The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Karen softly tongued his balls, occasionally with the release of appreciative sighs, as they both recovered from her wondrously administered blowjob. After a time she freed her boobs from the strapping that was her outfit to let them flesh-pillow his ribcage, and nestled her head under his chin, sometimes kissing his collarbones, sometimes faintly humming a tune he’d never heard before.

More music about their sex lives? Maybe she was composing a new one in her head right now, something like, “The answer is blowing, and we don’t need no wind”. Her nuzzling felt warm and good; he wanted to hold her tight and try to wrap his arms and mind around her massive breasts, but she couldn’t keep still for long, or her mouth couldn’t. It was like his morning wish that she’d give more blowjobs had caused her to go too oral, her mouth like a restless vagabond on the backroads of his body. The head that had been under his chin moved down to kiss his nipples, eventually coming to rest on his abdomen. When it was time to pull up stakes again she traveled south, pitching camp with a warm cheek on the top of his right thigh. A hand toyed with his flaccid cock, lightly squeezing, pulling a bit here, flicking a bit there.

The hand, apparently, was a scout. Her soft lips followed, and as she licked his cock-head, light liquid tongue caresses that dabbed here, circled there, his flaccid cock forgot the meaning of flaccidity, getting a little stiffer, stiffer still, then going into full antonym territory, the territory of spiritedness and firmness.

“Are you ready for your Valentine’s treat?” she whispered, the first words spoken in quite some time.

“I haven’t already had it?”

“Kind of, but there’s more. Do you want more? It feels like you want more.”

“Definitely more.”

“Close your eyes, then. No peeking.”

“Okay.”

He was lying on his back, perfectly at rest. He shut his eyes and she gave his cock a big wet smack before getting up from the mattress. “You aren’t peeking, are you?”

“Not one bit.”

“Keep them closed,” she said, her voice in motion.

The light squeak of floorboards, and the quick pop of something being opened. He knew the sound and the accompanying scent, again going back to their beginnings. Baby oil, from one of the many bottles that had become a part of their lovemaking arsenal.

The sounds that came next were a treat to picture in his mind. The squeeze of the bottle made a sound, as did Karen, a slow hissing. There were little squik sounds of slickened fingers or palms gliding along vast tracks of pliable flesh, and a sharper intake of breath, and an odd little cry.

“Oh God that feels good,” Karen said, the squik gliding intense, active.

She was saturating those babies big time, getting hot just from the preparation. His cock twitched, giving an opinion of what it thought of Karen mega-oiling her milkers, and the involuntary gesture was met with a gasp that didn’t even sound right.

“Open your eyes!” Karen said, her voice shaking with excitement.

Mark did and his dick performed a double-twitch from the sight. It didn’t even look real for half a second, but it was—Karen standing in profile, her oiled juggs being mauled by hands that weren’t her own. They were small hands, Cynthia Gilwood’s hands, also in profile dressed in the green and orange of a cheerleader’s outfit.

Rah-rah-raaawwwrrr! The reality of her presence hit him in one place, but it was the scale of the tableau that acted like hot oil bathing his dick. They were standing front to front, Cynthia’s head just inches from both of Karen’s tits, and goodfuckingGod the difference in size, Cynthia’s head actually smaller than one of Karen’s boobs, making her look like a little child!

Chipmunk cheerleader—the idea was there like his cock had thought it up, sis-boom-boing! Cynthia had an impressive rack of her own thrusting forward, carrying the color of her cheer shirt out where it ended in twin points. And her expression, head turned so her eyes could look, not at him, not into his eyes, but down to his throbbing cock...

“Happy fake Valentine’s Day,” she said.

Cynthia had never experienced love at first sight with a person. Some art objects, definitely, but that was aesthetic love, a deep appreciation for or emotional connection to exquisite form or craftsmanship. It was much like that when she’d gotten her first look at Karen’s breasts in the strapping. Her eyes widened, absorbing the form, marveling at the craftsmanship available to mother nature. Lust roiled her pussy, making it tense, making it wet.

