The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Isn’t It Good, His Morning Wood

by Only A. Passenger

Chapter Seven

Cynthia was in the habit of having a sleep-in when she didn’t need to set the alarm and hurry to a class, and Friday was the one weekday where she wasn’t scheduled to high heaven. On these lazy mornings she liked to burrow under the covers and hug Turbo, the big stuffed dolphin she’d won at the state fair last year, to her front, soothed by his cuddly warmth.

This morning was different. Turbo’s sleekly shaped body, half as big as she was, was all plush softness, but his bottle-nose was reinforced with plastic, and at some point the hugging changed into a kind of probing, the toy dolphin’s smiling streamlined face pressed hard between her legs.

She was half-there, not deeply asleep but also not alert, and Turbo could almost be a real lover, maybe a guy with his thick hardness pressing and rubbing against her pint-sized pubis, or even, ooooo, the excitement, the abandon of it, a woman’s hand, or better yet a hard cock and a woman’s chin together, two lovers taking turns between her thighs. Maybe the cock spread its way in first, and then the woman, Karen, she could say, “I’m next”, needing her turn. But no, it was she who should have been next, and that got ruined somehow and now she was paying for it with overdue... Something, maybe lust, maybe something that left lust in the dust, hard to think with the wonderful pressure and the alien aching between her legs.

Was it him, his thing, or Karen’s chin? Probably Karen’s chin, or maybe her nose, inhaling nectar as she uncurled her tongue,ready to test its wetness against the heated repository of desire that felt like it might spring a leak any second, a hot pressure valve inside wanting relief, wanting even more pressure on the way to explosive release.

“Uhhhhhh,” she sighed. Too long without sex, too much school focus and not enough fuck focus. Focus, fuckus, fuckus, oh God yes fuck us, fuck us both! Mark, mark us, shoot your load and mark us!

“Merk us, fub us!” she cried, her mostly asleep mouth not working right. “I’m nex! I’b fubbin nex!”

Cynthia jolted awake by falling out of the bed, landing gently with her body tightly cocooned by twisted covers. Something hard was pressing deliciously against her pussy, and she could tell from the soft fabric touching her thighs that it had to be Turbo. Which was... disappointing?

She ached between her legs, and lay there motionless for a few seconds with blood rushing to her head, trying to understand the terrible delicious need in her loins and what it signified. She had to untangle to get back into bed, and once there her thoughts were everywhere. She remembered Mark Mitchell for some reason, and the way he’d looked at her in the arts building hallway the day before, his eyes going question marks like he expected her to say something or be a certain way. She couldn’t think about that too much because snippets of yesterday’s lunch conversation with Karen kept getting in the way, and what Karen had been saying about awakenings and her fears of becoming addicted to great sex. When Cynthia pictured that, and what it might be like to actually see Karen’s bodacious boobs titillating her mystery lover’s cock, she felt an ache in her depths that no stuffed animal was going to be able to soothe.

She wanted Karen to... Or maybe she wanted Karen. Or she wanted something Karen had, or...

“I need to be topless, or I need to be on top, or... I’m in competition with her?”

Not exactly right, but in the direction. When they’d first met, Cynthia assumed Karen would be an intellectual lightweight—because of her building-sized breasts, of course, even though that was shallow stereotyping. But Karen was just as studious as she was, as serious about keeping her GPA at an impeccable 4.0 like she was. Their friendship had come from that, mostly. They both ended up being the objects of various male obsessions and could share about that, but what had sustained the friendship was the way they always pushed each other to study harder or write a better paper, to excel beyond anyone’s expectations. So they truly were in competition in that way, which was a good way, a healthy way.

But then she remembered Karen at lunch yesterday, and how she’d almost hissed the words, “He’s mine!” when she’d probed for the identity of her new flame. Like there were some danger of him, Mystery Man, being lured away. Like anybody on the planet could compete with a woman as beautiful and built as Karen Corso when it came to being desirable.

