The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“God, what a scorcher.”

Under normal circumstances, that might explain why my comely auburn-haired waitress had two additional buttons undone on the bodice of her pale pink uniform, exposing a firmly compressed line of cleavage far more mouth watering than the key-lime pie on my plate.

I glanced outside at my bicycle, sun-baked with the seat hot enough to cauterize the hair right off my balls. I looked at the patterned tin ceiling next, where three large fans chased the afternoon heat in lazy clockwise rotations. My eyes made a similar slow circuit, eventually slipping off the ceiling to settle on my waitress’ baby browns. I kept my gaze there, ignoring the advertised allure of the spectacular boobs below.

“Your eyes are what’s scorching in here,” I said, slowly shaking my head like I’d never seen a pair so lovely.

The name tag on the precipitous swell of her left breast read “Valerie”, and Valerie’s melting pussy told her mouth to let out an audible sigh at that one. She turned her head and directed a slight hand gesture at the greasy spoon’s other waitress, an attractive bottle blonde lacking the vivacious curves. Blondie mouthed “five minutes” with an accompanying display of fingers, after which Valerie shimmied her slim and stacked body into my booth, facing me.

I’d never known just how much I loved an overly-abundant set of knockers, not until I’d gotten my hands on some. That woman’s name had been Kathryn—she was military, and married, and had technically been my jailer for a brief period of time. I hit the road after her, pedaling along the highways less traveled, sampling what rural America had to offer, including some of its lovely women. I guess the boob attraction had taken hold somewhere deep, because I’d spied this voluptuous young waitress through plate glass windows and my dick had sounded a jugg alert that couldn’t be ignored.

Despite having what I wanted practically staring me in the face, I was disciplined enough to retain contact with the brown eyes, not the cleavage.

“Sally over there says you’re riding cross country on that bicycle,” she began, cheeks bright with color.

And in weeks of riding and seducing, I hadn’t come upon a sweet and stacked thing like this, with a charming drawl that turned words like “bicycle” into a languorous waiting game. “Sally is right,” I said.

“Where did you start? I mean, how far have you been riding?”

“I began in Texas, although I’m from Arizona. It’s a long story.”

“All the way to North Carolina? You must be in great shape. What’s your name, stranger?”

She had an adorable face, with dentist-worthy teeth and a nicely arched upper lip. But I was looking past the good looks, into the secret desires that lay in a circular pile at the bottom of her soul. What I kept finding in these women—probably “duh” material here—was that they wanted something they couldn’t normally get. Valerie couldn’t be older than nineteen or so, cute as a button with boobs that looked like they’d begun their growth spurt back in the womb. She could have a new guy plumbing her pipes every day of the week, but human beings aren’t made that simply, don’t ask me why.

I could see enough in there to have a plan. She was a reader of romance novels, and had a powerful fantasy about meeting a handsome stranger, and feeling the glow of love at first sight. The kicker? The stranger would have to fall for her eyes, face and personality, not the super-de-duper tits. Like I said, they want what they can’t normally get.

There were other fantasies tied in knots around the big one, and I kept getting flashes from old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. A few people have said that I look a bit like the youthful Clint—I’m not as tall and certainly not as cool, but my face and body are lean, and I suppose there’s some quality to my mouth that fits. I’m blonde, too, and rode into town on my… Fuji.

If I’d had a poncho, I would have flipped the front across my shoulder, allowing space for my dick to be drawn. I narrowed my eyes and kept my voice almost to a whisper when I replied, “No names today. I’m just a seeker.”

Without me stirring her sands into a trembling lust-pile, lines like that would probably get me laughed into the next county. She grabbed my eyes with hers and held them in a psychic vice before drawing them down to her big left breast, where she slowly unpinned her name tag, making a show of it by pressing unnecessarily into the soft flesh underneath.

She placed her name face down on the table. I thought it appropriate that we ditched the tag, as I’d fallen into the rather juvenile habit of giving my conquests pet names. Hers, silently chosen about thirty seconds after seeing her, was VaVoom Val.

I began to pull her sands apart, drawing lust into every limb, a huge pile collecting in the sweltering zone between her legs. She choked out a gasp when I dangled the image of my erection as The Thing she needed in this world to ever feel right. Both eyes went a bit spastic for a few seconds, like steam inside her body had begun to rattle the lids.

“I’ve been seeking, too!” she gushed, taking my right hand in hers and turning it palm up. “I can read hands,” she said, tracing a trembling fingertip along my lifeline, then up the inside of my ring finger.

“What do you see?”

“A very encouraging ratio between your index and ring fingers. Oh Lord…”

“Which means?”

She exhaled invisible fire and leaned back into her cushioned seat. I felt the ball of a bare foot press against the inside of my right thigh beneath the table, and when she made full contact her eyes rolled back in their sockets. “It means someone has a large thing and it’s… oh dear Lord it’s so hard.”

Her brown irises slowly dropped back into place and I met their arrival. She wanted to fucking make me acknowledge the exceptional quality of her tits once she had me inside her apartment, and the numbers 32-F stamped themselves onto the inside of my skull. I didn’t believe she lived on the thirty-second floor of anything, which meant I was in for some real tit play.

“Come home with me.”

“I’m on my bicycle,” I said, just to see how she’d respond. I was ready to ditch the bike; it was too damned hot to be on the thing.

“I have a rack on my car,” she said, and a heartbeat later she caught the double meaning. “A rack here, too!” she added, grasping the sides of my head in her hands and roughly pulling me forward until I nearly had my nose in that deep cleavage crack.

“Holy shit,” I breathed into them, like only then did I realize they were there in all their glory. Even half covered it was obvious how smooth and bouncy they were; exuberant, too, her nipples so erect that I could imagine latching on with my hands and carrying her by them.