But then she’d seen Mark’s thing, and Karen loving Mark’s thing, it was like something inside her came undone. Aesthetic appreciation but so much more than that. A sense of connection. A driving pulse of got-to-have! Cock-socket, meet the cock you unequivocally need to sock!

Hiding in his bedroom, peeking through the slit of the almost-closed door, she had to put all four fingers of her right hand inside her mouth to muffle the moan that had to be moaned, an expression of lost meeting found, or Eve meeting Adam’s thick snake.

Karen sucked that thick thing by candlelight, and she was obviously good with her mouth. Cynthia felt every lick, every pull deep into that throat, her mirror cells gone wild with imagining all of that touching her, Karen’s huge boobs in her hands, Mark’s perfectly-proportioned schlong not in her mouth but pushing at the walls of her pussy, spreading her like an eagle, giving her insides their wings.

What did that even mean, oh God the lip-smacking sounds, the heaving breaths, Karen’s breasts hanging down as she blew him, actually too large to simply hang, more like spread down, gravity there but almost meeting its match.

She wanted those breasts, or she wanted breasts, or she was using those breasts to get to Mark. Fuck it, all of the above, exam over and the two of them reaching a pinnacle on the mattress, their voices rising, their bodies shuddering, releasing, releasing, oh God they were both there simultaneously, two lovers grabbing hold and jumping off a cliff together.

She was in the next room but her pussy felt all swollen and wetlands damp in response, tied to what she was witnessing, her loins and maybe even her heart velcroed onto Mark’s cock even if she had no right to be.

The deal, agreed to in advance, had its rules. She could play with Karen’s tits all night if she wanted, and even go down on her. She could offer Mark her own tits, let him suck her nipples or rub his cock on them or a dozen other things. She could lick Mark’s cock, but only a little bit. She could even rub her pussy against it, teasing it, giving it an almost-taste, promising herself to it like a lap-dancer who will never quite go all the way.

Because those were the rules. The promise must remain unfulfilled, the terrible itch never fully scratched, because Karen had said no outright fucking him. She’d been adamant about that—Cynthia, dressed up in her once-cherished cheerleading uniform from ninth grade, the last year she hadn’t felt too much like a diminutive freak to be a cheerleader, was here to have sex with Karen’s breasts, and to make Mark extra-extra horny with some teasing and stroking, but no outright fucking him or going down on him. She would be the aroma of a gourmet meal, delightful to Mark’s senses but ephemeral, no actual eating, no exchange of tangible substance. A phantom lover? Not exactly, because she would be there in the flesh, but her flesh was to remain tease-flesh, dangled and withdrawn flesh, stirring Mark to greater passions but ultimately withdrawn from those passions, with Karen getting all the rewards in the end.

The rules. Whether those rules had come from Karen’s sense of propriety, or her fears, or a weirdly elastic possessive streak or anything else, Cynthia wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t make a ton of sense to even let her be here if she couldn’t go all the way and fuck Mark, but those were the rules.

And in making them, Karen had vetoed exactly what Cynthia could best bring to the table. Had vetoed exactly what she’d been practicing, and was already quite good at.

Ah, but she was at the table, or would be, which was half the battle. If the pressure grew too great and Karen was too busy tending to Mark to help bring her off, then Cynthia could pull one of her new dildos from her bag and self-medicate—she hated the word masturbate—while she watched, or while she otherwise participated inside the parameters of the rulebook. Maybe dildo her guy-trap with her lips suckling one of Karen’s big nipples. Maybe plunge the dildo in and out while she just parked her chin on Mark’s hipbone and looked at that wide thing, imagining.

It really was thick, too, just like Karen had said. She had to stifle a cry when she first saw it, because everything about it, the size and form and even its coloration and the way it strained for the wrong woman, for Karen... It was like it had been sculpted with her exact needs in mind. It chimed, yes, chimed like a gong being struck somewhere near her womb. The ideal length, that tantalizing width, and she was supposed to grit her teeth or gird her loins or whatever the fuck phrase captured a dripping pleading pussy saying no when it begged for every inch of yes?

