The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A real psychic would have foreseen that sleeping in the back of a van would lose some of its allure over time. I’d been rigging mosquito netting so I could keep the doors and windows open for cool ocean breezes, overnighting in various campgrounds to have access to showers and other facilities. I usually slept well, but it was far from ideal. Like people joke, KOA stands for Kamping On Asphalt.

I’d always loved pitching a tent in the wild country of Arizona, spending a night under the clear sweep of the Milky Way, listening to coyote howls echoing along deep canyon walls. Here in the east, camping spots were crowded together like city row houses, and I wasn’t having much luck with my immediate neighbors. The first night I heard some poor teen throwing up after a good debauch; the second night it was a couple having an argument, and then sex.

I wanted a change, a free and comfortable place to sleep with a roof over my head. If it were that and nothing more, though, I’d only need one lover, and one bed. I thought about that as I ate granola and peaches for breakfast—why was I so determined to have all three housemates, when I could get all the sex I’d ever need with just one? Was it a question of opportunity, the kind of thing a professional burglar might experience if he found himself invited into a house crammed with valuables, with easy-to-pick locks? That was better than another take, that I was becoming a male version of Goldilocks, needing to sample three newfound pussies to discover the one that felt juuust right.

Or maybe my desires were related to puzzle solving, like I had an obsession about cracking the precise code that would allow free entrance into an otherwise barricaded body. That had to be part of Brandi’s special allure; she was the hottest in looks, but it didn’t hurt that she presented the greatest challenge, too. Under normal circumstances she wasn’t a woman who’d ever do battle with impulses to stuff her puss with my boot. Since I wasn’t normal she might, and I had to have her. I simply had to.

I had a better picture of the three women’s lives now, as I’d actually talked with Pascaline before leaving for the night. Pascaline was the pampered one, an English major with no financial worries because her father, deceased, had been an important stockbroker in Atlanta, bestowing an amount of money unto his only daughter that bulged like the Incredible Hunk’s biceps. Lori and Brandi were from upper-middle class backgrounds and not from the South—no, “ya’ll eat my pussy good and hard” from them if my desires bore fruit.

Lori was a soccer jockette studying theatre management, while Brandi was a psych major. All different programs, but they’d been dorm mates in freshman year, and there was a complex sexual history between them. Pascaline had “stolen” a boyfriend from Lori one time, and they’d stopped speaking to one another over it. Apparently it had come as something of a shock when Pascaline approached the two women in the spring, proposing they all share a beach cottage. She was trying to make amends, her money making it all possible. The other two had gone along with it, finally burying the hatchet to become friends again.

That, to my mind, might as well be a shining billboard on the Fuckme Freeway to Loriville, proclaiming: Do Unto Pascaline Like She Did Unto You. And no wonder Lori hated it so much when the Hunk gawked at Brandi—she’d been burned by a friend once, and figured it could happen again. They were all trying to get along but there were tensions, ghosts of past transgressions.

I kept weighing pro-pussy strategies as I did my fortune-telling work that morning, and it put me off my game. Several people wanted to know if the hurricane was going to make evacuation necessary, which really put me on the spot. I hadn’t been paying much attention and didn’t know the latest track, so I just had to go with my gut, and play up the theatre. Yes, it’s coming. Be afraid; be very afraid.

I had a light lunch at a seafood shack, looking up at a cloudless blue sky, no hint of dangerous weather at all. I drove to the cottage just before two; Pascaline’s car was gone, but that was no reason to turn back. Walking up the outside steps to the main level, I heard shouting, and the harsh slam of an interior door.

I paused mid-step, hoping. A few seconds later, the Hunk burst out the main door, fuming.

“They can put up plywood all by themselves if the hurricane comes,” he muttered, brushing past me with an unfriendly bump of the shoulders. “They’re all cunts!”

“And Pascaline’s shoots like a high pressure squirt gun,” I said in his wake, but I don’t think he heard me. He was really upset, with himself as much as anyone.