Complex feelings here. Envy, no doubt. Awe, of course; she’d seen Karen in a bikini on spring break, and had been there when she got drunk and blew the competition to smithereens in a wet T-shirt contest. The sheer size of those things, and the way they moved, and the way Karen had actually stacked one boob on top of the other under her poor soaked T-shirt during that contest, like no big deal, everybody should be able to do it. Some smitten surfer had joked that Karen should start a band and call it Bed Zeppelins, and Cynthia had laughed because she’d been a little drunk herself, but not so far gone that she couldn’t remember feeling the envy and some desire bubbling under the surface. The crowd had gone wild and no one in that bar, male or female, would have turned down a crack at Karen Corso’s crack, either the one hidden by her bikini bottom or the epic one she could create anytime she pressed her tits together.

Without thinking about it, Cynthia squeezed Turbo tighter between her thighs, the stuffed animal’s hard nose pressing where she hadn’t been pressed in wayyyyy too long. It was a silly decision she’d made after breaking up with Steve over the summer, that she wouldn’t complicate her last year of school with another relationship. Great grades, her teachers happy, her parents happy, but no sex, months and months with no sex. Meanwhile, Karen was getting straight A’s in her classes, too, but also going off about sexual awakenings and climaxing up a storm when she fucked some guy with her huge tits.

“Mine,” she whispered, rubbing her panties against Turbo’s nose. “Mine, mine...”

In her mind she wasn’t quite sure what that meant—Karen’s contest-winning boobs, or the mystery boyfriend? That didn’t make any sense—she’d never seriously thought of getting it on with any woman before, and how could you want a guy when you didn’t even know who he was? Still... Karen and the mystery boyfriend both, as in together? Or maybe all of it, the whole of sexual partners in the world in an abstract sense, in her bed, between her thighs, pressing relentlessly, coming to a woman like her, not a tit trophy like Karen Corso because...

Because she could do it better. Because GPA could mean Greatest Pussy Aver.

Huh? She knew she wasn’t thinking right. She also knew that underneath the confusion, she’d never felt this focused before, this drivenbefore. She sensed that something about her was different now, like somehow she’d passed through a threshold in the night. When she looked at her life she saw it as multi-faceted, but with one area greatly neglected, almost atrophied, and that area was all about being a great fucking fuck. She had looks, and she had abilities, and she was great at studying, and weren’t there things that could be learned, methods for offering something even Karen Corso couldn’t offer?

AndI want her,” she whispered, aching for it. Aching to be the best lay there could be. The tightest, the wettest, the squeeziest, the most unforgettable.

Waiting to go do them.

* * *

Mark’s buzzer rang before he felt completely ready. In khakis and a T-shirt, but barefoot and with his hair not even properly combed, he went down the stairs to confront this new Susan twist, whatever it was.

The weather had changed again, sunny this morning with puffy ragged clouds scooting across the sky on high winds. Susan was attired for last night’s weather in a long beige raincoat, her dirty blonde hair down today, and windblown.

“I never expected to see you this morning,” he said. Ever since getting out of bed, his raging morning erection had softened and partially come back to life, and eased back down again and back up again, like it didn’t know what to expect any better than the rest of him. When he saw the intensity of Susan’s expression, it decided on hard, full-on hard.

“Things change. Take me up to your place, okay? Hurry.”

He led and she followed, passing him at his open door. The apartment was about as clean as it had ever been, and with last night’s sheets in the hamper the place only smelled a little bit like Karen Corso baby oil sex. He closed the door and while his back was turned she must have rushed him, because her hips pressed into his ass and both arms came around, grabbing hold of his groin.

He wanted to ask how she’d decided, what had tipped the scales, but what kind of idiot asks a question like that with a great-looking married woman’s hands feeling for his dick? Mark turned, bringing what she wanted to the front.

“What have you doneto me?” she asked, unbuttoning his pants and grabbing for his zipper.

