The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

May 3rd, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie’s heart skipped a beat when the hall monitor told her to visit the DEO after lunch, giving her a note to skip third period. She took five minutes in the corridor to center her mind and discipline her emotions with a Qabalist mantra, putting on her best poker face.

Someone had taped a simple protest sign — “2 + 2 = 5” — on the door to the Coordinator’s office. A sudden paranoid impulse gripped Julie — she should tear down the “2 + 2” poster before going in; if she didn’t the Coordinator might assume she’s the one who put it there based on timing alone! Stop thinking like you’re a protagonist in an Orwell novel. Don’t turn on others out of fear. She’s a woke busybody, not the Stasi. PHB just had really terrible luck. Leave other people’s free speech alone.

So she just walked into the opulent, carpeted office just opposite the principal’s. “I’m here to see Ms. Dikscheide?”

The receptionist nodded. “Yes, yes, Julie Lambert, right? Please go on in.”

The Diversity Coordinator smiled warmly as she entered. Her name was Alison Dikscheide, but to Julie she was just the Coordinator. Her inner narrative did not accord the Coordinator a name. She was a ruthless functionary in a totalitarian bureaucracy, and Julie thought of her by title alone accordingly. It was an active act of mental dissent. Having gained so much power over others by embracing a coercive collectivist movement, she did not deserve the dignity of recognition as an individual.

She’d qualified for her position leading the DEO by her time spent as a community organizer, and she first became significant as a community organizer by the reputation she’d built up on the Internet making queer-centered, homoerotic Steven Universe fan art, writing essays about the subversive nature of fanwork and calling out instances of perceived bigotry in several different fandoms. In spite of the fan art, she claimed to be a ‘grey ace’ — that is, asexual. Maybe she’s only sexually attracted to really badly drawn cartoons. Julie didn’t learn this though some sinister investigation; it was all on the Coordinator’s official bio on the MWA website. Because people included that in their official bios these days.

Man, the world had gotten weird lately.

“Miss Lambert. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me. You’ve made quite an impression around campus recently.”

Julie nodded and smiled pleasantly, maintaining a carefully disciplined calm. “Thank you.”

“You’re Toshia’s friend, aren’t you?”

Fuck. Was this about that? The Coordinator had encouraged Toshia to run for prom queen, talking about all the barriers it had the potential to shatter. Toshia had asked Julie’s advice. She’d been honest — Toshia was pretty enough, but even discounting transphobia she rarely talked to anyone. Shy girls are not set up to run prom campaigns for obvious reasons. She’d get crushed — or get a condescending, rigged award. It would also open her to obvious vectors for emotional abuse, and Julie pointed that out. So Toshia didn’t run. It wasn’t about negating a rival — Toshia couldn’t rival her. The Coordinator would have an obvious motive to dislike Julie for giving that advice, however. It was a shame she knew about that — Julie wanted to avoid her notice.

“I’m casually acquainted with her. She’s nice.”

“That’s very good of you.”

There was something just... cheap about how she put that. The Coordinator wasn’t looking at her sternly, though; her body language seemed to express sympathy and compassion. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t going to be a comfortable conversation; it may even be traumatic. But I want you to know you are in a supportive environment that celebrates both feminine power and healing. You understand that, right?”

“Yes, Miss Dikscheide.”

“Our office has uncovered evidence of a serious bias incident at MWA, which we are currently investigating. I don’t know how to tell you this, but you may have been victimized without being aware of it.”

Julie tried to look concerned. Oh, she thought. They’ve finally noticed Decepticon Bonnie’s constant and unsubtle slut-shaming? Maybe she said something outré enough that they had to take notice. I might need to weaken that curse-box. I don’t want to use the DEO against her, though — it’s a terror weapon in all but formal designation.

“Look,” the Coordinator said, her voice soft and nurturing. “I need you to listen to a recording that’s come into our possession. It concerns people speaking of you personally in a derogatory, misogynistic and demeaning fashion. I don’t know if you’ve heard any rumors, but I wanted the first person to bring it to your attention to be a sympathetic and feminist-centered voice. I’d be quite happy to leave the room while you listen...”

