The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It must be possible to get an erection in the blink of an eye, because I was tingly but on stand-by when standing in Rock’s space, and completely hard when cold winter air hit the exposed flesh of my nose and cheeks.

I was two feet from the front door of the Brockton’s house, another pinpoint landing and probably another risky one, appearing from nowhere out of doors again. No shocked screams, not even the barking of a dog; it was all fine.

I noticed that my father’s car wasn’t there next door—had he gone out to the chalet to bring Meghan home? She had to be in a state, but she shouldn’t yet be as attraction-crazed as Nancy had become, so she might be able to pretend that she was her normal self, rather than nakedly exhibiting her lust for her stepson.

I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like for them, though, now that my stepmother had fucked me with her magical cunt. I didn’t believe for a second that she would outright confess to my father about what we’d done together, so he’d have no clue about all of that. Assuming I could tone her down before things got too insane in her system, she might never need to tell him. Or, after toning down the attraction magic, I could make her forget, much as I had with Dawn. I really didn’t know what I’d do, and all of that was a mess to be cleaned up later, as the here and now was all about Nell.

Before even reaching out to push the front door open, I found her on the field and cast the impulse spell on her. She glowed in that sight, a step above where Lila had been earlier, but not to the point of Nancy’s near incapacity. I cast the rheostat spell on her, and the memory spell right after that, giving myself the full arsenal to work with. I would need to dial Nell’s attraction magic down for her own good, but not before getting the experience of her love-jets blazing even brighter, as Rock had suggested. Certainly not before fucking her tits so hard and deep that I’d have no choice but to haze her memory of it to keep her from thinking she’d been cock-hammered by a space-alien.

I opened the front door, and stepped inside. I had no snow on my boots, but made noise as if stamping encrusted winter away, just to let Nell know I was there. On the impulse-field, before she even had a chance to speak, the flaring of her clitoris told me she’d heard. She was waiting, her loins throbbing with anticipation.

“I’m up here!” she called, her voice a touch raspy, like the burning of a runaway clit had a tightening effect upon her vocal cords.

Rather than calling out in response, I cast the rheostat spell on my erection, and slid the bar higher, and higher again. I winced at the pressure in my pants, and when I opened my eyes and looked down, it was like there was a steel rod ready to tear through denim, seeking the woman above. I hadn’t gone preposterous or anything, but it was certainly enough to take on even Nell’s prodigious rack.

I knew from long-ago experience that there were sixteen steps on the staircase leading from the ground floor to the second story, and I took them slowly, going inside Nell’s memories and finding every sensory impression of my cock. I connected those to a mental-memory rheostat bar, sliding them down into vague or half-remembered impressions. Not stopping there, I located her memories of feeling herself getting wet over how wonderful my hands and cock were, and those, one by one, I made more intense. The thrill in her clitoris when she’d first seen my erection, and the feelings in her heart that all led up to thinking and then telling me that she’d marry me if I asked… Those memories, created by the depths of her attraction and the lustful responses of her body, I made burn.

I thrilled to the sound of an anguished groan, Nell’s need for my hands and cock flooding her emotional system. When I reached the landing, I could see soft warm light spilling out from a partially opened door deep down the hallway and to the right, the new bedroom. I could know before even reaching the door, by feeling where a clitoris blazed hot and bright, that she was at the far wall near the windows—maybe these were akin to super-powers, when I had a mind-version of X-ray vision, being able to locate Nell’s position right through walls.

She was touching herself—that came through loud and clear, and it made my cock strain all the harder. My intention was to unleash untested magical influences upon Nell, but only in moderation, so I could revel in what they did to her without opening up some new Pandora’s box that I’d have to clean up later. With the attraction and impulse magic being the most familiar to me, I decided to raise the bar on both her clitoris and her level of attraction, one right after the other. That move produced a sudden “Gaahhh!” that choked into a sustained moan, and I would swear that sound gave my soul an erection.

I unzipped my coat and let it fall onto the rug at the top of the landing. Boots next, until I was barefoot in my jeans and my thermal undershirt. A handful of steps, and then I said, “Knock knock,” upon reaching the threshold of her door. “It wasn’t easy getting here but I…I yi yi!

She had been standing near her bedroom window when I entered the house, posing for me with side lighting from her bedside lamp casting a shadow of her body, in profile, upon the left-hand wall. I knew the ridiculously voluminous shadow-shape of her tits had been what she’d intended for me to see, because I could sift in her most recent memories and find that ultra-stacked shadow in her mind, from when she’d studied the effect herself. She had adjusted the turn of her body just-so, arching her back a bit for the fullest projection, the immensity of her breasts, complete with their conspicuous nipple-swell, had been turned into a two-dimensional cut-out, like a late Matisse that was all about woman.

That visual greeting hadn’t worked out, not with the magic-bombs I’d thrown while approaching her room. Their intensity had made Nell sink to the floor, and now she had her back to the wall, her strong legs bent and spread wide to reveal a visibly swollen pussy between them. She still had athletic shoes and white bunny socks on her feet, but otherwise she was completely bare below the waist, a familiar green and gold cheerleader skirt heaped near her feet. Above the waist her fucking unbelievable tits, obviously braless, proudly destroyed the straightness of the gold lettering that spelled ROCKETS on the front of her old cheering outfit.