Mark found the question too difficult to answer, mostly because of what she was doing to him. Beyond his dream of her the night before, he wasn’t aware that he’d done anything at all, and how much did rhyme and reason matter when her fingers found his hard-on, and were crooking around it in a touch/let go/touch/let go digit-dance.

“I was wide awake at the crack of dawn this morning,” she poured hot breathy sound into his ear. “I was sure I’d never see you again—I’d made up my mind and never even dreamed I’d see you again. And then you came into me like an arrow, piercing right through my... my...”

Her what? She never finished her thought, jamming her upper body against his instead, with enough force that it pushed him back a step, his back now against the door. Her hands pulled his dick out the fly of his pants, but her fingers went still on it as she ducked at the knees a little bit, then rose so her tits stroked half a foot up his front.

“Ohgod, ohgod,” she said, lowering and raising herself in the same excited way to wipe her tits up his front while holding onto his cock. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman do such a thing before, her actions like an overly affectionate cat that keeps rubbing the side of its head against some part of your body. Or someone with a terrible itch that needs scratching.

From her voice and the way her entire body shook as she repeated her tit-rubbing, he got the picture that Susan’s breasts had become vengeful from feeling left out of yesterday’s desk-fuck, and were making up for it by being unnaturally prickly. He wanted what she wanted but he also wanted the bed, not the front door, and she still had her raincoat shielding her body. Mark grabbed one of her hands and pulled, and they pretty much stumbled their way to the bedroom door. Her raincoat had big wide buttons, not a zipper, and together they unclasped them until she could shrug the garment from her shoulders.

Whoa. It was a case of not knowing where to look first, because it was bedtime lingerie above and gartered black stockings and heels below. Mark thought the little bit she had on would be called a demi-cupped cut-out teddy, and the designer had been on fire by making sure that most of it was cut out, not even there. He had to choke down a gasp when his eyes locked onto the garment’s half-there built-in bra cups, because Susan’s nipples were lifted and exposed, and they were... um, aggressive. Protruding. Projecting. Hell, they were practically pole-vaulting.

He wanted to step back and admire the view, because she truly was a sight, like a woman stepped off a computer screen, all graceful long limbs and womanly curves. Susan didn’t let him step back though; she wrapped around him and drove him down onto the bed, and once there it essentially became assault with a deadly nipple.

For a few seconds it seemed her tits were everywhere all over his face, in his eyes, poking into his cheeks. Finally a nipple found his mouth, and he grabbed hold with his lips, flicking the pebbly hardness with his tongue.

That’s when the screaming began. Karen had been a vocal lover, the Queen of UhhUhh!, and he thought he knew what to expect from Susan from the previous morning’s desk sex. But today, fucking openly in a bedroom rather than clandestinely in an office, Susan’s pipes hit the volume control and cranked it, unleashing an ever-changing stream of vowels with no consonants.The nipple in Mark’s mouth felt hot and incredibly hard, perhaps even pulsing or moving against his tongue like it had developed an independent life. And then the consonants, an almost fearfully loud “Guggggg Gakkkkkk!”, and Susan’s entire body was jackknifing with electric spasms.

Ka-boom, again and again, Susan wailing out like she’d become a fucking ka-boom box.

As she writhed and bucked and shook, Mark had an intimation of the forces at play, their cause and the obvious effect. He didn’t completely set those thoughts aside, but also didn’t allow himself to be distracted from the mission of the moment, which was to fully enjoy the visual and tactile carnality of the woman giving of herself in his bed.

He had wanted to explore these legs, the creamy flesh overtopping hard runner’s muscles, overtopped in turn with form-enhancing nylon, his hands gliding here, squeezing there, cupping the bare cheeks of her ass, drawing her thighs apart to reveal sodden panties and juice-stained upper thighs.

