The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

PROLOGUE

Bill had never thought he’d find himself in this kind of situation. His friend, Paul, had the accelerator to the floor, but the tornado was still gaining on them. It followed them as they made their way down the road as if it had specifically targeted them for annihilation. He’d tried to tell Paul not to try to outrun a tornado, tried to tell him to get off the road and lie down in the ditch, but whether his friend’s panicked mind had even registered what he’d said, he hadn’t the foggiest clue. For the past five minutes he’d been trying to get his seatbelt to fasten.

There was a lurch as the 2001 Chevy Tahoe left the road, held aloft by the powerful winds. Bill was rolled around in the vehicle as it tumbled through the sky. He hit his head on the toolbox in the back and lost consciousness before the vehicle hit the ground.

CHAPTER 1

Bill awoke in considerable pain. His eyes located a calendar on the wall, and he nearly passed out from shock. He’d been out almost three months!

“Good morning.” a nurse said. “The doctor said you’d be coming around soon. How do you feel?”

“Like a frog in a blender.” Bill croaked. “Where’s Paul?” The nurse didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. “What happened?”

“His seatbelt snapped on impact.” the nurse replied. “We found you wedged behind the back seat. Took the Jaws of Life to get you out.” Memories snuck up on Bill. The day at the lake where he had been bitten by a water moccasin and Paul had rushed him to the hospital flashed before his eyes. Birthdays and raves, Paul’s wedding day, club-hopping...Who would take care of Sara and the baby? Who would cover for him when he absolutely, positively had to have a day off or go crazy? How would Sara get out of that filthy apartment and into a decent house in time for the baby’s birth? She had to be about eight months along now. Was she even still alive, or had she committed suicide out of grief for Paul? The covers seemed heavy as he clumsily lifted them off. His left leg was in a metal brace. He tried to get up, but the nurse restrained him with her left hand.

“Your muscles have atrophied from your long coma.” she said. “It’ll take lots of physical therapy to get you back on your feet again.”

“Then let’s get started.” Bill said.

Bill hitched his way to the phone. He dialed the number the hospital had given him regarding Sara’s whereabouts. The phone rang twice before some perky young female picked up.

“Morningwood Mental Hospital.” she said in a sugary, sickly sweet voice.

“I’m looking for Sara Willis.” Bill said. “Is she there?”

“I’m afraid she can’t have phone calls right now.” the youngster said. “We’ve got her on suicide watch right now.”

“Let me know if she gets taken off it, okay?” Bill sighed, then gave the girl his number. She signed off with a cheery “Okay, thank you, b’bye” that made Bill want to puke. “Somebody’s been sampling the antidepressants.” he muttered. He hitched himself over to his worktable, where he had been trying in vain to sculpt something since getting home. It used to be so easy. Just think of a subject and put three years of high school art class to good use. He’d gotten fair prices for most of his pieces. Not enough to live on by themselves, but enough to offer a nice little supplement to his mediocre income. Unfortunately, all the money he had saved up from the sculptures had gone to pay the doctor bills. He didn’t even have enough to help pay for Paul’s funeral. He thought of Sara in that hospital, alone in a padded cell, cut off from human contact, save for maybe a doctor and some nurses, and he put his hands to the clay. He felt a degree of focus unlike anything he had experienced before, even when he’d gone to the stage hypnotist with Paul and Sara that one time and Paul had volunteered him to be regressed to age five. Power flowed around him. He wanted to touch it, but he was afraid. He instead concentrated on the sculpture. He made sure that Sara’s facial expression showed without a doubt that she had all her wits about her, that she was stronger now than ever before. He put a strong, healthy baby into her arms. He also sculpted a man, standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder, features deliberately ambiguous, supporting her, giving her even more strength. It was the least he could do for his best friend’s wife. As soon as his hands broke contact with the clay, Bill felt drained, like he’d just run a marathon full-tilt. He lost consciousness before he hit the floor.

Bill awoke to the sound of an insistent knocking. He pulled himself to his feet and hitched his way to the door and opened it. His landlord stood on the other side.

“Hey, Billy, you okay? You been in dere almos’ t’ree days.” he said in a gruff voice.

“Three days?” Bill asked. “I’ve never passed out like that before.”

“Listen, Billy, I know yer goin’ through tough times, an’ I hate ta put pressure on ya, but I only got t’ree tenants right now, an’ I got bills ta pay, ya know?”

