The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Psyche vs. Midas City University: A Prologue

(MC, cb, FDom (kinda), mast, oral, mF)

Disclaimer:

I wrote this. This is an original work of fiction, bearing little to no resemblance to reality. This is neither intended nor recommended for minors, the faint at heart, or forums/areas/locales where such depictions are proscribed, censored, or illegal. This has been posted with the kindly aid and permission of Simon bar Sinister, who also correctly notes, “The situations described here are at best impossible or at worst highly immoral in real life. Anyone wishing to try this stuff for real should seek psychological help and/or get a life.” Please do not repost, publish, or distribute in whole or in part without the author’s explicit permission. Other stories by this author and many others may be found at MC Stories.

* * *

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine.” I poured a cup of coffee, stirring in two heapings of sugar, following it with a generous dollop of whole milk. I popped two pills and washed it down in a long, unhurried sip.

“The news always gets it wrong, Mom. If there were robots, I sure as heck didn’t see any. Just a mad scientist, a supercomputer, and a bunch of prisoners,” I told her when she finally paused for breath. I should’ve taken the aspirin before I called; anyone who thinks fighting crime in high heels is hard should try giving an after-action report to my mother.

I moved to the living room and spread out carefully on the sofa, trying not to spill my drink as I set it down. I leaned back on an extra-fluffy pillow and covered my eyes with my hand. “Yes, she got away. No, I didn’t let her, I just…” How to explain that one? The truth didn’t even sound credible, much less what I’d told the cops and press. The super-sanitized, G-rated version of Robotica’s “fuck Psyche into submission” plan I was giving my parents was beginning to sound downright silly. “I made sure she won’t be doing any more research like that,” I finished tardily. That much was true, at least. “I doubt we’ll be hearing about her anytime soon.” There.

The headache seemed to be digging in its hooks now, as if fighting a rearguard action against the chemical obliteration was heading its way. “They’re just trying to make it sensational. You know better than to believe that stuff!” Pause. “I was there, Mom. For like a week, under cover. I would’ve noticed a group marriage to a giant extraterrestrial robot, I think. Is Dad there?” I asked, somewhat desperately.

Mom went off on a tangent about how underfoot Dad had been since he’d retired, and I tuned out a little, gratefully. Batman and Superman are orphans, right? I envy them, sometimes. Mom stayed off-topic for a good five minutes before veering back to her favorite subject again, fretting over her daughter’s lifestyle choices.

“I’m gonna recoup for a week or so, yeah… no, I’m just tired. Exhausted.” Boy, was that the truth. “I can’t just quit, Mom, it’s not… I have a responsibility… No, I didn’t ask for it, but I can’t just walk away, either…” There had been times I’d considered telling her I was a lesbian, just to get her off of my back about being a superheroine for a while. But I knew she genuinely cared, and my job worried her, and this latest exploit had been rougher than usual. It was a sign of her concern that she hadn’t mentioned my costume yet. Which was probably just as well; I wasn’t much in the mood to hear her rant about dressing like Super-Hooker again.

“I know, Mom. I just want you and Dad to be proud of me. Yeah… I’m going to bed early tonight. Oh… cookies? You know I miss your cooking. And I’ve been eating like a horse lately… no, I’m sure I’m not pregnant, Mom, just a growth spurt… ok. Give my love to Dad… miss you both. Love you too, Mom… bye!”

I let the phone drop to the floor and took another sip of coffee. The caffeine would keep me up, but I didn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of a much-needed bath. Mom was sweet, in her way, and for every trivial concern she raised about my job, there were two unvoiced legitimate ones I couldn’t wave away. Not to mention the handful of terrifying ones I would never admit to. She had to live with the knowledge that I took the risk of dying every time I pulled on my mask; nagging me about my costume choices and eating habits were her way of coping with that, of being proud of me and scared for me.

I took the cup with me into the bathroom, shedding clothes as I went. I turned on the water as hot as it would go, inhaling the steam deeply. Going on three days now, and not a trace of body hair below my neck. Dr. Mekanik had assured me the effect was temporary, just like the greyish skin tint, but it was jarring to see myself so denuded in the mirror. It made me look vulnerable, more naked, somehow. Looks like my tits are getting bigger, too. Great. Just when I’d finally gotten some bras I liked.

Hmm… bubbles, I decided. Normally, a bubble-bath is a special event: an uninterrupted hour or two of relaxation, a little jazz playing in the background, some chocolate, maybe an unread magazine, and some prolonged lascivious abuse of the expensive multi-setting removable shower nozzle. Tonight I glided in without bothering with all the rest of the ritual. I could feel muscle groups uncoiling almost as soon as they were submerged, a welcome, transitory aching before they unknotted. Twenty minutes, I promised myself. Otherwise I’ll never get out. Still, quiet, peaceful… just what I needed.

I never asked for super powers. And I didn’t know anyone who had. I doubt Stench had prayed nightly for her abilities, and I’m certain the Slug never wished to end up looking the way he does. Imagine the rest of your life unable to touch anyone without pulling on a thick pair of insulating gloves, or making sure you don’t look at anything too long for fear of irradiating it. And those are just the physical powers.

The mental ones are even worse, in a more subtle way. Practically the first thing a telepath learns is to tune everyone else out, or go mad trying. We sometimes come off as cold or aloof, but that constipated look is usually just concentration. And we know firsthand what a sewer the human mind can be. Take the foulest, most shameful thing you’ve thought of today and think about hearing ninety-nine other ones, and you begin to see why psychics aren’t the cheeriest of companions.

I slipped deeper into the water, gasping a little at the heat. No, I didn’t ask for it. Once upon a time, I’d have done durn near anything to be normal… Drowsing a little, I remembered…

* * *

“Go! Fight! WIN!!!”

The whole line of cheerleaders went into paroxysms of hyperactive enthusiasm: excited waving, high kicks and splits, even a back flip or two, broad, false grins on every perspiring face. Mine included.

For some, cheerleading is a phase you grow out of in high school. For others, it becomes a way of life, your whole identity. I was somewhere in between: limber enough (if not notably talented) to do it at the college level, but I’d never spent all summer at a cheer camp honing my routines or anything. For me, cheerleading was a means to an end, a way to stay fit, make lifetime friends, be involved in campus life, and meet hot scholar athletes.

Ah, youth.

Not to put too fine a point on it: what gusto I’d had for it had declined steadily over the last year or so. It was starting to feel more and more like a thankless pastime for obsessional self-centered exhibitionists. The ‘lifetime friends’ were shallow, backstabbing bitches; the jocks were, by and large, swaggering mouth-breathing assholes, and the only involvement I had in ‘campus life’ was in snubbing girls marginally less attractive or popular than ourselves. I kept in great shape, sure, but I was out there for one reason, and one reason only: Jason Roberts.

Jason of the gap-toothed smile and oversized hands, seemingly designed by God to pull down long bombs. Jason, proud owner of a Ferrari and well on-track to beating the school’s all-time record for yards received. Every time I saw him look my way on the field, my heart raced with that inexplicably feminine thrill of knowing you’re making other girls green with envy. At that stage of my life, that and acceptance by my bitchy peers were the most important things I knew of, and I would do anything to keep them. And so there I was, twirling and shouting and jiggling with all the rest. “Go, MIDAS! YEAH!!!”

* * *

Oooohhhh… That’s right, babe, suck it down… no hands, now, babe, no hands…” Jason leaned back contentedly, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Ulf,” I acknowledged, with some trepidation. My hand had been the only safeguard I had against Jason choking me with his cock, and I lowered it reluctantly. This wasn’t the first time I’d deep-throated a guy – or even Jason, for that matter – but that didn’t mean I was particularly good at it. Learning to suppress your gag reflex takes time, patience, and practice, and I hadn’t yet picked up that skill. But he’d requested it specifically, so I did, doing my best to ignore the twigs and stones digging into my knees on the cold forest floor.

Predictably, less than a minute later I felt him grip the back of my hair with one hand, and his hips rose to meet my next down-thrust. My quiet gagging cough was masked by Jason’s groan of pleasure as he crammed his length as deeply into my mouth as he could. I’ve had a lot of practice since then, but at the time I felt like I was trying to swallow a whale.

One thing I had learned was that guys dig audio. I started moaning softly around his pole, trying not to give us away in my hurry to get him off. We’d been on our way through the woods on a shortcut to the post-game party when Jason had decided he wanted a little here ‘n now before we got there. Not that he’d said as much; he just found a convenient log off the path and sat down, unzipping his pants expectantly. I looked around for other hikers, then joined him, tucking the front of my pleated skirt under my knees for protection as I sank down to suck him off.

Ever given head to someone you didn’t like, but wanted to? Jason was something of a boor, sexually selfish, and kinda dumb, to boot. I didn’t hate him, but I couldn’t bring myself to like him, either, and of the available guys on the team, he was (believe it or not) the least offensive, at least in short doses. So sometimes he treated me like I’d been sent from an escort service, so what? Keeping Jason happy with me meant increased social status, which was the whole point of the exercise.

I know, I know. But if I’d been smarter, I wouldn’t have been with him in the first place. But I was, and being ‘in’ was just as important to me as good grades and staying trim. So if that meant putting up with impersonal sex and faking four out of five orgasms, well then, that was the price I paid. When he came a few minutes later, I was standing before he’d even gotten himself zipped up again, holding my arms crossed against the chill night air. We headed for the party without another word, and spent the rest of the night drinking and stumbling around to music. But no matter how many beers I had, I couldn’t quite get rid of the taste.

* * *

“So you just… went down on him, right there?”

“Yup.” Scott looked at me incredulously, and I shrugged.

“You just…”

“Just found a spot and blew him, right.”

“Well…” He looked flustered. “Did you swallow?”

“I’m not telling you that!” I replied, indignantly. Why do boys put such a premium on that? Jason was forever bitching that I didn’t. “Honestly, Scott, what’s the hang-up here?”

Scott opened his mouth, then reconsidered quickly. “I just… don’t think of you that way, I guess.”

“Liar. You do, just not with him,” I teased.

“Right.” Scott smiled warily. “You’re not offended?”

