The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“How is our problem patient this morning?”

He’d been summoned into a different room this time, a working office rather than the soulless examination room. Her name had been plated onto the door, Susan M. Jensen, so no more Susan A. Projectmanager. She sat behind a large mahogany desk adorned with the latest iMac, and what appeared to be six months of paperwork stacked in a neat pile. He couldn’t see her skirt or her heels, but the blouse under the lab coat looked right, a pastel blue with a V-shaped neckline. And there glittering between her clavicles, causing his heart to race, a tiny gold cross on a thin gold chain.

“Is that what I’ve become, the problem patient?” Mark asked, trying to see signs, any signs.

Because the gold cross—it could have been there yesterday without his really noticing, for his subconscious mind to see and place in his dream. That seemed likely, but couldn’t it also be that his dream had weilded a more profound power, essentially summoning it? Could she have gone through her jewelry box when dressing this morning, essentiall feeling compelled to wear this particular necklace, or to buy or borrow one if she didn’t have one?

The dream he’d awakened with this morning—between that and his half-assed daydreams before falling asleep, he’d put money on the morning’s fantasy being the ticket. Partly it was the way the true dream had so much energy behind it, so tangible with his cock at full extension when he’d awakened, straining for sex like it had already been engaged in a sexual act. Before going to sleep at night, by comparison, he’d been exhausted while daydreaming, his imagined seduction of Susan disjointed and vague. Not at all like that in the morning, when he’d been cock-sure and raring to fuck, the images with her standing naked in front of him feeling as real as anything. It didn’t take a genius to know which of the two had the most vitality, and therefore the most potential.

And then the chain, the cross. Afraid she’d say something about how his eyes kept going back to it, he glanced around the room, trying to figure out whether anything about this office looked familiar, like he’d pre-visited it, been here and sex-teased her here. Couldn’t remember; he’d been so focused on her, on the look and the atmosphere of surrender, her body so obviously needy while her mind had become different, other. The room itself hadn’t made an impression.

The door. She’d locked it in the dream, a heavy distinct click. This door? It could be. He couldn’t say what about it felt familiar, but something did.

She picked up a retractable pen and clicked it in and out, fixing her eyes upon his. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve spoken with other colleagues since yesterday. And frankly, Mark, we don’t believe you’ve been completely honest with us.”

He felt a stab of unease not so different than being caught with his hand in his mother’s purse when he’d been five. Susan wasn’t that much older than he was, perhaps late-twenties or even thirty, but she was older, and there was a power structure between them; she with the authority, the office, the name on a door, while was the the lowly disposable pawn.

But that chain around her neck, the gold cross, that particular door with that particular lock... Being here was like some sort of reality-echo, but if he were to nudge this commonplace situation into the dream’s outlandish reality of subjugation and rampant desire, what sort of track was required? What had he said or done before the actions in dream-time to upend their dynamic, to get her out from behind that desk ready to do anything he asked, anything as long as she and his cock got properly acquainted?

He’d been standing, not sitting, so he stood. And she’d been standing, not sitting, but he saw no inclination on her part to do so now.

“Don’t you dare walk out on this meeting,” she said. “Sit back down and talk to me, without evasion this time.”

“What are you accusing me of?” he asked, pointedly not retaking his seat.

“What didn’t you tell us yesterday? What brought about that reaction on your wrist?”

Honesty probably equaled losing money. It also might equal getting her out of that chair. “I had a beer,” he said, the words like a leap of faith. Her face flushed, just like that, but he didn’t recoil. Some women, he thought, looked really sexy when they got angry, and here was a perfect example. “And I inadvertently touched the patch, or the edge of the patch, to the tip of my... You know, my thing,” he went on, going for the gold.

“Your thing?”

“My penis, okay? It was hard as a rock and there was a moment of contact, patch to penis.”

“How did... No, I won’t even ask. But you... What happened next?”

“Burning, itching, very intense. It made me run around, get in the shower...”