“Fuuuuuck,” I said, which was essentially the same as being speechless. Her tits really were rockets, as any other woman with breasts that size would need a heavily underwired bra or a whole lot of plastic to achieve anything close to their protruding thrust. But better than any rocket I knew of, Nell’s tits had magic for propulsion, creating stretch-folds on that cheerleader blouse that visibly challenged the tensile strength of its stitching.

Not only that—by increasing the level of the attraction magic in her, I’d sent her into that zone where I could see the glowing orb of attraction permeating her insides. It was somewhat different than Nancy’s—this one, though more yellow-white in color, was reminiscent of the great red spot on Jupiter, a swirling storm of energy. And this was totally unexpected—it looked to me like even her glow was stacked, swelling twice near the top to occupy much of her boob-space. The woman’s tits weren’t just supernatural; they were also haunted, with wanting me.

“We’ve been waiting for you so long!” she said, bringing her arms in so they compressed her boobs even more forward.

We. The only woman in the room was Nell, and that meant the other presences were her giant twins, the rockets that made me want to blast off.

How could I have ever believed that regular earthly tits could be that large while retaining the shape they did? I knew from what she’d told me that even Nell could hardly believe them; I would have to memory-dig to know whether she ever had, but she could surf huge-tit websites, too, and confirm that she was the epitome of slim-n’—stacked, every single aspect of her tits, especially in relation to the rest of her figure, pure fetish material. If she had the information to understand that magical and essentially impossible events sometimes roamed the earth, she surely would have looked down at her tits and said—“So that’s how they are the way they are!”

“Go Rockets?” she whispered one of the old cheers, and my cock agreed, sending messages to my brain to focus on all the magic filling this room and go go go!

Without any hesitation, I raised the bar even further on the attraction magic. Nell’s entire body jerked, especially her legs, like she couldn’t even contain that much wanting without stretching to make additional space. The glow inside her would be blinding if it were real visual light; she might as well be a beacon telling the magical world that here was the cock she needed to crash upon.

She certainly didn’t need any more fuel, but I dished it out anyway, making the impulses in her clitoris dance. And without really knowing what might happen, I focused on her tits and raised the rheostat bar there, too, adjusting whatever magic they had. I wasn’t thinking them bigger, not yet anyway, just more, meaning more of the magic inside them, whatever that would mean.

Nell’s head was rolling, gibberish moans escaping a mouth hanging open. Her clitoris was on fire and her eyes looked like they wanted to channel that energy to shoot laser beams at my pants, burning them away to free my hard cock. When she grabbed frantically at the hem of her shirt, intending to pull it up and off, I reciprocated by unbuttoning my jeans, yanking my zipper down. The timing worked out like we’d practiced it for weeks, magic tits freed and mass-wobbling just as my dick popped free and mass-bobbed up and down, oversized mammary-magic saying hello to oversized and forever-reloading dick magic.

I cried out “Jeez!”, freshly overwhelmed by the splendorous immensity of Nell’s tits, right as she blew out an “Oh God!” of shock and awe, no doubt wondering how she could have lost track of just how hung I was.

“Oh Nell,” I said, and there was really nothing more I wanted to express in words. I knew her need for my hands and cock was as intense as my need for fucking those tits raw, and she was on her feet ready to spring as I rushed towards her. We met, forcefully, with my dick jabbing at her loins while her tits plowed into my middle, her hardened nipples like two giant erasers poking into my skin.

There was no art or plan while lifting and sucking at those tits, mashing the pliant flesh and hefting them and cradling them, bringing them up to my lips where I could mouth-pull at the crazy-full nipples. Somehow Nell got my shirt over my head, my bare chest engulfed by boob, while down below hot sweaty hands grabbed at my cock, squeezing and stroking.

Nell groaned and she was so fucking close to cumming already, and I wanted her to, but nothing super-spectacular or consciousness-threatening, not yet. I dove into her clitoris and pulled her release forward, no waiting around when my intention was to maker her cum again and again and again. Right as she began to cry out and tremble with that first one, I put my nose against her breastbone and wrapped her tits to either side of my head, and I listened to that Nellgasm through hooter headphones, her vocal bliss and the vibrations in her body shooting right into my ears.

It seemed to me that every muscle in Nell’s body would be jello after that, but that wasn’t even nearly true, as her grip never loosened on my cock. Either she pushed me onto the bed or we just toppled there, and I felt the weight of her breasts on my chest, their mass pivoting, and then there were lips forming around my cock-head. I had a fabulous view of her ass, the ass that had tormented me for years with its bubbly roundness, and I grabbed hold and squeezed with flat palms, while out of sight she worked more of me into her mouth, going, “Mmmmm!”, which became a bobbing “Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!”

If I could only cum once or twice, I would have intervened, because there was no way I would miss hard-fucking those monster tits. As it was, I just relaxed and rode the oral sensations and the coming surge, happily surrendering into my first “Mmmm!”—job. She took me in deeper, and I came suddenly, spewing into her mouth and releasing even more after she drew her head back, her mouth so filled that she had to disengage.