“Nah,” I said off-handedly, “Goes with the uniform. People expect firefighters to pull cats out of trees and cops to eat donuts; cheerleaders are supposed to suck dick. Some kinda natural association, I guess.” I was a little surprised Scott had brought it up, though. There was some sexual tension in our friendship, sure, but it was our unspoken agreement to not mention it. Best nip this in the bud. “Why, what’s got you so distracted you’ve been fantasizing about me?”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a stack of art paper, archives of his work. “Double-thinking myself. Taking Econ courses and hating every one, while knowing in my heart of hearts I’m not good enough to become an artist. At least,” he amended, seeing me about to retort, “Not as long as I can’t devote any time to it.”

And you won’t, as long as you keep chasing your Dad’s dream at the expense of your own, I thought. “Looks like you have,” I opined, picking up a sheaf at random in the cluttered room. I was looking at a series of studies on dragons – very well done, and some of them in pen.

“Well, I scribble sometimes,” Scott demurred, looking away. Poor Scott. Perfectly well-adjusted and confident in all but two areas: his art and his parents. Scott’s father had wanted to get a degree in Business, and never had; it fell upon his son to realize that dream for him, regardless of what Scott wanted. And Scott, the dutiful son, had never hinted otherwise to them. Not an uncommon story, alas. I picked up an blue oversized folder, not done perusing yet.

“Hey! Don’t!” Scott objected.

Make that three areas. Scott was terribly, almost painfully shy around the opposite sex. If I hadn’t kicked his ass regularly in our kickboxing classes, he’d never have gotten the nerve to speak to me, and a great friendship would’ve passed him by. I pursed my lips and paged through the collection thoughtfully.

Blue Fox. Figures. Page after page of her. Different costumes, some I recognized, some thoroughly – and revealingly – impractical. Some had magazine clippings attached, the basis for this or that pose. Others looked to be based on standard poses and speculation. And one or two were – ahem – rather suggestive. Risqué, not pornographic, but still…

By now Scott was flushing a cute shade of red, so I dragged out my appraisal of his work. “Goodness,” I told him mildly. “These are certainly… imaginative.”

“Just… you know, doodlings.”

The ‘doodle’ I’d stopped at was really cool, one of those ‘arms-akimbo’ poses, a few wisps of hair coming loose from her ponytail. She looked like she’d barely come out on top in an ass-kicking free-for-all. “Looks like she has a lot of trouble keeping her clothes on.” I set the folder down, deciding to be merciful. “She needs a better seamstress.”

“Yeah.” Scott looked a little stunned, probably expecting me to flip out over his homemade girlie pics.

“Well, if I ever feel the need to dress up like a superhero, you’ll be my wardrobe designer. Now unless we’re done for today?” I tapped my Calc book meaningfully, drawing his attention away from the blue folder. No, not the blue one – a green one next to it. What’s behind door number two, Scotty-boy?

“Oh, yeah. I mean, no, we’re not. If your test is on Wednesday, you’ve got a long way to go, Red. Hand me a pencil…”

I winced, but handed it to him. He took it from me, not looking, flipping through my book to the right chapter, and our fingers brushed together, and I-

«-fingers laced around the small of her back as I pull her into another kiss, fuck Jason he doesn’t treat her right, soft lips pressing into mine eyes half-closed and fluttering and her hips grind into mine jeans on jeans oh god I think I’m gonna-»

I stumbled back onto the bed, reeling. Scott was looking over, frowning in concern. “Hey, you ok?”

“Fine,” I managed. “Just got a little dizzy. Sat down too fast, I guess.” And saw myself – felt myself kissing you… through your eyes. “I’m fine,” I added weakly.

“Well… ok. We’ll wrap up a little early, just in case. You look like you could use some rest, princess.”

“O-okay. Thanks.” What the hell was that?

* * *

I took the long walk home, clutching my books protectively to my chest. The cool fall breeze was bracing, clearing, and I needed to think. I hadn’t just thought about kissing Scott – my tutor, my best male friend, the ‘nice guy’ – I’d watched myself kissing him, from his vantage, his eyes. It had seemed as real as if I’d imagined it myself… only through Scott’s eyes.

That was the disturbing part. Not that it was realistic; it wasn’t. Not that it was likely, or had actually happened. It seemed like a dream, a fantasy, only I wasn’t me. “I” was Scott for a few seconds, Scott kissing the “me,” who looked happy enough doing it. Weird.

I could tell Zoë was home from all the way down the hall. A heavenly scent of something rich and meaty wafted, making me think, not for the first time, of those cartoon good-smells that pick up a hungry character with a ghostly hand and pull them in. I was already salivating when I pushed open the door, consternation forgotten for the moment.

God, that smells good, Z!” I gushed, letting my books tumble onto the couch and heading for the kitchen.

“Don’t you blaspheme in my kitchen, girl,” she told me, not turning from the saucepan. It looked like some kind of pesto pasta tonight, with leek soup and a few other dishes I didn’t recognize. I’d had to jettison my diet plans after about the second week of meeting Zoë, but she must’ve been doing something right. If there was a spare inch of fat on my frame, my hyper-critical eyes had yet to detect it, so I usually ate everything she served without reservation.

Zoë was my roommate, going for a degree in nutrition to round out her expertise as a chef. She was an enormous black girl, with an easy grin and laid-back demeanor that had collected her a small harem of loyal boyfriends. Zoë was the first in her extensive Cajun family to go to college, hoping to add some credentials to the family’s incredible genetic talent for cooking. She was probably the coolest person I knew on campus. “Sorry, Z,” I said, chastised. She wasn’t a tyrant, but she ran the kitchen the way her mother had, and her Grandmother before that, and so on.

She shot me a trademark grin and waggled a ladle at me. “Don’ you worry now, I’m just finishin’. And from the looks of you, you could use some nourishin’ about now.”

I was hungry, I realized; I’d been so busy wondering about what had happened at Scott’s that I’d forgotten. I set the table without being asked and Z and I sat down a few minutes later to a meal fit for a pair of queens.

“So how’s your boyfriend?” she asked, critically savoring the leek soup she’d made as an appetizer.

“Jason? Haven’t seen him since the party Friday night.” Didn’t see much of him there, either.

“Bah. Not that caveman you cattin’ round with. I mean that nice artist boy, always ‘minds me of a puppy. One who calls you ‘princess’.”

“Scott? Oh, we’re just friends. Still,” I added pointedly.

“Hmmph.” Zoë had never made her disapproval of Jason a secret. “Jus’ friends, sure. That’s why you always in such a good mood when you get back from tutoring. All happy and cheerful and weight of the world off you. Wish I had me some ‘just friends’ like that.”

“You do. Dozens,” I teased back, not terribly comfortable with her habitual straightforwardness.

“Yup. That’s why they my boyfriends,” she emphasized, and I realized that was where she’d been going all along.

I managed to keep her off the subject for most of dinner, but by dessert I felt confident enough to take it on again. I pushed a bite of cobbler around my plate, gathering stray blobs of cinnamon whipped cream on it while I thought about what to say. “Scott’s nice, he’s just… not what I’m looking for, in a boy. Not like that,” I finished. I didn’t sound convincing, even to myself.

“Mmm. Well, your loss. And his.”

“I’ve thought about it, though,” I blurted out. “Or he has, I think. I mean, I think I thought him thinking it.”

None of which’d made a damn bit of sense. Zoë stared at me while I struggled to tell her about that weird watching-me-kiss-me-as-Scott hallucination I’d had earlier. Zoë listened without comment, doling out another slice of pie while I talked. Finally, she nodded, more to herself, and I waited for her to tell me I was crazy, or tired, or just imagining things.

“You’re crazy,” she told me. “Or too tired, or maybe jes’ imagining things ‘cause a’ guilt or fantasy or something.”

“Great. Big help, Z.”

“Ain’t here to fill up your life with more BS,” she shrugged. “Go get some sleep, is my advice. If it goes away, you were tired. If it don’t, least you can look at it with a clear head.”

“Right. ‘Night, Z.”

“Night. Sleep tight,” she told me, taking a long sip of tea. “’Though if you got any sense, you’d jump the boy’s bones n’ get it over n’ out with.”

I stared at her; Zoë hadn’t finished drinking yet, and I hadn’t seen her lips move at all. “What?” she asked, quizzically.

“Uh, nothing. Night.” I fled to my room, pulled the covers over my head, and dreamed about nothing at all.

* * *

Monday was awful. I walked around in a trance, bumping into things, dozing through lectures, and ignoring questions from professors until the second or third time they called my name. I felt like I was a little drunk, distracted from everything I tried to do, and it just got worse as the day wore on and on.

Ever tried to get to sleep when someone’s got a TV going in a nearby room? That faint noise you can’t quite complain about as ‘loud’, but it keep seeping into your subconscious? It was a little like that. A nagging ‘something is wrong’ all the time. I stumbled though cheerleading practice, holding my head with a pain that was barely feigned. I stopped at Jason’s for the requisite sex, jackhammer-style, but I was so distracted I forgot to fake it. Luckily he didn’t notice. I went home, took a long bath and went to bed early, wishing I knew what the hell was going on.

Tuesday was even worse. On Tuesday there were the voices. Faint, tinny whispers, dozens of them, all at the same time, none of them making any sense. If I concentrated I could make out a word or two, maybe even a sentence, but they came without context, bizarre and alien to my ears. And nobody else seemed to notice a thing. I was supposed to have an hour or two with Scott for a study session, but ended up calling it off less than an hour in. We’d ordered Chinese from the place down the corner, a kinda-sorta meal while he struggled to impart math skills onto me. I stole one of his egg rolls, a running joke between us, and as I bit into it I got the most vivid image of myself eating it – not from my vantage, but from Scott’s. Abruptly, it was replaced, and I saw me sitting there naked, eyes closed in satisfaction, red sauce oozing from my mouth as I took my – Scott’s – erect penis into my mouth. I choked, apologized, and left in a hurry, going to bed before the sun had even gone down. I didn’t even remember I was supposed to go out with Jason until the next morning.

By Wednesday I couldn’t see people very well any more, just humanoid blurs of dots and ribbons. At first I thought my eyesight was going, until I noticed I could see everything but people just fine. If I squinted, I could make out people in the haziness, but it took effort and eyestrain. I cut my afternoon classes and called off work for illness. Zoë was my guardian angel, making sure I ate right and had plenty of liquids, clucking like a mother hen and shooing away the few curious visitors who came calling. If she ever suspected I was faking it, she didn’t breathe a word of it.