It didn’t make sense to think it this way, but that cock had already been inside her, fucking her innards without ever being there. And yes, she could see how that couldn’t be true yet it was true, and the truth couldn’t be shaken no matter what anybody thought or said. The truth simply was.

The truth: Mark’s cock inside her or she’d fucking break down and die. The truth: Karen was literally on top now, but that cock was going to be shared. Time could pass and events would happen, the human scale and the cosmic scale taking place side by side, everything in motion, gears grinding the way they had to grind to make the universe spin. But the still point in that spinning, the center that held the rest together... Right now it was that cock in her. She was fucking next, had been next for so long that she was up to her ears in nextiness, and fuck if she wouldn’t find a way to draw him inside her dripping hole next, and once in she would do what she was learning to do, and let come what may.

Cynthia cried out when Mark came, no hope of holding that in. He didn’t hear over his own sounds, and Karen screaming into his big thing like his seed down her throat had the power to flip all the switches in Orgasm Central. She remembered what Karen had said the first time they spoke about any of this: “That’s the thing; I was getting off when I was doing him!”

True enough, Karen’s upper thighs glistening in the candlelight as only wet surfaces can, but when was it her turn? She waited, dripping down her thighs, no panties under the tiny cheerleader skirt. Her weight kept shifting from one leg to the other, anticipation gnawing like it had teeth. She smelled her need while the lovers lounged in the glow of after-sex, and she had to bite her lip to keep her mouth shut. They were satisfied; temporarily. She was not.

Though it might meet the definition of torture, she abided by this part of the arrangement, waiting for the second round of the night’s entertainment. Karen had insisted that she go solo to begin with, because she’d go crazy if she didn’t give Mark a blowjob, like the need was some kind of acid eating at her from the inside. Cynthia didn’t believe Karen understood what real need felt like, how it could burn in quivering membrane like an organic furnace, cells vibrating so fast they became liquified and all that viscous fluid needed some place to go, turning the triangle between her legs into a swollen pink swamp.

Although maybe Karen did understand one thing, that every threesome, in the end, comes down to two. A triangle was stable, but only two sides got to rise into the sky. And sorry Karen, she was no one’s fucking flatline base, especially not tonight, not with her ache so great.

Her legs trembled with the waiting. She smelled like concentrated lust in a bottle, with the cap leaking. Her scent might be overpowering to her and detectable to Mark, if not for all the candles burning their scented wax. They seemed to flicker in languid motion, their wiggling heat so much less than her own. In their dancing light, Karen almost never stopped kissing or licking him somewhere, great mouth action, very attentive. Minutes passed with too many seconds in them, Cynthia keeping time by the gravity trails tickling the insides of her thighs, her need a flowing river, her pussy turned into the source of her own Nile, an inevitable flowing that could never stop until...

Oh God, finally! Karen’s kisses and tongue-darts had their effect, and just like that he was stiff again, tall and wide, resurrected.

She wanted to leap forward, get a running start and jump the way she’d jumped when she’d cheered for the Fighting Gamecocks, judging the distance to land, legs spread, becoming a human ring toss, wet ring over hard pole.

Fight. Game. Cock. It was there with the certainty of the trails wetting her thighs, that tonight she would fight this fight and win, game Karen’s rules and win, anything to get the cock. She’d have to pretend for a little while, waiting for the right moment, acting all good girl, exactly what they expected because of her good girl looks.

Karen got off him, finally. She silently beckoned Cynthia to some forward, hiding the small sounds of her entrance by noisily popping the cap of a baby oil bottle. Karen’s breasts, good God, seeing how all that flesh could be moved, how it shined, catching warm light from almost every direction, two greased bigs that made Karen’s slathering hands look so small...

They hadn’t scripted Cynthia’s entry, no checklist of doing this one thing first, something else second. Mark’s towering cock beckoned, but Karen’s glistening globes were right at hand, right at chin level. She took hold of Karen’s wrists and pulled them away from their oil-spreading action, replacing them with her own hands, gliding, squeezing, groping.

They. Were. So. Big.

