Out of My Lane--Part Three

By FreeThinker
published April 27, 2021
8281 words

Having turned star running back Brendan McBride into a drooling hypno-slave, Dr. Xenopoulis resolves to clean up the mess. However, an unexpected hitch intervenes.


Operation Un-Fuck Brendan

Tuesday morning dawned, and, for a brief moment, as I rose from sleep, I wasn’t pondering what to do next about Brendan McBride—the Mountain City Pioneers’ star running back whom, in spite of myself, I’d hypnotized into a panting, cum-controlled supplicant. As soon as I reached full consciousness, however, the situation came back into focus.

The day before, late in the afternoon, I’d met McBride at his top-floor condo. He’d called me begging for more trance. My best efforts at self-control had failed me, and I’d succumbed to the urge that had been gnawing at me since first I’d laid eyes on the buzz-cut blond paragon. Now, thanks to my trance work, McBride would not be getting off except on my command. What’s more, he now associated erotic pleasure with my voice, my presence, my control. Yeah, sure: this sounds hot. But I’m a professional, and it wasn’t going to be cool if the league MVP followed me around for the rest of the season in tranced-out arousal.

Nor was it going to be cool, if the gains we’d made with McBride’s game-time performance lapsed. The regular season had thirteen weeks to go, and the way they were playing now, the Pioneers stood a better than even chance of making the playoffs. That would mean up to five more weeks on top of the regular season. I had no intention of sticking around Mountain City past the end of this week, and I certainly wasn’t going to travel with the team for away-games. That wasn’t the plan. The problem was, McBride was now addicted. There was no mistaking it. If I left now, he’d be a pent-up mess within a couple days, probably less. And that would end his awesome turn-around—and my career as a sports hypnotist.

Damn it! I thought to myself. If I’d stuck to my lane, I’d have performed a quick tweak of the player’s mind, cleaned out some mental blockage, then left him happy and suitably focused—and I’d be free to get back home and on to my next job. My good-angel inner voice was chewing me out: You knew the risk, pal! You fucked him up. Now un-fuck him, or live with the consequences.

Rising from bed and planting my feet on the floor, I resolved that this would be the day I set things right—the day I un-fuck Brendan McBride.

I did a mental inventory of where things stood. The night before, after I had collected myself, I had barely managed to peel the jizzed-out running back from my leg. I then had had to linger at his condo to keep an eye on him and make sure he was okay. To the extent that it’s “okay” for the league MVP, yards-rushing season record-holder to hover on the edge of a hypnotic zombie state waiting for his hypnotist’s command, I guess you could say he had been okay. At least when I’d asked him what he needed to do, he’d recited his routine to me in a more or less coherent way. He’d sounded like a small child telling a story rather than a twenty-five-year-old with an engineering BA, but he’d gotten across the basics. With the information gleaned, I had re-focused him the best I could and guided him through. It was mostly just feeding, mobility drills, and bed. His bedtime was early—9.30 pm—and, when the hour had come, I practically had had to tuck him in. Under other circumstances, it would have been hot beyond belief. Here I was, instructing the every move and thought of a naked star athlete whose hips and ass looked like one of those sprinters on an ancient Greek vase only better. But the situation was simply too fucked up for me to enjoy it. And now I had to fix it.

As I sat alone in the hotel restaurant over an early breakfast, I reckoned that a path to fixing the situation in fact was starting to open. From just after McBride had begged, licked, and cum at my feet yesterday evening until this very moment, I hadn’t had a single sex thought about him. That was the opening. I could stay focused on the job. Yes. I was feeling confident now. True, it’s only because I’d fucked things up so bad that I was now undistracted and resolved to fix things. But this was nevertheless the opening I needed.

I checked my phone. Yep. A text from Brendan McBride. Not a surprise. I’d have been worried if he hadn’t texted. He wanted to see me this afternoon.

Tuesday is officially an off-day in the league, but a player will do a weightlifting session, programmed by the s&c coaches to address any physical kinks he might need to work out. Plus, a player of McBride’s focus would usually spend a good part of Tuesday reviewing game tape of next week’s opponent. I surmised he’d be hitting the weights at the Pioneers’ field house in the morning, then watching game tape at home in the afternoon. My post-hypnotic guidance last night evidently was keeping him sufficiently on the rails that, whatever he was doing this morning, he wasn’t pleading to submit to me.

I did some bookkeeping on my laptop, checked in on some possible upcoming professional jobs, and then started to make my own game-plan. By early afternoon, I was thinking of it as Operation Un-Fuck Brendan McBride—and I was getting confident that, by dinner time, I’d have him where he needed to be.

McBride times three

I arrived at the condo at 4 pm. This time, unlike yesterday, the door was ajar. I nudged the door open into the foyer.

Then I heard something. It was something breaking, and it was loud. Like a mirror or a window being smashed. The sound was followed by a young man’s voice:

“DANG, Bromine!! Grandma could have caught that one!”

I pushed the door all the way open, stepped through the foyer, and turned to face the living room.

