The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The minutes and hours of that Saturday, which had stretched for miles earlier in the day, seemed to shrink with every erection. At 4:22 p.m., Karen had his dick in her mouth again, which led to the inevitable cumsplosion in both of them. At 5:35 he had his tongue on her clitoris, the beginnings of a full-on pussy-eating event, which he’d kind of been missing, it not really being necessary to attend to such matters when Karen came no matter what they did.

After that, they changed course by ordering Chinese take-out, eating with chopsticks in bed, lazily exchanging personal information instead of body fluids. He learned that Karen had received voice training starting from age eight up until her early teens, her interest in music receding into the background as her brand spanking new tits proceeded into the foreground.

“I was essentially a farm girl, helping my dad with the horses and cows. My parents thought I was pretty enough that I might compete in beauty pageants when I got older—that’s where the singing lessons came from, the expectation that I’d need to perform in the talent portion of a contest. Anyway, those dreams blew away on the prairie winds when I got so curvy so fast, way past anything for a future Miss Nebraska. They’d sort of trained me to dress up and to preen in front of the mirror by then, my mom always talking about deportment and proper posture. It turned kind of sour for them when they caught me dressing up real sexy. My dad thought I was practicing to be a playmate, but really it was that I got into pin-ups for a time—you know, Vargas illustrations and that kind of thing. I found a site online and was immediately attracted to the way curvy women were made-up and attired back in the forties and fifties. The cinched waists, the way their boobs were sculpted by their bras, turning them missile-shaped like a woman’s breasts could be another weapon for standing up to the Soviets in the Cold War...

I remember a description of a woman in one of those illustrations that made me laugh. It went: ‘She’s got bosoms like state fair balloons, a waist that could hide behind a telephone pole and hips that would turn the Washington Monument back into sand’. I wasn’t sure if I understood the part about the hips, but I remember thinking, ’That could be me!’, because I had a little waist and a nice round rear and I was getting so big up top.

I found outfits in vintage stores and dressed up in secret a lot, retro swimsuits or see-through nighties with garters and stockings, even silk corsets with odd loop buttons that must have been a pain to unfasten in the throes of passion. It didn’t matter to me if some of the garments I found were partially moth-eaten or even tacky as hell; I’d stuff my girl-boobs into them and strike poses in the mirror like some of my favorite pin-ups. I looked really good, like a younger version of the illustrations come to life, but it got harder to find things that fit once I became, you know, ‘stacked to the rafters’ as my mother would say. But something had taken hold about the pictures themselves, and reading about the history of pin-up art eased into curiosity about other artists and how they depicted women. When I discovered Gustave Klimt it was like, this is it, and I needed to know more about art history in general. I guess the rest is my own personal history, a lot of it right here on this campus.”

What do you know, Karen Corso was a real human being. Somewhere along the way she’d learned that her looks put her in superior position when it came to relationships; either that or she’d learned to distrust the intentions of men, and so had become kind of a bitch, relegating guys to boy-toy status. Who was he to judge—he didn’t have people drooling for his tits all day every day—but it sure felt good that he’d stumbled into a way of getting her good side, or creating good side if it had withered away somewhere along the line. It felt good to know her story, too, and Mark could just see her now if she did what he expected and pursued a singing career, all decked out in some sheer slip of nothing like in a Gil Elvgren or Alberto Vargas painting.

Hadn’t some of those illustrations had little accompanying jokes, like the old barroom classic: Drink Up Front, Poker In the Rear?

Just like that he was hard again and Karen noticed, and so began the unveiling of the additional presents he would have received the night before if he hadn’t fallen asleep. She had him close his eyes again, and it was no mystery that she was changing into some sort of outfit like she’d been speaking of. The question would be her choice of tone—cute and sexy, sophisticated and elegant, innocent, coquettish, naughty?

He heard sounds that he recognized, but others he did not, and it took longer than he’d expected. He knew she was lighting the candles from the night before from the strike of matches, and flickering light that filtered through closed lids. Vanilla and apple aromas, a bit of silence, then the smack of her lips, like she’d kissed herself.

“Okay lover boy,” she said. “Open wide.”