I don’t push all that often—intensifying what’s already there is so much easier—but I streamed images of endless tit-fucks into her soul, grains of my own fantasies poured all over her pile. I wasn’t sure if it was working until I pictured a bodice-ripping novel cover with pale heaving bosoms pressed into me. Inside her head she must have been turning the pages really fast, devouring “The Adventures of VaVoom Val”, where the voluptuous protagonist runs out on her waitressing job to fuck the lover with no name.

“I want you in my bed!” she mewled like a hungry kitten.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but every head in the joint turned at that one. I’d learned that a horny boy’s worst friend is a sex-crazed girl’s best friend, so I Humpty-Dumpty dumped her lust into broken shards, and inserted my dick into her brain like it was the only thing that could put her back together again.

It was, and before the other waitress could mess things up, we left skid marks on that tiled flooring, our sweat-damp bodies pouring inside the VaVoomobile and peeling away.

My poor loyal bike was left there, and all my stuff except for the little journal that I write this shit in. I never saw the bike again, and hope someone with a good heart ended up stealing it.

The pressure of a firm hip pressed against the pulsing crown of my erection. A soft, pliable mass of flesh cupped by widespread fingers, nipple hardness digging into the palm of my hand. Fingertips pinching, pulling the nipple outward, rolling it to elicit sleepy groans. The bed shifting as a warm thigh straddles mine, slippery heat gliding up to grind into a hipbone.

The deliberate rapid blinking of my eyes, turning the targeting of my cock by her downturned breasts into an organic stroboscopic movie reel with helpless female cries for sound. The sweaty envelopment between two gravity-drawn mounds, a glistening line of drool connecting mouth to impending tit-fuck.

The slow, teasing glide. The escalation and eventual abandonment of a controlled rhythm, surging compressed tits moved by her entire body, knees on mattress, hips rising and falling with every slippery cleavage wave. The cries of desire bending into delirium, her pleasures tethered to mine—make me cum and you will, too. The sensation of going past the point of no return, an explosion imminent. The spurting flood of heat striking her throat, her chin. The shuddering of her body, whimpers of delight like honeyed sound pouring from her lips.

Forgive the abstracted writing; it’s just that being in bed with VaVoom Val felt strangely timeless, with the “forever now” quality of a dream come true. Lying on her back in the rosy evening light, she rubbed my cum into her breasts like it was a rare and soothing skin lotion, breathing out satisfaction. She knew I was watching, and harnessed all she had between her hands, pressing in to make them stand high and firm.

“I think they’re still growing,” she whispered. “I bought that bra only two weeks ago and it already feels too tight.”

My cock pulsed in response. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m a late bloomer. I was only a C-cup a few months ago, and they’ve just gone nuts. They don’t seem to be slowing down at all.”

“Keep talking.”

“My doctor says it’s extremely rare, but it happens, and it can be extreme. What if mine grow too much?”

Just the thing I’d worry about, when the sun became too bright or the oceans too wet. She might as well be stroking my dick with syllables dipped in an enlivening oil; she knew it, too, taking my resurrected cock in one hand and drooling saliva all over it.

“If I grow one extra size for every inch you are, I’d be what, an N-cup?” she worked out, pushing a nipple up to her lips and tonguing it. “Imagine me like that, so big up here that I could engulf thisbetween them.” She let go with one hand and ruffled my hair, indicating it was my head-head she pictured tit-fucking.

I’d been steadily greasing her inner wheels, making her more desirous to drive me crazy with her tits. This foreplay through exaggeration was her own invention, though. There was some inner push-back that I could see—somewhere, at some time, she’d heard that large-breasted women actually have less sensitive nipples than their smaller breasted counterparts. That sounded highly suspect to me, but what mattered was that with VaVoom Val’s tits growing, she badly wanted the opposite to be true. That desire was like a handle I could grab hold of, pulling a door open that could easily make her wish for extremely responsive breasts come true.

Her nipples always got fat and extremely hard during sex; even so, what transpired next was like watching something only half-alive coming to full vitality in a matter of seconds. The action of her tongue and lips upon her left nipple changed from delicate tease to voracious wet suck-bath, and she let go of my erection to work her other breast, unable to get enough. Her auto-feeding frenzy had my balls screaming and I repositioned myself between her widespread legs, fucking her hard and deep while she descended into unintelligible mouth-filled scream talk.

It was weird lovemaking. Her hips found a rhythm to match mine, and she grunted just right in response to especially hard and deep thrusts. But her face was mostly buried in her tits and her expression was almost comically cross-eyed, like all her conscious focus was on her super-sensitive breasts. Weird but incredibly compelling from my perspective—it was like fucking a stacked babe falling in love with her stack, and it showed in the eruptive force of our orgasms, the two of us scaling new heights at the same time.

VaVoom Val was the eighth post-metamorphosis hottie I mind-melded and cunt-melted, and the youngest by a good two years. Three months shy of her nineteenth birthday, she’d moved out of her parents’ house only six weeks before I met her, working so many hours as a waitress that the furniture in her bedroom was covered in plastic drop-cloths when we first made love, anticipating a paint job she had no time to perform.

I helped her paint that room and three others, laying an initial base coat composed of the sounds and scents of sweat-soaked sex. Once we grabbed rollers and brushes, it was hot work punctuated by plenty of soapy-gropey showers where I’d weigh Val’s boobs in my hands, squeezing and jiggling them, basically trying to get my head around their confounding size and weight. I never did check for accuracy, but I was pretty certain that if we tried to fill just one of her bra cups with latex color, we’d end up draining more than half of a gallon can.