She had come like a monsoon-fed river comes, all those twisted breathy consonants the aural embodiment of forces charging through her system that were completely new to her, apparently even more powerful than what she’d gone through on her desk the morning before. He understood that as he drew his pants off and grabbed hold of her panties, pulling them aside to gain entrance into her. He knew this pussy from yesterday, from the rear, and it was the same pussy from the front but definitely swollen inside, not wider but tighter, as if inflamed. And wetter, hotter, like there were furnaces burning on the other side of her pussy walls.

She knew he’d entered her but she also seemed half-there, like some of the sleep that had given him this prize had seeped into her system. He raised and spread her legs and they went where he wanted them, no resistance, full half-conscious compliance. Even her eyes were only half-open, no telling how well they could see, like they might have been largely switched off to allow other senses to focus on what was happening in interior zones. He sometimes gasped with the slow exquisite movements of his cock inside her squeezing drenched tunnel, and she would sometimes respond with a barely audible, “Oh yes, yes”, there and not quite there, her mind giving way so the sensations of her body could be All In.

Mark kept the fucking right at that lounge-fucking relaxation zone, just looking at her dazed acceptance while his dick ate up the burning swollen friction inside. He knew what he had to do to drive her into another gear, almost another world—her nipples were a good three-quarters of an inch long, so engorged and visibly yearning that it was probably correct to think of them as unnaturally stimulated, perhaps even supernaturally stimulated. He could tell from the smooth even skin and the rounded shapes of her areolae that her breasts would be lovely to behold even in ordinary times; this morning, nothing ordinary about it, all the flesh in the vicinity of her nipples had gone very pink, as though being slowly boiled, or her nipples steamed in their own juices.

Every now and then she would cry out a sharp consonant sound, and he could see it was from the way her nipples sometimes rubbed against the built-in half-cups of her lingerie. Not changing anything of the slow and steady rhythm inside her, he did more to her there than her demi-bra cups could, just the lightest brushing of her right nipple with the pad of his index finger. With reflexive speed her pussy clenched around his dick and out from her mouth came the vowels, belted from beyond her lungs, deep down in the diaphragm. He thought for an instant that he would climax from nothing more than that, because the fluid grip of her spasming pussy, like a tunnel whose surface has the natural moving intelligence of a millipede...

Just insane, like her nipples had become red buttons labeled, “Do not press without wearing safety goggles”. They were rocket launchers hooked into his-and-her rockets, and the only question was which rocket would fire first if he grabbed hold of them and pulled, or twisted, or stroked.

Mark braced himself, because he intended to put her through every bit of that. Part of his weight was on his knees already, and he widened his stance, which combined with his embedded dick should make him pyramid solid. He had reason to be afraid she might throw him off balance or involuntarily catapult herself across the room once he stimulated those freaked-out nipples for real.

He revisited her nipples with both hands, taking each between a forefinger and thumb. Her entire body went crazy, her chest heaving up and down from air being gulped in and moaning voweled out. He kept his fingers attached, stroking her fat flesh-buttons with his dick getting fucked with a rhythm that had no rhythm, Susan’s hips jerking and bolting up, then down, carrying him for a cunt-ride while her pussy walls contracted him half to death inside her. There was no way to anticipate what spasm would yank him where, but he stayed with it, with her, pulling at her nipples and rolling them, which raised the pitch of the wailed vowels until she was consonant cumming again, bathing his cock in heated contracting waves that kept rolling, pulling, squish-rippling all around him, drawing the cum up and forcing it out, his grunts of release mixed with her repeated “Guggggg Gakkkkkk!”s.

She kept bucking, cumming, guggggging, and his searing spurts had him electrified to the point of feeling Tasered. He finally collapsed on top of her, a layer of man being heaved and shaken by the aftershocks of woman, drifting together towards calmer waters, a place where their shocked and churned organs could rest and possibly even recover.