Thank you for telling me how I should feel about this before I even know what it is. “Thank you, Ma’am. That isn’t necessary.”

The Coordinator played a section of Dwight’s recording on her laptop. Julie prevented her from stopping midway through. “I... I know I can’t begin to understand what you’re feeling right now...”

You’re right. You really can’t. You’re treating it like some kind of harassment, and I’m wondering how I can get that tape home with me so I can jill off imagining all those guys naked together, talking about me like that... It was a clever line, Julie had to ruefully admit — designed to coach her into feeling violated over something that wasn’t in reality all that malign. It was the culmination of all the subtle cues and carefully cultivated atmosphere of barely-controlled hysteria that had characterized the appointment so far. It disgusted Julie.

If you train the people you claim to champion to be snowflakes, she thought, it will come to rest on your conscience when they go outside and melt. But the DEO wouldn’t care. People’s lives melting would only be more grist for their outrage mills, and thus a vector through which to expand the membership of their populist movement. As they so often accused their enemies, the cruelty was the point. It profited them directly.

“If you need a recovery space, we have a healing room just next door with crayons and stuffed animals...”

Okay, now that’s just stupid! It’s self-parody now. But the Coordinator sounded perfectly serious. Don’t giggle. Don’t giggle. Giggling would be BAD. Julie didn’t giggle. She just looked polite and indifferent when she next spoke. “I... this is a bit surreal. I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I haven’t experienced any sexual harassment or abuse. The guys on that tape have been nothing but civil to me in person. The only thing they’ve done is talk about some sexual fantasies and dreams they had about me. It seems like they were unaware they were being recorded. If I may ask, how did you come by that recording?”

“It was given to us by a very brave whistleblower, whose anonymity we intend to protect with absolute diligence.”

“I see.” Fuck you, DB! Fuck you forever! What the fuck have you done?!

The Coordinator stood up and walked over to Julie. She actually had a nice body — the thought struck Julie as surreal, but still true. At just over thirty she was tall, athletic and very top-heavy — moreso than she may have preferred, honestly, given the image she tried to project. She had a short grey pencil skirt, fancy maroon blouse with an Arabesque pattern, an ornate African necklace and bare arms. It met the standards of business casual, albeit barely, while being sexual in that brassy, confrontational, third-wave-feminist way. She was no doubt eager for some man to say her dress was inappropriate, so she could roast him on Twitter for policing women’s sexuality — before she got back to her apparent day job of policing men’s sexuality.

Her hair was short, curly and dyed an unnaturally bright neon red — really, that more than anything ruined her sex appeal to Julie’s aesthetic sense. She could have been really attractive, if her personal fashion wasn’t more focused on screaming at the world than appealing to it. Julie noted the IWW “Wobblies” tattoo on one shoulder and the ‘Stevonnie’ tattoo on the other.

The Coordinator walked behind Julie and ran a hand through her hair. It was a gesture intended to convey support and empathy — and claim an unearned intimacy — but it felt skeevier than anything in the recording. “I don’t think you understand. This has the potential to be a teachable moment, a social moment. Your moment. You have an opportunity, here, to be a leader — and I know that is something that appeals to you. You can call out toxic masculinity and make the world safer for young women everywhere.”

Julie frowned. “And the boys?”

“If you agree to film a victim impact statement, and it’s sufficiently... emotive, I can all but guarantee their expulsion. Furthermore, their names will be remembered — on social media and elsewhere — forever.”

Ok, reappraisal time. Maybe she actually IS the Stasi after all. The Coordinator continued speaking. “We’ve got a novel angle on this — we can, I think, fairly characterize what they’ve been doing as verbal deepfake pornography, and that has a good chance of catching media interest. I know it’s a difficult thing to do, but if you carry through with it, you will be remembered as a hero and a role model to young women everywhere! Isn’t that something that a girl like you would want?”