It turned out that she was gifted musically; I was shocked to see a gold-plated harp occupying the corner of her living room, a huge thing nearly as tall as she was with all sorts of pedals at the base. It was both an auditory and visual thrill when she sat on a little stool to play it—she had a gentle face and a willowy body with the exception of the tits, and you can’t help but think of angels when a beautiful woman plays the harp. The music she chose was both lyrical and energetic—Alberto Ginastera, she told me. It rocked, and so did her boobs when her arms became especially active during the fast parts.

VaVoom Val had been drawn to the classical harp at age nine, and she dreamed of studying at one of the big music schools. She hadn’t gotten a scholarship, though, and feared going tens of thousands of dollars into debt. I considered that a sign of youthful intelligence, but it also gnawed at me that I’d replaced her love of her instrument with an inescapable love of my instrument. She’d already lost her waitress job because of me—they called and told her not to come back after abandoning her shift—and I couldn’t just leave her to pick up the pieces of her life as I had with a few others.

I had dreams of what I could do—compel an attractive bank teller to slip me fifty thousand dollars over the counter, that sort of thing. Or, thinking bigger, I might head to New York and get some Wall Street babe to slather hedge fund illegality all over my dick before humping it raw. Maybe I’m a coward but I just couldn’t go there, into the outright stealing realm. It wasn’t the moral question; it was the prison one, or worse. I’d already spent a tiny bit of time in a military detention cell after revealing my gift to the wrong woman in the wrong way, and it worried me that I could have left my journal behind when running out of that restaurant with Val. I had the little book with me because I like to write while eating, but one careless moment of meat over mind and the book would have been gone. It’s probable that no one would believe the stuff in it, but you never know, and I didn’t want “them”, whomever that meant, chasing me.

I can’t really express in words why I needed to move on again. There was a lot to like and admire in Val; she was the sexiest woman I’d hooked up with on my travels, complete with a rack that was still growing, a hard-on factory if there ever was one. Yet I felt like I had with the others—something beckoned out there, and I couldn’t stay. The call of the road if there is such a thing, or just curiosity about what I’d find if I kept moving on. The trick, this time, was to find a way to leave Val in better circumstances than I’d found her, helping her realize her own dreams.

The answer came out of something she’d said in the restaurant, about reading my hands. She had no actual gift in that direction; she’d only learned a little gimmick from the internet, where comparing the ring and index finger of a guy’s right hand was a reasonably accurate predictor of penis size. Not much, but an idea arose from that, and it stuck.

I could go far deeper than reading palms, and affect what I’d seen. And I’d been looking for a new method for raking in travel funds to keep my adventures going—why not present myself as something like a Gypsy psychic, and pull in enough money to bestow some upon Val? I didn’t know that I actually was one, a psychic, but my ability to peer inside and see desires was in the right direction, enough to fake it.

I decided to let her know about my gift, spinning a cover story of developing powerful skills of hypnosis by studying with a Navajo medicine man. Nothing could be further from the truth—my ability had indeed been born on Navajo land, but the people there could see it in me, and they wouldn’t even look me in the eye. But Val was more than willing to be “put under”, on the promise that I would intensify her passion for mastering the harp.

I intoned what I thought were the right words—you feel extremely relaxed, yada yada. She wanted it to work, which was enough of a hook for me to attempt to alter her consciousness. Whether she really was in a suggestible state made no difference at all, because the real work took place underneath. I stoked innate desires to practice with her instrument—I would continue my nomadic journey soon, and the absence of my dick would be filled with dedicated harp practice. I could picture Val kicking back to masturbate after an especially productive practice session, and decided to go there with her, tying the quality of her music-making to the quality of her cumming. Strong, intensive practice would lead to super-charged orgasms, giving her every reason to become Virtuoso Val.

Before hitting the road, we tried to help her get a job at a Hooters. Despite her obvious qualifications it didn’t work out, because she wasn’t old enough to sell liquor. Talk about bad government—she was too young to serve up beer and chicken wings while fully dressed, but old enough to strip down to a G-string with her body sinuously wrapped around a gleaming metal pole. She got that job in a heartbeat, and I “hypnotized” her again into loving the attention she received during her audition. On our final night together she dressed up in the little orange Hooters shorts and the tight white owl T-shirt I stole after her failed job interview, and she gave me a special stripping performance, serving up two extravagant portions of steamed breasts ala cum.

“I won’t cheat on you,” she whispered in my ear that last night. “Not if you promise to come back.”

Most women would never make such an offer, not without being made to. For Val, my need to roam fit into the romance novel framework—apparently it was a common plot device that a man had to do what a man had to do, and it was a bonus if it kept true lovers apart for a time. Without that, their overwhelming attraction would have no test, and fated love couldn’t win out.

“I’ll come back,” I promised. “Being faithful is your choice to make; I won’t demand it of you.”

“Guys are going to be after me… I’m cute, and I’m a stripper, can you believe it?”

I cupped a proud protruding breast, fingers exploring its firm pliability. “I can believe it.”

“I’ll let them paw me and squeeze a little for tips, but I swear I’ll wait for you. I want to.”

That made it an easy thing, to help. I worked my invisible magic—she could masturbate after harp practice to her heart’s content, but no one but me, just like she wanted.

“Let me play a lullaby for you,” she said, sitting up. “A tune to remember me by on your travels.”

And that’s what we did. I never learned what the music was, but it was transporting. She played naked, and I listened naked, and she played beautifully, with obvious feeling. I felt bathed in sweet sound, and the look she gave me at the end said it all.

“Come watch my fingers play a different kind of tune.”

“Only watch?” I asked, pointing to my throbbing instrument.

“Silly. I’m not a soloist, yet.”