* * *

There were a couple of things that came naturally to Cynthia, things she could do better than just about anybody. One—hardly the most enviable of life skills—was being able to detect and identify scents before anybody else, especially when the smells were coming from the ground. She had a really sensitive nose, but had read how the breeds of dogs best at tracking are also the breeds that have their noses practically dragging in the dirt. So, at four-foot eleven, which made her no taller than many ten-year olds, she couldn’t see shit at stage events or movies, but always knew if one of her friends had stepped in some on the sidewalk.

Much more useful, she was also a whiz at research through books or on a computer, and absorbing information quickly. She was far too cute and refined to be a nerd, but she had something close to a photographic memory, which made it easy to browse through and retain information. And this morning, with the same determination she brought to writing term papers or preparing for exams, she read through more than two dozen websites that framed her new mission—to become skilled like nobody’s business at making love.

The first thing she had to do was assess what she actually brought to the table. In terms of attitude, she’d never been all that sex-obsessed.—she enjoyed it okay, but was more of a nuzzler or cuddler, liking the contact but not so much the animal side of it. She’d masturbated a couple of times, but how long had it been, more than a year, maybe more? It had never been a pressing need; sex had never felt like a pressing need.

Physically she was flat-out beautiful; she could see that as well as anyone else, but it had always bugged her that she was so tiny. Karen had gone on and on one time about how hard it was to get hold of a properly fitting bra, but 28D’s didn’t exactly grow on trees, either. Same with all sorts of outfits—she found at least a third of her clothing, especially shirts and shoes, in the children’s sections of stores. On the plus side she had a great shape, with athletic—though short—legs, a firm itsy-bitsy waist and the kind of bubble-butt rear that could drive a bum fetishist crazy, if she did say so herself. Hard to say what her best feature was—probably a tie between her face and her butt and her breasts. Until meeting and palling around with Karen she’d thought of her breasts as quite large and almost ideal, so downright perky with slightly overscaled pinkish areoles that protruded out some, making her breasts look pleasingly sculptural. Steve, her last boyfriend, had been bonkers for her nipples; he called them perfect “puffies”, and when she’d looked up the term, sure enough, videos of raised nipple platforms similar to hers.

So visually she looked like a compact hourglass, well designed for sex, but was that true? She hadn’t gone all the way in every one of her past romances, but when she had the reaction was always the same: “You’re so fucking tight!” It had sounded like a problem, like an impediment, like she was too narrow or even too shallow to properly do it. This morning, fired up to learn learn learn how to be the best at sex ever, she read about the pros and cons of petite or extremely tight vaginas, and about the development of vaginal muscle control, and a Jamaican practice called quinting, and Kegel exercises and pelvic floor development and having so much control that a vagina could swell and narrow like an inverted snake, or even up and kiss a lover’s tongue back during oral sex. None of this came automatically, of course—there were resistance training and strengthening practices involving dildos, involving smooth shaped stones or Ben Wa balls or hard rubber inserts or dozens of other toys.

Practices—getting great with her pussy would need to become a practice, like the way other people work out or do yoga or learn to perform perfect high dives or ice skating twirls or anything else. Muscles needed to be trained, developed; actions needed to be mastered. It was just another form of learning and achieving, and Cynthia was great at learning and achieving.

And that was only the training of a pussy; there were similar methods for training the mouth, and the anus, and the hands and the feet, all of which could be bringers of exquisite pleasures in bed.

“Why haven’t I been studying this all along?” she had to ask. She was twenty-one years old, and not a virgin but also like a horse barely ridden, and never taken for a real gallop. An underused treasure, an under-filled vessel. Or a temple with no worshippers, which might be the worst. If the body is a temple like it said somewhere in the Bible, then shouldn’t her temple be able to bring the very best a body could bring? It would never be the biggest—sometimes she felt like Karen Corso’s boobs alone could throw shadows almost as big around as she was. But once someone came insideher temple...