“I understand.” Bill said. “I’ll do what I can about the rent, Mr. Thompson.” Mr. Thompson’s eyes fell on the sculpture and bugged out like those of a cartoon character facing the surprise of his life.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “That’s the best I’ve ever seen outta ya, an’ I’ve seen ya do some damn good ones!”

“Do you think it’d sell?” Bill asked.

“Granted I ain’t no art critic, or even an art lover, but I’d give ya two hundred fer it right now if’n I had it.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” Bill said. He called the library and asked about any art shows or auctions.

Bill stared disbelievingly at the check in his hand, even as he handed it to the teller, who had to remind him to endorse it. Five thousand dollars for something he had done on the spur of the moment? He’d never had that kind of demand for one of his sculptures before. The clay was the same kind he’d always used, he hadn’t made any deals with the devil that he could recall, so he couldn’t find a reason for the sudden change. Still, he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so went to a local bar for a celebratory drink after handing the landlord his rent.

As he drank, he thought of Paul and wondered if perhaps Paul had had something to do with the suddenly wonderful sale? He noticed a pair of drunks hassling one of the barmaids. One of her tits was huge, the other barely there, and she had a certain limp to her walk from an old injury. Something about her facial expressions and body language told him she probably wasn’t as bright as she’d like to be, but she was fairly pretty, despite the fact that her blonde hair was stringy from a long day’s work. He hitched his way over to where they were.

“Say guys, how about I buy you a beer and you leave the lady alone?” he asked.

“We’d much rather keep ‘er, if you don’t mind.” one of the drunks said. Bill used the cane he carried for walking long distances to swat the hand that one of them had placed on her buttocks. His companion drove a swift kick to his bad knee—the one that had grown together during his recooperation. Bill took a heavy chair and slammed it into the man’s forehead. His friend had drawn a knife, but Bill’s cane had greater reach. He disarmed the second drunk and knocked him unconscious, then nodded his head once at the barmaid and made his way toward the exit, paying for his drinks on the way out. As he opened the car door, he saw the barmaid coming out.

“Wait!” she cried. Bill stopped and waited for her. “I’m off in fifteen minutes. If you could just hang around here till then, I’ll thank you properly for saving me.” Bill didn’t want to take advantage of her, but his curiosity made him stay. Seventeen minutes later, she was in his car, a nervous but grateful look on her face. “Let’s go.” she said. Back at his apartment, Bill was a little pensive as he opened the door. He hadn’t had a chance to clean up since he’d gotten back. Still, things had gotten this far, and his curiosity wouldn’t let him stop now.

“Wow, cool!” she exclaimed as she looked the place over. “You’re a sculptor?”

“Of sorts.” Bill said. “I just made my first really big sale.”

“Wow.” she said. Bill found himself taken with the desire to sculpt her.

“Could you take off your clothes?”

“Huh?” she asked.

“I just want to sculpt you.” he said.

“Promise you won’t make fun when you see me?” she asked.

“I promise, sure as my name’s Bill.”

“Mine’s Cheryl, but my mom calls me Cherry.” she said as she pulled her skirt off. Bill set up six cameras in a circle and took his own clothes off. Cherry indeed had one overlarge breast which he guessed must be causing her a great deal of pain when she walked, while the other one looked like that of a twelve-year-old. Somehow she had learned to walk with the awkward weight, but as she rubbed her back, the expression on her face told of years of back problems.

“C’mere.” he said. She complied. He set the timers and pulled her to him. The cameras went off almost simultaneously, and automatically sent the pictures to the printer. Bill cut them out and put them in order. Cherry watched as he brought out enough clay to do the job and piled it in the middle of a square of bricks.

“Don’t sculpt me like I really am.” she pleaded. “Change the chest, at least.”

“No problem.” Bill said. His hands began to move over the clay, molding it into the shape he wanted. He remade the sculpted Cherry’s chest the way Nature intended, with two breasts of equal size and normal shape. He sculpted himself with one hand on her buttocks, holding a leather leash, the other on her nipple. He sculpted her face into an expression of ecstacy, with the kind of intelligence in her eyes that would tell the viewer she was already thinking of how to get more. He sculpted himself with the body he’d had before the accident, with a little extra muscle. The leg bent normally in the sculpture. He began to feel a little drained, but the power was all around him again. He reached for it, and felt a strong relief as the drain on his own reserves abated. When it was finished, he fell to his knees and lay down on the bricks, slipping into a happy sleep.