Perhaps it would be helpful if I back up one step, in case you don’t understand what I mean when I say I can see a pile of sand inside someone, or have any idea how I do what I do. You can read my first journal entry to get the whole history of what happened to me—to sum it up, I was changed by alien presences that were essentially living flying saucers. Pretty freaky—I wouldn’t believe it myself if I didn’t know. The consequences? I’m a reader of desires now, the conscious ones and those hidden away in dark closets. Seeing them, I can grow them into frothy cravings where the need for relief becomes yet another craving, superheated lust becoming All.

More often than not, I find different means for presenting my hard-working cock as the All that brings deliverance. Experience shows that I need the motivation of my own desires for all cylinders to click at maximum efficiency, so I only work with attractive women, though guys’ desires are generally visible if I care to look. I don’t fart around with the insides of strangers willy-nilly, getting kicks with no particular goal in mind. I like to think that selectivity keeps me honest—I want what I want and that’s all that I want, my life made Popeye simple. It keeps the numbers reasonable, too; I mean, I’m going to score some otherwise unattainable pussy, but I don’t want to become nothing more than a lust ‘em and leave ‘em rambling perv, a snatch-snatching King of the Load.

As I mentioned, I was ready to abandon my dream of pedaling across the country. That was a fantasy I’d wanted to explore ever since high school, but the reality was less than the dream. Biking through however many states had gotten me into the best shape of my life, but sweating through the sweltering humidity of the Deep South had wrung all the romance out of pedal power. I was ready for a car.

Or a van. That isn’t creepy, is it? I know vans have a certain reputation when it comes to the world of sexual predators, but come on, they’re so fucking practical. I bought mine just outside of Charlotte, from a petite female salesperson I named Make a Deal Doris. We made a deal on a white Ford Econoline, after which I drove half a mile to a mattress outlet and returned for the rest of our transaction. The van had sixty-seven thousand miles on it but she claimed the shocks were brand new, and Doris’ athletic backside tested the mattress’ firmness and the van’s shocks at the same time. With all that pounding the van rocked a tiny bit, but she hadn’t been lying.

Thus began my career as a fake sidewalk psychic and fortune-teller. I say fake because I didn’t know what would become of people; I have no gift for discerning future events. Then again I could actually peer inside, and tap into their deepest desires about the future. I knew shit a normal person just couldn’t know, and once my customers saw how their inner worlds were exposed to me, they were perfectly willing to believe I could intuit their destinies as well.

My very first afternoon, I set up in the parking area of a county fair with nothing more than a folding table with three chairs, a two-dollar pack of playing cards and a hand-drawn sign. Two cops came to shoo me away, but one was a fairly attractive woman and I got into her head. She became my first fortune, her partner my second. They were so impressed that they never bothered me again.

My game was this—I used my ability to draw customers to me. If they had the slightest bit of desire about having their fortunes read, I could stoke that until they were itching for it. The customer drew five cards, placed them face down and I turned the cards over one at a time, making sounds like, “oh my” or, “well wouldn’t you know” as each number and suite revealed itself. I’d concoct some tantalizing fluff that dovetailed with their deepest held wishes, and let it be known that I could see much more if they’d allow me to touch their hands.

I charged a measly five dollars—hand touching was ten dollars more—satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. It was a more emotional experience than I’d expected, as I had people weeping and hugging me and promising to send their friends the next day. I think I genuinely helped a few people—some were even men—and I cleared almost seven hundred dollars that first day, in five hours of work.

I played that fair for four days before moving on to river walks, craft fairs and beer festivals. And, once the weather became intolerable, to a popular stretch of the Outer Banks, where destinies mixed with sweat trickling down glistening suntanned bodies.

I’d vacationed in California before, swimming in the Pacific. The Atlantic Ocean was new, more gentle yet somehow more mysterious. I swam a bit every day, but I wasn’t actually on the beach when I worked. I set up my umbrella-shaded table at the edge of parking areas with public beach access, drawing interest from those coming and leaving. Much of my income came from kids and young teens—it was almost like a sociology study of America’s youth, desperate to believe that their lives would become interesting.

It was high tourist season, the weeks before the summer fun would come to an end. People have all sorts of fantasies about what should happen on a dream vacation, and with fuel like that I could have run my tongue up a new set of suntanned thighs every night of the week, sampling multiple flavors of saltwater pussy. But Val was a hardening act to follow, and there were so many hot girls to choose from that they pretty much canceled each other out. I looked, and sometimes lusted, but I wasn’t drawn.

More than a week between fucks can hardly be called celibacy or faithfulness, especially when I rocked the van with a cute saleswoman the day after leaving. It began to feel like that, though, and I couldn’t deny that I needed some action. I began walking the beach with my antennae attuned to needful pussy, and trolling bars with my dick set to barfly-swatter mode.

I struck gold on a Friday night, while watching a baseball game in an oceanfront bar. The crowd was young, with enough libido on tap that I probably could have scored without resorting to special measures. There was an anxiousness in the air, as one TV was silently tuned to the Weather Channel, and Hurricane Irene was on a path that might cut some vacations short. Whatever people expected to get from partying at the beach, it might need to be accomplished in a condensed amount of time.

I couldn’t see where that was anything but good news for me, because extra adrenaline made desires stand out all the stronger. I had my eyes on two of the bartenders, a busty blonde with a swimmer’s physique, and a petite brunette with the most enticing body since Val, including shapely legs that looked like they pumped spinach all day in a gym. I was in the wrong location, though; both women were working the other side of the rectangular bar, leaving me to signal another Guinness from a surfer dude with peeling sunburned skin.

“Did you know ahead of time that he’d hit a home run?” I heard close to my left ear.

I spun on my stool and found schoolgirl dimples indenting for me, topped by mischievous blue eyes. This new arrival’s hair was strawberry red with lots of Botticelli ringlets, the curls a perfect compliment to her hourglass figure. In white denim cut-offs and a teal blue tank-top, she had a very narrow waist bracketed by an inspiring flair of the hips at the bottom and two generous scoops of ice cream above. I couldn’t predict the outcome of sporting events, but something told me I was on the cusp of hitting a home run tonight.