Came, inside her temple. “Yes, that’s it!” she breathed hot breaths, already feeling alive inside in a way she’d never known. A holy temple, in this case a structure with three sacred entrances, all of them needing to be so good at it. Three entrances—it was like a trinity, wasn’t it, three-in-one, with some lucky one able to partake of beatific pleasure inside any of the three. But not by default—any woman had a mouth and a pussy and an ass ,and some were small like hers, and lovely like hers. So to be truly special, a fucking fuck prodigy...

She was sitting in front of her desktop in nothing but panties and her bra, and in a rush of... pre-cum, could a woman experience pre-cum like a guy? Obviously yes, because she could feel and smell how wet she was, and how alivein there, like reading about training her pussy was the same as feeding her pussy.

“It likes this,” she said. Her pussy had never gotten all sodden on its own like this before, had it? No, definitely not, not like this. “It wants this, and them. Wewant them!”

Let Karen Corso have her so-called big awakening and getting off with a guy’s thing being abused by her giant gazongas. Sometimes the tortoise could beat the hare, or the small band of rebels could defeat the empire. Sometimes tiny could stand up to large, or get insidelarge.

And there was also the adage that if you can’t beat them, join them.

Did she even know what she was thinking about? Not really, when it was like different thoughts firing in different directions from different parts of her brain. She was used to being very single-focused, and now it was like her focus had spread branches the way a tree does, taking in more light and energy to feed more growth. In a way it all seemed so clear that it was dizzying, but it was also like understood patterns printed onto clear layers and superimposed one on top of another, totally discernible when seen separately but a mishmash when taken together.

She had needs, definite needs, and they were pulling at her in slightly different directions, charting various courses as they stirred her resolve from the inside-out. There was urgency but also patience, and cunning but also surrender, and a gnawing emptiness but also feeling more filled up with... with something, than ever in her life.

And her pussy... How had this never happened before, that her pussy felt like a living thing inside her, a slippery beast with its own needs and a clamoring voice, voting on what she did and how she thought and how she was going to fucking live her life from now on.

“I’m going to join with them both,” she said, not fully knowing what that meant, but seeing it as a foreordained conclusion even so. “No escape,” she said next, somehow knowing that to be true.

She’d show them.

* * *

Bright morning light told Mark the day was already marching on, and he was still in bed with a married woman whose tits had become push-buttons for setting off girlgasms. He was functional before Susan was, and he shifted his position, resting his head on a warm fragrant thigh, his hands stroking appreciative nylon trails up and down both of her legs.

When she finally spoke, her voice had acquired the husky bass-notes of a lifetime smoker. “What... have you done to me?”

He didn’t feel he needed to say.

Eventually she sat up, pausing to gather more strength before attempting to stand. She had to try it twice before managing, using a bedroom wall for support. It was funny because her heels had somehow stayed on her feet through everything, though the garters and panties were gone. The top of her right stocking was several inches lower than the left and her demi-bra was lopsided, asymmetrically holding up tits that looked swollen in a different way than before, like they were partially traumatized, her flushed pink nipples somehow expressing disbelief.

Mark thought of reaching out to pinch one, but if nothing had changed that one action would probably set them into a whole other round, and he’d miss not one class but two. He thought of getting up to walk her to the door, seeing her out properly, perhaps thinking of something clever or romantic or even apologetic to say. Some instinct told him to keep his mouth shut, to just wait and see what sort of tone she set in the aftermath. When she spoke again, it couldn’t have been more clear that she wasn’t yet inany aftermath. She was still caught, still being affected or even directed.

“I want to... to write you... give you a check.”

A chill of excitement ran up his spine that he was sure had originated in his dick. “Why?” he asked, though he might know why.

“I just... What we just did together... I need to... to...”

“What if I don’t want your money? What if it feels to me that you’re turning me into a male prostitute if you write me a check?”

Her face reddened and her mouth worked like she kept biting back any number of words. So utterly bizarre, this lingerie lovely with her hair sticking out funny and parts of her sexy outfit gone all kittywampus, standing tall and sexy in her heels with a determination that must feel at least partially foreign in origin.