I didn’t even give her five seconds to recover from that, pushing her onto her side and then her back, tits up, climbing on board. Nell had thought ahead and positioned several bottles of baby oil or skin lotion in different parts of her bedroom—with all that time awaiting my arrival, she had intelligently made provisions to have lubrication on hand no matter how our fucking progressed—and I grabbed the one on the bedside table and squeezed an outright pond of goo all the way from her collarbones to her ribs, my palms slathering while my still-hard cock throbbed like a jet engine.

Would she have thought it strange, that right after half-drowning her and painting much of her face with jizz, I was still a fully erect pulsing rod? Who could know, when I went inside Nell’s memories and dimmed her awareness of my having just cum. The evidence was all over her cheeks and chin, with strands of her hair noticeably sticking together, but details tended to get lost when glowing attraction became like an infestation of the mind and soul, hordes of impulses alight all at the same time, and they all said “Closer!” and “More!” and “Cock!”

Cock met cleavage, with Nell cradling the outer orbit of her tits with her arms, gathering their enormity and pushing them in and up. What arose just might be the most spectacular tit-mountains on this earth, the glow inside them begging for a thorough bewitchment-banging.

Infuckingcredible, how in magically growing my dick to even this size, I had underestimated the scope of the cleavage-crack of Nell’s compressed tits. That channel was so prolonged that I could bury my cock in there up to my massive balls, and only a third or less of my cock-head emerged out from between them. The contrast in color was stark, the smooth skinscape of her breasts a pleasingly pale shade of peach, whereas when my cock-head emerged it looked comparatively red-purple and overripe, like some kind of fruit that you could just lightly touch and its juice would burst out.

And that’s what it felt like to oil-slip-slide-fuck these wonders of the world. They were absolutely enveloping, and once being rocked, their wave-action getting more extreme as our pace quickened, their implausible beauty and exaggerated motion got into me. Maybe, in truth, it was as simple as a mammoth magical monster titty-fucking even huger tits, but the sight of them, and feeling the hot friction between them, and seeing the otherworldly glow on the inside, and then the rapture visible on Nell’s face, her mouth open and eyes staring out with her vision turned in, her expression conveying that she was toast and I was butter, the two of us always meant to join like this, getting grilled like this with our brains and bodies and the magic inside us creating enough smoke to…

I came suddenly, not even knowing it would happen until it did, a torrent of cum hitting her throat, her chin, her hair. I groaned and she pushed me to the side, rising up as I went onto my back, and then her tits were on me, sliding all over my chest, neck and face. They were so soft and so heavy, and they molded their shape to the terrain of my body, like sensory organs meant to know me through their unrelenting touch. As they knocker-meandered their way down my abdomen, I got my head together enough to go inside Nell’s memories and dim her knowledge of my cumming again—I could do that forever now, couldn’t I, creaming on any lover again and again, piling up the ejaculations and the pints of cum, with the action of my reloading cock all being like a some kind of hazy dream.

When Nell’s wandering oil and cum-saturated tits found my cock again, it was hard and straight and waiting, and there was no surprise in her eyes, just continued runaway desire, or even love for it. She groaned with wanting and pulled me to the edge of the bed, still on my back but with my feet touching the floor, and she stood between my legs, proudly displaying her gorgeous body while glide-massaging her boobs with her arms and hands, lifting them, pulling them, changing their shape, giving me a show of just how malleable they could be, nature’s perfect soft-toys gleaming and almost wriggling in her arms.

My cock strained, and my mind reeled, and then she fell to her knees while guiding her tits into whomping to either side of my erection. With a squeeze of her elbows she created a new cleavage-crack, but this time, with her above, it was her tits fucking me.

More, I thought at her boobs, raising the mental rheostat bar at them. I still wasn’t attempting to grow them, just… But fuck that, I was certain I could make them grow even more huge, and what was there to lose when I had the memory magic, so I went there. She already had to use her arms to keep her tits gathered, and as I slowly, gradually, rheostated her tits larger, and larger, they began to push her arms apart, boob-flesh expanding in every direction. Who knows what was happening below the edge of the bed—were the bottoms going down to rest on her thighs? Perhaps, as where I could see, the rounded tops of her tits had risen to either side of her chin.

“What the…” she asked, but if anything she appeared to be even more determined to mega-fuck my cock, the opposite of distress. There was at least half-awareness there, but from nature and rapidity of her impulses I would say that Nell was in a kind of lust-fog, her loins ablaze but also her nipples, which were approaching the size of wine corks. I came from that, from the sight of Nell’s tits swelling with time-lapse rapidity, and the thing was, my ejaculation went nowhere—it was completely trapped between those things, the dimensions of my cock having fallen so far behind.

Nell wasn’t going to be far behind, and it was work, a form of multi-tasking, to raise the bar on my cock’s size and impulse-buzz Nell’s clitoris and also her nipples, all while slowly thrusting, each up and down a different degree of sensation as I grew myself inch after super-sensitive inch. I could feel my balls swelling too, their weight and contours creating an alien pressure against my thighs.

Above, the lower half of Nell’s face was positively framed by her tits, and when the tip of my cock finally growth-emerged out the other side of them, it lightly rammed her chin, and was quite obviously too wide around for any portion of it to ever fit inside a human mouth.