Oh… fucking… jesus… FUCK…

Standing before me, in the middle of Brendan McBride’s vault-ceilinged living room, a buzz-cut blond figure, shorter than Brendan, and more muscular, had his head turned toward the mahogany bookshelf. Across the living room, another figure was bent over, in front of the bookshelf. The bent-over figure displayed cords of hamstring muscle, extending from a pair of globular buttocks covered in a thin pair of workout shorts. The bent-over figure stood, turned, and was the first to notice me.

“Hey! It must be Doctor X!”

The shorter, more muscular figure turned as well now. I saw his face. He was a near-Brendan-look-alike. Except shorter and more muscular.

“Oh, hi,” he said, meeting my eyes with his.

They both wore t-shirts. The t-shirts had large characters across the chest, which, at first glance, looked like they spelled “Bro,” which was weird but sort of cute, and, yes, I got it: they were “bros.” Brendan’s bros, to be exact.

But on closer inspection I could see that the t-shirt on the shorter, more muscular brother actually said “BrO3” and the t-shirt on the taller one—the one with the killer hamstrings—said “BrO2.” I focused my gaze on the shorter, more muscular one, who stood closer to me. Below the characters “BrO3” there was some sort of colored emblem or something. Focusing more, I then realized what it was. It was one of those molecular models. It looked like this:

And directly below it, in small letters, was the word “BROMATE.”

The taller brother—the one with melon-shaped glutes and killer hamstrings—stepped over from the bookcase to shake hands, brushing his auburn, and considerably longer, hair out of his eyes as he approached. His t-shirt said “BROMINE,” and had the chemical symbol BrO2, complete with the corresponding model.

My jaw dropped, as my eyes drank in the scene. Taking a wild guess, I surmised Bromate—BrO3—was the third brother. And Bromine—BrO2—was the second one. I stared at the bromate model, then at the bromine model, then back again.

“Uh… yes. How do you do?” I replied lamely. I squinted to look closer at the molecular models.

“Awesome, man!” said Bromine, or BrO2, or whatever his name was. I didn’t have any doubt that he had a name but failed to gather my thoughts enough to ask or to try and remember it from my McBride file. He clasped my hand in his and shook. Mine was limp and passive as I kept staring, half in bemusement, half in wonderment, soaking in the conspicuous nerdiness of the molecule t-shirts plastered over the conspicuous muscular perfection of the two younger McBrides.

“Brendon hasn’t stopped talking about you since we got here!”

BrO3, noticing me noticing the t-shirts, spoke next. “It’s bromate. The chemical. His is bromine. It’s ‘cuz, like, I’m ‘bro-three’ and he’s ‘bro-two.’ I’m the youngest. He’s the middle one.”

“And Brendan’s bro-one!” the middle brother completed the explanation.

Bro-one wasn’t in the room yet. Yeah—that one. Remember him? The one I was supposed to un-fuck this afternoon. The one I’d tranced into cum-blocked, puppy-dog submission, and on whose mental health my professional reputation hung by a thin, hypnotic thread.

Before anyone said another word, a door could be heard closing shut somewhere, followed by the sound of flip-flops clapping along the polished concrete floor in our direction. It was Brendan. And now he entered.

“Hey! Doctor!” he exclaimed, smiling from ear to ear and looking very happy.

Brendan’s t-shirt, not unpredictably, said BrO1…

…which, for the edification of anybody admiring the brothers in their corresponding chemical bro-shirts, was spelled out under the chemical model—“HYPOBROMITE.”

I was now staring at BrO1’s t-shirt—I mean, Hypobro–… I mean Brendan’s t-shirt.

This was most decidedly NOT going the way I had planned. Get in the grain of things. Find his rhythm. Keep your focus. Stay confident. Trance him fast and deep. And un-fuck-up the mess you’ve made, get him back to normal, and then thank him and get the hell out of here…

None of that was happening, though. No. This was not going the way I had planned.

“Umm…” I stumbled for words. “It’s… it’s good to see you, Bro… Brendan.”

“So, Doc, these are my bros—Callum and Tyler.”

Right. Now I thought I remembered: Tyler was Brendan’s younger brother, Callum the older of the two.

“So… you’re Tyler,” I ventured, addressing BrO3. “And you’re Callum,” addressing BrO2.

The tall, longer-haired one smiled, much the same way Brendan smiled. “I’m Tyler,” said BrO2.

“And I’m Callum,” said BrO3, looking rather less congenial than BrO2.

Fuck. This was NOT the place for confusion and tongue-tied word-fumbles. I had to be on my game, if I was going to get McBride back on his—not to mention clean up the mess I’d made and stop the star running back from sliding into tranced-out sex slavery. But here I stood, confused, bemused, flustered—and, truth be told, starting to get very, very aroused.

With less than perfect timing, Callum—BrO3–adjusted the front of his shorts absent-mindedly. This move drew my eyes that direction. His quadriceps were more than athletic. They verged on what you’d see on a bodybuilder. I swallowed hard.

“Oh, Brendan. Bromine missed an easy pass, and…”

“Bromate—a.k.a., dickwad—hurled the football at me as I had my back to him, and it smashed the glass in here.” Bromine—Tyler—bent over to pick up a shard of glass.