He did and aww jeez. Cowgirl, or rodeo girl, or maybe bucking broncette. She had a wide-brimmed hat on her head, and a suede halter-like thing fighting to lasso her bulging tits. Worn leather boots going up to her calves, and riding her waist a suede “skirt” that was little more than a belt with some hanging fringe in the front, and absolutely nothing covering her fine behind. Hanging not quite horizontally across her hips, a holstered gun belt, and this bandita was packin’ baby oil.

Mark started to stand, but she waved him to stay where he was. She came forward and the sound was pure cowboy, because the boots had spurs. She had swagger, too, a way of moving her hips and flexing her knees, probably something she’d practiced in front of a mirror way back when.

“You know how to ride a country gal, doncha’?” She leaned forward at the waist, cocking her hat to see his eyes beyond the brim. Her forward lean made her tits swell, putting tension on the suede of the poor halter that he could hear as a series of faint stretch-cracks.

“I just might,” he said.

She spun on the heels of her boots, bring her raised ass in front of his face. “I’ve never been ridden, not that way,” she said. “I’ve always been afraid, although I’ll try anything, with you.”

There was tension in her voice. Maybe a bit of the fear she’d mentioned, but also an undertone of excitement in the face of the unknown.

He got up on his knees, and reached into the holster padding her left thigh. He popped the cap of the virgin baby oil bottle and squeezed a viscous waterfall onto his hard cock with his other hand held to catch the overspill. In just a few seconds he was greased shinier than a pig at a county fair.

“Get down on your knees, woman.”

She did, her ass surprisingly reminiscent of her tits in its double-barreled form. She waved it like a flag, then shook it. “Slow and steady to break me in,” she said, head resting on the mattress. “I’ll tell you if I’m ever ready to gallop.”

Mark was being broken in himself, and treated his filly like she was a newborn, easing in one millimeter at a time.

“Oh yeah baby!” she said. “Break me in. Break me in more!”

He took her hipbones in his hands, and in slipped his rattlesnake, a tiny bit further, a bit further still...

“Oh God you’re so hard!” she cried out, but it wasn’t a protest; in fact she raised her ass higher and urged him to keep going.

Funny how her singing voice came to his mind just then. Silently, like an imaginary soundtrack:

It’s so hard, I’m a farm girl out of my mind

And you’re so hard, when you’re fillin’ up my behind...

Mark knew he’d feel weird being at a party with Karen Corso, and he was right. People stared at Karen for obvious reasons, but now they were staring at him, too. He was no mindreader and didn’t need to be to “hear” all the unspoken questions: How on earth did he end up coming to the party with those; is there no God; does he quietly have a dick like a baseball bat; how many days or hours until Karen tosses him in a dumpster and moves on to the next?

The party, known as Kevin’s party, was indoor-outdoor and vertical, too. Kevin lived in a three-story off-campus building notorious for parties; his space was ground floor, and he had a sizable backyard, with a grill for meat and God knows how many kegs of beer. Other apartments on the second and third floors were open as satellite or spillover party locations, and pretty much everyone who was anyone in any of the many art-related departments was there.

Mark liked big parties well enough, but he was used to being in something like predator mode, not there so much for the beer or the dancing or the pot or the music, but for the one small chance of getting lucky and getting laid. With Karen at his side and sometimes rubbing up against him in cleavage-heavy PDA’s, he didn’t know what to do, other than let her boobs warm him and grin kind of stupidly.

They were outside, the air warm and humid, almost foggy, only a streetlight in the back alley and suspended strings of tiny white Christmas lights giving illumination to Karen’s cleavage. People gawked openly, sometimes giving him cursory death-gawks for being the guy with the cleavage. He saw Jorge two flights up on the fire escape, chatting and laughing with a cute sculpture major; another of his friends, Brian, caught his eye and mouthed, “What the fuck?”, indicating Karen with his head.

Mark shrugged, and sipped beer from a plastic cup. Then he paused, looking at the cup. He shouldn’t even be doing this. Beer had been an alchemical gift, most likely, at the beginning of this journey, but it could be his undoing if he melted into the flow of the party and drank too much and stayed up too late. This was his last night to dream, and to woodwink his way through the first moments of coming awake in the morning. Hangover thoughts given extra potency sounded like a recipe for disaster. It might be even worse if he slept right through the morning.