I skipped all my classes Thursday. Scott was supposed to tutor me at six, and Jason and I were supposed to have a date after that. Out of some combination of duty and cabin fever I dragged myself off the couch in late afternoon and made my way to Jason’s. There was no way in hell I was going out, but I owed him some kind of explanation; maybe a nice after-school quickie would pacify his objections, and take some of the edge off of my day. Assuming I can even come; my nerves are shot.

It was maybe the oddest walk I’d ever taken. At home, with just me and Zoë around, the noise was muted, distant, sometimes even absent, and I’d re-learned to see Zoë without seeing all the rest of… well, whatever they were. Walking across campus brought it all back, the half-heard whispering and fuzzy pixilated bodies. About halfway there, I found I could trick myself into seeing them naturally, by not looking too hard. It became a kind of game, like trying to defocus your vision of a candle flame, handily distracting me from the ever-present susurrus.

«…kind of box it takes… cheeseeating’s not just any… Kant was a wordy old bastard… get to Reno’s by five I can drink… squeak like balloonglass right… peanut butter tastes like gum? …best album never made… ignobility? …name is that any- nice tits, jesus, no bra, god I love this place…»

Somehow I made it to Jason’s, and found him sitting on the floor in front of the couch playing a video game. Improbably busty Japanese girls were battling for volleyball supremacy on the screen, poutily insulting each other after every jiggling spike and save.

“Oh, hey, babe,” Jason said, belatedly noticing my entrance and pausing the game. He at least had the good grace to look embarrassed to be found staring at digital soft-core disguised as recreation. “I was just… uh, Larry left the game on, so I…”

I need this like a hole in my head. “Never mind,” I waved. “I just wanted to tell you I… we can’t go out tonight. I’m feeling sick, I think; I’m just gonna go home and lie down.”

“Ah. Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, eyes straying back to the frozen screen. “I was… I mean, I wanted to… well, ‘Psycho-Babes III’ is on at the multiplex, and…”

Dinner and a movie? How original. We’ve never done that before… “I know,” I said aloud. “Sorry. I just don’t feel good. Okay?”

“‘Kay,” he told me faintly, and-

«-can get to level five with Sara I can unlock her schoolgirl outfit which clears the way for the cumshot scene at level ten god if only she’d let me come on her face I’d-»

“Get better,” he added, smiling up at me. I felt the blood draining out of my face, and got out of there as quickly as I could.

* * *

After Jason’s, I really didn’t want to see anyone, and I strode past Scott’s dorm like a woman possessed. Strangers were bad enough, with the noise and the glittery madness where their bodies ought to be, but Scott would just be too much, especially right after Jason. Scott would be awful, I just knew it. Not him, but seeing him. I didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to hear from him, not until I figured out what in the hell was going on. I didn’t want to… to…

Don’t want to read his mind? The thought struck me like a small thunderbolt. There it was; I couldn’t un-think it. The fragmented thoughts, the constant murmur no one else seemed to notice – I wasn’t going mad at all. I broke into a half-jog, trying to clear my head. It made sense. It was ridiculous, impossible, but it made sense.

«…feed them before they get to the fern-» That girl, keys in hand. Cats at home?

«-drink too damn much to even know who’s calling-» That boy. I had a sense of a father, or maybe father-figure, love/resentment/annoyance/fear taste to it.

«-get some sleep for once, goddam it-» Could be anyone on campus. Her? Maybe.

«…a nice ass! I’d hit that like a rented mule if I-» I almost stopped in my tracks at that one, recognizing my backside from my voyeur’s perspective. I stopped and glared at him until he looked away guiltily.

That’s it. I’m a freak. Or a mutant. Or a superhero. Or something. I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from me, and slowed to a walk. Well, no wonder!

* * *

It was the greatest secret I’d ever had, so naturally I had to tell someone. Zoë listened without comment through three courses as I rambled through my half-baked theory. Once I’d wound down, she nodded sagely. “Makes sense. And it’s good to have a working theory that don’t involve crazy.”

“Right,” I agreed. “I don’t know about the hallucinations, but it explains the voices and the not-me scenes.” I plopped another scoop of vanilla ice cream onto my scratch-made cobbler. “Not sure why I’m ok at some times and places, and not at others, yet. Like, you and Scott, I’m generally ok with. Classes are bad, and crowds are impossible.” I shuddered, thinking about cheering at the game Friday. How am I going to pull that off? I chewed morosely.

“Easy. Individuals, small groups – fewer minds, less noise, right? Whereas at the mall or something… blahblahblahblah, blah, blah BLAH!” I had to smile as she half-shouted the last part, cupper her hands around her mouth. “I’m thinkin’ most folk don’t use their ‘indoor’ voices in their own heads; multiply that by however many around you can hear, and it’s Midol city. Probably take you a while to get used to tunin’ ‘em, out, like white noise.”

“Sure. So why’s it so much easier around you?” I asked.

Zoë dimpled. “Could be I’m just too much a lady to shout in my head.” I grinned back. “Or could be I speak my mind most times anyhow. No disconnect ‘tween my mouth and my brains, so you don’t end up with dueling chatter. If your theory’s right.”

“If?” That caught me short. “You mean, prove it?”

“All right.” She crossed her arms, settling her face blank. “What’s in my Devil’s Food cake?”

In my excitement, I’d never tested my theory, never tried to consciously ‘read’ someone. After a second or two, I was surprised by how easy it was. “The usual, plus some vanilla and a shot of bourbon, sometimes. You use three different kinds of chocolate; that’s why you call it ‘Three Devil Cake’ to yourself.” Zoë opened her mouth, shocked. “And ground red pepper, your own innovation to grandmere’s recipe.”

A long silence followed. Then, “Damn. All right, got it all. I’m impressed.” She looked at me a moment longer, then stood abruptly. “Stay there, be right back.”

I sat for a minute alone, bewildered. Had I offended her? How safe could anyone feel around a bona-fide telepath, anyway? Every stray thought, every dark emotion available to a psychic voyeur. I’d just blown our relationship, ruined a good-

“Here.” Zoë put something cold in my hand: a ceramic pipe, packed with smoldering grass. She sat across from me and exhaled a long breath of smoke.

“Weed? Z, you smoke weed? I didn’t know you…” I trailed off as Zoë smiled thinly.

“Good. Reckon you’ll find out sooner or later, so best be sooner. It’ll relax a body, let the mind wander playful.”

Huh. I shrugged mentally and took a lungful. We passed it back and forth a few times. “Z… how’s this gonna help me, anyhow? Free up repressed psychic reserves, or some shit?” I asked, dreamily.

“Don’t know ‘bout you.” Zoë winked, confidentially. “Do me a world o’ good, though.” I choked out a laugh.

We stayed up past three, just talking. Planning, shooting the breeze, as it occurred to us. We didn’t accomplish a whole lot in terms of a plan, but we had a great time doing it.

* * *

I woke up feeling better than I had in years. I thought about getting up for all of about three seconds; I’d already told my professors that I was out for the week. I snuggled back under the covers, sinfully delighted at the prospect of playing hooky.

But I couldn’t go back to sleep. Last night’s girl talk had done me a world of good, too. I felt like someone had pulled a heavy blanket of worry away from me. I felt light, relaxed, hopeful…

…horny. I admit it. I felt better about myself (not crazy), and it had been a good long while since I’d had an orgasm that wasn’t an by-blow of servicing Jason’s selfish ass. Giggling like a schoolgirl in heat, I pushed my hands under the waistband of my sleeping shorts to get my day started off with a bang.

I was wet in less time than it takes to tell about it. I had to keep slowing my fingers down, not wanting to spoil what felt like a nice one in my haste to just get myself the fuck off.

Here? I looked fantastic in my little black cocktail number, and the gorgeous guy at the bar had been spellbound from the moment I’d sauntered in. He thought I was a runway model, and let his lust and desire to possess an icon override his fear of my self-assuredness. I let him talk me into an improbably empty back room, protesting coquettishly the whole way. But someone might walk in, find us! I’m not that kind of girl, even if… I kept it up until his mouth covered mine, and he pushed me onto the pool table (just the right height), star-fucking a dream-girl…

So my fiendish nemesis is up to his old tricks again. Tell me more… The Russian was a spy, sent to infiltrate the US for my nameless foe. As an agent for a branch of espionage so secret it didn’t even have a name, it was my job – my duty – to sleep with him, seduce him and find out all he knew. His dangerous virility thrilled me, even as I knew he was my puppet; I took his secrets from him as easily as I took his strong, tireless, cock, plunging…

Aaaagh! Aaah! Aaaarrrrmmmmm… A bead of sweat rolled from my forehead, stinging my eyes when it arrived. A superheroine, I’d gotten overconfident, and now I was paying the price. My wrists were handcuffed, passing through a length of chain receding up into the darkness where the ceiling must be. Cold iron shackles set wide apart into the floor bit into my ankles, binding me in place. The chain was half a body-length away from the leg irons, ensuring that I was held in a half-kneeling, half-crawling pose. My captors had stripped away my shirt and underwear, leaving torn remnants of my skirt to flutter helplessly as they battered their way into my body. One was humping my mouth, quick stabs that never seemed to leave me enough air, nor take my breath away altogether. He pulled the chains in synch with his thrusts, rocking my entire body towards him jarringly. The other was taking me from behind, using long, punishing strokes to fuck me doggy-style. He’d come in my mouth earlier, and his long cock felt even longer in my pussy, hurting me even as he sent me spiraling towards yet another crashing orgasm. I whimpered around the first man’s cock, too overwhelmed to do anything but provide a tight sheath for his manhood. Behind my feminine mask, my eyes were squeezed shut, afraid that if I opened them, my assailants might see the lust they’d ignited. Uhmmph. Urh, urh, urh. Uhlmmm… ohhhhhh…

Back in reality, my fingers traced intricate spiderwebs across my cleft, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. What had promised to be a nice orgasm was shaping up to be a world-stopper, and I had no intention of settling for anything less. My mind was adrift, lost in a haze of long-overdue pleasure. I imagined…

«…n’t imagine it at all. When I woke, there he was, already awake. I slept like a baby, didn’t even hear him stir. How much did he drink? How much did I? Never mind, never mind, he’s here now, and he’s going to leave, and then-»

I stopped mid-stroke. That wasn’t a fantasy; it wasn’t even my head. Who…?