“Your wrist got wet?”

No, he thought, but when will you? None of this had been in the dream, only her, standing, locking the door, stripping, completely under his power. Something had triggered that, right? Something that he could do or say to trigger it now?

“This is unbelievable. Seventy-five test subjects, and you’re the only one...” She shook her head with consternation or disgust before pushing herself up from her chair, standing, finally. “It will have to be thoroughly examined, you know.”

“What will? My...”

“Your wrist, of course, and now your... your thing. Of all the foolish... I can’t begin to express how idiotic, how...”

He tuned out the harangue because he didn’t care whether she approved or not, or thought he was a Guinness-chugging fuck-up or not. Out of the chair, out from behind the desk, standing the right distance away—the visuals, the very feel of it... Very exciting, very promising. Time for an even greater leap of faith? “Examine it, then. Go ahead, Susan; if you want I’ll just whip it out and you tell me what shape it’s in.”

She gaped, like he’d just informed her the earth was flat after all. “Me, examine your...”

There was nothing to say it could happen, that anything positive or magical or even remotely sexual could take place in this room. Why, then, did he feel a sudden stirring in his pants, like talking about his cock, even in this way, had just now awakened a slumbering beast, in him, in her, in the air all around them? Something, something there that hadn’t been there before, like a breeze that moved through ether, not the atmosphere they knew, ruffling no papers, deeply felt yet not tangible enough to be known through the five senses. Still, it, whatever it was, had become present. There.

What caused the change? Was it nothing more than the two of them in position now, both on their feet? The fact that, finally, he could see her lovely legs in heels again, see that, indeed, it was all as it had been in the dream, down to the color and shaping of her shoes? Or was it the subject of conversation, his cock, needing to be inspected because he’d been a bad boy and had touched an erection to the patch?

“Lock that door and get acquainted with the offending member of your research, Susan.” Said confidently, maybe even conspiratorially. Said like they were breathing the air of a different world now, his world by his rules. No, different than that—the dream’s world by the dream’s rules, there informing the both of them, each in their own way.

He could see it coming over her, like a fog descending inside her head, blanketing the receptors that would normally fire to give her the identity of Susan Jensen, the default Susan that thought a certain way, behaved a certain way. With the normal personality lost in the mist, no longer able to see or be seen, the new connections fired, taking the wheel of the car of her body, of her emotions, gently applying the brakes on the highway she’d been traveling upon, seeing an exit ramp and taking it, slowing further, coming to a stop, reading the new signs. Why go there, wherever she’d been going, when there was this other town, the exciting town of Marksdickville that she could drive to instead?

How she actually experienced the change was anyone’s guess, but that was his take on the slackening of her angled jaw, the sagging of her lower lip, the momentary clouding of her deep brown eyes. In a way it seemed instantaneous, like something tipping over, boom. At the same time it took several seconds, like a line of dominoes falling one into the other, boom and boom and need sex so badly badda boom.

“I need to... to see it,” she said, a hand going to her neck, absently fooling with the gold chain and tiny cross. Her eyes were trained down towards his groin, just staring, not blank but... what? Changed, mesmerized. Hungry.

He was so hard again, that make-him-wince kind of hardness just like when he’d awakened this morning. And when he unzipped and pulled it out, what then, what kind of reaction from her?

He lowered his hands, about to do it, then stopped. “No,” he said. Because that wasn’t how it had gone in the dream, was it? She’d been the one to strip naked, not him. His cock had been raging inside his pants, not poling outward for her to see.

“No?”

Stunned. Frightened? He wondered what to say next, whether it mattered exactly. Language came to him from his childhood, definitely not suave but it got the point across. “Not unless you show me yours first. The coat, the skirt, the shoes, panties, everything off.” Then remembering she’d stood with her blue bra still there. “Everything but your bra comes off, Susan. Lock the door and strip for me.”