“Good morning, Master.” Cherry said softly. “Sleep well?”

“Am I dreaming?” Bill asked. Cherry looked just like the sculpture, except in color.

“No.” Cherry replied. “Something wonderful really did happen. Look!” She was holding her breasts in her hands. They were both D-cup sized, and were actually quite inviting. He sat up. She was wearing only a collar, from which hung a leather leash. “I haven’t been this happy in years—and we haven’t even done anything yet.” This last was said with a seductive smile as she moved in close. Her soft, smooth, golden hair tickled as it moved across his bare skin. She helped him to his feet, then knelt before him, holding the end of her leash in her upturned palms. “Please accept my complete and utter submission to your will, Master.”

“Cherry, I...” Bill began, even as his cock hardened.

“Please, Master, accept my complete and utter submission to your will.” her tone was pleading.

“I’m afraid I’m a little confused.” Bill said softly.

“If you wish, Master, I will try to explain what I know. Thanks to you I understand things that were beyond my grasp only hours ago.” Cherry said. “But please, accept me. Let me be yours.” Bill took the end of her leash, and she smiled joyously.

“Alright.” Bill said. “You have my undevided attention.”

“Yes, Master.” Cherry said. “Somehow your mind reached out and took hold of the energy in the world around you to fuel a transformation in us both.”

“Both?” Bill asked, looking down at himself. Sure enough, his atrophied muscles had returned to their former strength and more, and his leg was completely healed. “Oh!”

“I can sense the energy remaining from the transformation in both of us, and one other who’s pretty far away; someone else you changed. I don’t sense anything from the sculpture. I think that the clay just helps focus your concentration when you use your power.”

“So Sara isn’t going to be harmed because I sold her statue.” Bill sighed in relief.

“No, Master.” Cherry said. “How the power works is, I think, determined mostly by your subconscious. That’s why you weren’t aware you were changing us.”

“But why can’t I do a decent sculpture when I’m not changing something?” Bill wondered aloud.

“I’m sorry I can’t answer that one for you, Master.” Cherry said. Cherry’s servility was really starting to turn him on. She seemed to sense his arousal. “I await further instructions, Master.” He could smell the scent of her own arousal, and could see the stickiness of vaginal juices on her fingers. She had been fingering herself before he awoke. “I need you to bring me to orgasm, Master. I cannot do it alone.” she said, as if reading his thoughts. Then again, maybe she was. He let his mind relax, and he began to hear a faint voice in his head.

“PleasefuckmeMasterpleaseohpleaseohpleaselethisslavepleaseyouMasterpleasefuckmeIneedtogetoffpleaseohpleaseohpleaseMasterfuckmeplease!” the voice said.

“Come with me.” Bill said, and began to walk toward his bedroom—walk, not hitch his way over, his mind reflected with pleasure. Cherry followed eagerly. Now that he knew how, he could hear her mind with much greater ease. As he closed the door, she returned to her knees, awaiting instruction. “On the bed, Cherry.” he said. She knelt on the bed, her mind cycling through a Kama Sutra-like list of submissive, sexy poses she thought might turn him on. Before she could settle on one, he gently leaned her backwards so he was on top. He put a finger inside her and found that she still had her hymen. He wasn’t surprised. Someone with lopsided tits would undoubtedly have trouble finding someone to make love to her. As he began to stretch her, he could sense her moral objection to masturbation, as well as several years of sexual frustration which had been warring with that objection. She must have been in dire need if that need had exceeded her strong moral objection to masturbation. Bill moved his hand gently, doing his best to relax her. When he felt she was stretched enough that he could satisfy her without hurting her, he withdrew the fingers and brought his cock to the entrance of her pussy.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yessss.” she moaned. Popping Cherry’s cherry proved less painful for her than she had been expecting, thanks to his stretching. She was still tight, however, and the pressure of her narrow passage on his shaft sent powerful, pleasurable sensations up his body. He took control of the situation, doing his best within his limited experience to prolong her pleasure as long as possible. Finally he felt the rumble of approaching orgasm, and he drew her over the edge just as he came. She cried out in a frenzy of passion, though the final half of that cry was muffled by his passionate kiss. As she began to calm down, he caressed and fondled her soft, supple and very sensitive breasts. He felt her respond, and her response aroused him again. He began to lick and nibble at her nipples, drawing jubilant moans and exlamations from her. When he was fully ready, he began to move within her again, and their orgasm this time was even more powerful than the last. Bill cradled his head on Cherry’s chest as he came down from this second orgasm, and he listened to her pounding heart.