In a flash, the information streamed to me, from one floor and three rooms away. Marcie Renshaw, age twenty, Bio major. She’d let herself get talked into going to a club for someone’s birthday, met a guy, and hooked up – to her continuing surprise. She was sore, happy, scared, and naked – and I was in her head.

«…likes me but I can’t tell but why else would he well of course I put out so he but Dan’s still here and he’s smiling and his hands oh god last night was so good how do I tell him what-»

She’d had a good night, apparently; normally frigid with boys, some combination of novelty, drunkenness and unaccustomed tenderness from her partner had actually won her a climax. I could see through her eyes, hear with her ears, smell with her nose. We…

I/we smile worriedly as he gives her/us a crooked grin. “Hi,” he says. He’s embarrassed, naked in a girl’s bed. «…He’s sorry he fucked a fat chick double coyote he’s going to make an excuse and run chubby chaser fat stupid whore I want to die why-»

She’s going to fuck it up, I realized. She’s going to let her hurt and insecurity push him away, reject him before he can reject her, stay safe in her lonely misery, self-prison of flesh and loneliness and… no. If I’d thought about it, I might have done something different. Maybe not, but I didn’t think at all. I felt her open her mouth, felt the shame and self-loathing boil the words up that would put up the wall and drive him out. I didn’t think, I acted. I took over, and I was Marcie.

“Hi,” I/we said. I put my hand on his shoulder, marveling at how warm other people’s skin always seems to be. His hesitation softened, the sensed rejection not coming. “Did I dream you?” she/I/we asked, a more honest question. Soul-baring didn’t hurt as much as she/we thought it would. «He’s already been inside us physically why not mentally did that sound as stupid as-»

Dan’s lips quirked. «I made him smile! Not ridiculous not ugly not stupid yes I love me I-» “Yes,” he answered. “We’re both dreaming.” He hesitated again, and I/me eased his fear. His smile returned, the one that made up her/our mind last night. “In a dream, I’d never dare do… this.” He raised the covers with his elbow, and began kissing his way down, down my belly «fat ugly warm nice soft he doesn’t mind…» to our/her cleft, murmuring as he parted his lips. «-beautiful soft like a girl’s I want to oh no I can’t I won’t please-»

Fear rose up again, the self-made monster, but I was ready for it. I soothed her fears, smoothed out the worries, the self-doubt and self-consciousness that comes to any inexperienced human receiving unasked-for pleasure for the first time. The mind rebels against the perceived selfishness with fears of unworthiness, of deceit. She was Marcie, afraid to hope, unsure, anxious. I was Marcie, and I loved her. We were trembling, aroused, as his tongue began its dance on our nether lips. I held her protectively, absorbing the moment-destroying impulses, letting her receive his gift openly, honestly, fully.

«Oh. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, he’s good. This is better than last night, better than me. I want him I need him now and he wants to give of himself and wants me to take it and I am and I can and I don’t care if I come or not because I-»

I relaxed her/us, letting it come. I didn’t have that much experience getting head, but I knew what not to do, and I/we steered around the pitfalls easily enough. He made up for lack of technique with willingness and patience, just what we needed, and we were hot, sensual, primal, and «now fingers and tongue and oh god he’s oh god I god yes yes yes yes yes yes…»

Sex really is, as they say, mostly in the head. Without realizing it, Dan had achieved every man’s fantasy of having two girls at once that morning. Marcie and I came simultaneously, minds entwined, and her scream of release was mine. I spasmed violently in my bed, our mingled climax wracking my helpless body. Oh my god…

When I regained some measure of my senses, Marcie had recovered both her composure and her sense of fairness, and was stroking Dan’s turgid head with a slow delight I felt through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss. “Nice,” she murmured, and we both could’ve sworn his cock swelled at the honest flattery. She craned her neck, bending down, lips pursing to take it in…

I should have withdrawn, been sated with my orgasm-by-proxy and left them alone. But Marcie had never given head before, and I couldn’t resist giving her a little assistance. Sort of a thank-you to both of them: her, for being such an accommodating (if unaware) host, and Dan for blowing us both away first thing in the morning.

Reflecting later, I wondered if I ought to be changing my major; I might have one hell of a future as a sex therapist.

* * *

«Ready?»

“All set,” Zoë told me serenely. Bless her calm. My life was getting freakish enough without my roommate treating me like a pariah.

Jason had come by before the game, wondering why I‘d chickened out when I didn’t look all that sick. I’d gotten snappish when I caught an errant flash from him about another girl on the squad (I bet Jasmine isn’t like this, he’d thought, wondering if she was single), and told him I was sick and he could like it or lump it. Or words to that effect.

«Here goes…»

Thirty minutes later I didn’t know much more about my gift than I had when we’d started. I couldn’t levitate silverware, change colors, or start fires with a glare. I could talk to Zoë easily enough, especially once I learned to distinguish between the ‘talk-thoughts’ and the ‘think-thoughts’, but no amount of concentration had produced anything else tangible.

“Goose egg,” I said aloud, startling myself by how different my voice sounded when it was audible. I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

“Hmm.” Zoë grunted, then got up to get us more coffee. “Nothing at all?”

“Zip.” I nodded gratefully at the refill. “Felt like I almost had something once or twice, but… nothing.”

She nodded and sat down, both of us sipping in silence for awhile. Finally she spoke up. “Go back one, hon. Maybe we’ve been lookin’ in the wrong place. What about them dot-things you were seein’?”

“Them? I still see ‘em, but I’ve gotten pretty good at tuning ‘em out,” I answered, a little baffled.

“If they’re like, you seein’ auras or minds or whatever… can you change that?”

“Z, that’s…” I trailed off. Well, why not? I relaxed my perceptions, and Zoë seemed to dissolve into a cloud of dots and whorls occupying her chair.

«So far, so good,» I told her, and watched in delight as I “saw” a tendril stretch from me to the mass and make contact, a visual representation of our telepathic contact. «Got something here. I can see…» Yes, there it was. Or rather, she was. There was Zoë listening, there was the aftertaste of coffee on her tongue, that’s her nodding, that’s her seeing me, that’s…

Curious, I wrapped a tendril around one spot, cutting it off temporarily from the rest. It darkened, and a few more brightened. I waited a few moments for a response. Then: “Did that do anything?”

“Nope,” Zoë said. Pause. “‘Less you count my roommate disappearing all o’ the sudden.” She broke into a huge grin. “So, what else can you do?”

* * *

We had done it. Using Zoë’s feedback, I explored like a cautious kid in a candy store, testing the breadth and limits of my powers. I could alter perception, probe thoughts and memories, sense changes in mood, feeling, and sensation. With a lot of effort, I could override her physically, taking limited (and clumsy) control of her body, in part or in whole, although it turned out to be a lot easier to make her do it. Just making Zoë stand took a whole lot of concentration and nearly exhausted me, but adding a “stand” thought to her stream of consciousness was a good deal easier.

Zoë called a halt after about an hour, tired and a little spooked. “Go practice on some other guinea pig,” she told me, patting my hand. “Some of us gotta study.”

I was a little fatigued, but elated. I took a quick shower and pulled on some clothes, happy to go outside for the first time in days.

* * *

Can’t see me… your shoe has a rock in it… stick your tongue out at me… slap that guy on the ass for me, honey… I toyed with pedestrians as I strolled, tweaking minds here and there for the sheer pleasure of it. No longer a mere observer, I scattered minor bits of randomness in my wake. Gimme a ‘thumbs-up’, good buddy… start humming something… give me a bit of that apple… blow me a kiss, gorgeous…

Foot traffic on campus was light. It was late Friday afternoon, and a lot of people had gone home or to the game. The game! I’d forgotten all about it. I’d have to make it up to Jason, magnanimously forgiving him in my happiness. Until then, I had some time to kill before the game finished. What to do, what to do…

Scott lived nearby, so I thought I’d show up and say thanks for checking up on me while I was sick. That kind-hearted sentiment changed somewhere on the stairwell up to his place; by the time I knocked on the door, I had an entirely different plan in mind.

Scott held the door open for a few seconds, looking around blankly at the empty hallway. He shook his head and muttered to himself, wondering sub-audibly why he’d thought he had a visitor. He returned to his desk, thought a moment, and continued doing his homework.

A note to would-be spies: watching people unaware is really, really tedious. That’s since been proven to me time and again, but I got my first real taste watching Scott that day. For fifteen minutes or so, I watched him scribble away. I didn’t move around too much, for fear of drawing attention to myself. Keeping him from noticing me took energy, and I’d already used up a lot earlier.

So I basically sat on the corner of his bed and watched him write until he got bored, too. He stretched, yawned, and swept away his books, cleaning the desk. He sharpened a pencil, grabbed a couple of project folders from a nearby table and sat down again, intent on doing some sketch work.

I froze up. The blue folder I’d seen before. But he took the green one, too. Aha! Finally my snoopiness will pay off!

But not right away. No, he started with the blue one, which still held the naughty drawings of Blue Fox. He pulled out one in progress – her doing battle with some multi-armed barbarian, I believe – and set to shading in some parts.

Oh, come on. Do the green one, Scotty!

I swear I didn’t mean to push him into it. I don’t even know to this day if I did. But with next to no resistance he changed his mind, finished a few lines, and replaced the drawing, setting the blue folder aside and opening the green one, paging through the contents with exaggerated care.

Oh. My. God. Me. It was me. There must have been twenty or thirty sketches in there, all told, and every single one was definitely, unmistakably me. My face in profile. Me lying on an antique bed, head propped up in my hands. Me looking arrogant and butch as hell in leather on the back of an ancient motorcycle. Me with fairy wings and an insubstantial slip, dancing in a secluded glade pool.

Page after page of it. Most of them weren’t particularly sexual… but some were. The naked one of me on horseback I assumed was some kind of Lady Godiva thing, all right. But what was I to make of the one of me dancing in a top hat and tie, tails and high heels next to a stripper’s pole? Or decked out as the world’s sexiest ballerina mime? Or kneeling, eyes closed, one hand buried in the fly of my unzipped jeans while I sucked the thumb of my free hand?

Oh. Wow, I thought, numbly, as Scott leafed to the one of me wearing something impractical from a technofetishist’s wet dream. I wish I was really that skinny. He paged to a big one of me, wearing a red pleated microskirt and matching red fitted calf-high boots. My hair and cape whipped in the wind as I hovered in the air above a cityscape. I was tearing a too-tight “Supergirl” t-shirt away from my body with one gloved hand, a ferocious expression on my perfectly made-up face. It was a beautiful rendition, sweet and sexy at the same time.

