The Artist meets with a group of bikers, and instructs them in a way that would make their sporting time more interesting. In the end, the Artist samples the fruit of her work.
Tires, Spinning and Invading
Over time the Artist had grown distanced of her own work. Everywhere she had gone, she heard what had been going on, and changed bodies and minds in the process. But it was so very easy to suddenly find herself in a loop of routine. She would find someone, bring them into the Trance, and change a single aspect of their lives that would, in the long run, have massive repercussions.
It had been a long while since she had done something small, naughty and fun. For the past several hours the Artist had felt a devious itch that had to be scratched, and soon. She had walked down a busy street at the lazy hours of late afternoon, brushed her body against other people, heard the noise of voices, ignored stores. It had been a distressing experience. There were few things that managed to get under the Artist’s skin, and conglomerations of people were amongst them.
Frustrated, the Artist had walked a long way away from the people and found herself suddenly in a park. The calm, empty, open spaces were comforting after the noise of a city centre. There was a sixteenth century chapel at one end of the park, and a couple of football fields and tennis courts scattered about. There were people making use of those facilities, but not so many as to worry her. She was happy. Everywhere she looked, she saw and heard tools for art. People were paint and canvases and brushes. There were many to chose from, but not one possible victim sparked her interest.
It had been hours and the Artist had not felt true inspiration strike her. For her it was like she simply took still-life pictures of what was around her when she worked without the Spark. Her fingers moved over a notebook she had acquired recently, letting the pencil imprint the world around her like she saw it. The notebook was almost filled, every page completely darkened with perfect and imperfect images.
Abruptly the Artist rose, dropping the notebook on the bench she was sitting on and walked away. With a deep sigh, and considering walking into one of the tennis courts or swimming pools and cause some delicious havoc or beautiful goodness, the Artist found her new target in the opposite direction.
Grinning widely in shades of purple and marine blue, the Artist broke at a barefoot jog towards a group of cyclists who had just stopped for the day. She approached them with a proud walk, careful not to bring suspicion upon her. She was oblivious to how suspicious she looked in the coat and naked, calloused feet.
The cyclists all wore tight and colourful garments, sunglasses and helmets. They were obviously semi-professionals. They chatted amiably, drank water and Gatorade. Some crouched before turned-over bikes, checking chains and tires. Not one paid any attention to the approaching woman until she was standing right in front of them.
She stood there, simply staring. Unlike some of her previous experiences with changing people, this group had the physique she lusted after. Fit, strong, slender, slim. They looked so fit and slim, she thought, that they could be able to escape a wrestling lock. The thought helped fane the flames of her frustration.
“Can I help you?” A particularly handsome man approached the Artist. He was still on his bike, his arms crossed on the handlebar. The Artist decided to call him Yellow due to the outfit he was wearing.
“Oh, yes, I was wondering if you could help me with something.” The arousal in her voice was plain, and Yellow noticed.
Other cyclists, men and women, noticed the Artist, but seeing that Yellow was talking to her they turned back to their activities. The Artist noticed that the group consisted of people between their teens and their late thirties. She was going to have quite the afternoon.
“And what would that be?” Yellow pried, getting closer to the Artist.
Smiling conspiratorially, the Artist suddenly yelled loudly. She startled Yellow, but managed to turn all the heads in her direction. As soon as everyone was staring at her with startled eyes, she shrugged off her coat. The effect was instantaneous.
She suddenly felt self-conscious of her body and how little effort she had placed into it lately. She made a mental note to paint the scene before her, and to take the cyclists’ example of a healthy life.
Wasting no time, the Artist brought the group into the Trance. It was difficult thing as most of the group needed to breath hard and fast, and their bodies were exhilarated from their workout. Still, the Artist liked a challenge. She basked in it.
Walking with a slow gait, and ordering them all to stare at her body, she walked between everyone. There she started spinning, dancing in place. “Look at my body, dears. Stare at my skin. Drink up my image.” She sung in a beautiful voice.