No. I have bigger dreams than being a carefully-managed mouthpiece for your creepy movement’s agitprop. But she had to word this diplomatically. “I do not see the offense in this that you apparently do.”

“You can’t deny that this toxic banter is rank with misogyny, objectification and rape culture.”

As she talked, Julie’s mind whirled, struggling to understand. The tape wasn’t offensive to her, but it was pretty weird. It was a bug in her system, she realized with a shiver. So stupid! Even with a jacked-up intelligence, she hadn’t wanted to see it. Intellect did not replace experience, and she was still only nineteen. The boost to male confidence, and the influence of Mercury — the Planetary Governor of Communication — in the spell also made the boys more confident in talking about their sexuality. They didn’t feel ashamed, so they broke with the typical social norms and talked about their dreams. And it was “toxic masculinity,” and now this... this grass-roots surveillance state people like the Coordinator had built was gearing up to destroy their lives over it.

“You know,” Julie said, “an argument could be made that you’re participating in gendered oppression yourself, by stigmatizing the sexual dynamic around an upwardly mobile young woman.”

That was really stupid, Julie realized. She knew it as soon as she said it. She was a thinker. She engaged with ideas. She could even engage with inane, incoherent ideas if a situation called for it. But debate here was meaningless. Thinking the ideology mattered was a mistake. Groups like the DEO didn’t care about their purported ideology. They used ideological displays as scent-signals to attract populist support, but they didn’t actually follow the ideology in any principled way. It was just a tool. They cared about power, attention and influence. The tape sounded crass and sexist. It was an election year. The ideology could be fudged, to preserve movement momentum.

The Coordinator no longer held a nurturing pretense. She was angry. “That tape is textbook toxic masculinity! The world hardly needs more juvenile male fantasies, now, does it?”

I don’t know; I’ve sure found reasons to appreciate them recently! But that was not an appropriate answer. “It is not given to anyone but the dreamer and the fantasist to decide what dreams and fantasies the world does and does not need.”

“Bullshit,” the Coordinator snapped, now furious. “The world is choked with this putrid adolescent trash. We suffocate in it every day of our lives, blissfully unaware that we are being buried alive! It empowers white supremacist cis-hetero-patriarchy by drowning out marginalized voices. Male sexual fantasies are inherently expressions of subtextual violent intent against women, and they certainly don’t belong in a school! Clearing out this sort of retrograde cultural pollution is an act of liberation!”

Those are people’s dreams you’re talking about! Julie felt sick. She’d been right, back in the cafeteria. This was her fault, her narcissism. It was more than that, though.

Sex is powerful. Sex, even in dreams, creates bonds between people. Duke, Marvin, Amed, Donny and so many others... she felt like she knew them. She was a voyeur, in a sense. She knew that, and had dismissed the immorality of it months ago. But she couldn’t dismiss the taste of them, the windows into the most intimate and unguarded part of their lives that she had peeked through. But the window looks both ways. Now, in exchange for the thrills and popularity, she was surprised at the visceral protectiveness and responsibility she felt toward them.

“Men and women are interconnected,” Julie pointed out. “If you try to tear all the male fantasies out of society, how many women’s dreams are you going to trample in the process?”

“Society is having a moment, sweetie. We’re moving to a more equitable and less outmoded gender dynamic. A bit of collateral here and there is to be expected. Women no longer have the time or patience to tolerate this kind of trash. Get on the train or get run over.”

“I’m sorry,” Julie said. “I will not be filing a bias report.”

The Coordinator glared furiously at Julie — but then her glare twisted into a malign little smile. “You’re not saying you did anything to elicit this behavior, are you Miss Lambert?”

Julie glanced at the Maoist-style big character poster directly behind the Coordinator’s head — “Slut Shaming Is Violence” in big black Copperplate Gothic letters — and wondered if it meant she could punch her in the face and cite self defense. Of course not. The rules are for us, not for them.

“I’m sorry,” Julie repeated. “I will not be filing a bias report. Nor will I answer questions about anything that does not pertain to bias incidents.”