“It’s cuz you’re slow and suck,” the youngest of the three McBrides shot back.

“It’s cuz you’re a dickwad,” the middle brother rebutted, rising up from his bent-over position.

“Yo. Cut it out, bros,” Brendan interceded, impatiently and with what sounded like a well-practiced tone of reprimand. The brief skirmish subsided, and McBride’s brothers padded off to other parts of the premises.

Turning to me, Brendan continued. “Sorry about that, Sir. They showed up this afternoon. They didn’t tell me they were coming.”

I looked around, trying to center myself.

“But it’s cool. They won’t bother us.”

That seemed unlikely. I reached for a conversation topic:

“The… uh… shirts…”

“Oh, yeah,” Brendan smiled. “We started this in high school. I was a senior, Ty was a sophomore, and Callum was a freshman. We all played sports and stuff, and were really tight, and so everybody knew we were bros, and, also, we were kinda brainy, sort of the jock-nerd types. Guess we still are! And so the chemistry teacher, who we all had for homeroom, one day just drew those symbols on the chalkboard as we were waiting for the first period bell, and he called us Bro-One, Bro-Two, and Bro-Three, and when we told Mom and Dad about it that night at dinner, everybody thought it was hilarious, and Dad went and got the t-shirts made, and we’ve kept them ever since.”

“And… the nicknames stuck…” I suggested.

“Right. Ty’s bromine—it’s the one with molecular oxygen. Cal’s bromate—three oxygen atoms. And, obviously, I’m BrO-one—hypobromite. Just one oxygen atom.”

I blinked.

“So, what about the violin? I noticed the violin… yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah. Started when I was eight. I’m not that great, but it’s relaxing. I like to play when…”

“Dang, Bromine! Give it to me! I said… GIVE it to me!!!”

The voice of Callum echoed from a room down the hall. It sounded like a scuffle had broken out.

“Won’t you just CHILL, bro?” the other brother hollered.

Brendan breathed out with an exasperated sound and made an apologetic gesture to excuse himself. I watched him pace—clap, clap, clap went his flip-flops—across the living room, and down the hall, and saw him duck into the side room to which the two younger McBrides had retired a few minutes before.

“Now cut it out! You two come in like this and I’m glad you’re hear, but I’m NOT gonna be if you don’t friggin’ cut it out. You should be embarrassed behaving like a couple of brats in front of Dr. Xenopoulis. He’s the best sports hypnotist in the country—and he’s doing great things for me!”

I couldn’t hear what, but Callum said something back in reply.

“Yeah. I’m sure you’d know,” Brendan said next, sarcastically.

An exchange of words echoed into the living room. I couldn’t make out the details, but, absorbing the situation, I was at last calming myself from my initial surprise and wonderment. My subject wasn’t in fact delighted that his two brothers were visiting him in the midst of a challenging football season, and he recognized that it was particularly inopportune that they’d dropped in today, when it was important for him to proceed with hypnotherapy. An opening started to present itself.

Yes… that’s right. He understands what he needs. And YOU understand how to give it to him…

The words in my mind were as clear as day. And it wasn’t the little angel good voice that was speaking them.


I stepped into the side room with intent. The three brothers instantly went silent and looked at me.

“Gentlemen. I suggest we return to the living room and talk.”

The McBride brothers exchanged surprised glances. My words had landed perfectly. Tyler and Callum rose from where they were sitting in front of the widescreen television. Brendan already standing, led the way. Back in the living room, I told them to sit on the sofa. The one facing the fireplace. They sat. I remained standing.

“This will be simple. This will be fast. And in a moment, your bickering will be through for the rest of the night.” I pulled out a silver pocket watch. Yes. A shiny silver pocket watch on a long, silver chain. I held it up for the three seated brothers to see. Then I began gently to swing it. Back and forth.

“Watch. Closely.”

Oh, I was on my game. I didn’t ordinarily do group hypnosis. I’m not a stage-show entertainer. But I was going to trance these three, and I was going to do them all at once.

“Watch the silver watch. Watch it swing. Back and forth. It’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever watched… Back and forth…” Their eyes—Brendan’s and Callum’s pale blue, Tyler’s a rich hazel—moved from left to right, tracking the movement that now held them.

“Good. Now, as you watch, as you follow the watch, left to right… right to left… you listen and you hear and you breathe easily and deeply… Right to left… left to right… And as you breathe, and as you listen, you find it easier and easier just to let the sound of my voice wash into your ears, into your minds… Gently and easily, the sound that you hear, the sound of my voice, soaks deeper and deeper, into your minds, into your bodies… That’s right. Watching the watch… swinging back and forth…”

After a few moments, I could see that the three brothers were deeply relaxed. Brendan was more than ready, of course. I reached to him first, touched his forehead, and spoke his trigger. At the word “twilight” alone, he slumped over. I told him how he now would fall ever deeper into hypnotic obedience, as he slept and waited and I completed his brothers’ induction into trance.