Cynthia’s hands were small, but in this context they looked freaking tiny, plaything dwarf fingers blazing oil trails into two vast tracks of tittular territory.

“Oh God that feels good,” Karen said when Cynthia’s thumbs revolved around nipples that stood as stiff as thimbles.

In speaking, Karen’s eyes went to Mark, checking to see if his eyes were still shut. Cynthia’s eyes followed, just in time to see Mark’s erection twitch as if with an electric jolt. She gasped, her need flaring.

“Open your eyes!” Karen cried out, and he did.

Cynthia wanted to take note of his expression, fixing in her mind forever what his mouth did, or how high his eyebrows lifted when he caught sight of her here, hands on Karen’s tits, all cheerleadered up. Only she didn’t see, or didn’t see clearly. His cock, oh yes fuck his cock, it was hard but she could swear it pulsed harder, twitching again as if to say hello, been waiting forever for you, come here and get to know me for real.

She thought she might faint, or vent, leaking excitement so fast they’d have to throw her in his bathtub. She wanted that cock, she wanted that cock that cock she had to have that cock.

She learned something about herself at that moment. Maybe it was a good thing or an evil thing, but evaluations could come later, after she had. Words were there, and actions were there, and the misdirection was there like she’d planned it all along. She spoke and her voice somehow worked, and she looked into Mark’s eyes and her pussy held on.

“Happy fake Valentine’s Day,” she said. ”Now help me out. There’s more than enough here to share.”

“Happy fake Valentine’s Day. Now help me out. There’s more than enough here to share.”

Cynthia had taken one of Karen’s arms and was guiding her down to the bed, and to Mark. He still felt cock-shocked that Cynthia was here at all, in cheerleader guise no less, ready to share in the fun. She must have been waiting in his bedroom or out in the hallway, the whole thing planned. He had pictured them in bed together, but didn’t remember hard-fast threesome thoughts when hard in the morning. He might have dreamed doing the two of them together, but couldn’t remember that unless it went way back to Cynthia being an unseen voice, demanding to be next.

So what was the dynamic, precisely? Had Karen talked Cynthia into it, or the reverse? Were both women compelled to be here like this, not even knowing why? Was Cynthia into him much at all, or was it primarily a girl-girl concoction with a bit of sausage to bind them?

He made room for their arrival on the mattress, on his knees with his eyes eating up every bit of Cynthia Gilwood. She had the cheerleader fetish going big time, colored knee socks and shoes, the word Gamecocks on the front of her pull-up shirt, the letters distorted by the perky oomph of her tits. Bare thighs, bare ass, fuck, no panties, and just get a load of the curvature of that ass! Rooowwwrrr!

Karen settled onto her back, a huge-boob queen bee with her honey mounds spreading wide to either side. Cynthia kneeled beside Karen, her head dipping to take a nipple in her mouth. In doing so her rear went up high, back curved, a provocative cheerfuck of a gesture, showing off that fine spanking ass. Showing her drenched pussy, too, which looked young and blameless even when glistening and obviously lustful, a sweet good-girl pussy needing something big and hard in a bad way.

Mark stared at that shaven delta and really did feel like he was witnessing a sex organ with a personality disorder. So petite and precisely shaped, very symmetrical with her clitoris appearing unusually large because everything around it was so small. And how wet she was, glistening halfway to her knees like her privates needed to pick up a phone and call a plumber.

He was the plumber, and he wondered if he were becoming a crazy plumber. He felt lust-crazed under his skin, like the very existence of what Cynthia had between her legs compelled his cock into pointing in that direction.

She must have felt him staring, because she straightened away from Karen, turning her head to look over her shoulder, staring him straight in the eye. He saw a color dappling the green of her irises that ought be be called fuck-fury orange, and her eyebrows joined in somehow, giving him two archways whose attitude sizzled his balls. Her lips puckered; she was silently mouthing something. It looked like, “You’re next.”

Holy shit, like the “I’m next” from however many nights ago had remained active, only flipped upside-down now.