A vein pulsed on the Coordinator’s head. She clearly wasn’t used to students being anything but deferential to her. Julie thought she was stumped — and then, in one swift instant, the Coordinator changed everything and thrust Julie’s whole reality into crisis.

“You know, we... we tolerate this whole archaic prom court thing. We don’t have to. We can stop. Other schools have. As long as we do, though, anyone aspiring to that position would be well advised to help us in our mission to build a diverse, equitable and inclusive community here at MWA. Without that commitment, the whole concept seems pretty valueless, doesn’t it? I think that I can make that case fairly solidly to the prom committee, and they’ll see it from my perspective.”

There was a sudden lump in Julie’s throat. Her emotional control was breaking. The threat was legit. Everything she’d spent the whole last year working for was in danger. She was scared, and angry. The Coordinator saw that and pushed. “Just help us,” she said. “Silence is violence. Help us to help young women everywhere. Be a hero, not a collaborator, and your name will be etched in the annals of history...”

Prom is not like a job interview or the Olympics. If you botch an Olympic showing, you can train and train with all your will and desperation, and maybe — if you’re good — make a comeback some other year. If you want to pursue the prom court, you will only ever get one shot. Each human being has one and only one prom night in their lives. Once it’s fucked, it’s fucked. There’s no second chance, no do-over. Julie was by natural temperament a pragmatic thinker. She knew she was in a situation where, if everything was about her, there was a clear right and wrong answer. Eight months ago, the decision would not have been a hard one for her to make.

Sex changes people, though.

Transfixed in a moment of stark moral crisis, she reached out to her True Will — the innermost essence of her being, and the highest self-truth she could hold herself in accord to — for guidance, and was surprised when it answered her directly. This above all else: take accountability for your own actions. A victory without ethics is inherently Pyrrhic, while a defeat in virtue unbowed can be a crucible on the endless alchemical journey toward self-perfection.

“I’m sorry,” Julie snapped. “I’m not going to help you destroy young men’s lives to sate your own selfish desire for political theatre. If you want your twenty-second interview on The View so badly, find someone else to help you get it.”

Thirty seconds later, she was walking out of the Diversity and Equity Office, stone-faced and stoic, the stinging red handprint still visible on her face. At least she knew what she had said hit home.

Julie felt sick. Everything she’d worked for was melting, slipping through her fingers like sand. Her stomach churned. She had skipped fourth period. She snuck down a maintenance hallway and used a credit card to pick the lock to an unused classroom on the fourth floor. Mr. Deacon used to teach chemistry here. He’d died during the pandemic. Julie vomited in his waste basket, then sat in the center of the classroom and meditated, softly chanting to try and clear her mind. Khabs am Pekht. Konx om Pax. Light in extension. Khabs am Pekht... There was a nest of feral hamsters chittering at the back of the classroom, because of course there was. There was probably a nest of feral hamsters in every infrequently-used place at MWA now.

The Coordinator probably wouldn’t be able to speak to the prom committee today. Janet Virmire would be with Fifth Block on a field trip. There was a way she could still salvage this, Julie knew — both her own campaign and her dream-lovers’ futures. She couldn’t curse or mentally influence the Coordinator without a sympathetic link like DB’s hair or Harry’s... tissue sample. She didn’t see how she could get one either. Doing anything suspicious around the Coordinator after their last meeting could get her in big, big trouble. But that wasn’t her plan.

She just had to kill the Coordinator. It would fix everything.

She could do that just by manipulating the physical world. She had in her purse a knotted cord that stored within it a solid ten seconds of 80 mph wind. She’d enchanted it as an emergency safety precaution after Chinese Bonnie mentioned her fear of floating with Rich Bonnie on the squad. If anything ever did go hideously wrong — like, say, a cheerleader getting pitched unexpectedly into the bleachers — she’d planned to use it to rescue them with a convenient if inexplicable updraft to catch them and drop them somewhere safe.