“You think I’m a baseball analyst?” I asked.

“No, I think you’re that parking lot fortune-teller I’ve seen the past couple of days. That’s you, right?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I was here last night and heard a couple of people talking about you. They said you’re the real deal.”

I smiled and let my eyes sink down, assessing the well formed legs. My twelve days and counting without pussy began to feel like a hundred, and peering straight into the guts of this girl’s sexual system, I could see that she was my favorite type—one that had, like me, gone too long without sex. She was extremely attracted to the idea that I might possess a special gift, too.

“Let me try to guess your name,” I said. “I don’t really need the cards; they’re just a prop to make people feel more comfortable with my awesome abilities.”

“Cocky, aren’t you?”

“Just not falsely modest.”

“You’ll never guess my name. It’s unusual.”

“Come on, no hints.”

She really wanted me to be able to guess so I already had it. I continued to peer inside, sifting through anything I could find to ensure that she’d be my high-energy fuckbunny tonight. She was definitely drawn to the occult, like she walked around hoping that some paranormal experience would come her way. And here I was, a psychic and fortune-teller, with the ability to open a valve on her desire for special experiences, letting that energy drain right into the pleasureful parts of her pussy.

“Your name is Pleasure.”

“Oh come on. That’s a line, not a guess.”

“Starts with a ‘P’, though. Pa… Pas…”

“Jesus!”

“Pascaline. That’s French, right?”

“Jesus! How did you do that?”

“That isn’t the question you truly want to ask, Pascaline.”

“It isn’t?”

She was trembling, but not out of fear. Rising excitement was already there to taste in the air around her, and I figured ten minutes of showing off would have her ready to shove a beer bottle up her shorts.

“You want to know what else I can do. Not cheap tricks like pulling your name out of a hat. You want to know your future.”

“You can see it?”

“If I try, and you want it to be seen. Do you?”

“I’m not sure, I… Yes. I do.”

I slid off my stool and motioned to it, and she half-sat on its edge, toes on the floor with the muscles of her legs tensed. “Give me your hands,” I said, taking them and turning them over in her lap, the backs of my hands resting against her thighs. Because she was a horny girl the touch excited her pussy; it was pure physical desire and I poured some gas on that, making her flesh crave contact with mine.

“Wow,” she breathed out. “You’ve got me feeling all jumpy.”

“A connection is already opening, that’s why. I want you to relax and focus on what you’re feeling right now. Not what you’re thinking, but what you feel. It will help open a channel for me.”

“I… I’m feeling breathless!”

Because I had an obvious erection and an image had flashed through her mind, of digging a hand into my pants. She was all girl, and into a big, able cock. I helped her to picture mine standing strong and firm, practically with a red cape and the letter “S” emblazoned on its middle.

“You’re feeling very open, Pascaline. I can see you… Whoa.”

“What do you see?”

I lifted my hands and held them up in surrender. “I’ve never experienced anything like that. It’s… I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Oh no, is it something awful?”

“No, no. The opposite.”

“Then tell me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You have to!”

“I shouldn’t. It was extremely sexual.”

“I’m extremely sexual!” she said, grabbing my hands and putting them back in place. “Tell me what you saw!”

Her voice was going high and we were drawing stares. The petite bartender with the hot tits and power legs came over and gave me a looking over before asking, “You okay, Pasc?”

“Fine, Brandi. I’m just going to take… What’s your name, anyway?”

“Jake,” I said, my interest in Pascaline suddenly going through the roof. I searched inside the bartender, Brandi, to see whether she felt any instant attraction for me that I could exploit—nada, but a compelling picture showed itself. She and Pascaline and the other bartender, the busty blonde, were… housemates?

“Me and Jake are going to continue our conversation in private,” Pascaline said, standing and pulling me towards the exit. “He’s a real psychic!” she called over her shoulder. “Can you believe it?”

And this psychic had just glimpsed how three heavenly babes, all between junior and senior year at an in-state university, were sharing a beach cottage for the summer. Pascaline had half-buried fantasies about having sex with one of her friends, too, which had my heart racing with possibilities.

Pascaline was in an excited state as we exited into a parking lot bathed in amber streetlight and humid salty air. “What did you see?” she demanded, pushing me against the side of a gleaming silver Acura.

I smelled seafood; Pascaline’s pussy, too. “I saw you, naked, in vivid detail.”

“Naked?”

“My God you have beautiful nipples,” I said, tuning in to find them hungry to be fondled. I’d learned a thing or two with VaVoom Val, and poured vials of super-sensitivity into Pascaline’s system. “So pale and thick, with those deep indentations…”

She gasped, a hand going to her heart. “You did see them!”

“I saw all of you, stark naked lying atop a wine colored bedspread…”

“That’s my bed!”

“You were… My God, I’ve heard of women who do that when they cum, but I’ve never seen it.”

“Do what? Do what?”

I’m not sure what I would have said if the words hadn’t created such a distinct vision in her head. She’d seen porn videos on the web, where women’s pussies squirted violently during orgasm. The images had gotten to her and she’d dreamed of feeling something like that—I even caught flashes of a highly sexed dream she’d had earlier in the summer, where her pussy could jet-stream during orgasm. Deep in her soul she wanted it to be true—just the kind of desire I could sink my hooks into.

“You must know what you can do,” I said. “Like a fire-hose, your body shaking all over… I didn’t even know a woman could do that.”

“I can do that? I’m going to do that?” She put her hands on mine and moved them to her tits, where I pinched her super-sensitive nipples, just barely. “Jesus!” she jumped. She mumbled something else as the Acura beeped it doors unlocked, and I was shoved in the direction of the driver’s side. “I’m too breathless to drive! That way, south on the beach road!”