At the top of the deck I lightly knocked on the screen door. I heard quick hard footsteps, and Brandi’s voice: “Get the fuck away before I… Oh! Jake!”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Yes, but come in. We’re just having a… a thing.”

“What happened?”

“Hank happened. He… Some men can just be incredibly stupid, that’s all. Lori’s upset; I guess I am, too. Have a seat in the dining area. I was just pouring some iced tea.”

I sat as directed, and couldn’t help watching the leg and butt show whenever her back was turned. So fucking fit and shapely, deliciously barefoot in ass-clinging athletic shorts. A textured red polo shirt served as the canvas for her boobs to paint shadowed curves upon, and it was a masterpiece.

“At least Pascaline didn’t have to see any of that,” she said, sitting and placing a sweating glass in front of me.

“She’s not here?”

“Here,” she repeated, like the word contained a multitude of meanings.

I went inside Brandi and could hear Pascaline’s volatile cum-cries, just as they had sounded to her last night, two rooms away. Brandi had been asleep, but lightly, and the escalating howls of bliss had done nothing to dissipate the insistent ache she felt between her legs. There was a smidgeon of envy there, a purely physical desire to live what had been heard. I reached in and stirred, trying to grow that interior itch into a full-blown flea infestation.

“I saw Pascaline for five minutes this morning and I wouldn’t really say she was ‘here’,” she went on. “Kind of staggering around, and never finishing her sentences. She finally got her shit together and left half an half hour ago. Said she had errands to run, and good thing or Hank might have pawed her tits, too.”

“That’s what happened?”

“I was making the tea, and he just growled and grabbed at me. Not delicately, either. He’s lucky I didn’t knee him in the nuts! Lori tore him a new asshole, believe me.”

“Sounds high drama.”

“I don’t think Lori will ever forgive him.”

“She might.”

“I thought you didn’t really make predictions.”

“True. I suppose I could give Lori a reading if she wanted one, though. Not to predict anything, but to help with her emotional state if she’s torn up about it.”

“What is a reading like? What exactly do you do?”

“Depends. I’ve gotten really good at hypnotism, for instance. Helping to reinforce a person’s true wishes, giving them an extra boost if they have a particular goal they want to achieve... I haven’t been engaged in it long enough to know how durable the help is over time, but in the short term it seems to be quite effective.”

I could feel how all that had gone in and lodged in a desirous place; which, of course, I made even more desirous. She was aching to talk about her dream therapy, and ways I might be able to help with that. I let a few moments pass, and tried to tie interest in her therapy into any leftover horniness she felt. She’d awakened with a need for sex in the morning, thanks to me, and had thought about diddling herself, but had gone running on the beach instead. I saw that in Brandi—if she got to feeling sexed-up and wasn’t in a relationship, she usually channeled that energy into vigorous workouts, not masturbation. Residual pussy-pulsing action was there nonetheless, but it wasn’t directly attached to thoughts of me—yet.

“Tell me about your dream work,” I said, closely monitoring her expression. “Pascaline says you’re studying psychology. I assume the two things are related.”

“They are. A couple of months ago I met a guy in school who was working with Amelia, my psychic, and he kept saying that one session with her was better than half a year of conventional talk therapy. I approached her, and it’s been fantastic. She just knows things, quickly, that it might take a trained therapist months to dig out.”

“Through dreams, mostly?”

“That seems to be my talent. I have really vivid dreams; always did, even as a child. And I remember them, which is half the battle. We’ve more or less designed our approach together, to tap into what works best for me. Amelia uses her abilities to help me understand what aspects of my life or psyche need exploration, and I meditate on that while awake. Usually, within a night or two, I’ll have an important dream that cuts right into the material.”

“I couldn’t be more fascinated.” And I really was, sensing a spike of electricity in the air. It was a flavor of desire I’d never sensed in anyone before—the desire for a potent dream life.

“I just have this feeling,” Brandi said, her eyes full of life, “that bringing your talents into the mix will propel things forward, make them go faster.”

“I have that feeling, too.” I should; I gave it to her.

She refilled our glasses and we drank in silence for a few seconds. I had the sense that she was weighing her feelings towards me. If I was going to play any part in her dream work, she would need to trust me, as in trust with a capital “T”.