Realign the spell, concentrate ten seconds of kinetic energy into one, focus it on an area the size of a baseball... yeah, you could blow someone’s head clean off with that. It’d take bloodwork to realign the spell, and she’d probably incur some level of spellburn, but she could endure the pain and heal. Would that look too overtly supernatural, though, and draw the attention of other Adepts? Bizarre, sure, but occult? She wasn’t sure.

There were other options, subtler options. Mundanes were so fragile — failed brake line, stopped heart, ruptured blood vessel in the brain. The Coordinator was a deeply angry woman — a heart attack or aneurysm was honestly credible. It was reckless — it would mean channeling raw entropy, and she’d never rehearsed the spells, having no plan to use them before now — but she felt sure she’d succeed if she chose to take the chance. There were more spiritual consequences there, of course. Think this through! This is literally life and death here! Choose wisely!

Mundanes had no way to investigate magick. There were no other Adepts in Bentonville, which meant she could get away with a lot. It would be like child’s play. It’s why she peered out a window inconspicuously open only an inch. She was like an untraceable mystic sniper — or she could be, at least.

There was just one problem with the plan: Julie wasn’t quite sure she wanted to own being a psychopath. She’d never taken a human life. Okay, sure; once, back when she was twelve, she’d killed a sapient being — but that had been a clear-cut case of defense of the innocent, and the victim wasn’t even corporeal let alone human. The Coordinator was loathsome, and was threatening to ruin people’s lives, but did that make it justified? No, it obviously wasn’t. One of the earliest ways Julie had mentally set herself apart from other Adepts was in deciding she was, she ought to be beholden to mundane law just like every other person on the planet.

Sure, the chances of her getting caught were infinitesimal, but she would always know, and she was wise enough to know that would change her. Who else, after the Coordinator? Would she get casual about it? She’d used a probability-working to get her parents to leave Boston to get out of an environment that encouraged exactly this kind of stunt. (She’d just wanted a small town; fate gave her parents job openings in a small town that was the birthplace and headquarters of the world’s largest retail chain. But it was well known fateworking never quite did exactly what the caster wanted, anyway. Regardless, she’d grown to like Bentonville.)

Another disconcerting thought came to her as well. I’ve mentally catalogued all the techniques the Coordinator has used to induce hysteria in the student body, assuming I was above them all ‘cause I can chant in Hebrew. I’ve been so arrogant. I have no idea how altered, how unbalanced, I actually may be right now by all her mundane brainwashing. I need more time to decompile my psyche — but the window of opportunity is here right now...

Julie wasn’t sure, after the fact, if she made an enlightened moral decision the way she had in the Coordinator’s office hours earlier — or if she just chickened out and couldn’t steel her nerve. Her True Will wasn’t going to answer two calls in one day, after all. Either way, she watched impotently as the Coordinator got in her sporty little EV and drove off, safe and sound.

May 6th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

The school didn’t even notify her she’d been pulled from the prom court ballot — but lots of students did. Ten months of intensive labor burnt up in an instant due to an arbitrary and capricious authority. In their ineptitude, they hoped it just wouldn’t be noticed or talked about. It was, of course, immediately, and the whole student body knew who was responsible. Julie didn’t even have to tell them. She didn’t do anything. Teachers awkwardly deferred questions about it.

Julie had a lot of options, if she really wanted to push things. She could start calling in favors from people that liked her — lots of people liked her — to protest the DEO meddling with the student council. She’d love to see them try to justify to their greater social movement why they had intervened in a prom court to decide which thin pretty middle class white girl would get the tiara. She could also skulk around trying to get something to use as a sympathetic link on the Coordinator. She could even angle her dream-walking more toward the faculty and take up information warfare, trying to seduce people in dreams who might have dirt on the DEO.

The problem was, all that shit was dumb. It was exactly the kind of scrub-stunts an immature brat with mystic power would pull, a Daddy’s Little Girl. As long as she was enrolled in MWA, the DEO had real power — not just to mess up her prom run, but to mess up her life, her career, her future. The optimal time to retaliate against them was obviously after graduation. She wouldn’t be in their sphere then, but they would always be in hers. But that meant reconciling herself to the loss of her dream — so that’s what she’d force herself to do. Down, girl. Real life is not a YA dystopia; you do not get to be the Mockingjay. That ‘inspiration’ shit doesn’t actually work. Know when it’s over — pick up the pieces and move on.