“But I can’t... You have to be...” Confusion or resistance like ocean waves slapping at cliffs made of lusty need. Maybe in a million years they’d win, but for now the pillars of lust stood unmoving, solid. “I’ll... I’ll call securitahh,” she said, but the warning lacked volume and even definition. It seemed to be an automatic response gone hollow, like the twitching of an animal’s tail after the rest of the beast had already fallen asleep.

“Go ahead. Then you’ll never see it or feel it, will you?” No mistaking the look in her eyes. “You’ll never even know how you can feel, will you?” he added, seeing something about that in her expression, too.

She stepped back with force, back to the door, a frightened deer of a woman wondering how to bolt, not from him but from something inside, something that already had her by the throat. She didn’t bolt, except for bolting the door.

The loud click, just like it had sounded before, was so much more than metal sliding into a cylinder. With that action they were now firmly in the dream, sharing its time and flow, the information all lined up, sequences foretold. He watched, knowing and flabbergasted all at once as she behaved as she’d behaved, stripping out of her clothing as she had, looking and even smelling as she had.

He could choose to pay attention to everything that had drawn his eyes before in the dream, or look somewhere else to take in different details. The lighting, mostly overhead but also from a floor lamp, was more noticeable to him now, and the particulars of the space around her, the walls and floor and the height of the ceiling. Seeing all that made her look even more naked somehow, the improbability of her actions more acute. She was doing this in the real world this time, not the wispy reality of subconscious brain firings.

She had a beautiful body, long and toned and elegant, a body to be proud of. She didn’t look proud or not-proud, though. Too desperate for that, standing utterly raw in her office, pungently leaking the substance of lust onto her fine legs, breathing rapidly, staring at his erection, waiting.

He remembered what came next while also feeling pulled into the action, like he, too, couldn’t resist in the end. He cupped his hand over his hard-on as he remembered doing in the dream world, cockily tracing its outline with his index finger.

“Oh-ah!” she fired, right on cue.

The words he’d said were the same as the words he wanted to say, perfect to the occasion. “You’ll do anything with it that I tell you to, won’t you?”

Affirmation in the rapid shaking of her head. Though she stood, her inner posture was more like being on her knees, ready to beg.

“And you’ll help me to keep it this way, with this effect on you. You’ll help me understand how it happened, and you won’t tell a soul.”

“Yes! Yes!”

He could feel how there was energy in what he demanded and she agreed to, more like a molecular pact than a verbal one, as if to break it she’d need to split atoms first. It was a kind of imprinting, a re-organization inside her, an unbreakable chain no less real than the tiny gold one around her neck.

“Well then,” he said, finally grabbing hold of his zipper. This was where the dream had ended, Karen’s phone call breaking the spell. The phone on Susan’s desk did not ring, no knock on the door, no interruption here in real life. The moment was his now, to craft as he pleased. As long as it was faithful to the spirit of the dream? He had that sense, like his actions were surrounded by invisible walls and he’d become a living actor on a stage of a certain size, charged with being Mark, acting the role of himself in a play authored by himself in his sleep.

He pulled his zipper down, pulled his pants down, pulled them away. He in his black T-shirt, she butt naked but for her blue bra, his cock like a burning spear, her pussy like a crevice venting the heat from some dream-fed inner core.

“On your desk,” he said. “On your knees, legs spread.”

She hopped to it like her muscles had been begging to be freed from stasis. The pile of papers toppled and scattered, a can with pens and markers spilling to the floor. Mark had one hell of a view of the woman’s pussy, a gorgeous organic slit looking literally swollen with need. Every pussy was a little bit unique like any other part of a body, but this one redefined wetness, redefined eager anticipation. It was beautiful, all her but also of his making.

“Tell me you want it,” he said, his cock straining and pulsing and wanting, the male equivalent of her current state.

“I want it!”

“Tell me yes, and mean it.”

“Yes. Yes! Yes!”