Nell looked lust-hazed or only half-conscious, on her way to becoming incredible breasts with a woman attached. As I felt another load getting ready to blow, I shoved her orgasm into its own fast-forward gear, and I was with her on the impulse-field as she came, gushing down there out of my sight. With two more hard thrusts I was cumming, too, shooting an insane load, a Guinness records load that hit Nell’s chin and throat with much of it splunking back, while more rocketed onto her eyebrows and beyond, the sounds telling me I must have hit the wall or ceiling beyond her.

Just the cumming, the tides above and below. I finally slowed, and assessed, and for a couple of seconds I thought Nell might look up at me, her eyes filled with pleasure or fulfillment or shocked disbelief. She was still on her knees and it was almost like she was being held up by invisible puppet strings, because it became apparent, with her head tipping forward, that Nell had again been climaxed lights-out.

The puppet strings were cut before I could even sit up, and she collapsed sideways on the floor, into a heap. With my cock freed from its cleavage-cage, it bobbed up and I let out an involuntary “Gah!” at the sight of it, because fuck. No man’s dick was ever meant to be like that—it was almost like I had a glistening monument to phalluses between my legs, its proportion to my body just not right.

“Down boy,” I said, not wasting any time before rheostating myself back down to my new normal. I stayed hard, yet watched myself shrink, and I let out a sigh of relief when everything was back to a reasonable scale.

Then I surveyed Nell, whose tits were still in the land of holy-fucking-shit. Positioned as she was, one immense breast was essentially laid upon the other, on her side with her legs bent at the knees. The magic inside her didn’t seem to care about normal rules like skin elasticity or blood flow from the heart—it had felt good having my cock expand like that, and the same was probably true in Nell’s case. Her boobs had retained every bit of their gorgeousness, even at this scale, and I knew I’d never be able to get my mind around the equation of their retaining their perky shape, even when grown this large. They were just unbelievable, yet right there in front of me, a part of this world just like anything else.

“My phone,” I said, feeling somewhat dazed but remembering how I’d snapped those photos of Lila looking all sex-destroyed. This was different—I had to stand on the bed to get some distance, and the image of the woman on the screen looked like it just had to be faked, because no one could ever have tits that beautiful at any size, and certainly not whaling out from a trim and taut torso like that. And I found myself laughing because of the athletic shoes and bunny socks that were still on Nell’s feet, and the discarded green and gold cheerleading shirt heaped right next to her ass, bunched in such a way that only the letters O, E and T were completely visible.

“For outrageously enormous tits,” I said, adjusting the camera height and angle as I took eight or nine photos from above, of the cheerleader from another planet. Then I got down on the floor and took close-ups of areoles the size of generous dessert plates, and nipples that could serve as the stoppers for beverage bottles, and one special view where it was in-your-face just how much bigger Nell’s tits were than her head. I placed one of those overgrown nipples between the index finger and thumb of my left hand—her nipple was essentially as big as my thumb—and I photographed that impossible reality, too.

Nobody, if they were shown these photos, would ever believe they were real. Well, maybe Rock, but he would never see them. They were just for me, something like a keepsake for the time I grew Nell Brockton’s knockers to the size of an X, Y and Z-cup, or whatever.

I needed to return them to their original size, just as I had with my cock. I did that pretty much with my eyes closed, because I just didn’t think I could stand to watch boob-shrinkage happening, not with Nell, not with those.

I inspected them once I was done—they were still freaking huge, and flawless, and it was obvious that magical inflation and deflation could go on all day and there would never be any telltale stretch-marks upon her skin, no visible or measurable evidence at all that her breasts had undergone any transformation. Nell had said, on the phone, that even her doctor didn’t understand how her breasts could be so incredible, and what had just transpired with them, leaving no trace, was just the same. Yet another how-does-magic-actually-work conundrum for Rock to ponder.

Done with documenting and inspecting, I just stood there for awhile, admiring what a beautiful woman she was from head to toe. Much of her body was covered with a mixture of oil and cum and girl-juice, and all the shiny stains, catching the light, highlighted the athleticism of her form. Nell was still every bit the cheerleader-type in design, except for the oversized tits.

She looked so peaceful, even with her hair tossed wild with drying cum in it, but I couldn’t just leave her sleeping on the floor. As I gathered her in my arms, lifting her up to place her on her bed—jeez, even back to their original scale her boobs took up so much space—I had the sense that life for me had become some kind of fairy-tale, where I was part prince and part monster, not saving the princess but invisibly tethered to her, with the ever-after part a huge question mark.

I focused on the here and now, getting a washcloth and a container of warm soapy water from the bathroom where I’d first haze-ogled Nell’s tits through the window, and spent about five minutes cleaning cum and oil from her face and breasts and especially her neck and hair. After that I did what I could with the big cum-splat on the wall above her dresser, some of which had sagged all the way down to the floor. All done, I leaned in over Nell and very lightly kissed her lips, then arranged the covers over her, thinking she looked like a real-life Sleeping Beauty, only with two giant breasts as her faithful companions, instead of seven dwarves.

Standing beside the bed I knew what I had to do next , but rheostating her desire for me downward felt even worse than diminishing her tits back to their original scale. Just contemplating it was like thinking of having a tooth extracted—to take away that needful laser-look in her eyes, dialing her attraction down to where she didn’t literally ache for me, just sorta-kinda felt desirous…

I shuddered and said “Fuck you,” out loud to that otherworldly book, for giving me the spell to do the right thing. And for not giving me any choice but to do it.