“You know, I had a life-changing dream not too many months ago,” I said, not realizing I was going to tell her until my mouth moved. “That’s when my abilities awakened, in the dream. Until then I never even thought such things possible.”

“Do you feel like you can share it?”

Not fully, but she didn’t have to know that. I started by describing the events that transpired in the desert, just like they happened. I spoke softly, and earnestly; that wasn’t difficult when the experience was the most intense event of my life. I left out the most important parts involving the blood and sand and the manipulation of desires, making the dream more about the experience of getting to that final layer of my soul. “A search party found me nearly dead from dehydration and hypothermia, and when I regained consciousness in the hospital, I was different,” I concluded.

“That’s an amazing story,” she said after a little while. “You know that part where you weren’t allowed to look into the hole, but could only feel around with your hands... They say that no one can witness the face of God. It, or He or however you define it, has to be felt or touched, but is never seen.”

God or gigantic space aliens—both were equally unbelievable to me, yet I knew now that at least one existed. What I said was: “That’s exactly how I look at it. I’m so happy you understand.”

“And you just knew how to do things like hypnotism right off the bat? No training, no prolonged period of practice?”

I could have said yes, rather than lying. I thought about the story I’d told Val, and how she’d accepted it without question. “I did have a guide. A Navajo medicine man, very old and wise. He saw the gift in me, and took me in to teach me to channel it, always reminding me that its purpose was to help or heal.”

I could sense that she found my words a touch self-righteous, or even phony. I’d made a mistake, and tried to correct it by pressing into desire territory that I’d stoked the night before.

“You know, Brandi, when you spoke about your own work last night, I couldn’t help wondering if I could intensify your dreams somehow. Take it all deeper, or...”

That was like striking a match, her desires in that direction flaring brightly. “Or faster! I’ve been thinking the same thing! How would it work?”

“How would what work?” a voice asked from the top of the stairs, startling us. Lori came down, her face a bit puffy, eyes red. The rest of her looked great, all tanned and streamlined in a glistening blue one-piece. The healthy proportions of her tits took me a bit by surprise in the revealing attire, and I could just imagine the stir she’d create strolling down the beach. She was the kind of woman who’d have dozens of pairs of sunglasses aimed at her body, following every step.

“You doing okay?” Brandi asked.

“Sure, even though men are pigs. Present company excepted,” she added, taking a seat at the table.

“Want some tea?” Brandi asked.

“What I really want is a strong margarita. A new boyfriend would be nice, too.” She leaned back with her hands behind her head—the position looked unforced, natural, but in effect it showed off impressive female biceps while accentuating the fullness of her breasts. She was showing off to me, idly flirting, and unconsciously competing with Brandi. What I’d implanted earlier, about giving me a blow-job to get back at the Hunk, was pacing back and forth inside like a hungry panther, growling every now and then to let its needs be known.

“I get the feeling you should do something cathartic today,” I said, sending out vibes that my cum tasted like a margarita mixed with best tequila on earth. “Brandi told me what happened. What a jerk.”

“It has been a hard day,” she said, wiping at her eyes, which were clearing up. “So did you tell fortunes on the beach today?”

She was really thinking about the sounds she’d heard Pascaline making in the night, and how horny she’d felt all night, and how she’d awakened even hornier.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night, but yeah, I got up and told fortunes.”

“You must have a lot of energy.”

She and Brandi exchanged a glance at that one. “He’s a hypnotist, too,” Brandi said.

“And you do past life readings and who knows what else. You’re our age, right? How did you learn to do what you do?”

I wasn’t going to repeat the whole semi-authentic story. “I worked under a medicine man out in Navajo country. He took me under his wing and the rest is history.”

“Wow. That must have made you feel… special?”

If any of it had actually happened. I tried to sound more humble this time, for Brandi’s benefit. “I guess. He called me a psychic healer—I’m still not quite sure what that means or whom I’m supposed to heal, so I’ve been traveling around, seeing what fate brings my way.”