“You’ll tell no one else, not a soul,” he repeated, because it had to be that way. “There will never be anyone else who knows this happened to you, that you could even become this way, understand?”

“I’ll never tell! Oh... Now! Hurry!”

Because sex with Karen Corso had taken place entirely above her waist, it had been months since Mark’s cock had slipped into the wet membranous velvet of a woman’s vagina. His first reaction was to let out an appreciative sigh, because the warm grip was so elemental, like plug A and socket B designed at The Beginning, waiting since all of creation for this dream-crafted union. His second reaction was to tune into the difference of her from any other he’d known, the uniqueness of the fit. He thought at first that she must have found some way to oil herself in anticipation of this joining, but that was just how wet she was, so gloriously unprecedentedly sopping wet.

He glided with delicious slowness, drawing out the absorption of his length, and could feel how she continued to part for him, his big worm opening the pathway of her cavernous earth. Finally all in, and once in wanting to just jam out-in-out-in and hump and bump and thump her into oblivion. But, holding onto the presence of mind to give her one last set of instructions before going to town, he directed her to to tell him, as best she could convey it, what their research was about, what had happened to him and how it could be continued, all while they fucked.

She bellowed with his initial much-harder thrust. Inside she was almost pure liquid, a pussy become sea creature, a heated fathom tunnel squeezing him down to his depths.

“Talk,” he insisted, driving back in to the hilt.

And she did, probably the most bizarre pillow-talk in history, grunting and gasping bits of sentences that kind-of made sense, and might have been more intelligible if he had an advanced degree in pharma-bigwords-a-braineology. Sensory processing something-integration linked with neural plasticity, brainstem blahblah-ignation and the subconscious mind’s ability to create images, the images receiving power, or, as she expressed that last bit with breathy wet intensity, “Image powuhh! Unnhh! Unnhh!”

It sounded like talking about it just made her hotter, like the divulging of secrets was some new form of interior lubrication. It also made her mouth more gaspy, which made any communication increasingly more difficult to understand. She choked out more and he thought he sorta kinda got it in the abstract—something had been done to the flesh at his wrist, which they isolated under the patch while his mind, through the pills, was connected to the needy area and charged with re-ordering or stimulating or healing all necessary systems via some sort of subconscious Borg-like image-to-reality cooperation, a hyper-neural energy highway built between the affected area and wherever the energy of dreams and creative thought came from, the distressed flesh appealing for help and that distress signal re-organizing the brain’s abilities at some fundamental body-knowledge level, whereby the seeing of the distress was turned into a special sort of doing.

Thrusting even deeper, her wetness cunt-gurgling around his overheated cock, oh God it felt so good. His cock, the one-eyed thief which had gotten a hard case of whatever they’d put on his wrist, cleverly taking its place as the needy organ, the organ with the agenda to re-order artificially stimulated systems, directing subconscious elements in his brain to give it, his cock, the power to do whatever was needed to make itself feel juuuust right.

He was in the middle of fucking, doggy-style and with the energy of a swirling hurri-came, a woman he’d only met the day before, because his dick was a thief that perceived itself to be an injured thief, excitement and pulsing desire equated with trauma. Then, in collusion with the drug-assisted recesses of his brain, his cock had somehow taken on the attributes of a magic wand, bringing sources of relief for his erections. Or something, who even cared about all the details when it worked?

He thought she tried to say something about how the inside could have spilled outside, his cock both the cause and the cure of distress in others, in women like herself, because she said the words, “Somehow out in the field”, twice. But past that her mouth was too open and her grunting too forceful to understand much of anything. “Guh nuh!” might have been an attempt to bring his pint of Guinness into the explanation loop, but he thought it signaled more of a change inside her, her pussy clenching in some wholly new way, wrapping him tighter in her internal nautical world right as his own sea creatures saddled up and got ready for launch, wet wanting wet, sex calling to sex, his tightening ass somehow galloping, her panting turning to screaming that raised her pelvis higher and...