The DEO wanted some kind of news scandal in an election year to justify their existence, increase their funding and expand their powers. DalMart wanted to meet ESG guidelines. She knew perfectly well that this was about national and corporate politics intersecting high school politics, and in that situation high school clout simply did not matter. Sometimes, all that a low-end transhuman intellect got you was being able to see with preternatural clarity just how fucked you actually were. Skill, social or otherwise, didn’t always matter — not in the face of overwhelming power. Put Mohammed Ali, Ronda Rousey and Jet Li in a room with some inbred dipshit with a .45 and all you get is three dead legends.

She visited the prom committee. Everyone there liked her as one of the most regular volunteers — but everyone everywhere feared the Coordinator’s ability to command woke mobs, to destroy their professional futures a lot more. There was no question who wielded more power. The were ashamed. They couldn’t meet her gaze. But they weren’t going to set their whole careers on fire so she could be prom queen — and really, she couldn’t blame them. Still, the Coordinator’s victory reinforced an uncomfortable adage she previously would have debated vigorously. It is better to be feared than loved — fear lasts longer.

By the middle of the week, Julie was emotionally exhausted. She needed a break. She needed to dream. She’d fixed the spell so it wouldn’t make men ‘overly expressive’ any more. She’d might as well. After all, spicy dreams were all she had left.

May 8th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Bentonville never had parades like this. Bentonville couldn’t afford parades like this. Bentonville didn’t have room for parades like this!

Nonetheless, here it was. Julie took a moment to savour the sheer level of spectacle possible in dreams. She and her fellow cheerleaders stood on the extruded stage of a giant inflatable float. Crowds cheered below them as they made their way through the wide streets of a spread-out, roomy town. Some jocks below wolf-whistled.

The only other person on the float-stage with the Angels was Rajveer Datta — a plump, nerdy weirdo she shared shop class with. He liked to build things, and was currently working on a giant, surreal organ-thing behind the cheerleaders. It looked vaguely like the orgasm-organ from Barbarella, but there were huge rows of pressurized air cannisters around it and he was busy hooking air hoses into the giant organ-machine. When he caught her looking, his face twisted into a wicked, gleeful and maniacal grin.

Okay, let’s go over the checklist: in public, prestigious event, wet dream, scantily clad, maniacal horny nerd... yeah, I know the genre conventions by now; I’m in for some raunchy and X-rated humiliation. Honestly, bring it on! After her emotionally draining week, a seriously demeaning, un-PC kink-fantasy felt like it would just hit the spot, being both a mental act of defiance against the DEO and a forbidden delicacy. Let’s see what Raj has planned!

It didn’t take long for the jovial horn-and-tube parade-band music to cut out, complete with record-screech sound effect. A second later, it was replaced by a hair metal stripper anthem with a really bitchin’ beat — and, wouldn’t you know it, all the cheerleaders on stage (Julie included) suddenly dropped their normal rah-rah cheering style and broke out the seriously raunchy stripper moves. As her hips snapped and thrust back and forth, she felt a sudden intimate breeze downstairs. She realized with a shock that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Outdoors. On an upraised float-platform. In her notoriously bouncy cheerleader skirt. She let the thrill of this pass through her, raising the hair on her neck. She found Rich Bonnie’s horrified expression when she figured out the same thing even more delicious, however.

Julie’s body moved to the music, fully beyond her volition. She could stop it, of course, but didn’t. Whyever would she?! She reveled in the feeling of being a puppet, a backseat passenger in her own body. I’m your perfect poseable doll, Raj! Use me! All I ask is that you do some seriously kinky shit with my nubile young bod while you’re in the driver’s seat! Her skin tingled as she contemplated the myriad depths and layers of freedom implicit in the simple phrase, ‘only a dream’.