Would my van be towed if I left it all night? We drove only a couple of minutes to a large raised cottage nestled in the dunes. Up a set of outside steps holding tightly to one another, and then through a great room with a splendid balcony view of the nighttime ocean. Up an open stairway and down a hall that took us past a couple of bedrooms, and finally to the envisioned bed with its scarlet bedspread.

Pascaline’s anticipation of what I’d described was so extreme that I probably didn’t even need to fan her pussy’s flames to make it happen. I don’t like to leave things to chance when I can avoid it, though, so I dug in with my head to switch all her cum jets to the on position. We both stripped naked and I pretty much threw her on the bed, bouncing right behind.

Screw foreplay; she was way past the need for encouragement. My biggest question had to do with logistics—did I want her carbonated pussy to squirt in my face, or with my dick inside, or did I just want to watch? Watching, I decided, with my dick in her mouth, my hands pulling at her hypersensitive nipples.

She was pretty decent at giving head, for about twenty seconds. After that her body began to roll and heave, and her jaw’s movements activated a flight response in me. I pulled out just before her head thrashed, followed by a tortured kind of whimpering that I thought would make a great cellphone ring. I mauled her nipples and let the fingers of my left hand meander down to the impending detonation zone, and just when I thought she was about to do it, I gave her swollen clitoris a fateful swipe.

It was wild. I thought she’d cum with a jetting stream, but her pussy was more of a spray nozzle, her orgasm creating a wide ‘V’ of girl juice that must have reached past the end of the bed. It was a moving sight, the most visibly expressive orgasm I’d ever witnessed. She had lungs, too, going all wordless soprano. Her eyes were wide open at first, but after her second geyser spurt they closed, her mouth hanging open like it wanted to inhale the droplets.

She looked like a redheaded Barbie doll that had been left out in a drizzle, and carelessly tossed on a bed to dry out. I didn’t think she had it in her to give back for a while, so I diddled the deed myself. All I had to do while hand-jobbing was look at that destroyed expression, and deeply inhale the pussy-fog that saturated the room. When I came, a good bit of it coated her tongue, just as I wished. Some got on her nose and cheeks, too, but she didn’t really notice. She was floating elsewhere, as though her consciousness had also become aerosolized, needing some time to descend back to earth.

I settled in beside her and shut my eyes, counting sexy roommates to put myself to sleep. It didn’t work; Pascaline was a babe, but from what I’d seen the other two were even better. I kept thinking about Neapolitan ice cream, and how all three flavors were supposed to compliment each other. By hair color, that’s what lived under this roof—this strawberry redhead, the vanilla blonde, the chocolate brunette.

Good as it was, strawberry was always the least desirable. Vanilla was great with something—nuts, candy pieces, chocolate. The chocolate was, well, chocolate.

I raised up on an elbow and assessed the form of the sex-destroyed girl beside me—lovely legs, round firm butt, two generous helpings of breasts with somewhat oversized nipples, all set off by a waist that was probably twenty-one or twenty-two inches around. And blue eyes with dimples, fuck. She was like a fine bottle of Irish wet dream—potent stuff, nothing not to like. It should be enough. Any more and there would almost certainly be a payment, something like a hangover.

“I want all three flavors,” I whispered out loud.

I had goosebumps, maybe from the air-conditioning, maybe from the image of all three women climbing onto this bed, their eyes deranged with inflated needs. Since I was only a bogus fortune-teller, it wasn’t a true vision of the future.

Not unless I created that future.

I snuggled against Pascaline’s backside for warmth, and shut my eyes again. Waves broke and retreated outside, sounding like willpower collapsing against the gravity of manipulated desires. I wanted what I wanted and the desires kept surging into my awareness, retreating for the sole purpose of washing in again, relentless and true.

“I want chocolate the most,” I might have said, drifting asleep.

In truth I wanted it all, and more.

I awakened before Pascaline did, and snooped. She had a laptop sitting on a small desk and I turned it on, rummaging through her files. I’d already seen that she sometimes watched porn movies; she was a naughty girl with a collection of favorites, plus a folder containing erotic stories. I glanced through the story titles and plot synopses—lots of kinky paranormal stuff, everything from vampire sex to the inhabitation of a repressed teen-age girl by the ghost of a prostitute. No wonder Pascaline had been so drawn to the appearance of a fortune-teller at the beach. Once she saw that my abilities were truly special, I was like a character in one of her stories, and so was she.

I heard life downstairs, the tap of heels on a wood floor, and someone coming upstairs. I shut down the computer and listened—clinking sounds, like someone might be having a glass of wine after a hard night of work.

I slipped into my jeans and padded along the hallway, and down the open stairway to the big room and kitchen. I was relaxed from the sex and didn’t even jump when a hand clamped onto my left arm. It felt twice the size of a normal hand, like the women had the Incredible Hulk hanging out with them for the summer.

“And who might you be?” a male Southern drawl queried.

I looked at the hand, and the thickly muscled arm attached to it. I kind of knew what to expect by the time I got to the face—bright shining teeth and an award winning jaw, on top of a neck built like a tree trunk.

“I’m Jake, Pascaline’s hot date for the night. And that’s my arm.”

His eyes relaxed a smidgen, even if his grip didn’t. He was shirtless in jeans like me, and blonde like me, and roughly my height. We were both in great shape, too, but I looked like I’d ridden a bicycle halfway across the country, while he looked like he’d picked up every town I’d ridden through and pumped it over his head a hundred times.

“Don’t be a brute, Hank. Pasc left the bar with him, and she was the one pulling.”