“I see Little Miss Treachery over there,” Karen said, and Mark followed her gaze.

Cynthia stood as part of a small crowd, mostly guys, and she was looking really fine in ass-hugging black jeans and an off the shoulder jade green blouse. She’d put her hair up in some inscrutable arrangement, showing off that jaw like her haircuts would do in the future. The top of her head didn’t rise to the chins of anyone in that group; really, he got the impression that she could step behind a potted plant and completely disappear. But size didn’t matter when it came to that woman. There just wasn’t any doubt that, ounce for ounce, she was the finest looking thing around.

There was also no doubt that Mark ached a certain ache. Likewise no doubt that Karen had turned her head to gauge what she could gauge of his reaction to seeing Cynthia. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back reassuringly. He would just have to bear that ache, for years, learning to enjoy other things, other women, as time ticked by. Not that it was a chore with someone like Karen, gone all romantic and musical these days, revisiting her pin-up fetish. And open to experimentation.

And hopefully there would be lots of women, somehow, summoned by the awesome things he and his cock would dream up in a handful of hours.

“I think I’m going to go over there and have a few words with her,” Karen said. “She really pissed me off and I want her to know it.”

“Don’t...” he began, reaching for Karen’s arm. Don’t slap her, don’t blame her, don’t a dozen other things.

“Don’t make a scene? I won’t. I’ll be gentle. Like you were, earlier.”

Mark watched Karen make her way to the group, and he noted that she had to walk gently, too. She’d climaxed from their backside rodeo romp—he wondered if she’d climax if he spanked or tickled her, too, anything that fell under the umbrella of a sexual act. But she was sore; where they had gone had been an evolution in bed without the aid of pill/dick magic as far as he knew, and so no miraculous recovery from plumbing virgin territory.

Karen entered into the flow over there smoothly enough; after all, everyone knew she and Cynthia were friends. Cynthia looked his way, made eye contact and her right eyebrow moved, acknowledging him and also saying something, though he didn’t know what. Maybe, “My pussy is fourteen hours better at prodigy fucking than when you knew it.”

She turned away and he looked around, searching for a friend so he wouldn’t be the guy at the party standing alone in a crowd. He heard a familiar voice up on another part of the fire escape; shit, it was Natalia, in a little black dress. Her back was to the yard, her fine rear resting on the railing, and fuck just look at that ass and those power legs from this down-under view. A quick glance around showed how that same view was being admired from many directions.

Mark had no idea how Natalia would be around him, and didn’t want to find out with Karen nearby. So he strolled away from the danger zone, into Kevin’s apartment where there was a ravaged food table in the small kitchen. He scraped the remaining molecules of guacamole from the sides of a ceramic bowl with a broken corn chip, and his eyes lighted on a smattering of brownies, sitting on a counter away from the other food. They were labeled, ”Kevin’s”, and they had walnuts, just the way he liked them.

Mark knew of Kevin, but they weren’t friends and he felt no guilt munching a tasty brownie. He was considering a second one when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He turned; it was a girl he didn’t know, raven black hair and delicate Asian features. Nice tits for an Asian girl, too, hefted up creamily in a black leather corset. Her shoulders were bare and he liked their structure—she was worked-out, with her shoulders a tiny bit squared as if to make the boobs look even rounder by comparison.

“Hash,” she said, smiling with alluring dimples that had an overdrive setting.

“Hash?”

“The brownies. They’re Kevin’s masterpiece, made with hash oil butter. He’s got two more batches in the oven and more batter after that, so eat as many as you want.”

Hash oil butter? In the brownies? Hash oil butter in the brownies, oh good fucking grief. His last night to dream and he’d just ingested super-pot, perhaps even a mild hallucinogenic.

“How strong?” he asked corset girl, wondering if he should find a bathroom and make himself throw up. He hated throwing up.

“Oh, I’m plenty strong. I wrestled in high school and usually won my weight class.”

“I meant the brownies,” he said, though her comment had him lowering his gaze, taking in her abdomen and legs. His assessment—one hell of a cute fuck-muscle.

She laughed. “Sorry, my mistake. The brownies?” She made a flying high motion with her arm and hand. “Wheeeewwwww...”

“Great.”

“Hey, I’m Torrent.” She performed some sort of whole body curtsy when she spoke her name, a motion that did nice things to the corseted tits.