“Thank you, Master.” she said. “I’ve needed that for so long. I’ve been so frustrated...”

“Shh.” he said softly, reaching up to caress her face and run his fingers through her hair. He moved himself up so they were face to face. “Just rest now.” he told her. She snuggled close, and Bill found himself marvelling at the way she seemed to fit just perfectly into his arms. Bill lay with his arms around her for some time, thinking about what had happened. Whatever he’d done hadn’t changed her completely. There was still a great deal of the old Cherry left, and that was part of the reason she had enjoyed this encounter so much. Indeed, she still was the same Cherry. The only difference was that her defect was gone—and she had become a willingly submissive slave girl who would do anything for him. He hadn’t done her any real harm, he realized, and thus his conscience quit bothering him and let him sleep.

Bill awoke to the smell of something good cooking. The sound of sizzling bacon snuck under the bedroom door, with the accompanying smell as its co-conspirator toward the tampering of his dreams. His stomach growled and reminded him that he was hungry. Cherry was wearing a cooking apron and nothing else, and was humming happily to herself while she prepared breakfast. She opened the oven and pulled out six slices of cinnamon toast. She set three on each of the two plates before her, then the eggs, sausages and bacon joined them. She poured two glasses of orange juice and set the whole array on his TV tray, which she then brought to the table.

“Morning, love.” she said.

“Morning, Cherry.” Bill replied. He kissed her on the cheek as he sat in the chair she indicated.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up.” she said. “I just wanted you to know that...well, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I mean, I’ve been attracted to people before, but this seems...comfortable...right, somehow.”

“I know what you mean.” Bill said, taking his hand in hers. “I stayed up late last night thinking about it, and I guess I didn’t do you any harm...”

“Harm?” Cherry asked. “Is that what you were worried about?” She smiled warmly. “Master, you don’t know the kind of relief I feel. Ever since I was fifteen, I’ve had one boob that was monstrously huge, and they didn’t even make a bra that big, or I bet it would be size quadruple Z, not to mention the weird shape, and the other one was, well, nonexistant except for the nipple and the aureola. Neither one was sensitive enough to do me a lick of good. I had back problems, hip trouble and even breathing problems because of it. Now, thanks to you, I’ve got me a pair of normal, D-cup titties which are so sensitive...” He reached into her apron in the middle of her sentence and started massaging her breast, playing with the nipple. “Hmmm, oh, yes, just like that.” While still pleasuring her, he pulled her into his lap and began to pleasure the other tit. She moaned appreciatively until Bill felt he had to muffle her moans with a kiss or risk waking the neighbors. Suddenly she bucked wildly, in the throes of a powerful orgasm, then went limp, sighing happily.

“You’re welcome.” Bill said with a wink. Smiling at the pleasure he’d brought his willing loveslave, he scooped a fork into her breakfast and started to feed it to her. Bill was thoughtful as he affectionately placed each bite in her mouth. Unlike Cherry, he had had sexual relations with others before he had met her. He had had live-in girlfirends and even fiances. He had thought he had been in love many times, and had had his heart broken almost as often as he had broken other hearts. Out of the twenty-three relationships he could recall (and the often forgettable one-night stands), he’d never once just held someone and spoon-fed them their breakfast, just because. He could practically see her heart glowing with the utter warmth of the emotions she was feeling. And he liked it. A knock at the door sent Cherry running into the bedroom to find her clothes. Bill opened the door and found Mr. Thompson standing there.

“Hi, Billy.” he said. “Listen, about last night...I know yer all excited about da big sale an’ all, but the other tenants don’t appreciate neighbors bringing...”

“Hookers to the building?” Bill asked. “Cherry is not a hooker, Mr. Thompson. She’s just someone I brought here to sculpt, and we sort of...clicked, that’s all.”

“I understand.” the landlord said. “Just try to look at it from my P.O.V., OK? Ya could put yer fist right through these walls, an’ sound does even better at goin’ through stuff.”

“I understand.” Bill replied.