She had a feeling she’d get her wish. The girls broke up into pairs. Nora, Julie’s best friend from back in tenth grade, ended up straddling Julie, bumping and grinding against her body lasciviously. Nora was a short brunette with wide, almost anime-esque eyes, plump lips, a heart-shaped face and the most beautiful, silky brown hair. She also tied DB for the coveted “most stacked cheerleader” title. Nora, unlike DB, was all natural. Julie knew this — she’d seen her play beach volleyball. She’d memorized it. Fake tits just didn’t do that. Not that a girl like Nora would ever consider that in high school anyway.

Nora’s face hovered, mouth open, an inch from Julie’s — teasing, but not delivering, a girl-on-girl kiss. Her glossy lips brushed Julie’s as her hips pumped, miming sex-thrusts.

It wasn’t like this was totally new to Julie. You don’t become the most popular girl in high school without kissing other girls at a party at least once. Julie remembered that fondly, but more for the way it made everyone pay attention to her than the properties of the act itself. Her partner had been drunk, and her mouth tasted like cigarettes. Still, it could have been hot. She was at least... open-minded. She wasn’t against trying again — especially with a girl as pretty as Nora was.

But Nora drew back after the tease. No! Do it! Make me cross boundaries and make out lewdly with my best friend since Grade Ten! It would be uncomfortable, weird and incredibly hot!

This wasn’t the first dream Julie’s fellow cheerleaders had shown up in. Like Larkin’s, though, it was among the few she found tolerable. She’d gotten the obvious “voyeur watching girls make out in the women’s locker room” fantasy before, and bailed on it — not because she was averse to the concept, but because the dreamer couldn’t remember what the other Angels looked like, even clothed! He tended to mentally paste their heads onto naked porn-star bodies.

Julie felt very proud that most of the student body of MWA knew what her student body looked like — but the other cheerleaders ended up as a jumbled combinations of porn stars and her squadmates’ most distinctive features: DB’s platinum blonde pixie cut and double Ds, Chinese Bonnie’s plump tushie, Nora’s eyes, PHB’s highlights and birthmark, 80s-hair Bonnie’s... well, just guess what. It’s not hard. Fucking her friends would be kinky, but fucking a weird and badly remembered Frankenstein composite of them was a great big nope. And that wasn’t even getting into the guys who all thought that DB was a nice person or tried to cast her as Julie’s secret lover.

Raj seemed to know the Angels, though — he’d dated Rich Bonnie for a while. Yeah, seriously, she seemed to like him romantically — though DB had eventually convinced her to dump him for team image reasons; cheerleaders don’t date weird plump introverts from shop class. Based on this dream, though, he’d apparently studied the whole team a fair bit. He knew their looks and personalities — not enough to be perfect, but enough to avoid the squicky uncanny valley effect Julie’s teammates had in other dreams.

Raj seemed to be going in a completely different direction, however. The crowd was starting to notice the cheerleader’s predicament. Wicked stripper dance moves and flippy skirts contributed to a lot of brief beaver flashes. Raj hadn’t actually seen the team naked — he rendered DB with a bald beaver and Jen as an innie. But Julie didn’t care about that — watching her friends dance involuntarily, and seeing their blushing, scandalized expressions whenever they spun around or flipped their skirts, entertained her far more than the actual pussy parade. At one point, Pink Highlights Bonnie smacked her on the ass unexpectedly. It fit as a choreographed part of the raunchy stripper routine, but it still sent a shocking surge though Julie’s libido. The crowd hooted and jeered, making Julie blush and enhancing the dirty thrill.

And then the climax. Raj put his foot on an ornate, steampunk-looking brass pedal and pressurized air shot up from the stage floor below the cheerleaders. The whole squad did the Marilyn Monroe Maneuver as their skirts flipped up and stayed up for a good five seconds, giving the jeering, laughing crowd a veritable beaver bonanza. DB and Jen fought the hardest to keep their skirts down, but it was a vain and futile effort. The wind had a force to it, and all the girls felt it — yes, there. Julie wasn’t the only one to gasp. The Angels’ hair, whipping about wildly in the wind, was almost as thrilling to Julie’s glamour-loving aesthetic as the lower exposure.