The vice-like grip relented, and I turned to find the blonde sitting on top of a kitchen counter, a glass of white wine in hand with her long legs kicking in the air. Her curves were displayed in the same clinging black dress she’d worn for her bartending duties, and she really did have some serious juggs. My eyes fastened on longer than they should have, making the Hunk want to smash.

“You leaving?” the boyfriend got in my face.

“Actually, I came out for a glass of water.”

“We’re glad to meet you, Jake,” the blonde said. “Hank was only wondering if Pascaline told you we have a rule here—no men sleep the night. We can bring someone home, but they’re not to be here in the morning.”

I had a few thoughts about that. One, my van was back at the bar. Two, I hadn’t even gotten my cock inside Pascaline’s pussy yet. And three, this blonde girl really was a prize. The tits, sure, but also great shoulders and a thoroughbred quality to her hips and thighs that needed to be sampled.

“I’m Lori, by the way,” she added.

Luscious Lori? Or Lori Lube, fucking the Incredible Hunk. Funny how I hadn’t come up with a name for Pascaline yet—it was probably because her name was so unusual on its own.

The wine glass motioned to the stairs. “Hank, could you check in on Pasc?”

Making sure I hadn’t murdered her? “She’s, um, naked,” I said. The central air had the whole house cool but we’d never even come close to getting under the covers.

“I won’t look,” the Hunk replied, jogging up the steps.

I wanted to know where the lickable chocolate brunette was, but couldn’t think of a non-stalkerish way of asking. I knew her name was Brandi—Randy Brandi, Brandy Candy? Nothing seemed quite right. Either I was losing my touch, or having so much fine pussy under one roof was making the nicknames irrelevant.

“Are you really a psychic?” Lori asked, lovely legs still kicking. She had a great tan, and green eyes the color of a mountain lake.

“Of all trades.”

“How does someone, you know, become that?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“I’m thinking of a number between one and twenty,” she said, testing me.

“Fourteen.”

“Damn! Okay, a number between one and fifty.”

I’d endured games like this ever since putting up a sign that said I could see the future. Like most, she wanted my gift to be real—I think people need to believe in miracles, probably because they hope one will descend on them in some eventual dark hour. As before, her desire made the number in her head glow as brightly as the readout on a digital clock. “Thirty-one.”

“I can’t believe it! It’s like you’re staring right inside my head!”

I shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“Do you do past life readings?”

“Quite often.” Never had, but what the hell.

“What about dream-guiding?”

“Sure, I… I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s Brandi’s psychic’s specialty. Brandi is our other housemate.”

“Your other roommate works with a psychic?”

She looked at me funny because I said it funny, like I didn’t believe in psychics. Which was the truth; I didn’t. I had a hard time believing in coincidences, too, and this one was a whopper.

“Pretty wild coincidence, huh?” she said, right on cue.

It got me wondering about the dynamic between these women, and whether Pascaline might have been envious that Brandi worked with a psychic. With her attraction to the paranormal, she might have imagined that her housemate had stepped into the kind of world she could only read about. Until I came along, that is.

I was thinking of what to say next when I felt the floor shake. The Hunk was muscling down the stairs, his Hunk brow furrowed.

“Pascaline’s fine, I guess,” he reported to Lori.

“You guess?”

He looked at me, perplexed. “The room’s all… Man!”

“All what?” Lori prodded.

The smell of concentrated pussy juice was swimming in his brain. He kept staring at me with his head tilted, like a confused bulldog. “Nothing,” he said. “She’s good.”

“Lori was just going to explain what psychic dream-guiding is,” I said.

“Maybe you should ask me about that.”

I looked up the stairs and had to keep my eyes from popping out cartoon style. Brandi stood at the top, and she’d shed all vestiges of her workplace persona. At home among friends she wasn’t exactly shy about her body—clad only in black panties and a plain white T-shirt that didn’t even reach her belly button, she lightly padded down the steps, every footfall causing the muscles at the front of her thighs to bulge delightfully.

I’m a big fan of girl muscles as long as they remain smooth and feminine; so was The Hunk, and so was Lori. The kitchen became a soup of semi-repressed desires all around me—I barely had to tune in to know that Lori, like Pascaline, had imagined exploring a girl-girl sexual event, but with Brandi, not Pascaline. The Hunk was smitten, too—he’d hoped for Brandi when he met the three girls on the beach, and had taken Lori as his consolation prize. Lori, as the tallest and the hot blonde with the boobs, was not used to being outshone by anyone. She could sense that she’d always been second best in the Hunk’s estimation, and part of her hated him for it.

The object of all this lust was not blind to these undercurrents. She sucked in the desire she inspired like it was nourishing food; maybe it was, because her body didn’t look like it could be any more vital or fit. I let my eyes roam as she made her way to the table and chairs, and wanted to stand up and applaud the way her ass played a masterpiece of motion with every step. I probed inside, looking for this one’s secret girl-girl fantasies. And crap—unlike the other two, there weren’t any.

“I’m Jake,” I said, my sensors slipping in and out of everyone around me, even the Hunk. I couldn’t find any easy or obvious pathways to pussy in Brandi; even so I felt a wealth of opportunities all around, if I could only sort through them to see a way of orchestrating the various instruments.

“Hi Jake. Pascaline believes you’re a psychic?”

She leaned against the refrigerator with her well-muscled arms crossed under her boobs. She was small, maybe five-one, and on Brandi’s tiny frame those breasts looked huge. Side-by-side her tits would be smaller than Lori’s, and a fraction the mass of a boob queen like Val. But proportions work in mysterious ways, and this girl was the High Priestess of Proportion.

It was sort of distasteful for me to reach into a guy and do my thing; it needed doing, though, so I gritted my teeth and fanned the Hunk’s smoldering Brandi-lust into a brushfire, stoking his fascination with her breasts in particular. I pulled out, and waited for the inevitable smoke to become visible.