And all I could think was, man, I wish my tits looked half that good in real life.

Scott got up so fast I thought I’d said it out loud or something; I jumped back in surprise and stifled a squeak of alarm. He hadn’t though, something else had, um… come up. He paced a few times across the floor, frowning and looking at his feet. “Cold shower, cold shower, cold shower…” he repeated, like a mantra, until he spun on one heel and headed for the bathroom, no doubt to calm himself down. I waited until I heard the water running before I realized that it was time to go, and I let myself out quietly, leaving the sketches – and Scott’s flattering imagery – behind me.

But not before taking the superheroine one.

* * *

“Whew!” I slumped against the inside of my apartment door, exhausted. Between my experiments with Zoe, playing around on campus, and hiding from Scott, whatever supply I had of psychic energy was pretty much gone for now, leaving me feeling tired and hollowed-out.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d drag your tail back home,” Zoe chided me from the couch. “Nothin’ to tire out a kid like givin’ her a new toy. Have fun?”

“Yeah,” I said, joining her in the living room. “Screwed around on campus for a while, then stopped by to see Scott.”

“Scott, eh?” She arched an eyebrow, studying me. “You go on a date?”

“No!” I didn’t have much energy to protest her matchmaking. “Just saw him for a while, that’s all.”

“If you say. Oh, your mom called, and Jason, too.”

“Thanks.” I called Jason first, the (slightly) lesser of two headaches. I told him I wasn’t up for going out yet, but I’d stop by before he went out for the evening. I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed my mother next. She was understandably upset that I was sick, but hadn’t been home when she’d called.

“I know, Mom, I know. I just needed to get out of the apartment for some time, you know? I’ve got a lot going on now, stuff I don’t hardly understand and don’t want to deal with, and it’s stressing me all out.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. Good old Mom.

“No,” I said regretfully. She was good about stuff like this. “Not right now, I mean. I’ll figure it out soon, and then I’ll need some of that cracker-jack analysis. It just kinda all came at me at once, you know?”

Mom, as usual, was prescient. “Just take your time, baby, and don’t rush a thing you don’t have to. You’re young; this is when you’ll make as many mistakes as you do right moves. You’re a good girl, and your father and I have faith in you. So don’t fret too much, okay? The hardest things are usually the most worthwhile.”

“Oh. Um, thanks, Mom. That actually helps here.” We chatted for a few more minutes about nothing in particular, and I felt a little calmer when I hung up.

I was heading to my room to change when something Zoë had said caught up with me. I stepped back into the living room, where she was still watching TV. “Z?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Did you really think that Scott and I went on a half-hour date, or were you just yanking my chain?”

She turned around on the couch to face me, staring hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “I figured you’d had a great time or a good date, you see.”

“Why? ‘Cause I was smiling, or something?”

She shook her head, chuckling. “Not exactly. More ‘cause, since you got home, your feet ain’t touched the ground.”

My blood went cold in my veins. I made myself look down after an eternity of paralysis, saw the faded carpet a good five or six inches below the soles of my feet. “Oh,” I said. “That’s why.”

* * *

For once I didn’t mind Jason’s one-dimensional view of our relationship. I was tired, brimming over with questions I couldn’t answer, and a little scared. After (apparently) levitating around for who-knows how long, my gift was pretty much tapped out; I didn’t hear a single voice on the walk to Jason’s. What I most wanted to do was to go to bed, get some sleep, and tackle my problems and powers with a clear head and (I hoped) fresh psychic batteries. So I was fairly relived to find that all Jason wanted out of me was a quick blowjob and a few words of small talk before he went out with the team.

Unfortunately for both of us, he was taking a good deal longer to come than usual, for some reason. Impatient, I looked for something to expedite the process. I was down to dregs, mind-reading-wise, and just caught a flash or two in his head before it petered out. Tonight’s victory (prominent), beer (and consumption of same), something about a camera (no idea), that bitch Jasmine again (some affection/curiosity – jerk), and… his favorite little fantasy in the world… the facial comeshot.

I sighed inwardly. Just another strange day at Midas City U. I’m skipping school, not because I’m going crazy like I thought, but because a whole mass of super-powers fell on me without a user’s manual. My roommate smokes dope, but she was the only person who noticed when I started fucking flying, including me. My semi-platonic friend slash tutor turns out to have a mad secret crush on me. Mom called and made me feel better. And my boyfriend’s idea of exploring our relationship involves painting my face with his sperm before he heads out to his weekly kegger. I’ve got to do something about my life…

But for the moment… “Jason?” I panted, my hand taking the place of my mouth for a few moments.

“Yeah?” He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not by the interruption.

“Do you…” I gulped. Just do it. You’ve done worse. “You wanna come on my face?”

Jason’s eyes bulged out, and his cock jerked on its own in my palm. “Wh-what?”

“Come on me,” I told him, pausing between sentences for a lick or two. “I want you to. Come on me. On my face. Do it, Jason. Come on me.”

It worked like a charm. I repeated it for a while, like a mantra, obscenely pleased with how delighted he looked. Jason went from maybe-not to steam engine in under a minute. “Jesus, baby… Oh, Jesus, I… I’m… oh, God, I’m gonna…”

I detached my lips from him with a twisting pop. “Do it, Jason,” I rasped. “Come for me. Come all over me, baby, do it…”

And he did. “Aaaaarrrrrggghhhh…” It wasn’t too bad; the first shot splashed across my cheek, missing my eye (I’d been a little scared he’d blind me or something), and the rest was more of a motivated oozing than anything.

“Awwwwwaaahhh…” Jason groaned. He turned my face to the side, inspecting his (my?) handiwork. “You’re a sexy l’il bitch, babe. Goddamned gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” I said insincerely, looking for something to clean myself off with. I’d bought myself an early night’s sleep and a few days’ peace by turning myself into an amateur porn starlet. I tried not to think about that too much.

* * *

I spent most of Saturday at the local mall, something I haven’t done since I was back in high school. I played a little bit, but not much – most of my effort was spent trying to block as much of the noise out as I could. By the end of the day I had a migraine, but I’d done a lot better than I’d hoped for my first time out. And as a bonus, a shoplifter’s escape had been foiled when he stumbled on a stroller he hadn’t seen. Nobody looked twice at the red-headed girl in sweats a dozen feet away, grinning despite a headache that was throwing little black circles into her vision. I hung around until the mall closed, went home, ate like a horse (even Zoë was impressed), and went out again, this time with a different mission of exploration. The weather report had called for cloudiness and overcast skies for the next few days, giving me the perfect opportunity. I put on some old sweats, a warm coat, and a good pair of boots and gloves, and then headed outside. Saturday night, I flew for the first time.

It wasn’t pretty. I’ll gloss over the embarrassing details and just say it’s not as easy as some make it look. By the time I was done for the night I was a little wiser, a lot happier, and covered in welts and bruises from miscalculated landings and unseen TV aerials.

It was a little after three in the morning, and I was tired, but not quite done for the evening. I decided to pop in on Jason before I called it quits; heck, his place was practically right below me. I dropped altitude haltingly, still unsure of myself. I could get up to a pretty good clip (around twenty miles an hour, I guessed – have to buy a speed-measuring thingy soon), but my fine maneuvering left a lot to be desired. So I was upside-down when I perched next to Jason’s window and peeked inside. Jason was in bed, but not asleep yet. His eyes were lit by the television, the room well enough lit for me to see him slowly stroking his erection.

What the… dammit, Jason! You and your stupid porn collect… I trailed off of my internal rant as I righted myself and saw what had arrested his attention.

It was me. A dark-lit shot, with a crummy composure and an awkward camera angle, but me, mostly naked and riding Jason while he clumsily pawed at my tits. Oh, god… I remembered that night. Had to be a game night, as my hair was up in a school-color scrunchie and I was still wearing my cheer shoes. I’d recently learned that female superior was about the only way his tiny prick had a shot at getting me there, so four weeks ago, tops. Judging from my robotic pace, it didn’t look like my lucky night; my expression was a familiar mix of boredom and resignation.

And he’d recorded it. That, and who knows how many other times. I remembered how he’d turned my head Friday night after he’d ejaculated on my face, no doubt making sure the camera had captured the proof of his manliness. Of my humiliation.

My vision went white; I burst through the glass and stood between him and the obscene recording, yelling like scorned white-trash in a mid-day exploitation-themed talk show. “You… douche. You shit-eating self-absorbed stupid oversexed asshole! You…” I took a couple of calming breaths, trying to settle down before someone called the cops. Jason sat there like an idiot, dick in his hand, until I’d calmed down enough to get my wits back a little.

No, not like an idiot, I gradually understood. He wasn’t just stunned by his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend flying in through the window when he’d been in the middle of spanking the monkey, he wasn’t even really home anymore. In my rage and haste, I’d blown most of his conscious self-control into his backbrain, dominating him more thoroughly in half a second than a year’s worth of CIA interrogation could’ve. Until I pushed the psychic reset button on him, Jason was under my control; he was my puppet. “Fuck-faced puke. Couldn’t you even hang around for me to scream at you?” I told him, more miffed than angry at the moment.

Revenge later. First, clean up your mess. I turned to the entertainment center, turned it off, and ejected the tape. “How many more of these are there?” I demanded, waving the offending tape at him. “And put that icky thing away before I pinch it off. I don’t ever want to see it again, for any reason.”

“That’s the only one…” he slurred, hands clumsily tucking his pud back into his shorts.

Well, that was a relief. “How many times did you record us? And who knows about this?”

“Nobody knows. Eight or nine times with you, just two of Jas.”

Jas? Oh, Jasmine. Oh… oh, you fucker. You fucking pustule of a human being. You... Fortunately for him, I held my temper in check until I’d calmed myself enough to speak, although grisly revenge fantasies were dancing in my head. “Jasmine,” I repeated. “How long have you been screwing her?”

“…Two days.”

Two days. Cheating on his sick girlfriend, he’d recorded his new bitch in the act every time, apparently. What a prince. No wonder he’d had so much trouble coming Friday; he had a lot more ambition than he did semen. Fine. Time for a little revision of history.