Not everybody who’s easy to trance is easy to keep in trance, but Tyler and Callum were slipping fast and effortlessly. They were easy to trance.

“Now, men, in a moment, when I count from the number ten down to the number one, you will find, with every number I speak, you are more eager to listen, and more eager to do as I say. In fact, with every number I speak, you will find that your ability to resist, your ability to think, dwindles even more. When you hear me next say the number ONE, you will find that you have NO ability to resist at all. Your only choice will be to follow my words. Whatever suggestion, whatever instruction, whatever command I speak, you will obey. Now beginning with the number TEN…

“Growing more and more open to my words…

“Nine… falling deeper and deeper into MY hypnotic control…

“Eight… with every number falling ten times deeper into submission..

“Seven… much deeper now…

“Six… deeper and deeper into trance…

“Five… ten times deeper… ten times more obedient…

“Four… totally and completely submissive…

“Three… falling into the deepest levels of trance…

“Two… so deep, so ready…

“And… ONE…”


“Now, every time you hear me snap my fingers, you open even more to my commands. You comply and you execute precisely as I command. Nod your head if you understand.”

Brendan’s two younger brothers nodded in sleepy affirmation.

“Goood… Now, next I snap my fingers, you will sit up straight. Your eyes will open. And you will fall ten times deeper into hypnotic obedience… into easy, sleepy, compliant trance…”


The two brothers now sat upright. They stared forward.

“And you as well now, Brendan. Sit up. And STARE.”

Brendan sat up. All three brothers now sat, staring, ready.

“Good. Very good. Remove your shirts.” Remove your fucking stupid molecule shirts I might have said but didn’t.

They complied. The BrO-shirts fell one by one, first BrO2, then BrO1, then BrO3. I noticed that the youngest brother—Callum—had a tiger tattoo on his left pec.

“Good. Now remove your shorts.” Sleepily, but without hesitation, the brothers slid their shorts down to their feet and shucked them away. Tyler’d taken off his undergear too. Brendan and Callum still wore theirs. Both wore snug, white jockeys.

“Remove your jockeys,” I instructed. Brendan and Callum reached for their waistbands and complied.

The three brothers now sat in hypnotic slumber, three bushes of pubic hair exposed, framed by thick-muscled thighs left and right and deep-ridged abdominals above. Callum’s penis and Tyler’s, both thick and semi-hard, rested atop heavy-looking nutsacks. Brendan’s manhood was past semi-hard, and was starting to point upward along his inside left thigh.

“Now, I will ask each of you questions. You will respond when I ask. And you will remain silent except when I ask. Nod if you understand.”

The stripped down, tranced out brothers nodded.

“Good.” Turning to the middle brother, I began the hypno-interrogation.

“Tyler. Tell me: what do you think of Brendan?”

Tyler, slowly but surely, spoke. “Mmm… I love Brendan. He’s my brother…”

“Yes.. that’s right… And what else?”

“Mmm… it’s too bad he went and got laid like that…” Tyler said, with a smile forming on his face.

Interesting, I thought. Let’s hear more about this, shall we?

“What do you mean… it’s too bad… that he went and got laid?”

“Cuz he never dated in high school. Never dated in college. His roommates in college joked about it. He’s such a nerd… Shame to break a perfect record…” Tyler continued in the same trancey, relaxed cadence, smiling and head nodding and bobbing ever so slightly as he spoke.

“I see,” I said. “And what about since he started here… started with the Pioneers…?”

Callum began to speak, though I had not instructed him to.

“Maria Hell-Spawn…”

WTF? I thought.


Tyler laughed, a dopey tranced-out laugh. “Maria HEMSWAN,” he articulated deliberately. “The model chick…”

“Yeah, like I said,” Callum said back. “Maria Hell-Spawn.”

Brendan took in a more conscious-sounding breath and re-positioned himself, as if fixing something that had become uncomfortable. I realized they were talking about the model whom the celebrity media had reported McBride to have hooked up with last year and who’d been all over his own Instagram feed for a couple of months.

“So… tell me about… Brendan… and Maria…”

Brendan moved again. His cock had subsided from the almost-hard state it had reached a minute or so before. It was now flaccid.

“Crazy bitch,” Callum drawled.

“Mmm hmmm…” Tyler concurred with a smile. I took note. These two brothers didn’t seem to agree about much of anything, but they agreed about this: they hadn’t liked Maria the super-model. Or, maybe, I thought—just maybe—it was that they hadn’t liked it when their brother, Brendan, had been getting it on with Maria the super-model.

“What was wrong with… Maria?” I continued the bro-terrogation.

“Crazy bitch,” Callum repeated, unhelpfully.

“Way over his head. Too much for Bro-One. Don’t think he was ready… Don’t think he’ll ever be…” Tyler opined with a spaced-out giggle.

Fucking hell, I thought. And I’m not sure whether it was my good angel or the other one who was doing the thinking right then. It was last year for cripes sake. The man is twenty-five today… one of the most accomplished athletes in the country… and… you think he wasn’t ready… to get LAID???