Two elemental forces streaming at one another, wet to fucking wetter, male to female and female to male, combatting and embracing with torrential force. Her bare abdomen sinking to the desktop as the in-out slowed, his fire in her, her fever there but awash, both of their brains momentarily lost at sea.

Climax was a word that signified a pinnacle, a peak. What, then, did a climax become when it rose higher even when the bottom dropped out? What was an orgasm when it felt like it split in two, org and asm engaged in a tug of war where the teams multiplied to tug even harder and in the end, everybody won?

Buzzing ears, swimming vision, his heart ka-thumping in every limb and behind his eyes. After-sex, especially after-sex with a woman you really didn’t know who’d been lassoed through some subterranean dick/dream conspiracy and knew it, was kind of an awkward time. Mark had been more on the floor than the desk, but he sagged forward, and now it was the desktop taking his weight. Conversely, Susan had been squarely planted on the desk and she slid off, limbs piling up on the cloth seat and arms of her chair. The walls and ceiling seemed to echo the sounds of the activity before their de-coupling, like tiles could pant and wallboard could scream with deliverance. And the ringing, not a phone, but in his ears.

How much noise had they actually made? No one knocked on the door to ask if he were murdering her, so maybe all was well. Mark wasn’t sure how long it took him to get up, get dressed. Susan was slump-sitting in the chair now, still naked except for the robin’s egg bra, her bound hair mostly undone and her skin all red like she’d been steamed for dinner. He liked this look on her, dazed and still partly crazed, her bare legs especially fetching with his stuff oozing from between them.

He was hardly collected or all there, but compared to her at that moment he was probably Einstein. “It only works as long as I’m taking the pills, right?”

She had to move her entire head for her eyes to find him. “Uh huh,” she squeezed between deep breaths.

“How many pills do you have here in your office?”

Her eyes were trying to swim towards a shore called focus. “Three. Small bottle. Cabinet,” she tried to point.

He saw them, the familiar black and yellow capsules looking like yellowjackets ready to sting inside a plastic bottle. He put the bottle in his pocket and said, “You could have a year’s worth ready for me tomorrow, couldn’t you? Or better yet, ten years’ worth in the trunk of your car, delivered to my apartment.”

She shook her head ‘no’.

“No? Why not?”

“Not safe,” she sighed. “Believe me. Meant for... for very short period. Regeneration... Accident victims. No one gets more than five. Not safe!”

“How not safe?”

“Those five... probably okay. Think... powerful steroids. Too much or long-term... consequences. Bad.”

He got it. He would never have even been given a pill every day of the two weeks—they would have given him the five pills and then monitored the results on his arm, and watched the rest of the time for anything weird going on. Overdo it for short-term gain and he’d suffer long-term pain, like cancer or his balls shriveling to pink raisins or who knew what. A little bit, short duration, little risk.

“I’m going to go now, Susan. But you should, you know, dress. Wash up, too. Is there a restroom nearby, somewhere private where I can get cleaned up?

She pointed, better this time, indicating just down the hall. And then those eyes, the focus mostly there, the deep brown so expressive. “Come back tomorrow morning. I think I want... Can’t tell if you’re making me feel this way...”

“What way is that?”

So weird and sexy, her mostly naked body slumped in her chair, fine athletic legs spread wide enough that he could see how her pussy still looked swollen, reminiscent of an animal in heat. “Never felt anything like that before. I think I may need more.”

He couldn’t help smiling.

“Can’t tell... Feel wiped out,” she added.

Actually she looked sexed out, if there were such a thing.

“Can’t tell,” she whispered just before he opened the door a crack and peeked out.

She had said those words, “can’t tell”, three times by his count. He wasn’t sure if they were part of an unfinished sentence—can’t tell how I feel about this, can’t tell if I’ll let you in the building tomorrow, can’t tell any of a thousand different things—or if her words were more a summation of her position now, that she couldn’t tell anybody what the beer-botched medical research had done to him, and he to her.