“I won’t take money in exchange for sex,” he said, just wanting to see how she’d deal with a flat-out refusal.

“Then... then sell me something!” she demanded. “I need to write you...”

“You feel you need to write me a big check.”

“Yes!”

“I have a stack of charcoal drawings on a table near the front door,” he said, afraid now that she’d throw some sort of fit if he didn’t give her an out. “Pick any one you want. Or pick two or three, if it’s a big fat check you’re intending to leave.”

Which it would be. And what would that translate as for her, when she was the wife of a neurosurgeon? Probably filthy rich, but then she’d just been dismissed from her own job. Because of him.

The checkbook and pen must have been in an inner pocket of her raincoat, because it was only after she’d buttoned that over her partial nudity that she actually did the deed. She took the stack of drawings to the kitchen table after that, and he couldn’t see from where he was which ones she had chosen. It didn’t matter; some of them would look pretty good if they were properly framed, but to him they were essentially throwaways.

At the front door, ready to let herself out, she only asked one question: “Will I be back?”

Her voice was still off, and he had no idea whether it held any clues as to what she hoped his answer might be. Her posture and expression were unreadable, too. In a natural state, post-coital attitudes could run the gamut from disgust to elation, but what emotions predominated, and what thoughts did a woman have when she knew she’d been affected, or perhaps infected, by a formerly ordinary nobody turned magical medical malpractitioner, an embodied science experiment gone sex-strange and potent “out in the field”?

“I don’t know what will happen next, Susan,” he answered, giving her the truth as he knew it. “Do you wantto come back?”

Again her response was ambiguous, though dramatic this time. She raised her head to the ceiling and lifted her arms, palms up, the gesture like that of a supplicant. And then she was gone.

He could interpret that last gesture two ways, or maybe three. She could have been saying with her body, “Like I’ll even have a choice to want or not-want.” Or could it have been, “Duh, like any woman would turn down more of that.” Or even the opposite, like a prayer beyond the apartment, beyond him, to please let her life get back to normal.

Mark didn’t move for a few minutes, just lying there on the Susan-soaked sheets. He heard a car start outside, probably hers, and doubted it could ever accelerate as fast as his thoughts were whirling just then. When he stood he was also a little unsteady, his cock feeling like it had been put through the spin-cycle of a washing machine. Before going to the bathroom to shower the woman and the incredibly potent sex away, he went to the kitchen table and looked at what she had left there.

A personal check with his name, written in a steadier hand than he would have thought possible. And the number thirty-five hundred dollars written out, repeated in the appropriate space with the appropriate numerals.

All hail to the gods of Guinness—three-thousand five-hundred smackeroos, three grand more than he would have gotten if he hadn’t gone all Mr. Dick Science in the first place. Was it money conjured in an unremembered dream? That was possible, yet he’d known she would do it—how? Because his waking mind had constructed the action that very morning when he’d been lying in bed half-awake, with a hard-on so ferocious it felt like it should begin a countdown for launching right off his body.

Thinking sex thoughts first thing in the morning, with his dick gone all morning wood to the max—thatwas the key? Was that the way to consciously choose what, or whom, came next?

* * *

It was nine-thirty in the morning, and Mark had already missed his Egyptian Art class. He sat at his kitchen table yet again, downing coffee and reading anything he could find on what he’d always known as “morning wood”, which had the icky-sounding scientific name of nocturnal penile tumescence. Clicking from one description to the next didn’t offer up much in the way of definitive information—nocturnal penile tumescence, or NPT, occurred in all sexually healthy males up to several times a night, and was thought to be related to REM sleep. Beyond that, mostly guesswork or unsubstantiated theories. It might have something to do with a filling bladder, or keeping the penis healthy with blood flow, or it might not.