Almost as if reading my thoughts, Tyler continued, still smiling and in hypnotic bliss:

“Wasn’t ready. It’s just not what Bro-One does. It’s, like, it doesn’t fit,” Tyler added, in the spaced out tone of a tranced-out jock. “He’s too… innocent.”

“And… how about you?” I asked. “Are you too innocent?”

Tyler smiled broadly now. “Me? Innocent? No waaaay…”

“Tell me, Tyler. Tell me about your getting laid.”

Dude! It was the little angel, the goody-two-shoes side of my inner dialogue. You’re not here to trance the brothers!!! The admonition ran across my mind like the buzz of an irritating insect. An irritating insect at a picnic of hypnotized slabs of super-jock bro-muscle. I mentally swatted the little angel voice away. It was gone. Now I focused:

“Tell me. Tell me when and how you get laid, and how you do it. Be precise. Be exact.”

“Mmm… I get laid. Lots,” he replied. I had no doubt this was true. He showed every sign of deepening hypnotic trance. Tyler had no choice now. His answers would flow, and his answers would be truthful and complete.

“High school. College. Girlfriends. Friends girlfriends. Blonds. Brunettes. Red-heads… Tall… short… I get laid a lot…”

I glanced between Tyler’s thighs. He was completely erect now.

“Fuccckk…,” he continued, tranced-out and heedless. “I did Hell-Spawn a couple times… Did her on all fours… She’s like a fucking nympho…”

The revelation that his younger brother Tyler had banged the super-model he’d been dating didn’t seem to bother Brendan. He was obviously happy to have gotten rid of her.

“What about you, Callum?” I turned my attention to the shorter, muscular, near-Brendan-look-alike.

“Mmm… nah…”

Tyler butted in, though still in a sleepy, compliant drawl. “Bro-three’s too lame… He couldn’t even get it on with a nympho. He couldn’t get it on with Maria Hell-Spawn…”

I half-expected the two to start brawling again, but the trance kept them docile. Still mouthy, but docile.

Woah, wait? I thought to myself. The youngest McBride boy—I quickly did the numbers… He must be twenty-one or twenty-two now… And he’s not… active? I was getting a clearer picture, and I was getting even more intrigued. Brendan and his near-look-alike younger brother are practically MONKS. Hyper-competitive, muscled, brainy monks with blond buzz-cuts.

But the middle brother, not so much. Responding to my interrogation, Tyler had now disclosed that he was the exception. His bedroom conquests sounded like they more than compensated for the almost-chaste lives of his older and younger siblings.

Almost chaste. Only “almost,” because there was last year’s Brendan-and-Hell-Spawn fling… I mean Hemswan or whatever her name was… It was time to find out more about that.

“Brendan,” I directed my attention to Bro-One. He stared, as his smooth, muscled chest rose and fell with each easy breath. “Tell me about Maria… Tell me about your… time with Maria…”

“Mmm,” Brendan fidgeted a little. “She was all over Instagram. Messaging me and stuff. And, like, I dunno… the guys… The other Pioneers… they were, like, ‘come on, man…’”

“They were impressed that you were… sleeping with a super-model?” I asked, unsure what Brendan was getting at.

“No… they were, like, ‘come on man… why don’t you do her?’ Cuz, like, I was ignoring her messages… I didn’t wanna… It just… It wouldn’t fit my… my focus. My routine…”

“You didn’t want to do a super-model who was messaging you all the time and eager to meet you?”

“Yeah. That’s right… It’s like… clutter… distraction… But the other guys… they kept at it… Said, like, you know…”

I paused. This was bringing things into focus. The guy’d never been laid! Before last year, before his teammates had prodded and cajoled him into hooking up with a pro football Instagram groupie, Brendan McBride—Bro-One—had never done it.

“So you ended up… meeting her… because your teammates…”

“Yeah. They were giving me shit and stuff… Asking why I didn’t… you know…

“So I met her. It went on for a few months… I was sooo glad when she left…”

“You were glad when Maria left?”

“Yeah,” Brendan answered. His eyes started to look even heavier and more sleepy.

“I just wanna be alone.”

His head fell forward, as he drifted off into hypnotic oblivion.

Game Tape

I looked at Brendan McBride, slumped over in trance, and considered what he’d just been saying. My thoughts formed my first confident conclusion of the day:

Brendan McBride was an introvert.

A profound, perfectionist introvert. And his problem was over-stimulus. The excitement of professional football, of family, of hangers-on. The sensory inputs were getting to him. He was a performer and loved winning, but he did not get a rise out of social interaction. Being the object of adoring fans wasn’t for him. As for his rough-housing, rollicking teammates—no doubt hyper-sexed and not too respectful of personal space—they weren’t much help either. I reckoned that the Pioneers, indeed, were part of the problem. I began to form a plan about that side of the Brendan McBride equation, too.

Okay, I thought. Now, finally, I see a plan coming into focus. I see a way out of this mess… Risky, bold… kinda hot, too… but it’s finally coming into focus… A plan to un-fuck Brendan, help him get back on top of his game… and…

Just then, just as my thoughts were resolving into a plan that might just work, there was a sudden commotion. It was Bro-Two and Bro-Three. They’d started to rise up, half way from trance to waking. And they were not having any of one another. Tyler was on Callum in a flash, pushing the muscular younger McBride’s hand and arm away from him, and Callum was pushing back.