He didn’t get to question her because she took hold of his hair, a firm hand-grip where she pulled his head down to Karen’s right breast. Karen moaned when he tongued her nipple, only it was more than that because Cynthia had the other nipple in her mouth, her hands joining in the action, lifting and harnessing her Karen boob, kneading the flesh with those overmatched hands while her mouth pulled and pulled.

Mark mimicked Cynthia’s activity, pulling Karen’s left breast towards center until their heads were touching. Their hair intermingled as Karen cried out from the twin sucking, and Mark thought he could feel body heat radiating out from Cynthia’s ear. She moved or leaned so her hip pressed into his side, and with that touch he knew, and his cock knew, that he would not leave this bed without his dick and Cynthia’s pussy getting a good hard taste of each other.

Cynthia guided his hand to Karen’s right breast so that both would be accounted for when she disengaged her mouth to travel south. One of Karen’s legs made contact with his, Cynthia spreading them, and it was obvious from Karen’s cries when Cynthia’s tongue began its sweet work between her thighs.

And Cynthia turned out to be a multi-tasker. As she did whatever she did between Karen’s legs, a small hot hand groped until it found him, beginning an exploration of his aching meat. They were a real triangle now, Karen passive other than her squirming and cries of pleasure, Cynthia extremely active, eating Karen and squeeze-surveying his meat, which left him somewhat in the middle, torn in two with his upper body giving to Karen while his lower body ache-screamed for more more more Cynthia.

As if her body rejected being thought of as passive, Karen came. She did it loudly, with escalating, perhaps even musical cries, a song of the night’s second coming. The mattress shook with her, her breast meat flushed hot, warming his face and hands.

He heard satisfied lip-smacking, and now there were two hot hands on his cock, tugging at it, and through it, him. Without a word, only the pull of those small strong hands, Cynthia urged him to lie on his back in the direction opposite Karen, his head at her feet. He complied, hoping, maybe even with his dick praying.

When it happened, no warning, no teasing the moment out, he whooped out air from the unexpectedness of it, because she hadn’t so much brought her haunches down on his cock as sucked it in, like her pussy had a vacuum function. And once half of him was in there, feeling like thirty-two ounces of man-meat somehow stuffed into a sixteen-ounce can of red hot woman, a dream memory popped like a cork inside his brain. He knew then how, even if so briefly, he’d already felt the exquisite pressure of this pussy, its almost unfathomably tight depths and the nearly sentient way it...

“Ahhyaa!” he bellowed at the first wave of whatthefuck along the liquid velvet stranglehold that held him fast. His mouth twisted wide and his eyes bugged out, and he might have inadvertently pulled out from the jerking of his body if he hadn’t been held in a grip as wet as an ocean yet somehow hard as iron.

And holy shit, now he knew what was coming. He’d dreamed only a snippet but it had been enough that his mind reeled in anticipation with his dick wanting to do cartwheels. But there would be no cartwheels, not unless her wet beast of a living pussy did them to him.

And there staring down at him, oh fuck, the cheer blouse gone and tiny skirt hiked to little more than a thin band of cloth, that ultra-gorgeous face atop a living sex doll. Her breasts looked like nipple-tipped volcanoes gone puffy from her heat, her waist absolutely tiny, hips flaring, legs firm and strong. Her eyes were candle green with the dancing flames in them, the arching eyebrows cunning and triumphant and desperate all at once. And the mouth, those fucking juicy full lips turned up into the most intense and complicated grin he’d ever seen...

“Happy fake Valentine’s day,” she either mouthed again or said, a vibration running through her pussy walls, slowly drawing him in deeper, ushering him, pressuring him, wet-wipe kneading his dick like yeasty dough that was meant to rise even more...

Holy fucking fuck fuck! Mark couldn’t be sure, but he thought he was in love. He couldn’t be sure of much of anything with Cynthia haunch-sitting on top of his cock, her body making very few visible movements while inside her tight little genius-box of a pussy caused all hell to squirm loose. But how wrong was that because not loose, in fact super-snug like a big fat dick-bug in a drug-plug, and not squirming but undulating, or silently ululating, and now a new movement, a series of contractions or additions or holy fucking sentient slits, he’d gotten a hit of this in a dream but to have it actually happening, being beast-fucked like some kind of cum-devil had burrowed deep into her vagina to live there, just waiting to eat, to lick and chew toothlessly like a living pussy monster might do...