“I’m Mark.”

“I know that already. You’re famous tonight.”

“Famous?”

“You’re the guy who came with the boobs, right?”

Probably his new nickname for the rest of the semester, now that the secret was out. “Yes, I’m the guy who came on the boobs.”

She laughed, and gave him a fake-punch to the abdomen. “You’re bad! Really bad!”

“And that’s before the hash oil is in my bloodstream. How long does that take, anyway?”

“Ohhh... You’ll know. And hey, you shouldn’t leave a woman like that alone at a party. Your girlfriend. Too desirable, ya know?”

“What about you? You’re desirable. Did someone leave you alone?”

Lopsided grin, and then her whole head was tilting that way, like the grin had upset a balance that had been precarious to begin with. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I’m the kind of girl you have to protect your girlfriend from.”

“Ah.” Too bad.

“And I am a free agent tonight!” Torrent said, each word emphasized, her head doing a little counter-clockwise roll until it came to rest with her chin on her sternum. “Hey, I’ve got tits, too,” she whispered, like she’d just figured that out. She angled her head, hefted her right breast and kissed it, leaving lipstick on the upper shelf of the smooth flesh. She laughed. “I just made out with myself!”

“Torrent, how many of these brownies have you had tonight?”

“Two! But don’t worry, Kevin’s got two more batches in the oven. You should have more!”

“I didn’t even know I was having one.”

“It won’t hurt. Kevin said they’re really dreamy.”

“And what kind of idiot would argue with Kevin, right?”

“Right you are. Have more. We always need more, ya know?”

“I don’t think so. I need to be dreamy but...”

“I’m serious! Look at your girlfriend’s chest—did she settle for a little when she could have so much more? More, more, more!”

As if Karen or any other girl could fill out a form when they were kids, special-ordering their future bra size. “Speaking of my girlfriend, I think I’d better get back to her. A woman like that shouldn’t be left alone at a party. Too desirable.”

“Wheewww, it’s like you’re reading my mind! I’ve already imagined her head between my legs, ya know? And once a woman has her head between these legs, she doesn’t leave until I say so.”

“Because we always need more, right? It’s like deep philosophy.”

“Damn, you’re good!” she said, lifting a brownie. Mark smiled a so-long smile and she called after him. “Hey, it can be your philosophy, too!”

Karen had attracted a small huddle of admirers out back, with Cynthia nowhere in sight. Mark heard Jorge laugh above him; looking up he saw Jorge flirting with Cynthia on the fire escape. From what he could see, she had no black eye or torn clothing as a result of her encounter with Karen, which was a relief. She did look intense, though, her eyebrows furrowing like she had a lot on her mind.

He made his way into the huddle orbiting Karen’s boobs, saying helloes, ignoring the fact that everybody there either envied him or hated him. “I’m feeling a little exhausted,” he whispered into Karen’s ear. “I thought I might call it a night.”

She looked concerned for a couple of seconds, then smiled. She pulled him away from the huddle and momentarily cupped his ass. “Hard day at the rodeo, cowboy?”

“That’s it. There was this feisty mare, a real prize but totally wild. I think she did me in.”

“That mare could always go for more. I could come home with you, maybe even spend the night.”

He heard Torrent’s voice in his head: “We always need more, ya know?”

“You okay?” Karen asked.

Mark’s heartbeat had kicked into another gear. It wasn’t about more sex tonight; it was the brownie, the beginnings of a speed effect. He hadn’t wanted to toss his cookies and now it was too late anyway.

He took Karen’s hand and squeezed, and said he really was exhausted. “Let’s get together tomorrow,” he said. “Any time you want, for as long as you want.”

“I have to finish that paper tomorrow. Are you any good at editing?”

“I make mistakes here and there but sure, I can edit.”

“How about I call you when it’s down to the final draft? Maybe you could read through it and I’ll find a way to pay you for your help?”

“You’ve got a deal.”

She walked with him through the kitchen, the smell of baking brownies thick in the air. Party-goers were essentially lining the walls and there was some pretty intense gawking as Karen’s tits jiggle-walked the gauntlet.