“And fate brought you here,” Lori mused. “Though Pascaline would probably attribute that to you being cute.”

Somewhere deep inside, she wanted to know what my dick was like, and what it was I’d been doing to get Pascaline screaming so deliriously in bed. The sounds of our lovemaking had been even more pronounced in her room, and she’d wondered if Pascaline could have been faking her orgasms, putting on a sound show for effect. Lori had tossed and turned all night with her pussy feeling unusually desperate, but hadn’t masturbated because she’d planned on giving the Hunk a furious afternoon fuck. That couldn’t happen now, not after she and Brandi had thrown him out, insisting that he never come back.

I did some insisting of my own, tossing a psychic lasso around all her frustrations and drawing them tightly together. Feeling horny, hearing Pascaline’s screams of delight, losing her boyfriend but needing some good hard cunt action… She could move on from Hank and repay Pascaline for an old transgression if she gave Jake’s hard cock an expert blow-job.

“I shouldn’t,” I heard her say inside, thoughts as clear as day.

I knew that voice. It wasn’t so different than a woman might have in her head when lusting over a dessert menu while thinking about losing weight. The temptation was most intense when the dessert was rare and decadent, making the experience memorable. The special dessert. The forbidden dessert, with extra cream. The dessert that once you’ve had a bite, you’re afraid you might order a second, or a third, not able to stop.

She looked up at me and cleared her throat. “Hank sure acted like an animal today. I don’t guess you can hypnotize someone like him into being a decent human being?”

“Changing inherent traits is way beyond my scope.”

“I need to put in an hour at the gym.” This from Brandi, whose interest had waned with Lori taking center stage. She gave me a look, the meaning evident—we weren’t done speaking about the potential intersection of hypnosis and her dream work.

Brandi disappeared, and I could see a realization taking shape in Lori, that we were about to be left alone in the cottage. We drank cold tea in silence while she had an argument with herself in her head. It was in complete verbal thoughts, not just conflicting emotions, and went like this:

“Don’t be crazy; you barely know him and he’s Pascaline’s boy-toy.”

“That didn’t stop her from screwing Todd. You always said you’d get back at her some day.”

“But that was years ago. We’re friends again.”

“She still deserves it. Besides, she wouldn’t even have to know. Just do it and tell him to keep quiet about it, like it was only from being upset about Hank and it won’t ever happen again.”

“It shouldn’t happen in the first place, then. Don’t even think about it.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it!”

I was well practiced at feigning ignorance and gave no outer signs that she was broadcasting her thinking with such clear reception. Brandi returned after an outfit change looking like the hottest little thing to ever don a pair of cross-trainers and a midriff-baring sports bra. I allowed my eyes to glom on, and Lori noticed.

After the screen door banged shut, I let out a soft, “Damn,” with a little shake of the head for emphasis. Lori was thinking about the Hunk going all ga-ga for Brandi earlier, and seeing me act similarly got her competitive juices flowing, all the way inside her pussy.

She stood and puttered at the kitchen counters, wondering what to do or not do, trying to control her emotions, her drives. Once we heard Brandi’s car start, she opened a cabinet and out came a bottle of El Conde premium tequila, and two shot glasses.

“I usually don’t drink before work, but I seem to have a need for it today. Join me?”

“What an unexpected pleasure,” I said, pushing the image of my hard cock into her head with all my might.

“Pleasure,” she said a bit absently. She placed the glasses on the table and her hands shook as she poured. “Funny how it’s just the two of us here, in my hour of need. You said you’re a healer?”

“I try to be one.”

“Here’s to healing, then,” she said, coming to stand right beside me, holding out a glass. We clinked our drinks and downed the smooth liquor in single gulps. Her left hip was almost touching my shoulder, and she had the urge to lean surreptitiously, just enough to brush against and get me wondering if it could be intentional.

The sneaky bitch; worse, she didn’t do it. She was full into one of those silent arguments again, trying to stave off a series of actions that could only lead to one outcome.