“Stop it, dickwad!”

“No. YOU stop it! You were touching me, you perv!”

“You WISH.”

“I don’t ‘wish’ that you were touching me. I WISH you’d keep your hands off my leg!”

Tyler and Callum were practically on top of one another. And it was escalating.

Fuck! I thought. This is NOT the time.

“STOP!!” I declared.

Without letting go one another, Tyler and Callum froze and looked at me.

“Now sit. Put your hands at your sides.” They complied.

“Your brother has a job to do. You are in the way. You need to get out of the way. You need to… occupy yourselves… until it is time for you to go…” I spoke as sternly as possible without losing hypnotic cadence.

I pulled out the watch again and held it for the two younger McBrides to see. Their eyes went saucer-wide.

“Good. Stare, and listen, and obey…

“In a few moments, I will bring you out of trance… When I do, there will be only one purpose in your lives, one line of action, one line of thought… And it will be this:

“When I awaken you, the two of you will leave us. You will go back to the television room. You will sit. You will find something that arouses you… something to watch that turns you on… and you will masturbate. That’s right… you will sit quietly beside one another… and you will stroke… and you will keep stroking… FOR THE REST__ OF THE__ DAY…

“It is the only purpose you now have. The only thing you do. In fact, Tyler and Callum, WHENEVER you are here, and if it is football season, and if your brother is busy and occupied and focused on his game, that is what you do. It is what happens when you visit here and you are intruding on your brother’s calm and his peace… If it is football season, and you visit your brother, and if it is in football season, and only in football season, mind you, and only when you are uninvited and you visit here without your brother’s summoning, you will strip. You will go into the television room. You will put on some pornography… you will stare… and you will STROKE. It is what you do. It is ALL you do. It is what happens when you visit here when your brother needs to focus on his work… It is what happens when you visit here uninvited…”

The two brothers stared in rapture as this new reality seeped into their hypnotized minds.

“Oh, and, Tyler? Callum? When you stroke… when you stare… you do not CUM. When you are here, when you visit without invitation, when your brother is in the midst of his work, his focus… You cannot ejaculate. Now, this command has no effect when you are home, when you are going about your own business, when you are not here in your brother’s space. But when you ARE… when you are visiting HERE… that is what you do…”


The two younger brothers blinked. Callum rubbed his eyes. Tyler stared forward a moment. I nodded to them. They rose. Semi-tranced, they padded across the living room and disappeared down the hall. I was now alone with Brendan. Brendan remained slumped over on the sofa, breathing steadily in a state of deep sleep. To my satisfaction, even the fight between his brothers, their induction, and their taking leave had not brought him back to waking.

“Brendan,” I began. “Sit up and open your eyes.” He complied. “Good. Now, you are able to speak. Able to move. And deeply, completely, hypnotized.” His glazed-over expression confirmed that he received my commands without the slightest resistance.

“For the rest of today, Brendan, I want you focused on your work. Tell me what it is you need to do today.”

“Feed… watch the tape… stretch… watch more tape… go to bed…”

“Good. Then that is what you will do. You will be relaxed. Calm. Focused. If anything starts to distract you, if anybody starts to distract you, then you will simply fall deeper into focus, deeper into calm, deeper into relaxation. It’s a lovely, easy loop of reinforcing trance. Any thing or any body that might take you away from your focus, it, or he, or she simply deepens you, simply calms you even further into this blissful, focused state. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded.

“Good… Now I will remain here with you. I will simply sit off to one side. I might read. I might relax. But I will be here, until you are ready to finish the day. Begin now with what you need to do.”


He was in perfect focus. Calm, smooth, and obedient. I watched as he rose, still naked. He went over to the kitchen. He sat on a stool at the kitchen counter and flipped open a laptop that had been resting there. He booted it up. In a few moments, he was watching game tape.

I let out a sigh of relief. It appeared that things were on track, at least for the rest of today.

I looked up from the armchair in the corner where I now sat, across the living room, to the kitchen counter. Brendan was absorbed in his laptop, watching the game tape.

An introvert. A profound, self-sufficient introvert…

As for the Pioneers, his team, I tallied my wins. The general manager was delighted about last Sunday’s victory and Brendan’s MVP-winning part in it. The general manager also liked that I got out of his hair quickly on Monday: he knew I wasn’t another aspiring add-on to the Pioneers’ entourage. I’d speak with the general manager again tomorrow and see if there was an opening to begin helping Brendan with that side of things, too. The team side of things. I’d start with the offensive line—his closest colleagues—probably with the quarterback, and then…

“DICKWAD!!! She’s a fucking SKANK!! Put it back! Put it back to the other one!!!”

It was Tyler, his smooth tenor voice booming across the condo from the t.v. room. It was another bro-brawl. The brothers, when I’d installed their new identity as porn-absorbed edging-fiends, had been deep in trance. But obviously, not deep enough.

