Metaphisto The Fakir

Some husbands dread Girls' Night Out but not me. I never have concerns about my wife's Friday nights out. I trust the three girls that partake completely, whether they go night-clubbing or to see a show.

Firstly, my wife of six years, Sharon "Shazza" O'Neil, 25, a buxom blonde of five foot two and eyes of blue, is expecting our firstborn and barely showing, except I swear her tits are bigger, nipples permanently hard as bullets, and glowing more beautifully every day.

Secondly, my sister Maddy, 33, is five years older than me (Connor O'Neil), she's slim, dark haired and gorgeous. You'd never know from her knockout figure she'd popped out three kids in eight years before her husband Ray Clarke closed the stable door with a vasectomy.

And Shazza's adored by my widowed Mum Jenny O'Neil, who moved into the granny flat above our garage after Dad passed four years ago. Sometimes, Mavis Jones, a gregarious widow years younger than Mum, makes up a foursome, but she's in Florence on a midweek break.

Most Girls' Nights, me and Ray Clarke enjoy a few jars in the King's Head, thanks to his babysitting neighbour. As tonight's designated driver I dropped the pissed bugger off on my way home.

So, imagine my shock finding the three girls naked on my bed with a skinny old guy wearing nothing but a fucking turban, pointing a taser at me.

"What the fuck?—" was all I managed.

"Zap!" Everything went black.

When I came to I was handcuffed at the wrists with my arms behind me through the struts of one of our kitchen chairs, positioned by my bed with the turban wearer vigorously doggie-style shagging my shockingly fit Mum.

"Who the fuck?" I asked.

"I," he announced, "am The Great Metaphisto!"

"What the fuck you doing?"

Sure, it was obvious but it looked like he was planning on fucking my wife and sister next, if he hadn't already.

"I'm doing two more performances at your local theatre and fucking these ladies all weekend. Then I'll wipe their recent memories and they'll return to normal. However, you'll appear to forget, but being only lightly under my control, snippets of memories will appear like nightmares, never knowing if they're real."

"Using hypnosis?"

"Yes, after a life-time study of hypnotism, I've performed and done this countless times across the globe and enjoyed a wonderfully debauched lifestyle. None can resist my power."

My normally reserved Mum was completely gaga. My wife and sister were on the bed behind Metaphisto, engrossed in a lesbian sixty-nine.

"How d'you switch them off and on?" I asked.

"Keywords, you're programmed with start and finish words so you can't help but obey."

"No drugs?"

"None. Control is all by words. These ladies are in a suggestive state and'll do anything I ask. Done this for years, no worries. Nobody knows I'm here and the girls won't remember a thing, only mystified by sore arses and pussies."

"So if you control me, why the restraints?"

"Because once I didn't and I suffered for it."

"You weren't able to get whatever the controlling word is out in time?"

"Something like that."

"Shame then, I was refurbishing this chair and not glued it up yet."

I stood up, stepped two strides to the bed, the chair falling to bits behind me.

"Oh shit!" he yelled, "Kalama—"

I shut him up, nutting him full in the face. He went out like a light.

When he awoke, The Great Metaphisto was in my half-finished basement, tied hand and foot. Lit by a single bulb, the two people leaning over him must've looked like silhouettes. Ray wore headphones but I didn't bother. I puffed my cigarette and he must've recognised me in the glow.

"Kalamazoo!" he yelled triumphantly.

"Fuck off, I tried hypnosis to quit smoking but never fucking worked on me. Shazza buys me patches but I come down here to smoke. So, 'Kalamazoo' puts you in control?"

He nodded.

"And what word returns victims to normal?"

"'Super Kali'. Now will you fucking let me go?"

"Fuck off, you raping bastard!"

I kicked him into the channel dug out for the drain-pipe. It was only a metre deep and narrow, but he was a skinny bastard. Ray started up the cement mixer and began pouring concrete.

"Shall we release the fucking girls, Con?" Ray asked when we were done.

"Hang on, Ray," I said, "Let's not be too hasty. Let's think this through ... Kalamazoo!"