As soon as they were out on the front steps, Mark saw the night was turning foggy. Karen gave him a long boob-compressing kiss, and when touching tongues parted, he said: “Don’t eat any of the brownies baking in there unless you want to go for a magical mystery ride.”

“Pot?”

“Hash oil, or hash butter.”

“Oh God, I did that once and almost went catatonic for a few hours. It’s really potent!”

If he were British, this might be the time to say, ’bloody hell’. “Well, you’re forewarned.” It would have been good if he’d been forewarned. But maybe he had been, only he hadn’t known enough to translate “Kevin’s” as “laced”.

“It’s been a great day, Mark. The more time we spend together, the more I like it. I feel... I don’t know, all soft and fuzzy.”

“You’re a romantic at heart.” When woodwinked into dropping the bossy bitch routine. “I thought that showed in the song you sang on the phone today.”

“I’ve been brushing up on writing music, so I can put down some of these tunes in my head. I never did learn to play an instrument, but I was thinking I might rent or buy a guitar, and take some lessons.”

“I’m really happy for you. It sounds like you’re opening up in all sorts of ways.”

She laughed. “Maybe that’s why I can barely walk. Not that I’m complaining.”

He started to say something, but held it in. This was really nice, just talking as lovers, as people, drawing out the saying of good-night in various ways. Although his heartbeat was on a treadmill and the night-shrouded street didn’t look dark enough, even taking the mist into account. He’d bet anything his pupils were dilated.

“I’m not the same person I was a week ago,” Karen said. “Being with you... Maybe you’re a good influence or something.”

He’d have to go with the “or something” on that one. And he was beginning to feel that he wasn’t the same person he’d been three minute ago, the THC rushing into his system, his brain.

She put her lips to his ear, and sang very softly: “It’s so hard, saying good-night to you; but come tomorrow, we can begin anew.”

They kissed a final good-night, and Mark walked away from Karen and the party, into a dark misty night that was bound to be interesting as hell, come what may.

He had smoked pot before. Some people said they got great ideas for their art projects when they were high, but it mostly made Mark feel lethargic, like everything was good and he’d just sit and relax and watch all these intriguing minutes tick by. That might be an elevated state of mind for an aspiring Buddhist, but it was a sorry attitude to have when there were various projects due all the time. So no stonerism; it just wasn’t his thing.

He’d done something stronger only once, when Jorge had returned from Argentina with two tiny pills that he described as “artificial mescaline”, created by one of his uncles in a lab. They both read Aldous Huxley’s classic on mescaline tripping, “The Doors of Perception”, and went into the mountains for two days of “enhanced” car camping.

Their little pills went down their gullets by the glow of a campfire on the second night, and it was a very pleasant trip, no outright hallucinations but a strong sense of the inseparability of everything in existence. The deep woods around them became a symphony of interrelated pattern—the spider’s web between two trees no different than moonlight glistening on the stillness of a pond, the hoot of an owl somehow tied to the rhythms of their own beating hearts. The grinding whir of horny insects and the wispy spillage of stars above them just were, man, and while on the drug it didn’t feel stupid to express oneself that way.

It had been a long trip, too, a dawn-greeting seven hours because of the speed element that drove the sensory enhancements. That was the element that concerned Mark now—what if he went home and couldn’t sleep, and didn’t dream? More than that, could the chemistry of the hash screw with the pill he’d swallowed that morning? They were well separated in terms of digestive hours, but a single beer had apparently been enough to mess with his chemistry at the beginning, so anything was possible.

He didn’t go straight home. He walked, nowhere in particular, just around his neighborhood, one lazy block at a time. It had gotten downright dense fogwise, edges softened everywhere, the lights of passing cars extended in colored smears that moved as the air moved, revealing coiled currents normally hidden, invisible.

“It’s all alive.” Everything in motion, usually obscured but not tonight, not with this fog. “This is the field,” he said, thinking of Susan’s way of expressing the reach of his drug/dick powers. It was so obvious that all of everything was part of one thing, the air and its currents he could see no different in character than forces he and no one else alive would ever be able to detect, atoms and quarks and strings vibrating incessantly, everything existing humming, probably even making a kind of music.

“I am a particle. Unless I’m more of a note.”