“So, um, is she cute?” Mr. Thompson asked. Just then Cherry emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a sweater and blue jeans from Bill’s closet and wearing a piece of floral print cloth that used to be a curtain (left by the previous tenant) as a scarf. Mr. Thompson dropped his jaw in amazement.

“You tell me.” Bill replied.

“Hi.” Cherry said. “My name’s Cheryl, but my mom calls me Cherry.”

“Uh, hi.” Mr. Thompson said. “I’m, uh, I’m...”

“Cherry, this is Mr. Thompson, the landlord.” Bill said. Cherry extended her hand and Mr. Thompson touched it as reverently as he would the Holy Grail.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Cherry said.

“Uh, you too.” Mr. Thompson stammered. Bill finished his breakfast while Cherry had the landlord distracted, then finished dressing and got ready for work. As he was looking for his keys, he glanced at the clock and noticed that he still had an hour. Mr. Thompson followed Cherry out the door.

“I’m on my way to work, sweetie.” she said. “My boss wants me to open for him this morning.” Bill peeked his head around the corner and watched as Mr. Thompson followed her like a well-trained puppy until she casually reminded him that he had other business to attend to. Bill had an hour to kill until he had to leave for work. He felt something pulling him towards the big window on the north side. He opened the curtains and scanned with his eyes until he found whomever or whatever was calling him. Finally his eyes came to rest on the doorway of a closed store where a young woman squatted under the awning. She was dressed in a red flannel shirt five sizes too big for her and a pair of pants that was held up only by the piece of clothesline tied around her waist. Bill could sense the pain that her bleeding feet were causing her, and the burning caused by the rib she had broken last night when she had come into conflict with another homeless person while trying to get something to eat. Bill’s palms itched to feel the touch of clay against them. With fifty-five minutes to go before he had to leave, he piled several pounds of clay onto the bricks where he made all his life-size sculptures. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then attacked the clay, feeling the energy around him flowing into and through him. He sculpted the girl with her hair neat rather than frizzy, strong rather than half-starved. On a whim he added a policewoman’s well-pressed uniform. He made the lips full and as supple as her body, ready to flash a disarming smile or read someone their rights. He stepped back from the sculpture feeling like he’d just run the one-minute mile. He washed the wet clay from his hands and glanced at the clock. He should have left ten minutes ago. He rushed to get his jacket and keys, locked the door, and took the steps three at a time as he descended to his car. Checking the traffic report on the radio, he took a detour, going down 37th rather than JFK to avoid traffic. Because of this, he managed to get to work only two minutes late.

Having recovered during the drive, Bill had no trouble attacking the pile of work on his desk and was done an hour before lunch time. He took advantage of the situation to rest his eyes and relax. When he closed his eyes, he suddenly found himself watching through Cherry’s as she waited tables for men who no longer poked and grabbed and groped at her but stared in awe and fascination at the overnight transformation.

I can’t wait for the weekend. Cherry thought to herself. Then I can leave these drooling yahoos to the weekend girls and have some time with my Master. Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Bill withdrew the probe he had unconsciously extended. His mind instead wandered to the girl he’d sculpted this morning. She was feeling a little confused, but she followed the sergeant’s instructions willingly. It took him a moment to realize she was in the Police Academy, going through basic training.

Who are you? he heard her voice say.

My name is Bill. he replied.

You’re the one responsible for this, aren’t you? Thank you. I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but I fell asleep in the doorway of a store and woke up in a bunk in the Academy. It’s like a dream come true.

Um, you’re welcome.

I’m Rebecca, but everybody calls me Becky—except the sergeant, but then again, he’s all formality.

“Bill?” The voice was female, and very real. Bill was startled out of his seat, and the link was severed. He turned to find Maria Gallegos, a legal immigrant from Mexico and intern at the office, standing behind him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you. It is...I...I was wondering if...that is...” Bill put a hand on her shoulder, doing his best to project calm with his expression. Apparently it worked. “I was wondering if you would like to join me for lunch.”

“I’d be glad to.” Bill said. Maria smiled, apparently having expected rejection. He followed her to her car. She blushed in embarassment when they arrived. It was a primer-colored Pinto with seats which were a nightmare of peeling duct tape. Maria looked like she was about to cry. He put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, as long as it runs, right?” She smiled at that. A beaded pad in each of the seats kept the duct tape from sticking to their clothes. As Maria tried to start the vehicle, Bill closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t feel the energy around him as he had when he had sculpted. He focussed harder, and had just started to feel it around him when suddenly a roar startled him out of his meditative state.