“All right, first. You broke the window tonight – just your clumsiness at work. I didn’t come here tonight at all. Right? Secondly, I broke up with you, got it? We’re gone, finished. I got tired of your stupid ass, tired of dating a guy who doesn’t know how to talk to a woman, much less satisfy her. And thirdly, you’ll forget all about this vile little tape – it never existed, you understand?”

He nodded his acceptance, and I went on. “No doubt you’ll sleaze your way into Jasmine’s life next. Where does she live, anyway?” He told me; I nodded and continued. “Fine. Well, over the next few weeks, you’ll grow dissatisfied with her. That’s because you’re actually a homosexual, Jason.”

I pushed to reinforce my words, watching in satisfaction as I saw them take root. “You don’t know it consciously now, and you’ll deny it to yourself for months, but you are gay. The next few times you watch your porn videos, or read your dirty magazines, you’ll find yourself wondering what it would be like to be the woman. You’ll wonder how dirty it would be to have a man’s cock in your mouth, to swallow his come. You’ll think how full and sexy you’d feel with a dick up your ass. And the idea will excite you.”

I hesitated, a small voice inside me saying this was too much. A very small voice. “You’ll start fantasizing about it, even when you’re with a girl. And one day, about a month or so from now, you’ll rent or buy some gay porn. Something hard-core, all-male, no redeeming artistic value at all. By mistake, you’ll tell yourself, but you’ll watch it anyway. Just curious, you’ll tell yourself. And you’ll watch it again and again, over and over. Because it’ll get you hard, picturing yourself servicing all those strong aggressive men. Because it’ll get you hot, imagining yourself fucking and sucking all those fags. Got it?”

He nodded. “After that, girls just won’t do it for you any more,” I continued. “You won’t be able to maintain an erection with a woman without fantasizing about it. If a girl’s blowing you, you’ll have to pretend she’s a guy going down on you. If you’re having sex with a woman – which will grow more and more repulsive – you won’t be able to come without imagining a man drilling your ass. After a month or so of that, you’ll give up on women altogether. You’ll finally admit it, scoping out your fellow jock assholes in the shower, cruising gay bars, and putting out for any man who asks you seriously.”

I made him repeat it a few times, word for word, partly to assure myself that he’d gotten it, but mostly out of vindictive pleasure. I put him to bed and stalked out, heading for Jasmine’s dorm. One more stop before I’m done tonight, I told myself.

But my anger cooled on the walk over. I’d started out full of hate, planning some righteous vengeance for that back-stabbing tramp, but by the time I got there I was having second thoughts. My head was killing me, for one thing, and I found I couldn’t get too worked up about her part in all this. I’d taken my anger out on Jason already, so revenging myself on her skank ass was kind of overkill. Jasmine had known the score when she’d done what she’d done, but if it hadn’t been her, Jason would’ve found someone else to cheat on me with. She was cute, willing, available… a cheerleader. Like me. Hell.

I decided I’d had enough for one night; Jasmine would get off light. All she had to deal with was the fruits of her betrayal, when Jason started acting funny in a couple of weeks. Enjoy those times, I wished Jasmine silently, and went home.

* * *

“Is that it?” Zoë asked, bringing in a box of odds and ends.

“Yeah, I think so,” I replied, flopping onto the couch. «My whole life fits into my dad’s truck. That’s pretty depressing.»

“Them who’s got to travel often best do it light,” Zoë told me sagely, sitting next to me. “Less burden you got right now, that better.”

«…yeah.»

It was Wednesday afternoon. I’d spent most of Sunday in bed with a migraine from hell; it was every hangover I’d ever had at once. A lesson, Zoë told me, to not overdo the magic. By noon I was ready to swear off the magic for good; thankfully, the tide had ebbed enough by dinner that my ibuprofen and I could get out of my room to eat.

I withdrew from my classes Monday. Zoë and Scott tried to talk me out of it, but I desperately needed time and space, and school gave me plenty of neither. I could have gotten myself packed by Tuesday but for Zoë’s help; it’s hard to move when you’re high, and while her cooking cured the munchies, neither of us wanted to move a muscle after our ‘snack’. So I wasn’t actually moved out until the next day, bridges burned, goodbyes said. Mostly.

“Guess your mind’s made up,” Zoë said reflectively. Are you sure about all this?, she meant.

“Yeah. I can’t ignore what I’ve got, and I can’t live with it and do the college experience thing right now. Too much. This way I don’t go crazy or turn into a monster.” I’d already gotten close. I’d been so mad… I felt a little guilty about it now, but I hadn’t changed Jason back yet, either.

“You ain’t got a monster in you, girl,” Zoë told me, patting my hand. “Dark side, maybe. Bitchy side, for sure. But you got a good soul; you’ll do some good in the world.”

“Thanks,” I said, humbled.

“You kin thank me by makin’ a difference, then. Gift like yours, I full expect to be reading ‘bout you some day.” She turned and fixed me with her gaze, sincere. “Senator, street cop, therapist… hell, pull on a mask and leotard if you want. Don’t matter; you’ll always have a place with me, if you want a good meal or a friendly ear. Love you, girl.” She dabbed at an eye with a tissue, and I found myself needing one, too. “And you keep in touch, y’hear? Else you’ll make me sad.”

“I will,” I sniffed, and we blew our noses and sniveled for a while.

“You gone?” she asked finally. I nodded and helped her get up.

“Almost. One last goodbye to make.”

“Ah.” She pursed her lips, suppressing a grin. “Puppy dog. Go easy on him, ‘kay? Don’t go ruinin’ him for other girls by doin’ it too well.”

«No promises,», I sent back, and headed out.

* * *

Scott was alone in his apartment, just watching whatever drek was on TV. He’d showered an hour or so ago, but he didn’t have any plans for the evening, and was getting pretty bored and restless by the time I arrived.

All of which I’d made sure of two days ago. I had something very specific in mind for our farewell, and I didn’t want anything messing it up. The door was unlocked, just as I’d ‘asked’ him to. I let myself in, locked the door behind me, and went to the bathroom to finish my preparations. Scott ignored me, my post-hypnotic instructions making me effectively unnoticeable until I was ready.

I had every detail I could think of planned out, but I was still nervous as hell and I didn’t know why. I controlled the horizontal and the vertical. With a little groundwork (well, ok, a lot of groundwork) and some concentration, I could have painted Scott blue, screamed at the tops of my lungs and set fire to the place, and he’d never know I’d even been there unless I wanted him to. He would see, hear, smell, feel whatever I wanted him to; I could guide his thoughts, change his memories, and shape his emotions as I wished. And what I wished was an unforgettable experience for the two of us. I wanted it, and I knew Scott would love it; most of the ideas came right out of his own fantasies. But was shaking as I changed out of my jeans and sweatshirt, and my hands trembled so much I couldn’t apply my eyeliner. What’s the problem here? Why am I so jittery?

Because you like him, stupid. Oh. No wonder. I’m not the smartest girl on the block, but I can usually figure it out in the end. He likes me, and I’ve liked him for… well, a while now, I guess. Well, better late than never at all. I bit my lip and started over. I was not going to let my belated realization screw up my good-bye plan, a plan I’d come up with because, well, I liked him. A plan as much his as mine, in a way.

All right, enough stalling. I tugged the final bits of accoutrement into place, touched up my blush, and gave myself the once-over in the mirror, the traditional dénouement for a superheroine girding herself for battle. Because that’s what I was, for a little while, anyway. Sifting through Scott’s fantasies while he slept, looking for the right scenario, I found, unsurprisingly, that he had one big one: Midas City’s own trickster, the Blue Fox.

She’d burst onto the superhero scene with a vengeance in the Eighties, terrorizing criminals, delighting the hearts and loins of the citizenry, and generally having a hell of a good time thwarting evil. I had a poster of her on my wall in high school, like practically every other kid I knew. Her idea of a costume scandalized some at the time, and she’d had some rough times with the MCPD until they figured out she was one of the good guys, but her work paved the way for those to come. Like me, although I didn’t know it at the time.

My version of her costume was terrible. I looked like crap.

I’m not being hyper-critical here; it wasn’t a very good rendition. Instead of midnight blue cloak with a high stiff collar (her trademark ‘Cloak of Many Things’), I had a black raincoat, and I’d substituted an electric-blue bodysuit for her low-cut molded latex version. Not owning any black stockings or a necklace with a Blue Fox logo, I’d gone with a choker and a wide-meshed pair of white fishnet hose. Instead of blue elbow-length gloves and matching form-fitting boots (with reinforced kneepads), I had on an old pair of black opera gloves and my least-practical set of high heels. I’d put together a legendarily cool outfit on a shoestring budget and it showed. Fortunately, it didn’t have to be good, just good enough.

You’re probably ahead of me here, but bear with me. Thanks to my newfound powers and some blanket “You see what I tell you”-type commands I’d implanted earlier in Scott’s head, I could go out done up as Godzilla if I wanted to. But if I did, I’d probably have to devote some attention to making sure the costume part of the phantasmagoria was working, and I didn’t want to squander my limited resources. This way I had a prop, or props, something real to base the illusion on. Not to mention I hoped it’d stop me from feeling like a retard, with him acting like I’m his dream girl while I’m dressed like Little Hobby Hobo.

Something was off; it took me another few seconds to figure it out. Oh, man! I’d almost forgotten the mask. There it was, lurking in the bottom of my gym bag. I swept the wig’s hair back (shoulder-length blue; my own red frizzy mess was cunningly concealed beneath) and tied the mask into place.

It was one hell of a rush. One minute I was me, kinda weird, nervous and unsure in a mishmash of clothes that were themselves part of a mishmash plan. But once the mask settled on over my eyes, nothing changed – but everything did. Gone was the hesitation, the trepidation, the shaking what ifs. In that moment, I saw myself as part of something larger, more majestic, more me. I was destined for more than a four-year degree and a retirement plan at sixty-five. I was special, and not just because Fate had handed me an odd set of cards. From the second I put that stupid dollar ninety-five mask on, I decided, and I’ve never looked back.

Confusing, I know. I was still me, only more so; I felt like I’d awakened something, some part of me that’d been napping since I was about eight years old. In that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. Superhero. Oh, yeah. I don’t know for sure how long I stood there; probably no longer than ten minutes. Not a long time, unless you consider all I was doing was staring at my reflection in the mirror – my reflection, and my future. But first things first…

“All right,” I told my reflection out loud. “Let’s go make this memorable.” I swept my cloak/raincoat back dramatically, spun on one heel, and strode out into the carpeted hallway, fearless and ready. Unfortunately my feet hadn’t gotten the memo about our new station in life; two steps and they went their own way, sending me crashing flat onto my ass.