A discordant note, or was it a sweet sound? What had happened to him these past few days... Sure it was freaky-deaky, but so were cats, so were cars, and don’t even get him started on how strange women were, God love ‘em and his dick enthusiastically fuck ‘em. Take a pill here, get an erection there, drink a beer ‘cause that’s what it’s there for and how hard was it to imagine a piece of all that shifting this way, not that way, a change made, the music of the spheres vibrating at a different speed, singing a different song.

“It’s so hard, da da da, dum de dum.”

He passed Café Magoo, walked a couple of blocks and found himself at the same bench he’d chosen for sitting and thinking earlier in the day. Wait, no, that was yesterday now; it was after one in the morning. Tick, tick, tick; time was weird as shit, because how could he dream three years ahead from yesterday? Had he created three years from now, or merely seen it? That kid on the subway—would he get pulled onto that particular subway car? Like, what if he’d dreamed the guy but the guy didn’t exist? Would a different guy, there on the subway, get up from his seat and say all that stuff about no hands and Ramses? And was it Ramses or Ramesses?

“Old pharoah Ramses had a harem

And knives in the kitchen did not scare him.”

He laughed. Dream a harem? He had to go to sleep to dream, though. “I should be sleeping and dreaming right now,” he said. True enough but too much energy churning inside, the fucking brownie.

He sat on his friend, the bench, being very still. Streetlights showed how the air around him continued to move, always swirling or undulating. Like Karen’s mouth swirled, when gifting him with a blowjob. Like Cynthia’s vagina undulated when giving him a sentient-fuck.

His thoughts drifted to the dark-eyed honey called Torrent of all things. Definitely cute, too bad she didn’t swing the male way. He wasn’t sure he knew what she was exactly, maybe Taiwanese mixed with something more Western, maybe Italian, who knows. He’d never had an Asian girl; for that matter he’d never had an Italian.

“Like Baskin-Robbins.” So many flavors to lick, and there was a good assortment here on campus but no time to sample them all, even if he could.

He wondered—was Torrent always quirky like that or had it been the brownies? No telling but it didn’t matter—if she’d been straight he’d fuck her in a heartbeat. And how many other fuck—’em-in-a-heartbeat heterosexual women were there on or around this campus, moving through the atmosphere of his life the way particles of mist were moving right in front of his face?

You couldn’t reach out and snatch an individual particle of fog; it was blended, the individual parts existing but not really anything of substance without the others. Yet it had substance; he could look down at the red brick walkway, and individual blades of grass, and see how they could touch the fog, the grass beaded with moisture, the walkway sheened, reflecting streetlight.

His hand reached into the air, trying to grab a tiny fogling between thumb and forefinger. “Elusive little bastards,” he said, not even aware of whether his thumb had gotten wet or not.

He’d like to get Torrent wet. Hell yes, turn Torrent torrential and let her lipstick-kissed boobs chew on that one for a while. He had nothing but respect for lesbians—they liked women, so at least they knew whom to wish to fuck.

“More,” Torrent had called after him, and she was right; her philosophy was his philosophy. More women than his finite supply of pills could give. More opportunities than he could woodwink in only a few days, especially when he hadn’t even understood how the mind/dick/pill connection worked. “I mean five pills, what kind of world gives you only five pills?”

Karen had been riding that wave when his wish for her to give romantic gifts had gone as far as presenting him with Cynthia. “Do you want more?” she’d asked. “It feels like you want more.”

To want more was to be human, wasn’t it? Greedy, but maybe that greed was more of an inevitable thing than a bad thing. The genie gives you three wishes and what dimwit wouldn’t make the third wish the granting of three more wishes, if the rules allowed it?

“We crave experience and opportunity,” he said, and that sounded good. But his cock twitched just then, and he took that as his tool adding its own commentary. ”You just crave more pussy,” he said. “More more more. Pussy pussy pussy. You can’t help it; it’s the way you were made.”

He heard the laughter of women, not in his head but with his ears. The tap of heels on pavement—he turned his head in the direction of the sounds and couldn’t see anything for several seconds, then two tall and slender women in long coats, emerging from the orange streetlight murk. They fell silent when they saw him sitting on the bench, and heel-tapped by. Nice legs, both of them, and even with the long coats they carried that stirring hourglass design. He watched their heel-click forms get swallowed by the fog until they were nothing but faint sounds again, click click gone. He hadn’t gotten a great look but he guessed they both fell into the fuck—’em-in-a-heartbeat category.