“Sorry.” Maria said. “I could not afford anything else.”

“I said it was okay.” Bill said. The car pulled out and chugged its way to a local truck stop. Maria pulled in and fueled the car up, then they went inside. Maria bought herself a bag of chips and a coffee. Bill got a ham and cheese melt, an order of chili cheese fries and a soft drink—he’d never been much for coffee—which he paid for himself. They sat and ate silently for a few minutes. Bill could tell she was nervous, but she so desperately wanted to be with him that she was willing to risk ridicule to step out of the shadows and take the initiative. He looked into her eyes and saw someone who didn’t feel at home in this country, but needed the work desperately. She felt isolated and unloved. People called her stupid because she didn’t speak English well. She was the type who lived the minimalist lifestyle in order to send most of her paycheck home to her family.

“You...don’t...walk funny...anymore.” she said finally.

“I had a radical new treatment.” Bill replied. “I can tell you’re feeling lonely, Maria. If you need to talk about anything, just come see me. I’ll be there for you if you need me.” She seemed on the verge of tears. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you, Maria. After all, what are friends for?” Despite her best efforts, a few tears began to escape, rolling down her cheeks. He gave her the rest of his fries and got her another coffee. He could tell she needed it. She had been living too long on too little, desperate to help her family. He talked to her as she ate, taking a break occasionally to take another bite of his sandwich. When at last they were finished, she threw away the packaging from their meal. When they got back to the office (after spending fifteen minutes fussing with the engine), Bill drew Maria into a warm embrace. She seemed confused at first, but the hug finally did its job, breaking the dam and letting her emotions find expression. When she was done, there was a large wet spot on his shirt, which he covered with his jacket.

“Feel better?” he asked. She nodded and composed herself with the help of a tissue he provided. They walked back into the office together. As he reached his workstation, he bid Maria good day and returned to work. He heard Maria skipping as she left.

Bill stopped at a bar on the way home from work. Cherry wouldn’t get off for another half hour. On the phone she had said that she would take a cab to her apartment, load up her stuff in her car, and move it into his, and that it would take a bit of time to figure out which clothes, if any, would still fit her. Her boss had asked about the scarf, as well as the new, improved body. She had had to tell him that her hormone treatments had finally kicked in and balanced the weight in her boobs. As a result of the new figure, she was making more in tips that day than she had made in an entire week’s paycheck working double shifts. Bill was glad she was happy. Sadly, the bar where she worked wasn’t on the way to his apartment from work, so he had to stop at another bar. The name on the door said “Horsefeathers,” and the employees were all females, most likely aspiring supermodels “working their way up.” The words “Sadira Cunningham: owner and Proprietress” captioned a picture of the owner on a plaque on the wall. Someone had just ordered a raunchy dance tune from the jukebox, and half the waitstaff hopped up on the bar to dance to it, much to the delight of the male customers. He noticed that one didn’t join in, and he favored her with a smile, which she returned shyly. One of the customers passed out and fell out of his stool, and Bill sat at the stool, motioning for a longneck. He had to read her lips to discover that she was asking him what kind. After looking at the selection, he gestured to the third from the left—a Budweiser. She nodded and grabbed the bottle, which he promptly paid for. She was a petite thing, probably only five feet tall at the most. She had strawberry blonde hair down to her shoulders, pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face. Her delicate, tapered chin and nose gave her face a fragile appearance, and her large, doe-like eyes gave her a certain innocence that made her seem out of place in the sexy Horsefeathers uniform (tight Daisy Dukes and a sleeveless top with the bar’s name written across her chest, which stopped just below her breasts). He could sense her nervousness as she left him to deal with other, more rowdy customers.

“I see you have an affinity for those in need.” a voice said behind him. Bill turned to find who had spoken, and encountered the face of an elderly gentleman (though Bill couldn’t tell just how old) with kind, knowing eyes and an almost fatherly appearance.

“Who are you?” Bill asked.

“A kindred spirit, my friend.” the man replied. “Come, let’s talk somewhere more private.” Something was telling Bill to trust this man, and his beer was already paid for, so he followed him outside. “Let me get a look at you.” the man said, placing a hand on Bill’s forehead. “Hmm...yes, very strong magic in you, my friend, catalized in a recent accident involving one of Nature’s more powerful forces.”