Ouch. I picked myself up gingerly, but there didn’t seem to be anything damaged other than my pride. After a couple of practice runs in the hall, I gave up and used my flying power to pick myself up just a little bit, enough to ensure I could walk no matter how bad the footing or how high the heels. A bad habit, by the way; to this day I can’t manage anything over three inches or so without cheating.

Scott was still scowling at the TV, suffering for my tardiness. Well, his wait was at an end.

* * *

Why am I watching this nonsense? Scott asked, for what had to have been the twentieth time in as many minutes. I don’t like anything on, I don’t even watch TV all that much. So why am I still sitting here? “Damn, but this is boring,” he said to no one in particular.

“Why not do a little scheming? Or you could brush up on your evil cackling. Or is that only evil geniuses? I can never tell.” Scott’s eyes bugged out as a figure emerged from the shadows, coolly surveying him.

“B-blue Fox!” he stammered. Ohyigodohyigodohmygod… His brain couldn’t resolve what his eyes were telling it: that Midas City’s greatest crime-fighter was here, standing in his living room, looking at him like… like…

“Glad you recognize me,” I said, lips quirking. “It’d have hurt my feelings if you’d said ‘Cindy Lauper’ or something.” His brain was running a mile a minute, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Thanks to my conditioning two days back, he was processing just what I wanted to, and ignoring the rest. He wasn’t afraid of me, didn’t question how I’d gotten in (heroes can be sneaky), and especially, didn’t question that it was really her. His artist’s eye spotted minute flaws and reported them, but his programming translated them into a form more suited for my purpose. I’d forgotten all about the fur trim Fox sported, but Scott was seeing it as well as everything else. I grinned, pleased as punch; don’t you just love it when things finally start going your way?

“Yes, Blue Fox,” I told him, doing the classic ‘arms akimbo’ stance, hips pitching forward just a little bit. “And you’d be Scott. I’ve been looking for you; your buddy Stass put me on your trail.”

“Stass… wh-what?” he stuttered. He had every reason to be befuddled as I’d pretty much made the name up.

“Now don’t panic, kid. I’m not after you… at least, not today.” I strode forward and put a foot up on the armrest of his chair, bringing his eyes level with my belt. It was hard not to giggle as he drew his attention away from my groin, only to get sidetracked by my tits. At this rate he’d be all day in getting to my eyes. “I’m looking for the Red Rush. Stass said you two were chummy, even gave me your address here on North Street. So…” I lowered my voice to a maybe-seductive, maybe-threatening monotone. “Where is he?”

“He? North Street? I…” Scott scrambled up from his chair, scooting in back in the process. There was a little fear in his face, suppressed by his programming. At this stage, I wanted him confused and just a little aroused. “This is South Street. You’ve got the wrong place, lady. Uh, Ms. Fox. Uh, ma’am…”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I cut him off. “I’ve never heard that one before. ‘Who, me, a criminal? No way, Foxy, you’re at the wrong place… it must be the other abandoned warehouse you want!’ Puh-leeze. Give me a little credit, will you?” I gave an exaggerated sigh, expanding my chest as much as possible. Scott, seeing a low-cut corsety top, must’ve been holding his breath waiting for my breasts to break loose.

I withdrew a cap gun and pointed it at him, letting his mind see one of Fox’s innumerable gadgets. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, your choice. Now, are you gonna tell me, or do I have to get… rough?” I dragged out the word, sending a near-tangible erotic undercurrent to my words.

Scott was a little slow, and chose to focus more on the ‘gun’ than the subtext. Damn it; I’d wanted to do this with a minimum of on-the-spot rewriting. “Hey now, settle down, Ms. Fox…” he told me, backing towards the wall, hands held out placatingly. “There’s no need to-”

“Hands up,” I barked, putting a little mental oomph behind it. His hands shot up into the air and I fired, four times.

From my vantage, it wasn’t impressive, just four plastic-on-plastic clacks. Scott, on the other hand, saw four discs fly from the mysterious device, crescents that embedded themselves into the wall, expertly pinning his wrists and ankles and restraining him spread-eagled up against the wall. He yelped a little in anticipation, but they hadn’t broken flesh, as far as he could tell. And he was struck silent by the blue-and-black vixen (can I use that word now?) holstering her weapon and striding purposefully towards him. “Guh…” he managed.

“Can’t have you leaving just yet, cutie,” I explained. “Comfy?” When he opened his mouth to respond, I brought my hands up and jammed a ball gag into his mouth. Snap! and it was fastened in place, a near-perfect fit. The gag was the only part of Scott’s bondage was real (twelve ninety-five at Heat Lamp Designs), but he didn’t know that. He stood like a mute X against his wall, eyes rolling at me helplessly. Delicious.

“Can’t have you calling for reinforcements either,” I told him, patting his cheek, and this time I did giggle. I admired my prey for a moment, then turned, unbuttoning my coat the rest of the way a few feet away. “I asked nicely, for me,” I said quietly, pulling the coat away from me and giving Scott an astonishing eyeful of my backside. I draped my coat carefully over a chair, bending over to do so, and ran my fingers under the hem of my bodysuit as I straightened it, tugging it unnecessarily into place before turning to face him again.

“If you don’t want to cooperate, that’s just fine with me, Scott.” I stalked towards him, taking my time. I wrapped my arms around his neck in a loose embrace, whispering into his ear. “I like it when they don’t cooperate.” I brought myself a little closer, letting my body brush against his all over. Scott was acutely aware of the heat of my breasts against his chest, my hips a bare inch away from his, my fingertips stroking the back of his neck.

“Now I could just beat it out of you. That usually works. But in your case…” I liked his ear lasciviously. “In your case, I think I know what would… persuade you best.”

“Mmmph?” Scott grunted through the gag. “Mmmmph!”

Chuckling throatily, I descended gracefully to my knees, a blue-haired goddess kneeling for her tribute. His erection was already straining at his jeans. “I’ll bet you don’t last five minutes in my mouth,” I told him, unzipping his fly and tugging his jeans down to his spread feet.

He was bigger than I’d expected. Fully aroused, Jason was perhaps a touch over four inches, so Scott had him beat by a lot. Not that it made a lot of difference, but with as much value as men place of their size, you’d have thought my jock ex would at least be in the same league as sweet-geek Scott. “Whoa!” I exclaimed, my surprise unfeigned. “That’s a good-looking package you have here, cutie. Mind if I have a taste?”

I’d sucked enough cock to be able to do it almost entirely on automatic if I wanted to. So as I set about my work, I kept constant watch on Scott’s mind-stream, adjusting a dozen tiny variables as I licked, slurped, and sucked my way into his dreams. No, no, no… not until I say you can. I kept a tight reign on his arousal, keeping him at a slow boil, but unable to cross into that magic moment. In mere minutes I knew exactly what he liked, a pleasure-map of his entire length. I knew what would inflame him more and what would get him off. Part of the point of this exercise was to build up his emotional and sexual confidence, unfairly low. I wanted Scott to have the night of his life; he wouldn’t come until I was thoroughly good and ready.

And I loved every second of it. A man bound by your will, helplessly shaking, unable to release, a puppet at my mercy… sure, it was for his benefit, but I was getting wetter by the moment, struck by the delightful dichotomy of servicing a man who was wholly in my power. Here he was in his wildest fantasy, a legendary superheroine teasing him erotically for information he couldn’t divulge if he wanted to – and if I had done my job, he wouldn’t, not until we were finished playing. Tapping into his senses, I saw my head bobbing on his/my cock, my tongue sending flicks of flame up through him. I felt him shudder as my mouth swallowed around the head of his penis, a wet warm embrace he never, ever wanted to end…

I gave him fifteen minutes before I stopped, jaw a little sore. I stood, affecting puzzlement, and wiped my mouth with the back of one hand, smelling my own scent of arousal on it; I hadn’t been able to resist a little self-gratification while I’d been on task. “All right,” I allowed, a grudging tone in my voice. “I’m impressed. You’ve got some self-control; not many could hold out that long. So I’ll give you another chance: where is he?”

Scott exhaled roughly when I pulled the ball from his mouth, smacking his lips. “You…” He stopped, licked his lips, trying to let reason win out over lust before he spoke.

“Yes,” I inquired archly. Go on, Scott, do it!

He looked me square in the eye, checked me out as thoroughly as I’ve ever been top to bottom, and smiled defiantly at me. “I’ll never tell.”

Inwardly, I was pumping my fist in the air and running in a circle, cheering go, go Scott! Outwardly though, I had to keep up my role as thwarted seductress, turning the beginnings of my grin into a feral snarl. “Fine,” I told him, and tapped at his extremities. From Scott’s perspective, the Blue Fox released his arms and legs, then threw him onto the bed before he could get his balance back. He got his bearings about the same time he heard the quadruple snap! of his restraints being refastened, this time fixing him to the four posts of his bed. I waited for him to get his bearings, then tore his shirt open, ignoring the pop-pop-pop of liberated buttons flying to freedom.

“There, that’s a little better,” I told him, trying my best ‘gloating’ expression while he struggled against his non-existent bonds. “Ready for round two?”

I stalked to the foot of the bed and slid onto it, doing a passable Kim Bassinger-style slinky crawl up to him, running my legs across his as I went. He was still hard as a pole, his arms and legs straining mightily against the air in a vain effort to dislodge me. I took my time straddling him, trapping his throbbing cock under my crotch as I maneuvered myself into position. Deliberately, I unsnapped the crotch of my bodysuit, the pop-pops unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

“You did all right earlier, I suppose. And I’m accustomed to… let’s say, a rather elite level of lover?” I grinned down at him, rubbing my damp pussy along his length in long, smooth strokes. “Let’s see how well you hold up if I do… this.” And on this, I slid up, leaning forward to mash my breasts against his bare chest while I descended onto his steely manhood.

It was wonderful. Thrashing uselessly below me, Scott provided a nice hard cock and the gratitude while I did the rest. I was on top, in charge; Scott was just my ride, a mount I used without a trace of inhibition. I set the pace and the depth, pushing down on his shoulders while I rolled my hips in long, sinuous grinds that took out breath away. His unaccustomed length game me a lot more to play with, so to speak, and his cock plumbed new zones of pleasure deep inside me, places I hadn’t even know existed until then. Less than three minutes into it, I felt a climax bearing down on me from far away, building up momentum as it rushed at me.