But he never would fuck ‘em no matter how many heartbeats passed. They were unknown and unseen, became momentarily solid and desirable in his presence, then faded away, probably never to be seen again. Just like the nameless redhead with the heart-stop legs—how many weeks since he’d seen her? Just like the world in the mist—only a few seconds ago he’d been able to make out the shapes of the storefronts across the street, and now they were gone. Sometimes here, then gone. Everything; everything was like that.

Even Karen, visible in his bed for a few weeks, then poof. Just like Susan, already gone, and Natalia, and Cynthia. Cynthia would blow in like another fog bank one day, there was that; but so many other women, such scrumptious particles of mist, getting things wet, getting themselves wet, but they wouldn’t get wet for him. He, they, like particles floating in the air, maybe drifting close for a few seconds before being carried away by the currents that lawfully kept most people from ever speaking, much less getting naked and hopping into bed together.

“I’ll never even get to speak to the redhead’s legs,” he told the night. “Not unless I get off my ass and into bed and dream my woodie woodpecker into her.”

He stood, laughed. The fog had grown so thick there could be a hundred people standing around him in a circle, listening to every word he uttered, and he’d never know they were there. “How would you dream-fuck bucketfuls of women you haven’t even met?” he asked his unseen audience. He stood perfectly still, listening. “You’re no fucking help,” because they really weren’t. He was running out of time and they couldn’t care less.

“I’m fucked up,” he assessed. He guessed the brownie was heightening his senses to a degree, because he could feel all of his body like every organ tingled, including all of his skin, even his hair. He was wet, too, his hair and clothes damp. “Not me!” he protested. ”I want all of you to get wet!”

He walked in the direction of home, one vague step at a time. He sang: “It’s so hard. even seeing my feet; I’ve got a big dick, that I want them to meet.”

With familiar landmarks obscured he walked past his building, had to double back. Inside, even the poorly lit stairwell was a relief of definite form, his bearings restored. He stripped and peed and went straight to bed even with brownie energy still pulsing, wanting to sleep and dream, just sleep and dream, dream you fucker dream.

Leggy redhead and Jill the espresso machine, and more women somehow, like the Torrents of the world, cute and sexy inscrutable women with scewable pussies, out there whom he didn’t know yet, students from other departments, maybe even impressionable young freshman year girls. And what about Susan and her fine long legs, did he want more of that? Of course he wanted more—like Torrent said there could always be more, more like once upon a time Karen’s tits had said more more more and it had been granted to them.

“Mmmore,” he mumbled, turning onto his side. “To sleep; perchance to dream that redhead’s legs.”

Brownie energy, beating heart, beating meat, beat my meat, meet and greet.

He had a woodie. Not even asleep yet, goodie for my woodie, whoulda shoulda couldie.

Brownie energy, beating heart, heartbeat, partbeat, particles in fog, foggy fuckbeat, fuckbeat, fuckbeat...

Some art opening—his paintings? People all dressed up, a stylish crowd, a wealthy crowd, lots of long gowns and comely waitresses carrying trays of hors de ouvres. Someone speaking to him, very attractive, great bone structure and lips made for sucking a cock.

Her husband would be in Paris on Monday and Tuesday for business—would he be able to come by her house sometime to assure that her painting was well hung?

Those cocksuckian lips, the tip of her tongue making an appearance, wetting them. Her use of the term “well hung” was cheesy—but not right to judge her when he was responsible. And she was blushing! She hadn’t meant to say it like that, a Freudian slip that was turning her cheeks beet red. Her color and the fact she felt some shame made him hard, and when he got hard near a woman like this, shit happened. She’d been with him on the bench.

He saw ahead, into the hot wet weather front moving into her most sensitive territories. His cock pulsing; the woman feeling the pulse, her body taking up the beat.

She couldn’t possibly. Well, perhaps just this once. If the stories were true. And where did these stories come from. Why, from his patron, of course. They couldn’t literally be true—could they? Susan had said... But it was hardly genteel to speak openly of such things anywhere but behind closed doors.

Gentility his genitals. He leaned close, his mouth to her ear, and whispered in a soft and even tone: “If you open your door to me, I’m going push in so hard and deep that you’ll feel me brush against your heart on the way to the tip hitting the back of your teeth.”