As long as that latter one was in play, the rest could be anything at all.

Walking out into the bright angled light of a spring morning was like stepping into an entirely different world. No part of the day from now on was foreseen or fore-ordained, and all the activity going on around him was shockingly normal. Students jogging, students hurrying to eight a.m. classes, skateboards scraping, the few small clouds in the sky traveling west to east.

Nothing out here had been touched. It was only in there between them, like a dream could create a unique magnetic field between two people, altering the wavelength of their mutual reality while leaving the rest untouched, unsuspecting. He was still a part of all this—classes, grades, upcoming graduation, the need for food, the quest for money. At the same time he felt like an archeologist who can’t tell a soul how he’d just discovered an Egyptian tomb that would put Tutankhamun to shame, or—probably more apt to the scope of the thing—like a paleontologist who couldn’t let others know he’d just saddled and ridden a living dinosaur.

A living miracle. And even more need to keep it a secret when it was a secret sex miracle. He bought a cup of coffee at Café Magoo, but the beautiful blonde barista wasn’t there, drats. In the line, pressed between others, he kept expecting someone to give him a strange look, or to see nearby noses trying to identify a strange odor. He’d managed to clean himself up pretty well in the restroom near Susan’s office; even so he kept imagining he must smell like pussy, maybe mixed with sulphur. And if not that, he must at least reek of secrets.

Apparently not. A stranger walked among them, a stranger with a dream-fed dick that had learned to play games “out in the field”, to use Susan’s terminology. And they, the huddled student masses, did not know it.

Mark thought of blowing off his morning classes, because how could you sit around doing normal things when the world had just fissured open and a whole pile of abnormal was oozing out? He should probably go home to take a nap, because that was the key, wasn’t it—what had happened in real life had come from a real dream, not his daydreaming attempt before falling asleep. It had something to do with mind-power, true subconscious image-making mind-power, like that was the engine that made his magic-wand of a dick run.

Run, Dick, run, run in a maze of sex dreams all night long. If something like that happened, if he dreamed of fucking the entire women’s swimming team, for instance, would reality bend as it needed to, with a couple dozen women’s minds bending as they needed to, assuring that what was dreamed with cock-hardening heat became cock-draining reality?

Unbelievably exhilarating possibilities. The only sad thing was that ultimately there was no control, because, unlike daydreaming, how did you tell your sleeping mind to go in any particular direction? He might be able to stimulate his imagination in certain ways, funneling all his associations in the direction of a certain woman all day, or molten hot sex all day, but dreams were capricious, and he was just as likely to dream of a lion or a vacation in a cottage or anything else instead.

More than one sad thing, because if he’d understood correctly and the magic only appeared because it was a partnership between his dick and his subconscious mind, then he probably couldn’t make a dream come true where he found a pot of gold, or landed a job with great pay after graduation, or any of that. It, whatever the concept or the reality to be altered, had to make his dick hard, which made some other kind of intelligence believe his dick had to be healed, which meant sex for his dick.

And crap, the saddest part of all? There were only three pills, meaning three more days. Or, if he took breaks between pills to stretch out the pleasure, perhaps a week with some time to rest.

Should he take a pill today? Karen was coming over, maybe to ask questions, maybe to accuse him of something, maybe to perform the magician’s trick of making his dong disappear between her massive juggs again. If the best thing happened and she wanted sex, would it still be the kind of sex that had her bellowing and gushing like no woman he’d seen before? Did the effects linger between his cock and a woman for a day or two or three, or maybe even forever? Or if they had sex, might it just be normal for her now, a real come-down compared to their boiling bodies before? He thought what it would be like to see disappointment in Karen’s eyes, her body going through the motions rather than her compressed tits bumpity-humping a mile a minute like she could never get enough. He had no illusions that one of the sexiest and by far the tittiest woman on campus would continue to spread her boobs or legs for the likes of him if the magic evaporated into thin air.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but shit, three measly pills—anything more and his dick might fall off when he turned thirty. It was like the big boney hand of Fate holding out a pussy-flavored ice cream cone to him, right in front of a sign proclaiming that pussy flavor wouldn’t be available again until sometime in the next century, long after he was dead. Here you go, enjoy it, ’cause what’s here today will be gone tomorrow and all the rest of your tomorrows.