I’d been doing some reading about desires since gaining my ability, and this situation brought to mind a book I’d found in a little bookstore, a worn paperback titled, “The Desires Versus the Non-Desires”. This struggle lay at the heart of certain meditative practices from the East, and it was said that we are always caught between these two pulls, whether we’re aware of it or not.

Lori was in the rare position of feeling that desire/non-desire friction in a palpable way—she didn’t want to give a hummer to a near-stranger and consequently stab Pascaline in the back; at the same time, she wanted to blow the fuck out of me and have her revenge on Pacaline and Hank both. I rooted for the desires, because they were almost like cooking ingredients for me.

Without me tipping the scales again and again, she might have gotten up and walked out of the room or out of the house, taking some deep breaths to collect herself. I enlarged the competitive part of her, the soccer-winning, girlfriend-outdoing, Hank-hating can-do Lori, the daredevil Lori, the just do it Lori. Part of her wanted to jump off the cliff, to commit the act that couldn’t be retrieved, and that, inevitably, made her mine.

“Let’s have another shot,” she insisted, pouring.

The desires had become termites gnawing at the foundations of her self-control, and it had her heart pumping. I steered everything I could into her nipples, her pussy, pouring lust upon desire, making her like a clogged storm drain with blow-job needs rising. She was flooded with it, and could only get rid of it by doing what needed doing.

She messed up with the second pouring, quaking hands causing an overflow of tequila that pooled on the table at the bottom of her glass. I looked up past the full breasts and found her staring at the glistening mess, mouth open, lips wet.

“I’m going to want every last drop,” she whispered. She moved her glass aside and leaned down, extending her tongue to lick up the excess tequila. In her head she imagined how the sight of her bent-over body and slurping tongue must be giving me ideas, and she savored every moment.

I did have ideas, and the dick I would carry them out with couldn’t be harder.

When Lori straightened, her face had become a portrait of mischievous intent. She lightly snorted through her nose, remembering how she’d felt when she learned Pascaline had slept with her boyfriend a couple of years back. Concepts like “couldn’t” or “mustn’t” were crumbling like flimsy sand castles, kicked hard by feet wearing lust and retribution for sandals. She glanced at the screen door, thinking she’d easily hear Pascaline’s car if she returned.

“Stand up. Let’s drink to healing.”

“I thought we just did.”

“A different kind of healing, then. Healing the past, healing ourselves… I heard a form of healing last night, coming from the bedroom down the hall. You two were like wild animals in there.”

“Pascaline is really, um, enthusiastic. I hope it didn’t keep you up.”

She might have been staring down at the liquor in her glass, held between us. But she wasn’t. In standing, my boner was in view, and she’d locked on. “I have a special healing power, too. It’s not psychic or anything, but I’m really good at it.”

“Okay.”

“So here’s to healing.” We downed our glasses, face-to-face, and before the potent liquid even had a chance to slide down my throat, the heel of a hand was pressing against my erection.

Lori gathered our empty glasses with her other hand, and placed them on the table. Pushing me back down into my chair, she straddled me and slowly undid the zipper of my jeans.

“Oh, yes!” she said as she pulled me out. No words after that, only a trail of saliva bathing my crown, a hot hand squeezing the fat shaft. She slid down until all I could see in my lap was a head of long blonde hair, her cock action all heated breaths and light moans, while inside I helped turn her lust into a blow-job delivery truck, running downhill with no brakes. She wanted to blow me away with her head-giving skills, and that desire received nuclear fuel rods, the contact between her mouth and my dick turned into a conflagration. She needed to prove herself, which became a need to go beyond anything she’d ever done before. The voices in her head were gone now, replaced with purified need. It was a race against any blow-jobs she’d ever delivered in the past, and I made sure that the faster she ran, the closer to orgasm she came.

Some women have the mouths for it. Lori’s lips were generous, her mouth wide. I could make Pascaline’s life depend on out-sucking her housemate, and she wouldn’t be able to because she didn’t have the same equipment. I heard a ripping sound; at first I didn’t know what it was, but gathered that Lori’s hands were buried between her legs now, and she’d torn the crotch of her swimsuit in getting there.