That sudden hitch in her breathing, what he was coming to think of as the rich bitch pregasm, where some turned pale and others flushed vermillion. Her cheeks had been red already; now the whole of her face had gone crimson.

Monday early, she choked out. His nostrils drank her budding aroma, and he had a feeling that it would happen with this one.

Someone tugged him away to meet the So-and So’s. It was Susan, looking all ultra-nipply but not in a gown, choosing a sparkly dress with a hemline meant to show off her long legs. The fingers of her pulling hand touching him just that little bit extra. Accomplice fingers, giving the both of them stealthy thrills.

“I get a piece of this next one, understand?” she said under her breath, and her hand-grip shuddered.

She pulled him to meet an important couple, and just look at that woman’s figure in that gown, a real thoroughbred. He shook hubby’s hand; hubby barely glanced at him, his eyes drawn by what Susan’s nipples had to say. There really was no taming those things; they were a part of the landscape now, like cell phone towers rising up from twin hills.

Susan took hubby away, leaving Mark with the thoroughbred. Very interesting paintings, and provocative. Well yes they did collect art, but Richard wasn’t really buying right now. Would she meet him for coffee, perhaps an informal visit to his studio? Well, perhaps. Café Magoo? Yes, she knew where that was.

It was about thirty yards from his bench.

The bench, his bench, nothing but painted wood and an iron structure, so ordinary to look at, nothing to give it away. But in its other life, with quarks or strings vibrating, enveloped in an invisible mist that penetrated everything... There, like that, it was no different than a spider’s web stretched between two trees, and he got to play the role of the spider.

Somehow, just by thinking about it, he was there, the art opening dissolved. Just a latté on his bench, the sun high but filtered through high clouds. Warm liquid down his throat, people milling by, a perfectly tranquil summer day. He closed his eyes and let his mind float among the particles that surrounded this bench like a thick fog, not caring whether they were atoms or quarks or strings. They could even be the aerosol mist given out by female pores all over the world—who cared what this atmosphere was when it was all a question of what it could do.

He floated inside, enveloped, and could feel the legs first, drawing near to this invisible cloud. She was proud of those legs, got whistles and compliments every day.

Her. It had been months, but now he saw her approaching in a yellow patterned sundress, the red hair bouncing, tall heels further highlighting the trim ankles and sinfully shaped calves. Heads turned; she had what an old friend of his had called “whiplash legs”, and didn’t she know it.

There were any number of images that could come to him and he was learning to accept all of them, no need to worry about the particular way it seemed to take place. Today he imagined that he had a giant hand, attached to a giant arm. He reached out, seeing her as a microscopic particle, and caught her between thumb and forefinger, lifting her and depositing her on the bench beside him. She squirmed in his vision, not pathetically but enough to show that she had plenty of spirit. Once on the bench she was his; the only question was how long it would take for her to realize that.

She stopped a few feet in front of him, looking confused. Prized thighs, just check out those legs! He stared and didn’t care if she saw it, and knew that one taste would never be enough. There would have to be more, more and more, more, more...

“Mon Dieu, more!”

Already fucking, the French slipping out of her. More and more, always more, ever since that hash-driven dream his entire world appearing to be supported by pillars of addition, of furtherance and extension.

Pumping inside her now, Mon Dieu-ing her dewy bare mound, more friction, more heat, more speed, more guttural crying out. And more climaxes, they always wanted more climaxes, each one built upon the others like an orgasm could become wrapped into DNA, spinning off copies of itself that evolved, became fuller, higher order, richer in their complexity...

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”

“More! More!” Yes, more, always more. Would that special thing happen with this one, with Clarisse? He could feel that different tide building, a swelling as unstable as the surface of the ocean. He was fevered by it, the pressure inside rising and ebbing, so fast, like a vibration, forces in constant motion, heat causing all of it to expand, a swelling unstoppable tide reaching out, the power of More More More given shape, taking hold to explode in a blast, a wave...

“Muhhhrrr!” he bellowed, his mouth twisted and gummy, lips partially stuck together. Perhaps trying to verbalize how the impassioned dickcentric problem-solving impulse was already sent, out into the field.