“I am a psychic,” I said. “Although I have no idea what dream-guiding is. I’ve never even heard of it.”

“And you really read the future?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

I had a choice to make. I’d scored with Pascaline by foretelling our fucking, but instinct said I should be more full of truth than full of shit with this babe. “Fortunes are mostly about making a living,” I confessed. “I can see ahead, a little, sometimes. But mostly it’s tuning in to the person, and what they’d like to be true.”

“And people are pleased when they hear what they’d like to hear.”

“That’s it in a nutshell when I’m out there making money. For entertainment purposes only, because that’s what most people want. But I can go deeper, much deeper.”

“I know what I want,” the Hunk muttered, breathing through his mouth. Lori followed his eyes to Brandi’s chest and frowned. Brandi, too, saw how the Hunk was fixating on her tits, and covered them more with her arms.

“So again, what is dream guiding?” I asked.

“She, my psychic, helps me have the dreams I need to have. It’s like initiating a specific encounter with the subconscious mind, stimulating it to communicate in a desired direction.”

“Stimulating,” the Hunk exhaled, slowly shaking his head side to side. Lori belted back the remainder of the wine in her glass, eyes turned to green daggers.

“Initiating a dream as opposed to?” I asked, keeping the thread going.

“As opposed to waiting around, hoping for an enlightening dream. That’s passive; what we do is proactive.”

Since my powers had been born when I’d been in something like a hallucinogenic dream state, I was intrigued. “So between the two of you, you’re controlling the kind of dreams you have?”

“Controlling is too strong a word. That would be the conscious mind believing it could bend the subconscious to its will, and that just doesn’t happen. It’s the subconscious that has the wider viewpoint, including our truer desires or hidden fears. So with my dreams we… I don’t know, instigate them? Encourage them? Something like that. We certainly don’t pretend we can control them.”

I mulled that one over. Hadn’t my life-altering dream been a controlled event, induced by an alien mind, or minds? It had been like a form of cross-species communication and a transformative ritual all rolled into one. “And then?” I asked.

She had a way of talking with hand gestures, which had left her boobs uncovered for the Hunk’s greedy eyes. “I write the dreams down in my dream diary and we work on them. They’re like a blueprint of symbols provided by the subconscious; the next step along the path is usually hidden in there, and it’s our job to find it.”

“The path to what?”

“The next dream, usually, like following breadcrumbs. But really it’s to the deepest places, where the real questions lie. Amelia, my psychic, is always saying that we’re too fixated on finding easy answers. We need to uncover our deepest questions, otherwise we settle too easily and miss the real opportunities to make a difference. She and I are making great progress, but we’re only a couple of months into this. We’ll see what comes.”

“I know what I want to dream about tonight!” the Hunk blurted, eyeballs still affixed to Brandi’s tits. No sooner had the words slipped out than his face scrunched with panic.

“Hank, tell your inner thirteen year-old to just shut it!” Lori said, each word dipped in acid.

She felt humiliated for him and personally wounded, and part of her wanted to get back at him. That was a perfect opening—I bent that inclination in my direction, letting it enter her mind that giving me a blow-job in secret would feel like sweet revenge. She smiled—she considered herself something of a cock-sucking specialist, so the image gave her a little thrill. That was another opening to exploit; I massaged her natural desire for showing off and tied that around thoughts of my hard dick like a bow on a birthday present.

Lori frowned, smiled again, and her eyes sought mine. I looked into them—hers seemed to be saying, “You have no idea what I can do with my tongue”, while I tried to adopt an, “I’m on your side” expression. She nodded, then shook her head like it needed to be cleared of thoughts she couldn’t quite process.

“You need to get going, Hank,” she said.

“Maybe we’re all a bit sleepy,” Brandi said. “It’s three in the morning.”

She wanted to keep talking about her dream therapy; it was so obscure and unusual that she’d kept the details bottled up, rarely speaking of it to anybody. She also wondered how real my gifts were, and whether I might have insights that could be used to intensify the work she was involved in. I jumped on that—Jake can gear up the progression of your dream therapy if you let him. You’re dreaming at thirty mph? Just let Jake help, and it’ll be mach 10.

I flipped back to the Hunk next—deep down, from the moment he first met her, he’d wanted to run his hands all over Brandi’s body, squeezing her inspiring leg muscles, kneading her tits. I took those seedlings and poured Miracle Grow all over them, and could see the effect in the way his hands began to tense and un-tense, pantomiming the action.

His eyes roamed all over Brandi with unmistakable hunger, and Lori had had enough. She hopped down, pushing a finger into her boyfriend’s overdeveloped chest. “Good night, Hank,” she said with deceptive evenness. “Maybe Jake should go with you, too.”

“Pascaline will take me back to my van,” I said, backing towards the stairs.

“Maybe we could talk some other time about my dream therapy?” Brandi asked, eyes hopeful. “Leave your number.”

Crap. “I, uh, don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a phone?” all three said in unison, like a trained chorus. That was the America I was coming to know—they’d barely blinked about me being a psychic, but lack of a smartphone made me a freak.

“Come visit in the afternoon,” Lori tacked, her tongue unconsciously sliding across her lips. “Our shift at the bar doesn’t start until six.”

“I’d really like that. I’ll mention it to Pascaline.”

And, just because I could, I reached inside both women to find the seat of their pussies’ natural lust, and stirred it. For now it didn’t matter where their desire was focused; I just wanted them going to bed horny, or tossing and turning and waking up horny. They could sleep like babies some other time; tonight their own pussies should rob them of sleep like a thief in the night, giving them little peace.

“Sweet dreams,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’ll be gone in the morning.”

After which I disappeared into Pascaline’s bedroom, determined to have her howling like a cat in heat. Let the other two dream of that, of their roommate cumming like they hadn’t known any woman could.