Better to have lived dream-charged freak-sex for a handful of days, even with the foreknowledge that it couldn’t last? Wasn’t there the danger of a Faustian bargain here, that by embracing this temporary pill/cock/dream arrangement, all the sex he’d experience for the rest of his life would pale by comparison?

“Fuckin’ A,” he breathed out loud, meaning he had to take the chance of entering into that arrangement. Nothing went on forever, even the best things. He was twenty-two years old, only weeks away from graduation, and the responsibilities of life were circling like birds overhead but they hadn’t yet landed at his doorstep. College was almost over, and this was a time to stretch the boundaries, which included being surrounded by an entire campus’ worth of desirable women. And those women, or the women’s dream-drip hormones, might even agree that he should go for it—Karen had hinted she might consider a second roll on his floor at some point, and Susan had flat-out said she thought she might need more.

“Can’t tell if you’re making me feel this way,” Susan had said. He didn’t know, either. How long did a dream grab hold, and how thoroughly? Did it have some sort of built-in shelf life by nature? Were there any long-lasting changes that might outlive the supply of pills, or was it all an event of the moment? Did that depend on the particular dream, or on the particular woman?

There were probably tricks and traps that he or she hadn’t thought of, all sorts of things that could go wrong. Susan hadn’t had all the answers—how could she—so he’d really only received an overview of what might have happened, and her very real, very informed caution about the risks of abusing the drug. He had a question now that he hadn’t thought to ask before, about whether, if he skipped a day of pill-taking, the incredible dynamic he was enjoying might wear off and not be retrievable. That worried him as much as the idea of taking too many pills, the chance that if he didn’t take one today, his precarious brain-body chemistry might revert back to normal so that even taking all three pills at once couldn’t restart the engine. He also hadn’t thought to ask if he could remove the stupid wrist patch.

He still had twenty minutes to sit outside the arts building and think before his Egyptian Art class. He found a bench and sat there brooding with his coffee, which turned into girl-watching, which turned into thoughts of being given the dream-gift of doing her in his sleep, that drop-dead Asian one, or wow, even a blowjob from her, that sultry-mouthed soccer babe in the black tights.

Was this creepy, what he was doing? He checked out great-looking women every day—almost everybody did, probably. But it was an abstract activity, almost never with the thought that his admiration could ever amount to anything. If the sight of gorgeous stranger-babe A resounded inside his cock more than sexy stranger-babe B, was it like he was looking at her through the sniper-scope of a sex-shooter? Was he a loaded weapon, a perambulating sex-shooter?

Before he knew it he had the bottle of pills in his hand, the top unscrewed. He wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of wreaking havoc on total strangers; at the same time he wouldn’t take the chance of having all conceivable opportunities slip through his fingers. He would take a pill and think of sex all day, concentrating on certain women, not strangers, women that he knew and liked and had desired for months or in some cases years. Maybe they’d appear in his dreams that night, their pussies set on fire; maybe they wouldn’t. Turning it over to his subconscious mind wasn’t exactly the same as surrendering it all to a Higher Power, but he could claim, or his conscience could claim, a certain degree of plausible deniability. He wouldn’t really be in control because he couldn’t be. It would be in control, the subterranean pill/cock/dream trio.

He swallowed a pill with the last of his coffee—done. The rest was in the uncertain hands of his subconscious mind later that night. If magic happened, and a lovely woman fell under the spell of that magic, it would have made that choice, not him. All he would have done is what everybody has to do—shut his eyes and go to sleep, and let the dreaming do what dreams gotta do.