The blow-job became a full body event, her overheated bobbing coming all the way from her spread knees and undulating hips. I didn’t find a wish to power-squirt in there like I had with Pascaline, but every woman wants an orgasm that feels stronger and lasts longer, and she was particularly attracted to the possibility of multiple orgasms, cumming again and again as she’d heard Pascaline do last night. I pulled that up and let it bloom inside her body and head, the certainty ironclad—making Jake cum makes you cum like you never have before, again and again, more than ever.

There’s nothing like incentive. She lost a touch of her artfulness but gained speed, moaning urgently just as I started my release, spurting cum so deep down her throat that my cock-head must have helped vibrate her vocal cords.

Lori was a bucker when she came, like a something let out of a chute with a cowboy astride. The fury of her gyrations, with my dick still buried inside her mouth, pulled me out of my chair and onto the floor. She kept slurping, desperate for every drop, her fragrance intense like the sea had carried in a cunt-monster on angry tides, washing it inside our door, saturating everything with its smell.

She eventually let go of my cock and I lay on top of her, squeezing her thighs, her tits, slipping my hands under the high-tech fabric of her swimsuit and to cop a bunch of good feels as she writhed and moaned. She was still quaking as I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom, depositing her on her bed. She was going to need new swimming attire, as this sleek blue one looked like a small shark had tried to eat her pussy out.

I sat beside the bed for several minutes, tuning in to her insides, thinking about what came next for us. Part of her wanted to keep what had happened a secret; another part was dying for Pascaline to know. I decided that, for now, I wanted Lori right where she was, torn between the two impulses. Friction meant heat, and I tied her emotional friction to the desire to get hold of my cock again. In a way it was like giving her a superheated dose of free will—she could confess to Pascaline the next time she saw her, or waylay me in secret again, never telling.

“I want you to know that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced in my life,” I said at her bedroom door, poised to shut it. “You make me wish...”

I let that hang, and she raised herself up to look at me. “We could do it again?” she said faintly. “I’ve never...”

Cum so much or so hard, she finished in her head, though she didn’t say it. Her emotions were swirling all over the place, wanting even more while knowing she shouldn’t want it. I tried to look similarly conflicted, even tragically troubled, a trick I’d learned with Val.

“Pascaline could be back any second,” I said, while underneath I let certainty detonate, that she’d cum even more times the next time.

I left and had the kitchen more or less together when I saw Pascaline’s hourglass form in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright sun. She came running in with several shopping bags gathered in one hand, and pulled me into her front for a deep hug and a kiss, with tongue tip.

“You’re looking marvelous today!” I said, making sure the compliment went straight onto the fuel pile gathered in her pussy.

“I got you a present!” Pascaline reached into the bag and out came a black cellphone, presented with a big dimpled smile. “It’s all set up and ready to go—phone, text, web… Unlimited and you’re good for a whole year!”

I took the thing when she held it out, and made the appropriate sounds and gestures. In truth, I didn’t know what I’d do with it. I hadn’t really missed the net while traveling—I was connected to an entirely different web, a more personal and personally advantageous one, so a phone felt like second best. Besides, if it ever rang I’d probably stare at it in wonderment, thinking it a wrong number. Or the FBI, finally realizing that someone like me roamed the land.

I did make quick use of it, though, thanks to Pascaline being a naughty little pervert. One of her saved erotic stories had been “Hell Gives Holly a Buzz”, where the protagonist, under the spell of a demon, develops an addiction to going into crowded public settings with a phone slipped inside her pussy, its ring tone set to vibrate.

Unlike that story there was no humiliation factor, because we were in Pascaline’s bedroom, not a symphony hall or a grocery store when my new phone received its very first call. I couldn’t answer it but Pascaline did in her own way, screaming with pleasure, the fan-like expulsion pattern of her squirting distorted by the streamlined shape of the thing stuffed inside her sprayer.

As she bucked and cried out, falling off the bed and onto the carpeted floor, it only felt right to leave a message: “Hi, Jake, it’s Jake. Guess you’re too busy to come right now. I’ll call again soon.”