“Ahhhhhh, oh ahkkklll!” he sounded, his brain and mouth gone gibberishy.

“Wha... Hey!” Karen’s voice choked. “You can’t do that!”

But she could and was, so good, doing weird cunt-shit to his wood like only a bad good girl could.

“She’s not even moving, why is your face like that?”

He had a face? Cynthia had one, such an expressive face with her eyes half closed, her award-winning eyebrows wrinkled into wonderment, and lifted the way eyebrows lift when on a rollercoaster that’s cresting the top of a steep hump, gravity beginning to pull, every second a compounding of the inexorable, pulling, pulling more and more and faster, nothing to do but hang on for the thrill, knowing you’ll scream.

Yes, those eyebrows told the story, knew how she could do what she could do without her body moving. They were in on the secret but still couldn’t believe it, because it was all too new, totally unexpected. Cynthia had never climbed to these heights inside, had never been to the summit within her own body, and the leap into the wet tremulous unknown pulled at her like her magical pussy could pull at him. No escape, no resisting.

She’d been mostly silent, only breaths and gasps and sharp hissing sounds when some particular tasty spot went boing, making the liquid fire of her undulating grip that much wetter, that much hotter. But now, “Oh gaa”’s, and “Uh ahh”’s, and at the first “Uh ahh” he knew from the dream that her hips would begin to move, the passion or the dream or the hand of destiny taking hold and making her slide, the magic contractions still millipeding but enhanced through motion now, Cynthia in the dream-grip that would loose the inner beast from its chains, the wildness running free.

“S...stop! This isn’t... Cynthia, stop!”

“Uh ahh, uh ahh, uh ahh!”

Eating his cock, a pussy with the munchies.

“Uh ahh, uh ahh, uh ahh!”

Oh fuck, oh cum all ye fuckful, boiling his balls until they were grenades with pins pulled.

“Uhahhuhahhuhahh...”

Falling, bouncing and falling into a blinding release, eyes shut to bear it and a piece of Mark wishing he could see the gorgeous face cascading down the rollercoaster track, eyebrows telling her story unless they’d detached and flown off. He saw stars, not eyebrows, and lava flowing into the earth, not out.

Out. So in, roiling and shooting out white wet ash but already in such need to be in again or even in forever.

But flat out.

Clack clack, clack clack, clack clack.

Standing and bouncing, holding onto the pole, Cynthia sitting on the plastic bench with her legs crossed, the sight of her making his heart do flip-flops because she was just so fucking gorgeous, grown into her looks even more than back then. The fine chestnut hair was cut differently, styled and shaped to expose more of her jaw, and it was a jaw that should definitely be exposed. The expressive wriggling eyebrows, however, looked just the same, which was an oxymoron because it seemed they were in almost constant movement, never arched the same way from one second to the next.

“You don’t need to hold no pole, man!”

A young wiry Latino guy with a Long Island accent, loose jeans and a hoodie jacket, hands in his pockets and his eyes going down to Cynthia, obviously smitten. She had that effect on people—in the two hours or so since literally bumping into each other, he’d noticed how people liked to park their eyes on her face, sometimes ogling, sometimes just a lovely place for eyes to rest, like a bee taking a flying break on a flower it would never have a chance to pollinate.

Hoodie dude spoke to Mark, but all his energy was directed down to Cynthia, the true audience. “Look, Jack, just plant your feet wide like this with your knees unlocked, and you surf the subway. You ain’t ridin’, see? You’re surfin’! Keep the hips loose and supple and lookie, no hands, man! I’m planted solid as a pyramid here! I’m like freakin’ Ramses here!”

Mark looked down and saw Cynthia trying to swallow laughter. Her eyebrows lost it first and then came the giggling, Mark in on the joke, not just who’d want to be Ramses with his throat cut because he’d been stupid enough to live the harem life, but also the serendipitous absurdity of this young hoodie guy choosing Egyptian metaphors to impress a woman he couldn’t know had just been hired by the Met, smack dab in the middle of her expertise, Egyptian art.