No visible change, in the way of regular sight. On the field, though, the bright glow of the attraction-need was gone. Unless I made further changes she would still feel some degree of attraction for me, but would it be enough to reside in her at the level of love? If I let her remember that she’d been the one to speak of wedding bells, would that seem ridiculous to her, or still a possibility?

“My cock and heart will shrivel and die if you ever say the words, ‘We’re just friends’, or, ‘I’ve decided to get back with my Swiss-French boyfriend’,” I told her. Which wasn’t quite true, because the second I heard those words I’d probably rheostat her attraction back up to solar flare levels.

“This is just a fucked-up holding pattern,” I said, dissatisfied with how I was handling things. The sex since I’d walked through that door—outlandishly perfect, far better than anyone even had a right to experience. My handling of the magic still inside Nell, and how to navigate her going forward—everything about that had a bitter taste, like I was gritting my teeth, wanting to have my fingers crossed behind my back with every move. Not one cell in my brain or body wanted to give up the pleasure of this woman, at all. She might be one of only two or three women in the entire world who had a special kind of anatomical magic inside them, of the kind I could manipulate as I’d done tonight. And fuck it, my soul wanted Nell wanting me, and not just mildly. I’d gotten the taste of Nell fucking Brockton falling tits-over-heels for me, and to go from that to something much less intense…

And it wasn’t going to be much easier when I had to do the same with Meghan, was it?

A peek out the window showed that my dad had returned, and I’d bet anything that Meghan was next door now, leaving the chalet, home, unoccupied. I emptied my mind for a few seconds and tried to find her on the impulse-field… Too far away, if she was even there.

“I have one last thing to do here anyway,” I said, glancing at the little clock on the bedside table. There was still little chance that Nell’s parents would be home soon, and it was Nell’s memories that needed attention now, of how outlandish our sex had been tonight. I didn’t want to wipe it all away—still crossing my fingers? I didn’t think so; this was more about going dimmer-switch on what had transpired here, like maybe everything she semi-recalled after I’d said, “Knock, knock” at her door had all been part of some crazy dream. Because her tits, and my cock, they couldn’t have become all crazy-huge like that, because such things were impossible.

I slid those mental bars down and got dressed, and it was when picking up my boots and coat in the hallway that it occurred to me that I could bundle up and just walk out the front door, rather than spell-a-porting to the chalet as I’d been planning. I needed to know if my stepmother had been brought home, and home was just a few steps away.

I took one last look at Nell sleeping under her covers, and noticed when coming back in from the hallway that her bedroom smelled like a brothel. There were always going to be messy details left in the wake of my magic, weren’t there?

Down the stairs and out into the cold, and with a left turn past the front gate, about ten crunchy steps brought me right outside my old house. I shook my head with the surreality of it, that just a handful of nights ago I had walked these same steps, hoping that the potion inside Nell might have gotten her to feeling like she could conceivably make love to me.

I supposed that I could just walk into the house, or ring the bell. If Lila had recovered and was awake, she shouldn’t be anything like the voracious sex-demon she’d been, but Meghan was a whole different deal. And as crazy-sexy as it would be to see what my stepmother’s magic-touched pussy might be able to accomplish if rheostated up, I couldn’t escape the fact that I was bone-weary from all that had happened on the craziest day of my life. Meghan and I weren’t done; I knew that, but however we were going to play out our stepmom/stepson porno-play, tonight was intermission, except for dialing her lust down to a more reasonable level.

A light was on in Lila’s room above and the kitchen below; otherwise the house appeared dark. My parents would normally be up now, but had there been a single thing that had transpired today that was normal?

I didn’t go onto the front porch or anywhere near the door, making fresh tracks in the snow towards the right of the house. When I got to the right front corner, I tried to tune-in to Meghan on the field. I found her, and…

And I could even hear her, wall and window-muffled exertion-grunts coming from their bedroom. On the field her clitoris… Good God, was that coming from something she was doing to herself, or was she fucking my father? If he was a part of it, his cock a stand-in for trying to put out the fires whipping inside her pussy, then the man might be walking on crutches tomorrow.

I wanted to just disappear, to give them their privacy, but what was the point of having to return later to do what I knew had to happen?

I started by going inside Meghan’s clit and igniting it to blowtorch heat. I could hear the effect immediately, not just Meghan’s voice but my father’s. She was cumming hard, really hard, and his bellows had me worrying for his safety. They went on for a good amount of time like that, and while Meghan was in the climax-zone, I cast the rheostat spell upon her and without agonizing over it I slid the bar down on her attraction magic, aiming for roughly the same level that I’d just done with Nell.

As silence fell from inside, I contemplated which of Meghan’s memories to tamper with, if anything. It would be a good bit of work to rid her of all her memories of fucking me, or to even dim them to where she might wonder what had happened, or hadn’t. But I just couldn’t make myself clean up her memory landscape the way I’d done with Dawn—we had fucked, and she had revealed to me just how amazing her pussy was, and I didn’t want her to forget that.

I cast a different spell instead, after picturing my chalet and the space right near the wood stove. And in the blink of an eye, I was there.