“The tornado.” Bill muttered, the painful memory resurfacing.

“Indeed.” the man replied. “Usually there is trouble when such powers emerge too early or too late in life, but the ease of the use of your powers, combined with your strong sense of morals and honor seems to have made an exception of you.”

“You know, in all the stories I ever read, it was lightning that gave people powers, not wind.”

“The high energy contained within the tornado conspired with the stress of the situation to activate powers you already had.” the man said in the tone of voice of someone who knew what he was talking about. “Until recently they have simply remained dormant. Even now it seems to require a level of concentration which you only achieve when you are molding clay. Perhaps, with time and meditation, you will learn to use it without the clay.”

“Why can’t I sculpt anymore without using my powers?”

“The answer to that question lies within you, my friend. I am sorry I cannot be of more help to you.” With that, the man was gone.

“Hi.” a voice said behind him. He turned to find the girl who had served him the beer. “I’m on break right now. Had to get some fresh air.”

“I understand.” Bill said.

“Who was that guy that vanished into thin air?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Bill replied. “He had some interesting things to say, though.” He checked his watch. Cherry would be home by now. He’d best be getting home, too. He found his way to his car and was opening the door when the girl called out for him to wait. He looked at her expectantly, but she seemed hesitant. Bill’s power told him there was something wrong, but he couldn’t pin down what it was. She seemed to be struggling to find the words to tell him...or struggling to get those words past an impasse.

“My name is Samantha.” she said finally. “Could you...maybe come back some time?” Bill sensed that that wasn’t what she really wanted to say, but something—or someONE—was preventing her from saying it. Still, it was something, and Bill nodded. She seemed to be a little relieved, but not much. Despite his feelings in the matter, Bill had to get home. He could still feel her despair as he parked his car outside his apartment. Another car, most likely Cherry’s, was parked nearby. He went upstairs and found Cherry kneeling in the living room, fingering herself furiously. She couldn’t get off by herself. She had tried before and failed. She had four fingers buried in her sopping wet pussy. Bill knew he had to do something to alleviate this situation. He closed and locked the door, then approched Cherry. Her teeth were tightly clenched, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly that tears rolled down her cheeks—or maybe the tears were of frustration due to her inability to bring herself to climax. She was so close now he could sense it. The thick odor of her perfume on the air told him she’d been at this for some time now. Bill dropped his pants, and at the sound, Cherry opened her tear-blurred eyes and smiled gratefully. He took hold of her leash and laid her on her back. He pulled down his shorts to expose his stiffening member. Reluctantly she withdrew her fingers from her snatch, and he obligingly filled their former position with his cock. She tightened on him, trying to bring him off. He kissed her passionately, both to help synchronize himself to her body’s rhythms, and also to keep her quiet. He moved gently into and out of her. With each inward stroke, she emitted a pleased sound, and with each outward, she moaned at the loss. In, out, in, out, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pain. His urgency increased, and accordingly, his pace. She was so close to climax it was maddening, and her need was only growing. Finally, Bill reached orgasm and, as he found release, so did she, bucking more wildly than a wild horse at a rodeo. She lost consciousness almost as soon as it was over. Bill placed Cherry on the bed and crawled in behind her.

“The dreams won’t stop.” he muttered. “Why won’t they stop?” Every night for several months, since the encounter at Horsefeathers, he had had the same dream. A female figure in shadow weaving a spell around Samantha, while she herself tried to fight the figure’s power. Recently, however, the dream had begun to change. Samantha was showing signs of weakening. Sometimes Samantha even looked to him with pleading in her eyes. On these occasions the shadowy figure would turn on him and attack. This night, the figure had emerged from the shadows, revealing the bar’s owner, Sadira Cunningham.

“Maybe they’re not just dreams.” Cherry suggested. “Maybe it’s a warning...or an SOS.”

“And if it is a call for help, what do I do about it?” Bill asked. “I need clay to achieve the level of concentration needed to use my power.”

“I know.” Cherry said. “I’ll help carry the clay if you wish, Master.”

“Besides that, I have to figure out precisely what I’m going to do once I get the clay there. It’s not like I can just put my hands to the clay and let the power decide what the best thing to do is.”

“We’ll find a way to help Samantha.” Cherry said. “I know it. I’ve got my intelligence, and you’ve got your caring heart, and together, this dark force doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I hope you’re right, Cherry, honey.” Bill said. “I hope you’re right.”