forearm. He pulled the tape across and wrapped it around his right forearm and then around his waist several times, effectively immobilizing his arms to his sides.
"Honestly! You're making a big mistake! No-one will care abou-mmmmmmfffffff!!!" Jeff was cut off as Boy 3 wrapped tape over his mouth and around his neck. The tape was wrapped three times around Jeff's head. Then tape was efficiently tied around his legs above the knee, below the knee, and around the ankles. Then, unceremoniously and almost as if he had forgot him completely Boy 3 let go of Jeff. Jeff hopped for a few seconds but of course he could not keep his balance and he fell heavily and painfully onto the ground.
Grunting and breathing heavily through his nose, Jeff rolled onto his back and squirmed over to the wall. He sat leaning back and watched the robbers use the drawer to open the vault and fill suitcases full of money, two suitcases per person.
He squirmed in his bonds to test them. The sticky adhesive of the duct tape was unbreakable. He sat back and wondered what their next move would be.
He didn't have long to find out. The time came when the suitcases were filled. The snaps clicked closed. The four of them gathered around him.
"Well, boy-o, this is where we get off. So many banks to rob, so little time!"
Jeff grunted inquisitively and pointed to himself with both hands, meaning, "And me?"
"You? Well, you get this nice vest to wear. Each pocket is filled with plastic explosive."
Since his arms were already pinned to his sides, the robber draped it over his shoulders and used more duct tape to secure it around Jeff's body.
"The vest is hooked up to this detonator." The robber brought forth a strange detonator. It was a small, square metal plate. On top of the plate was fixed a small, metal seesaw. The robber lifted Jeff slightly and then placed him so that he was sitting on the small seesaw, pushing down the end of the bar that was sticking up.
"Don't get up! If the metal arm goes down again, your time will be up. Heh, Heh! Now, my unlucky friend, you'd better hope whoever comes to rescue you, ungags you first, or else, you and this entire bank will - KABOOM! AHHH HAHAHAHA!!!!!"
In the distance, Jeff heard sirens. Geez, finally.
"Well, that's our cue to leave! Come on, boys!"
The four robbers left by the back door. Jeff was left to struggle gently in his bonds. He dared not move from where he sat though.
He listened to the sirens get louder and louder and finally stop outside the bank. He listened to them scream into bullhorns for the robbers too give themselves up. They, of course got no response.
After two repetitions, the cops finally decided it was safe enough to proceed inside. Two cops smashed the door in, covering each other. They took in the scene at a glance. One cop rushed to Jeff's aid, his face full of compassion and worry. Jeff struggled and shook his head violently, desperately as the beefy boy in blue barreled down upon him and...
This story is copyright © 4 September 2004 by hypnojon32. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fan fiction. The Hardy boys and their friends were created by Franklin W Dixon. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story contains male/male sex, s/m role-play, and hypnofetishism.
Duplication of this story is allowed only for non-profit purposes. Any duplication of this file must include these copyright messages intact.