With a freshly built fire in the stove warming the place up, I took a long hot shower, scrubbing all the cum and Nell-juice off my body. The scratches on my face were definitely beginning to heal, and it was only while examining them that it occurred to me that Nell had never mentioned them. She’d been too filled with love and cock-lust to care about the small things.

I thought I looked pretty good for a battle-scarred magician, even being so tired. After a day like today—yesterday now—with all the hitchhiking and trudging and spell-a-porting and spell-casting and cock and knocker-growing and super-sized tit-fucking… It was a lot, but I was young. It wouldn’t always be so, but for now I could recover quickly from most anything.

I didn’t think I’d be able to get to sleep anytime soon. I wasn’t wired, just unsettled, and so I rummaged and found cold beers in the fridge, and popped the top on one. Nestling into the sleeping bag love-nest near the stove—it still smelled like Meghan orgasms here—I decided I’d have to get this place furnished, fast, even if that meant racking up a bunch of credit card debt. Maybe this place would serve as my secret lair, or I wouldn’t even live here for long—who knew what would make sense logistically, once the book started to make demands on me.

Knowing it might be a form of torture, I got my phone out and scrolled through the most recent photos of post-orgasmic Lila and Nell. Instant erection, of course. Both of them, each in their own way, were almost unbelievably beautiful, but in Nell’s case, with her tits enlarged the way they’d been, the unbelievable had become outright preposterous. Yet it had happened, and if I could do that to Nell’s tits, what might be possible with Meghan’s pussy? It would be silly to grow it, so to affect it more would mean…

I closed out of photos, something half-remembered tickling at my brain. It was that I’d aimed a general more at Nell’s magic breasts, before giving in to temptation and making them literally grow. I hadn’t had any specific idea of what it meant when I’d aimed that more, other than whatever magic made them go, there should be even more of it. But had anything changed? It seemed that her nipples had become super-sensitive, but that might have been from the growth, because they really had gotten huge.

I wondered—if I aimed an abstract more at Meghan’s pussy, what could conceivably change? And what about Lila? I still wasn’t sure if she had been magic-touched before drinking that eggnog the other night. Even in Nell’s case, it hadn’t been like there were flashing neon lights proclaiming that her tits were magical; I’d surmised the enchantment in her breasts from the weird dreams, and the fact that her tits were so freaking amazing that there just had to be magic inside them.

Loose ends, and there were probably others. Like with all the fucking and running around in the past couple of days, I’d never listened to the music Nell had given me. That got me remembering that I still hadn’t brought my laptop here from my old bedroom, or anything else.

Do it, just spell-a-port there and bring my computer back here, which might only take about half a minute? With a surge of determination I decided yes, finishing off my beer and putting my jeans and a t-shirt back on.

“No fucking anybody this time,” I instructed myself out loud. “Just be there, grab the laptop before Blizzard’s nose can work out that I’m in the house, and pray the magic lets me travel with my computer.”

I did just that, spelling into my bedroom, taking hold of the computer and the power cord, stuffing the cord into a pocket and hugging the laptop tightly to my chest with both arms, and then I reappeared back at the chalet. Piece of cake.

I found the memory stick Nell had given me, plugged it in and settled on top of the sleeping bag, clicking to see what we had.

I read, Jon Coltrane and Johnny Hartman, 1963. I knew who Coltrane was, though his music was mostly unfamiliar, and I had no idea about Johnny Hartman. I double-clicked, and turned the sound up, and laid back, wondering what Nell had wanted me to hear.

Smooth saxophone, spare and soulful, and when Hartman’s voice came in, like velvet on skin… The opening track was “They Say It’s Wonderful”, a love song, and before it had ended my eyes were tearing up. Nell had wanted to share this with me not too long after ingesting the attraction potion, this music about falling in love.

I closed my eyes as the second track began, “Dedicated To You”. She was slaying me with this stuff—I couldn’t tell if the lyrics themselves elevated it above sentimental emotions, or if it was the artistry of the performers, using their skills to weave their own form of magic. However it was accomplished, the music pierced me, and made me want to get up and spell-a-port back into Nell’s room and tell her that I got it, I felt it. Then we could kiss, and fuck, and strike out for Las Vegas together, to get hitched. After that I’d never ever let her mouth and her ass and her tits leave my grasp, and we’d either grow old together or just grow together. I was…

Out on a crowded city street, wearing my parka, a cold wind whipping all around. I have no idea where I am, until I turn around and see the Washington Monument rising up towards the gray clouds above. I’m in Washington, D.C., perhaps on a sidewalk I’d been on many years ago, when my family had vacationed here when I was seven.

But how did I get here? Did I spell-a-port?

“You know what’s going on,” a complete stranger says as he brushes by me.

I pivot, and it’s just the back of an elderly black man, walking away at an unhurried pace. And he’s right, because I know that I’m not even really here; I’m dreaming being here. Or maybe it’s a little different than that, the book dreaming me here.

It’s still winter, and I have the sense that it’s mid-afternoon. I look at my watch and see 3:12…

“Watch where you’re going!” somebody snaps at me, brushing against my shoulder with enough force to make me move my feet. As this stranger strides away, a tall balding guy dressed in a business suit and those shiny black loafers they always seem to wear, I fall into step behind him, because I know he’s my target, the reason I’m dreaming this dream. I’m supposed to cast the impulse spell upon him, to make him… What, do something, or not do it?