The kid looked like he couldn’t decide whether Cynthia was laughing with him or at him. “She your woman?” he asked Mark, no hands, keeping his hips loose and supple, bouncing with the train. “‘Cause she’s mighty fine! No shortcomings there, nosiree.”

“Watch it with the ‘short’ comments,” Cynthia admonished.

Better looking than ever, but some things never changed. Mark wanted to say yes, this woman is my woman and with us there are no short cummings anytime ever, only long drawn-out ones, supple surfin’ ones that became nerve-jarring Amazing Adventures In Fucking as electrified as the rails we’re riding on. He wanted to say that and to live that more than anything, but three years gone by, and their weird history with Karen, who was pretty much famous now. And Cynthia doing so well while being so beautiful it hurt, her body looking fine as ever with the suggestion under the long coat that she might have gotten even curvier after college, like her constitution loved the Big Apple so much that it had swollen her own big apples over the years.

Somehow the click-clack ended and they were already at the door of her apartment. She had said her apartment was on the small side but bright in the daytime, with a good view of the George Washington Bridge. Light from the setting sun had the east living room wall lit the color of a toaster oven coil, and when Mark turned to speak to Cynthia he found a telling fullness to her lips and a rosy red on her cheeks that had nothing to do with photons of energy coming from the outside.

Unless it was photons “out in the field”, his energy, the energy of a dream dreamed years ago that had lain in wait like a hibernating panther, awake now, claws out.

Their eyes met and all the questions were there for both of them—are you seeing anyone; what do we do if it’s too good to be true yet we live so far away from each other; what if we find that we’re perfect for one another, much like it was when it had felt like he was the cork and she was the bottle, or she was the fire and he was the ball, or she was the ding that seared itself into the very fabric of his being, because she alone could fully chime his dong.

They didn’t need to voice any of that. Life had made them wait for this, or something had, something irresistible that sliced through logic or emotion like an invisible sword. They couldn’t before, but now that waiting was over, that same sword with an entirely different action, cutting through any and all improbabilities, all the what-ifs and can’t knows, causing them to literally bump into each other again—and what were the chances of that in a city of eight million? Now, here, they could both feel a longing, male and female pre-cum turning into a kind of glue that would wet their entire lives, something out there pressing their futures together so they were already joined, the bond made, this substance a super-glue where nothing would be able to tear them apart.

They knew all that in their loins, in their guts, their knowing glued together as well, and so said nothing, words mostly irrelevant. Cynthia only uttered two thoughts before his cock was inside her cunning carnivorous cunt again, and every word was an injection of high-test pocket-rocket fuel, which she had to know, and want. The first sentence, said low, almost a whisper as she removed her long coat: “I kind of kept growing after college.”

Jesus fuck, had she! Nothing like Karen back then, but topping torpedoes! The coat fell to the floor and she didn’t stop there, reaching down to lift the beige blouse over her head. Her breasts in a white satin bra were everything he remembered them to be, flawlessly soft and creamy, only much fuller now. Still outward projecting, like they were in charge whenever she fit them inside a bra, grabbing hold and taking the bra’s cups for a forward ride into the space in front of her body.

“Good God, Cynthia.”

That was all he could think to say, the blood rushing to his dick making him feel light-headed. He could see in her eyes, in her posture and the arch of her eyebrows that she loved the way he was looking at her, looking at them. She reached back, beaming confidence and a sort of anticipatory satisfaction, unclasping the bra and pulling it away, setting her time-enlarged wonders free. They moved, but they didn’t really sag, like they’d been holding the bra up, not the other way around.

And then the second thing she said, barely audible when his hands and mouth were all over her, squeezing her breasts and pulling at her nipples, thumbing them and twisting, the scent of her pussy searing his nostrils like a blast from the past that had turned back into the present, just as it had been foreordained: “Remember when I said the contact with the interior of my body would become the medium through which I could make art? Something happened after that—I went from prodigy to I don’t even know what, like in a flash. And you, dear Mark—you are going to feel that now, and be my fucking art patron from now on.”