“What a bunch of crap,” he said, switching off his computer. Didn’t women complain that most scientific trials were weighted towards obtaining results for adult males? Yet where was the definitive study on dicks getting hard in the night? Where was a study he could look up to tell him how to replicate that state right now?

Moving on with pencil in hand, he tried to remember what thoughts he’d had when first awakening earlier that morning. He had to know, to remember, because the sex he’d just had with Susan—it was still possible that it had come from an unremembered dream, but it was more likely that it had originated with thinking sexy thoughts right after coming awake with a raging erection.

He hadn’t been able to remember any dreams, and had intended to fall back asleep in hopes of making new ones. His mind had gone churning instead, thinking of sex with Susan, and he could definitely remember thinking something about her writing out a big check as his reward. He’d also regretted the fact that he’d never even seen her tits, and he was also pretty certain he’d thought of them as being extremely sensitive, like Karen’s had been when she’d been able to orgasm from nothing more than tit-play.

And look at how she’d been, going fucking ballistic any time he touched her nipples. Her nipples, which had looked as hard and eager as a milking mother’s, only they were giving out climaxes, not milk.

He could have dreamed all that, too, and not remembered it. But he didn’t think so. He’d bet anything the magic had gone out into the field then, right then, not before. From daydreaming, like he’d tried and failed at before, but this time with his cock set to high and his mind still in the vicinity of that sleepiness zone. The thinking had been more fluid or free-associative, images coming easily, no need to figure them out. They just came of themselves, much like dreams but not-quite.

He shut his eyes and tried to recall what else had floated through his mind first thing in the morning, his thoughts moving freely while his cock had been raised like an antenna. Antenna—damn if he hadn’t thought something about that, like seeing Susan’s nipples as being as sensitive as antennae. And hadn’t he thought of her in sexy lingerie, her huge tits...

Wait, no, huge tits, that had been Karen. He’d seen Susan in stockings and heels, and that’s exactly what she’d worn. But Karen was the one he’d pictured in skimpy outfits, all being overwhelmed by her boobs. That had been part of wishing she’d be more romantic, less of that boy-toy b.s. and more affection or even romance.

“Holy shit,” he said. More romantic, softer in her approach to him that way, and she called a little bit later having written a love poem that she needed to read to him on the phone? He’d been thinking more along the lines of typical girlfriend/boyfriend stuff, not...

“Holy double-shit!” Two mornings ago, he was sure of it. Not poems, but songs. He’d been there in bed in that same head space, barely awake with his cock straining tall, and he’d thought something about sex with Karen being so good that she’d want to write songs about it.

She waswriting songs about it, just like Susan had written him a big fat check, because he’d thought that! All of that stuff about brain elasticity brainstem mind power from the subconscious—it worked with his deep sleep dreams when his dick went hard as a rock, and also while he was in that first-light, dick hard from dreams half-there morning wood head-space.

That’s why Susan even showed up this morning! Last night it had been probably not, she’d just pick up the pieces of her life; this morning it had been, “You came into me like an arrow, piercing right through my...”

She’d never finished that sentence, but the last word had probably been “resolve” or “decision”, or something like that. For that matter, would Karen have come back for a second go in bed if he hadn’t summoned her through what he’d assumed was idle thinking? She’d been like Susan when leaving that first night—“let me decide when”, like she could have eventually exited the fog of his influence, but didn’t because he renewed his hold on her actions without even knowing it.

“I wanted her for the rest of the semester,” he said out loud, more of this morning’s half-awake thoughts coming back to him. Sex with her every night until graduation. Could it work like that, a time frame circling around her or slipping inside her? If it did, Karen Corso would be his for five or six weeks, and she’d be more affectionate and romantic. In sexy lingerie. Composing songs about how great it was to have sex together.

Could any of that actually be possible? Could he program weeks of sexual behavior, or even emotions and attitude related to sexual behavior, just by musing upon it in the right way early in the morning?

He didn’t know whether to believe or not, but his dick must believe, because just like that he was hard again.

Thinking of the possibilities.