I’m about fifteen feet behind him, and he has his phone to his ear, and he’s angry about something. I don’t hear the words but his emotional state is easy enough to read, with his left arm gesticulating like he can’t even believe what he’s hearing. He’s coming to the end of the block, his phone going back into his coat pocket, and…

And there—I sense the impulse in him to step off the curb and keep going, right into oncoming traffic. Is it suicide, or just a moment’s inattention? It doesn’t matter—I’m supposed to block that impulse, sending it back to the bottom of his bowl of Campbell’s Impulse Soup. The book, knowing what it knows of events to come, wants me to keep this asshole from getting creamed by the white delivery van barreling his way.

With a jolt I awakened, Nell’s music still playing, that buttery voice saying, and I have to agree, “You are too beautiful.”

Nell was too beautiful, but what had my heart racing was that I knew I’d just been given my first assignment. I had no idea who the guy in the suit was, or is, and whom he’ll eventually be speaking to about what, but the book doesn’t want him to die, and he will without me being there to fuck with him.

One of the good guys, writing legislation to fund school-kids’ lunches or whatever? One of the bad guys, lobbying to make people pay mega-bucks for lifesaving drugs? Somehow I know he’s a complete asshole, so why does he matter so much?

“A specific date might have been helpful!” I called out to the book, but even as the words came I could recall my watch-face from when I looked at the time in the dream. It was, or will be, Tuesday the 13th of January, essentially two weeks from now.

I was wide-awake again, and got up for another beer. Positioning myself cross-legged with the computer in my lap, I pulled up the calendar to check all that, and then a map of downtown Washington near the Mall, trying to determine exactly where I’d been. “Either there or over there,” I said, going by the view I’d had of the Washington Monument. I closed my eyes and found that I could remember, with a spooky kind of vividness, the intricacies of the tangle of bare tree limbs from when I’d looked up at the monument—memory magic of some kind, to be able to recreate those dream-seconds with such clarity. If I got to those streets a little bit ahead of time and looked up to check, I’d be able to find the exact spot where I’d stood, for sure.

So, I had my first job as a minion. Was this one in any way typical, with a kind of pattern that would emerge over time, or would they be all over the place? And would I spell-a-port there, or… No, I already knew the answer to that. I didn’t know the terrain enough for a safe landing, so I’d have to drive, or maybe fly.

Something about flying didn’t feel right. It was all too regulated, like maybe a magician on a secret mission should wear reflective sunglasses and travel incognito, perhaps on a train. A little web searching showed that I could catch an Amtrak train in Grand Rapids, and it would go to Chicago before curving to the east coast. Best of all there was plenty of time to make a decision.

I was about to shut the computer down when a new email appeared, and it was from Rock. I clicked for mail, and when I saw the heading, Treatise For A Brave New Magical World, I didn’t hesitate—I clicked it open.

This is only a rough draft, he said in way of explanation. If something hits you as being wrong, or even questionable, and you want to discuss it, I’m available anytime, day or night by phone or email or in person. Just don’t materialize next to my bed while I’m sleeping—that would be entirely too weird.

Rock’s treatise was in the form of an attachment, and I opened it up, and slowly scrolled to read. He had a short opening where he argued that he didn’t buy-in to the idea that I’d been chosen by the book because of my impulse-control issues, and part of it went like this:

Everybody has impulse-control weaknesses to some degree or another, and I would never have said that yours are worse than anybody else’s; I still don’t believe that. Think of all you haven’t done, that a less responsible person surely would have, since being granted these spells. You’ve stumbled some (maybe were caused to), and experimented and pushed the limits here and there, but you hardly went wild ala the power-hungry boy-turns-evil model. I don’t think we’re ever going to know how or why you became the target of this “Book”, but I’d argue the reverse of what you concluded from that dream—you might have been chosen partly because you have more impulse-control than most, at least when the shaping of peoples’ lives is at stake. Yes, Nancy and her family have suffered some, but walls can be repainted, and beyond that it’s likely she’ll be fine. The same will almost certainly be true of Meghan and Nell—the point I’m making is that your history with this stuff has been so much more about giving pleasure than inflicting pain. Much of it has been your pleasure, too, but I believe that’s almost beside the point. I’m not a “Bravo!” kind of guy, but when the shoe fits…

The words of a true friend. Which were debatable, but still nice to read.

He followed that up with several ideas—he said they shouldn’t be called “schemes” when they had a good chance of working—for getting our hands on a good bit of money. I found myself nodding, thinking, “Yeah, this can work,” while seeing how I’d been setting my sights way too low, even when I’d brainstormed about selling mansions. To get money, and not even commit a crime, you needed to have access to really rich people, and some reason for them to even talk to you. Rock had it figured out—no guarantees, but damn. And the world I might gain entrance to through that, famous models and movie-star babes…

I put the phone down for a few seconds to imagine myself with a favorite actress or two, with attraction potion coursing inside them. Not only could I score, with the impulse magic I might be able to bend them into recreating the hair styles and wardrobe choices from the movies they were famous for, like getting to fuck not just the actress, but the character.