And then, just like that, he was inside her again, her exquisite squeezebox pressing from every direction at once, lovingly and hungrily circumferencising his hard meat. He could feel the difference at once, the grip of it, the aliveness of it. Her pussy was perfect, truly perfect and the ideal location for renewing what they’d only gotten the tiniest taste of before, his thick mass met by her giving, responding walls, his dick unable to groan and so he had to do it, throat tightening like an echo of the tightening of those sentient work-out muscles she had where the sun don’t shine, only the light of his flesh-torch burning brightly. Ah God the flame of it, the juicy squishy living wet vise of it, her weight, which was hardly anything, up and down with her ass whomping his thighs, up and down up down up down ah ah...

“Uh ahh, uh ahh, uh ahh!”

Something had happened to him, too, in a flash. He didn’t exactly control it but he could feel when it was ready to appear, and that time was now.

“Uh AHHH!” Cynthia’s voice rose. Her pussy went crazy inside as the change hit it, giving her a taste of her own medicine, a counter-punch, a vibratory...

“Gyyag!” he bellowed, eyes flinging open, his legs kicking into the air like a bug on its back. Cynthia was above him, her hair and boobs bouncing, his ass clenching, getting close.

She stopped riding him and he thought she might speak, tell him where they were and when they were because this wasn’t Manhattan and her hair had gone back to its longer and more casual self, her tits down a cup size or three. But no, no speaking, her eyes half vacant as the inside of her pussy did all the talking in the world, moving in that way it had, doing that oscillating thing that no body organ should be able to do. His cock couldn’t take it, it just couldn’t take it without getting harder than All Hardness with his balls turned into twin cauldrons, his dick feeling like a sizzle stick being massaged with flammable oils.

Cynthia either leaned or fell way back as the oils caught fire in her, too, which just made the oscillating worse, meaning better, and then it was debatable which of them was bellowing out the weirdest sound effects the loudest. Mark felt sex-blinded again, don’t look into the light, but he could see Cynthia’s entire backwards-bending body shuddering and jerking, which meant he could see after all, which meant it was his dick being blinded, the one-eyed monster needing to avert its gaze and not be obliterated by the mysteries that hid within Kingdom Cum.

He was man; he was shuddering flood; he was so thankful and confused and definitely not planted as solidly as a pyramid. Gasping breath, gasping breaths, not alone, woman there warming his legs, some heaving movement going up/down or in/out, who could tell. He spurted life force up to the stars. His pulse had become the hoofbeats of a galloping horse, riding at night or early morning, which was exhilarating until he fell off with his foot caught in the stirrup, still moving so fast but on his back, being dragged over the soft earth and somehow no pain in his back, just the front though it wasn’t true pain, more like his dick had spent a week in a sauna where twenty geishas had taken a crack at it.

He might have been dragged for minutes or miles, the pace gradually slowing, something moving at his feet, his legs free of the stirrup now, no harm done unless his dick had actually gotten broken somewhere along the way.

Movement around him, padding footsteps, paper rustling and the zup sound of a closing zipper. It was an effort but he opened his eyes—a ceiling above him, his ceiling with the soft edges of early morning light. He was here; he was himself, here, in the morning inside his apartment, not at night in his apartment or evening in Cynthia’s Washington Heights apartment. There was no New York apartment; that had been a dream.

“A dream, or a dream,“ he said, surprised his vocal cords could work.

He sat up, getting his bearings. Mattress on the living area floor, glasses and a half-full bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. He remembered, and noticed afresh that every breath was an inhalation of cum smell and pussy smell, a KarenCynthia cocktail. His cock felt raw, sore to the boner and maybe in need of monitoring lest it end up in the emergency ward.

No one was here. He could smell them like their pussies were six inches from his nose, but Cynthia and Karen were gone. It was morning, and he was alone, and he didn’t know whether to be joyous or pissed off.

“She fucked away my morning wood!”