DAMNIT__ALL__TO___FUCKING__HELL! said my inner voice, its patience with Bro’s Two and Three now exhausted. I took a deep breath and rose slowly.

“Brendan,” I said quietly, not wishing to jar him. I noticed that his brothers’ renewed brawling had not taken his focus off his laptop and the game tape. At least that much was working. I wasn’t going to let the sibling pests mess it up.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Brendan. But I just wish to know: can you connect your laptop to the widescreen in the t.v. room? I’d like your brothers to calm down, and the game tape will… calm them.”

The star running back didn’t analyze the proposition even for an instant. He just nodded and pecked at the keypad and dragged this and that with the mouse. He then looked up.

“Just needs switched. HGTV1. Then it’ll play in there.”

“Thank you, Brendan. Now return to your tape. I will be back in a moment.” He obediently nodded, let his eyes settle back on the laptop screen, and resumed watching the tape for next week’s opponent.

I stalked into the t.v. room, with intent.

The brothers were still hypno-influenced enough not to notice that they were ass-naked, but not enough to stop them from punching and flailing in what looked like a death struggle. A lamp had been kicked over from the end table, evidently by one of their feet.

I ostentatiously cleared my throat and addressed the tangle of muscular limbs: “Gentlemen.”

Callum, who was on top, twisted his neck and torso around to look at me. His eyes went wide.

“That’s right, Callum. Get off your brother. And stand.” Callum complied.

“You as well, Tyler. Stand.” Tyler got up off the sofa and joined his brother. Side by side, the two younger McBrides stared, silently. To their credit, they looked a touch embarrassed.

“Now, like I told you, your brother is busy. You will now have no ability to speak. No ability to make a sound. Your mouths and lips, they are sealed now.”


“You are DOCILE now…”


“You are PASSIVE now…”


“But you are also very, VERY horny now…”


I waited a moment to see how deeply the instructions reached the tranced-out Tyler and Callum. They stood, mute. And, yes: they began to swell. Both of them.

“Good,” I said. “I see my instructions are taking effect.”

Oblivious to their rising pricks, Tyler and Callum simply stared forward, lips slightly parted, breathing steady. A moment later, they each sported a rigid erection. Both pointed near-vertical. Callum’s was thick and perfect from base to slit. Tyler’s, generous in girth but somewhat longer than Callum’s, ended in a swollen, already leaking mushroom head.

“You are responsive. You are obedient. Your bodies respond. Your bodies obey. In a moment, when I snap my fingers, you will sit back down, and you will resume masturbating. Masturbating is your only purpose, your only task. It is the only thing that you do here, when you are here and uninvited. Nod if you understand.”

The two broad-shouldered, thick-legged, hypno-zonked brothers nodded in unison.

“Good. And one more thing…

“You obviously cannot agree with one another about anything much. But you DO agree that you love football…”

They nodded without being asked.

“In a moment, you will sit. But this time I will select what you watch. And what you watch NOW you will find completely absorbing. You will find it the hottest, the most arousing, the most AMAZING thing that you have ever watched. The most amazing, the most horny images that you have ever seen… You will accept this here and now… and no place else. What you are about to see, what you are about to WATCH, you will find SO arousing, so erotic, that you will have no choice, except to sit, to stare, and to MASTURBATE…”

They nodded again. Their faces bore dreamy looks of submission.

“Good. Now sit… And stare… silent and ready…”

I took the remote. Pecked at it. Found the menu. Switched it to HGTV1… The screen paused a moment… then it resumed.. And there it was… the game tape.

I smiled inwardly. A small smile crossed my face as well. I watched, as Tyler and Callum stared.

Callum blinked but then resumed staring. A flicker of resistance passed across his face but was gone in an instant. His hand took hold his swollen member. And he began to grip. To slide. To rub. The ridiculous prospect of edging his mind out to football tape didn’t seem to faze Tyler at all. Tyler held his hard-on motionless as if savoring what he now saw on the widescreen t.v.

“Slide your hand up, and use your thumb and forefingers to play with the head.” Tyler let out a shivering moan of desire as he complied.

Now, a game tape isn’t a game. It’s a compilation of plays, each play shot from three or four angles, one play after another, every angle of every play, over and over. It’s a study aid, compiled to assist each player as he works to dial in on next week’s opponents. So, for Brendan, the game tape was a series of plays, with its focus on the defensive line of the team the Pioneers would be playing next Sunday. One down after another, each down shown from the side. From the other side. From upfield. From downfield. Dull, monotonous repetition. From every angle. Every game and every play that next week’s opponent had played on defense so far this season. Plus the pre-season. Plus the last season’s games, because next week’s opponent was using largely the same defense this season as it had used at the end of last season. And so the game tape played, over and over. I don’t doubt somebody, somewhere jacks off to game tape. Nor do I doubt that somebody, somewhere jacks off watching water boil. It’s just I haven’t met either of those guys. Thanks to my brief hypnotic intervention, though, Bro-Two and Bro-Three, right then and there, on the sofa in their brother’s t.v. room in front of me, sat thighs wide, hands in motion. And they stared in erotic obsession… at the game tape rolling on and on in all its widescreen high def glory. I smiled and watched in satisfaction.