“Whew!” I said, my dick throbbing. And I made myself continue, getting to the actual treatise, which began with a numbered set of rules and suggestions. This was Number One:

Don’t fool yourself by trying to set unattainable rules about the use of your spells, and any spells you may gain in the future. You aren’t a saint and won’t go through life like one. You’ll be tempted to use your magic and you will, and it would just become a nasty squirrel nibbling at your brain if you overthink what you’ve done every time, and then tell yourself that you’ll be good boy the next time. If the “good” is really an unattainable image of yourself and your behavioral reality, then you’ve locked yourself into an unhealthy cycle of temptation and regret. Find your comfort zone and enjoy what you’ve been given. Enjoying life is part of the privilege of being alive, right?

Which was essentially a green light, tempered by the yellow light of his rule Number Two:

You aren’t cruel by nature, and remember that. It is imperative that you do think through a set of immutable Must Not Ever’s, lines in the sand that you will never cross, no matter what. These need to be attainable—they’re choices, that you will always say no to. Some might be moral in nature—should you ever cast the attraction magic into the drink of a young, happily married mother, for instance? Others might be more tactical—the one that comes to mind for me is you hooking up with famous women like movie or t.v. starlets. You could probably do it, but then what? Read and remember this word: Paparazzi. Cameras cannot have their memories removed, and what happens to you when the tabloids start noticing that some nobody-famous-guy keeps scoring with sex-symbols that the whole world would like to bonk? Think about the no-go zones with famous people, or the super-rich—make a list if you need to—and make their world a part of your Must Not Ever’s.

This was great stuff, even if he had poured vinegar on my new Hollywood actress-fucking dream. And just like that, after receiving his wake-up call, I could think of a couple of Must Not Ever’s, like no sex with underaged girls that would land any normal guy in prison, and no big-boob superstars or porn actresses like the ones I’d beaten-off to for months or years… Hmmn. I could think more about a couple of them.

One other thing I could think of as a no-go: mentally or emotionally unstable women. You couldn’t always spot that immediately, but if I did, then no. I’d already seen how these magic rides could turn a very solid woman like Nancy into something approaching a basket-case, so starting with someone pretty fucked-up from the beginning would be like juggling nitroglycerine.

No thanks, no way.

Going to Number Three, I saw that Rock and I had hit on the same point, though he’d worked it out further:

Be extremely careful where you materialize when spell-a-porting. Take care with the magic—that goes without saying—but what I’m really speaking of is cameras, again. They’re everywhere these days, especially in large cities. You can feel pretty safe in spaces that are designed for privacy, like bathrooms—I’d even make a study of those, to accumulate as many safe and private landing points as possible. Use your phone to photograph and catalog your safe spaces; at some point you’re bound to run into the problem of whether you’re mixing up one remembered space for another, so always be clear on that.

Also—this might sound paranoid but I’m serious—I think you should carry some kind of mask with you at all times. Facial recognition software keeps improving, and it would only take a few cases of you, recognizable and materializing out of thin air, to present problems. Keep a ski mask, or a Halloween mask of some kind, and put it on if there’s even the slightest chance you could be picked up by a camera. And, half-serious Bonus Point—wouldn’t it be a kick to wear something like a Putin or Elvis mask, and deliberately get caught on a few government cameras, appearing out of thin air? Imagine all the gears that would grind!

I laughed—I just knew Rock would be great at this.

I read on, and it wasn’t about rules anymore, just bullet points where he’d worked out different what-if’s, solid suggestions for ways I might navigate with the magic. Here and there I found myself chuckling at some particular caution, or the brilliance of an idea that hadn’t occurred to me at all.

When he brought up Meghan and Lila, what he had to offer was the opposite of a suggestion, that went like this: I’m not going to say one word about what you you should navigate Meghan and Lila—they’re your family, and it’s all on you how you relate with family. You know you can make them forget or remember, or burn bright or almost not at all—I have my opinions on that, but unless you impulse me into blurting them out, I think it’s best that I keep my own counsel here. They are your family, and that includes your dad. Do there what you’re going to do and leave me out of it.

That was probably the right thing. I already knew I wasn’t really through with either Meghan or Lila, but I’d think about it for awhile, and hope I didn’t make too much of a mess.

Next was the section where he specifically focused on Nell, and how I might deal with what we had discovered together already, and the problem of how to live the life I knew I’d lead while wanting what I wanted from her. What he proposed had not been on my radar at all, even though I’d already tried out all of the parts.

Reading it, I thought back to the dissatisfaction I’d felt about how I was patch-working Nell’s attraction magic and her memories. That had been the correct response, because everything I’d done had no overarching structure, no real vision. I had the magic, but here, in this email, was the alchemy.

I took his idea and played the steps in my mind, seeing the sequence and looking for any logic-holes. A little memory magic here, some spell-a-porting travel and impulse magic there, and being able to rheostat the attraction magic as needed, over time…

It wouldn’t be easy, and certainly not cheap, but if any of Rock’s ideas worked out for growing a big fat bank account, then why not? I knew so much now about what turned Nell on—the feelings she wanted to be infused with were right there in the music she’d shared. She would get what she wanted deep-down, and I would get what I’d wanted from her from the very beginning, which was access to Nell’s gazongas and watching her reel from orgasmic bliss while fucking me.

“Rock, my friend, you are a fucking genius.”