“Stare into my tattoos, study them. See how every line curves into another one, one drawing becoming another. Look deeply, look keenly, and let yourself wander over each and every drawing.” Her voice was soft, caring, but carrying power. “Look into my breasts, look into my belly. See how the spirals pull you in, spiralling, spiralling, and then pull you outwards towards the crackling fires on my belly.” Her hands moved in circles over her breasts, helping their eyes, and then waved lazily down her belly.
She moved closer to some young girl, and then danced backwardly towards a handsome, bearded man. The Artist danced in wide circles, stopping before each person and kissing them square in the lips. The cyclists sighed happily, answering her red passion with their own colour of desire.
It took her a while, a long, long while, but finally she managed to get them all into the Trance.
And finally she could scratch her itch.
The Artist’s hands started to move over her skin, looking for keen pleasure points on her body. She almost moaned loudly. “Do you, dears, know what a dildo is?”
There were nods, there were frowns, and there were negatives.
“Who doesn’t know?” She asked, whispering almost.
There were mostly teens and one or two older persons amongst those who raised their hands. With a silent laugh, the Artist commanded them to stand in a tight group to the side. She commanded them to press their sweaty bodies against each other, to reach and touch in a pleasant, non-sexual way whoever they had to their right. Sighs of happiness ensued.
The Artist opened her mouth to whisper and command knowledge into their minds, but a second thought occurred to her. She stared at the men and boys in the group and realised that she had to broaden her idea. Her lips curled in an almost cartoonish fashion, her cheeks Feeling a shudder take over her body in a strong blast of pleasure, the Artist began to dance in place. “Look at my tattoos, dears. This one, right over my thigh.” She said, one hand abandoning the wet comforts of her sex to point at a crisscross design over her right thigh. The cyclists’ eyes followed.
The dance continued, for a while, the crisscross blurring into itself as she allowed her legs to move to the song that had set off on this journey. When she stopped dancing, when she stopped using her powerful artwork to input thoughts into their minds, they all understood what she wanted. They all obeyed what she wanted.
“Do you all know now what a dildo and a buttplug is, dears?” She asked, her voice bleeding sexuality.
The general assertions and whispering nods made the Artist moan happily. She nodded, more to herself than to her audience, biting her lips and her arousal.
“Good, because I want you to do something very special for me.” She said before explaining what they were to do.
In her sing song, arousal-ridden voice she told them; she commanded them. Each of the cyclists will procure a dildo, if they were female, and a buttplug, if they were male. In case they couldn’t acquire one, they would ask for a willing cyclist to do so. And, after hearing their words, they all were willing.
“And you shall take these items...” The Artists whispered, walking towards one beautiful girl she had baptized Brown. The Artist kissed the girl passionately, hungrily, and the girl kissed back with twice as more passion. The Artist made a note to ride with the girl to wherever she was bound next. “And, when you ready yourselves for a biking experience, you will fill your willing holes.” She almost chuckled at her wording.
And the Artist repeated what she meant, looking at their placid, acceptant faces with pride. And she repeated it again, and again, and again. The Artist kept filling their minds with what she wanted, turning the words around and around until the cyclists were the ones thinking and muttering them.
When the Artist finally shrugged into her coat, Yellow had gone, as well as most of the group. They had gone straight to the next shop they could buy a plug or a dildo from, doing the favour of acquiring one for those unable to do so.
Smiling broadly, and with her need and frustration satisfied and gone respectively, the Artist walked up to Brown; she sighed pleasantly at the sight of the Artist. The girl had not moved from her spot, and seemed to be transfixed. In a spell.
“Do you want to take me to your house?” The Artist said, pressing her body against Brown.
“Yes.” The girl whispered softly.
The Artist could see Brown’s nipples showing through her tight outfit. She smiled. “Then take me to your house.”
Brown turned around and started walking towards a nearby parking lot. The Artist followed suit, enjoying the view of Brown’s rear as she walked.
With the bike on the car, and with Brown behind the wheel, the Artist allowed the girl to recover from the Trance. Without questioning anything, Brown started the car, smiled at the Artist, and drove away.
On the way they passed several sex shops, and the Artist recognized many of the faces coming and going from such places.
I should’ve charged for commissions, she thought and laughed.