“Oh,” I moaned, letting pleasant surprise enter into my voice. “Oh, Scott. Oh, God. Oh! Oh, Scott, that’s good… oh, I’m… oh yes, I’m… I’m gonna… yesssss…” I inhaled through clenched teeth, hissing, and started thrusting myself violently on him. Scott groaned in response, back arching to drive himself deeper inside. “Fuck, yes, oh god… fuck! Oh, yeah, yes, yes… oh, I’m… I’m…”

I shuddered my way into it, my nails digging into his shoulders through the gloves as I rode it out. When the last big spasm had swept through me, I slumped forward, nestling my head in the crook of Scott’s neck. “Nice,” I murmured happily into his ear. I straightened up with a lopsided smile and patted his sweaty chest. “Was it good for you, too?” I asked considerately.

I let his mouth gape open for a moment, then cut off whatever he was about to say. “Don’t worry, pet. I’m multi-orgasmic. I can keep this up a long time.”

The multiorgasmic line was a shot in the dark; I wasn’t totally sure what it meant, but I’d never gotten off more than once with anybody. Scott didn’t have to know that, and it wasn’t what I’d come here for. Any orgasm I had was a nice bonus to my primary goal of rocking his world.

But… I’d surprised myself already. I’d gotten worked up just entrancing Scott just preparing for this, and by the time I’d straddled him I’d been as hot as I could ever recall being. The climax had come easily, quickly; the contrived, ludicrous scenario I was in had awakened something in me, sexually. It wasn’t just the dominance, or the position, or the consequence-free anonymity. With the mask on, and a terrific post-orgasmic buzz going, I felt amazing. My blood sang in my veins, and every muscle and sinew I had seemed to crackle with electricity. And at the center of the storm, my mind sat calmly poised, alert and sure. My potential was unfolding into reality; I’d felt it since day one, but it had taken me until now to begin to realize it. Here, today, I’d taken my first real step. I was grasping my future with both hands and pulling it close, and I loved it.

Scott was trying to get something out. “You…” He swallowed, trying to regain his voice. “You’re crazy…”

“With a name like mine, you can probably guess what I’d have to say to that,” I told him. I put a finger to his lips. “Now shush. No talking while Blue Fox is fucking your lights out.”

I came again ten minutes later, rocking myself through it with the aplomb of a princess. Scott was gasping under me, clutching the sheets and wondering where in the hell his stamina was coming from. I’d been melding out feelings together, his pleasure feeding mine feeding his in an upward-spiraling cycle that threatened to overwhelm us both.

“That’s two,” I told him gently, withdrawing just long enough to remount him reverse-cowgirl style. I leaned forward as I settled onto him, rubbing his calves lazily. The unfamiliar position was strange, but nice; I almost imagined I could see his cock pressing out of my belly, distorting my pussy’s normal dimensions with its size. “Ready to talk, baby?” I asked sweetly.

“N… no…” he gasped, supernaturally defiant.

I sat up and looked over my shoulder, winking when I caught his wild eyes. “You asked for it.” I began clenching him inside, each internal pulse rewarded with a rising moan from him. Squeeze, relax… squeeze, relax, timing it to coincide with his heartbeat for maximum impact. I watched him the whole time over one shoulder or the other, seeing him gradually lose the will to resist the hot velvet fist urging him into me. And still he didn’t come. Each new plateau was a wonderment to him, each wave pulling him closer to the edge of delirium…

And soon I couldn’t resist either. He just looked so fucking sexy, you know? I leaned back, my gloved hands gripping his biceps behind me, and ground myself into another climax, this one ending in rapid-fire staccato bursts of mini-explosions, leaving my ears ringing and leaving bright sports before my eyes for a few minutes.

I wanted to roll off of him and hold him, thank him sincerely for wanting me, for being my friend, for believing in me. But I had a job to do, and my resolve to complete my quest kept me firmly in character. “That’s three,” I whispered, rising and turning to face him. “Maybe four, I don’t know.” I ran my hands over my breasts, my face, wiping them of the sheen of sweat I’d developed. I ran my fingers through my hair to dry them, then twined my hands up over my head, pleased at how fascinated he still was by my tits. “God, you’re incredible,” I told him. “A truly spectacular fuck.”

Scott managed a little chuckle at that. “Just… inspired,” he managed.

“That’s so sweet!” I told him, guiding his still-rigid erection into my hot little nest. “Just for that… uhhhnn… I’m going to let you come in me.”

“Promises, promises,” he muttered weakly, wondering if he even could. I was shunting aside his fear, but it was taking more and more finesse to forestall ejaculation without him getting over- or desensitized. I was doing a masterful job at it, but I couldn’t keep it up forever.

“Tell you what,” I purred, sliding my body along his until I was almost laying down on him. “Get me there just one more time, cutie, and I’ll let you go. Do me one more glorious time, and you’re free.”

“Deal,” he breathed. “And. You make me come, and I’ll let you do it again some day.”

Even sensing the quippish ending, I flushed. I had to choke back a laugh; falling off the bed laughing would spoil my act. I thought it was funny as hell, but the Blue Fox would be outraged at this display of impudence. “You… you…” I spluttered, playing at offense. “You… oh! Oh, you’re going to pay for that!”

I seized hold of him hard enough to bruise and planted my knees on either side of his body, wanting all the leverage I could gain. “You… fucker,” I spat, impaling myself with a sharp twist. “Make… you… come?” I started bouncing on him, full-on flat-out screwing his brains out, not caring if I broke his bed and the floor in the process. “I’ll fucking make you come! I’m… gonna… fuck you… like you’ve never… been fucked… before!”

I was humping him in earnest now, slamming myself onto him, my high heels diggings into his thighs as I ravished him like a woman possessed. I clawed at his chest, bit his neck, caught up in the firestorm of lust that was engulfing us both. “Fuck… fuck me… fuck me, Scott… fuck me…”

I felt everything he did, my power fusing our carnality into a single white beacon that surrounded and saturated us. His moans escaped from my throat, and I felt it coming, a vast tidal swelling, looming, surging…

I released my hold on his orgasm abruptly, and felt it crash through us as I/he/we came, scarlet bolts of magma erupting into my frenzied loins, me taking him taking me taking him, ecstasy blooming out like a nuclear blossom, time itself seeming to stretch in its wake…

* * *

When I came to I was slumped over on Scott’s chest, drooling stupidly. A hasty check showed he was drowsing semi-consciously, one arm curled up over my back. Hell. Must’ve passed out there. Not that I didn’t have good cause. I gently disentangled my body from his, wincing gingerly as his softening penis plopped out of my cunt stickily. Ow. I’m gonna be saddlesore for days.

Scott had weathered my departure without waking, and I pulled a sheet up over him. The poor darling deserved a good sleep, after all his hard work. I defocused my eyes until I could see his mind-cloud, lazily rolling into itself, sedate and content. I sent gentle tendrils into his thoughts, erasing what few inconsistencies and clues I’d left behind. When he woke he’d have trouble figuring out whether he’d been dreaming or not, never mind who’d molested him so nicely. I retrieved my gym bag and changed back into my jeans and sweatshirt, confident he wouldn’t wake up for hours to come. I looked scary, post-coitus, but anyone I scandalized on my short walk to the truck would just have to deal with it. I gathered my things, made a last sweep of the apartment for any forgotten items, and hesitated. This would probably be the last time I’d ever see Scott for a long time, if ever.

I bent over him and kissed his forehead lightly. “Bye,” I whispered, my eyes blurring a little for some reason. I straightened, set my shoulders, and headed for the door.

“Bye,” he mumbled at my back, almost inaudibly. “Love you…”

This is a Moment, I remember thinking. This is where I can change my fate, if I want to.

I stood still for a minute or two, thinking. “I know.” And I left.

* * *

I ran a little more hot water into the tub, the cooling water waking me from drowsy reminisce. I caught up with Jason about a year later and released him from my hasty mindfuck; last I’d heard, he’s still gay, but he has a job and a steady boyfriend now. I’ve kept in touch with Zoë. We talk every week or two; she’s in New Orleans now, has her own restaurant and everything. Scott I haven’t seen, but I’ve kept tabs on. I have two reproductions of his “Blue” series on my living room wall, and a signed “Psyche in the Sky” limited edition in my bedroom. And of course, I still have the pencil drawing from Scott’s room, years back. I wonder if he ever noticed it was gone.

I lay in the tub for a few more minutes before getting out, toweling off so carelessly I was still damp when I slid into bed. My hair would be a mess in the morning, but screw it; I had nowhere to go and nothing to do for a while. I’d relax, do a little hedonistic indulging for a couple of days, then put on my costume and go back to work. I still get that thrill every time I pull on my mask, every time I strap on those preposterous platform boots, that petite frisson I can’t explain to non-supers. But you mention it to Focus, or Silver, and they get this look right away. So I’m not the only one. It’s part of why we do what we do.

When I was a little girl, I almost got suspended from school for fighting. It wasn’t my fault, but I was still swinging when the teachers came to pull us apart. They called my dad into the principal’s office and told him I was setting a bad example; if someone’s picking on another kid, you’re supposed to go get a teacher, not step in and start loosening teeth. Dad nodded and said he’d take care of it and took me out of school early. We discussed the whole thing over ice cream, and he signed me up for judo lessons the next week. “You did the right thing, never mind what they say,” he told me over ice cream. “It’s even better that you won, but the important part is that you stood up for something. Or in this case, some one. After today, there’s one kid a little less likely to prey on someone he thinks is weaker, just in case you’re around, and there’s another kid who’s a little less likely to grow up too scared to be himself. You made a difference, honey, and I’m proud of you.” And he signed me up for judo lessons the very next week.

I fought it for a while, for years after I’d forgotten all about that day, until I couldn’t ignore it any more. I’ve stopped trying to be whatever ‘normal’ is. My life is a little weirder than some, but that’s the luck of the draw, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. In a couple of days I’d be flying around in a too-short skirt, waiting for life to throw the next bizarre twist my way. Could be muggers, could be zombies, could be the Kilroys trying to take over the world again. There’s no way to know where, when, or how evil will rear up its head again; I just know I’ll be there when it does.

I can hardly wait.

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