And I did, every ten minutes using Pascaline’s cell, until she passed out.

I lost track of time, and regained it when I got my dick inside Pascaline’s pussy again with the light fading outside. It was well after dark when we finally emerged from her bedroom to quench our thirst and munch on a few chips. Pascaline could barely walk, and kept downing glasses of water she refilled at the kitchen sink. I’d lost count of her orgasms, and they’d become less outwardly explosive over time, like she needed a few quarts of Gatorade to refuel her pussy’s ejectrolytes.

I followed the chips by eating her pussy back in her room, and gave her overworked clitoris a goodnight kiss after pulling all her passwords out of her sands. Back at her computer while she slept, I checked out her banking information. Zowee was she loaded, and somehow that made it feel even more right when I used her credit card to order a training set of butt plugs from an online sex store. Lori’s mouth had proven its superiority, and I was determined to fuck the bejeezus out of Brandi’s pussy, which left Pascaline as the official piece of ass.

I had the package sent overnight, and spent a couple of hours reading through more erotic stories that Pascaline had saved. One titled “Hole In Three” involved a trio of hot friends vacationing together, falling into a spell of escalating lesbian lust as a male and female witch took an interest in them. Another story had an alien mist blanketing a small town in Tennessee, where all the young and beautiful women turned into sex zombies with their boobs growing at an alarming rate.

Pascaline’s stories were sometimes ridiculous, but a common theme kept reappearing, where some sort of magical intervention led to the awakening of a beautiful woman’s sexual capabilities. Again I had that sense of a whomping coincidence sitting on my shoulder, because here I was, a manipulator of desires, agitating her pussy so it could shoot girl-cum like a shaken Pepsi bottle.

Thanks to the stories I had a raging hard-on again. Pascaline seemed done in for the night and I was restless, wandering around the house wondering about my next move. I kept coming back to Brandi’s bedroom door, thinking about how much I wanted to mind-fuck its occupant. She was at work, of course, and wouldn’t return for a couple of hours still.

The door was unlocked, which I took as an invitation to look inside. No computer to hack into as a means of getting to know her better, so I went through her drawers. The woman wore a size 32D bra, and looked every bit of it in a couple of framed snapshots with some of her other college friends. She was still the gotta-have dish of chocolate, and my hard spoon ached with the anticipation of digging in for a taste.

Being in Brandi’s room gave me the idea to practice dream-manipulation on Pascaline. It barely seemed possible—how could I insert explicit directions into an unconscious mind? Was it a matter of inserting a truckload of desires and images into a dream already in-progress, or would it be better to do the work ahead of time, letting the inscrutable pathways of the subconscious create the storyline as it saw fit?

Back in Pascaline’s room, I pulled the desk chair beside her bed and shut my eyes, trying to tune in as she slept. No big surprise, a lights-out mind was not at all like a conscious one. The desires were instinctual; where she was right now it was as simple as wanting comfort and warmth. Sleep is regenerative and I could sense that, too, even in her pussy, given such a workout the past two nights.

But dreams... Either she wasn’t in a state to be having any, or they took place behind a curtain too thick to see through. I had Brandi itching to collaborate on her dream work with me, but if I’d thought I could stand at her door and aim specific dreams into her head, I’d have to come up with a new strategy.

I left after midnight, wishing I’d gone just a bit easier on Pascaline with my new phone and my old dick, so she’d be conscious for a goodnight fuck. I could get a blow-job from Lori if I stuck around, but too much of that too openly might freak out Brandi, and make her conquest even more difficult. Best to let that blow-job come out slowly and in Lori’s own words—she would either want to confess what she’d done to Pascaline, or get me alone someplace so she’d have even more to confess to.

It wasn’t exactly satisfying, but I decided it would be most effective to hit all the women hard with my absence tonight. It had been a productive day after all—I’d gotten my dick inside the second housemate, and I’d upped the pressure inside Brandi, even if I didn’t know what to do with that. Let them all churn like a gathering storm, stewing in their own juices for an additional night.

To be all the riper for plucking come the morning.