Tyler stretched out his sleek torso in a moan of sex-absorbed bliss. Callum paused only to spit-lube his palm, returning immediately to deep, pleasured wanking. Both men stared, riveted to the game tape footage playing out on the big screen, growing more aroused with every detail, as if they were watching the hottest porn action they’d ever seen.

“Good,” I purred. “Continue now, continue to wank, falling deeper into the bliss of hypnotic submission with every stroke, with every drip. And feel the tightness… the impossibility… the tight impossibility of orgasm. You cannot cum. You cannot spill. You cannot orgasm. No matter how close you get, no matter how near you feel… You just stare… and wank… and SLEEP…”


Satisfied that I had turned Tyler and Callum into docile, brain-drained goon-machines, I stepped away and returned to the living room.

Looking across the living room toward the kitchen area, my eyes settled on Brendan at the kitchen counter. He sat on the stool at the counter and leaned toward his laptop. He watched the laptop screen intently. I reminded myself that he was watching the same game tape as his brothers. I mused that, in his own way, he was just as into it as his brothers. He wasn’t wanking to the game tape, of course. Lines of intelligent focus played across his handsome features and bespoke absorption of a different kind. This was his job, his life, his first love.

I went to the armchair, and sat, and looked around for a book or something to read. Seeing nothing within reach, however, after a few minutes, I rose. I stepped over to the kitchen area. I went behind the counter. Behind Brendan sitting on the stool intent upon his game tape. I looked at the back of his head. At his buzz-cut blond-hair. At the sinews of his eighteen-and-a-half inch neck. At the twin mounds formed by his traps. At the graceful curve of his lats. At the muscles down the middle of his back, down to the small of his back. At his ass resting on the round seat of the stool. I stepped closer.

I reached with my right forefingers and touched him. I touched him at the deep dimple of his right hip. He started with a brief, sharp intake of breath. “Relax,” I instructed, as I gently felt him there. Coming in closer, I placed my left hand on him too, up on his left shoulder. I spread my palm out there feeling the thick muscle from shoulder to neck. He melted in my touch as he exhaled.

“You’ve been very good. You’ve listened, and you’ve obeyed perfectly. Now it is time for a reward.” The star running back lifted up his head from the laptop screen and looked forward. His breathing grew deeper. “You feel deep, warm sensations from my fingers here… and my hand here… radiating into every part of you… Into every muscle… every joint… every nerve… As you breathe, and as you listen, the deep, warm sensations find their way to every place, to every part… It is as if waves of energy are massaging you from within… finding every tightness… every piece of tension… and in wave after wave, that energy smooths you out… warms you… deepens your relaxation… heightens your pleasure… Yessss… you deserve pleasure… You deserve this… It is your reward… It is your release… Feel the pleasure grow… Gooodddd…”

I continued the pitter-patter of hypnotic instruction, leaning in close to Brendan’s left ear, as I moved my fingers at his hip in little circular motions. “That’s right… feel it… Feel it grow… It reaches inside you… deep inside your body… deep inside your mind…” McBride arched his back ever so slightly and let out a barely perceptible sound. “Good… with every breath, and every syllable, the sensations in you grow more pleasurable, more relaxing… and, yes, more intense… Feel the intensity… feel it grow…”

“Unnhhh…” The noise he made now was louder. I pressed my palm onto his shoulder more deeply, and then more deeply still. He arched, and he moaned.

“Good, Brendan. Very good. Now, Brendan, when I count you up from the number ONE to the number FIVE… this pleasure… this deep, relaxing pleasure… will grow even more… with every number it will grow so much more that, by the number FIVE, you will orgasm. You will release. It will be a wonderful, emptying climax, and it will feel very, very good…”

“One… feeling more and more aroused…

“Two… letting the energy, the warmth, the relaxing arousal fill you deeper and deeper…

“Three… rising and rising…

“Four… closer and closer…

“And… FIVE…”

At the number five, I traced my right fingers from his hip to the small of his back, and pressed firmly and deeply, running them down—down to the start of his ass crack, then down deeper, down toward his inner, warmest place…

Two hundred and six pounds of prize muscle arched its back, clenched its glutes, and let out a deep, elongated grunt of pleasure. A ribbon of white cream erupted from the rampant hard-on that jutted from thick, curved thighs toward the countertop. Followed by another. And another…

Grunts and moans of release subsided into a sigh of satisfaction. Brendan slumped downward and back, so far back that his broad-shouldered torso would have carried him off the stool and onto the floor if I hadn’t leaned into him the other way. Steadying now, he swiveled his hips half way around and craned his neck to face me. His deep, pale blue eyes, locked on mine.

“I need you,” he whispered.

I stared back, not a single thought of trouble disturbing the moment.

On the laptop in front of us, the game tape played on, some team’s offensive line running yet another pattern against next Sunday’s foe.


Mind control
Wanking material
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