After that lewd climax, the dance routine seemed to reset. Again a teammate ground their body lewdly against hers — this time, though, it was Pink Highlights Bonnie. Julie found it nice to see her face free of stress, fear and bitterness for once — even if it was just in a dream. She looked alluring with her sharp blue teasing eyes, petite and slender figure and shiny black bowl-cut. Her mouth again hovered an inch from Bonnie’s, but failed to actually kiss her.

And then something truly surreal happened: Raj connected an air-hose to some socket on his great organ and turned a valve. There was a hiss of compressed air — and PHB’s petite A-cups began to expand rapidly like inflating balloons.

Inwardly, Julie giggled at the shocked and embarrassed expression on the sultry cheerleader’s face. Her breasts actively strained her micro-jacket uniform halter by the time she hit a C-cup. The combination of her mouth open in a shocked, scandalized ‘O’ and the outrageously upthrust, bound cleavage looked incredibly hot. By the time she hit a double D, the single graven button holding the halter together in the middle popped off with an audible pinging sound and PHB’s radically-expanded goodies were exposed to the leering crowd. She tried to move her hands to cover her chest, but — still in robot-stripper-puppet mode — instead ended up cupping her hands behind her head and pumping her hips left and right in a wicked dance that sent her gargantuan goodies flopping to-and-fro.

Then Julie heard the hiss of the second hose being connected, and felt her own chest begin to swell. It was the most peculiar sensation, and Julie focused on it. Her nipples must be abnormally sensitive, because as the fabric pulled tight and scraped over them they sent a body-wracking shiver rippling out to every inch of her figure. Serotonin surged and she felt light-headed from pleasure.

She felt rather than saw her own halter rip and fall away. A cool breeze teased her erect nipples, almost making her legs buckle. She raised her hands and ran them through her hair under the dream-puppetry, just like PHB had, involuntarily flaunting her now-obscene figure to the leering crowd. They were probably so focused on her chest, though, that they didn’t notice the white droplets of natural lubrication running down her legs as she started wildly creaming herself.

Faintly, in the background, she heard more hissing. The other cheerleaders were tearing out of their tops — screaming, swearing, gasping and moaning. Julie and PHB again repeated their lesbian-tease stripper grind-dance like clockwork puppets. This time, though, their outrageously swollen chests crushed against each other as they moved. Erect nipples scraped against erect nipples. PHB’s cold piercings thrilled Julie like ice cubes, and she seemed to be enjoying them too. Julie would have lost her balance and fallen over from raw stimulation, but the dream — or Raj’s organ-machine — ran her body like a clockwork puppet, denying her the natural reflexes against over-stimulation her body possessed. Julie orgasmed, hard and wet, a dizzying shiver that started in her trembling inner thighs and spread throughout her own body. She let out a starkly obscene moan.

Her body, Raj’s puppet, didn’t relent — breast-grinding her through a second orgasm in quick succession. By the time it finished, Julie was certain more than just the organ-machine was inspired by Barbarella — the cheerleaders captured Fonda’s desperate, sweat-soaked, over-orgasmed exhaustion look perfectly.

Julie heard Decepticon Bonnie screaming and swearing at her grinding partner, Rich Bonnie, in furious outrage over her own humiliation. She looked around — the parade was crossing through North Dalton Boulevard in a more spread-out, industrial area on the edge of Bentonville. She biked past it every day on the way to school. Would it be there? Yes, the huge machine outside the scrapyard was just where she remembered it being. Apparently Raj saw it frequently too. She altered the dream, willing it to come to life. It did, roaring and belching smoke. She also willed control of her body back to herself. Sorry, Raj. I’ll give you your toy back right away. I just really need to work off a bit of stress first!

Julie tottered up behind DB, her now-ridiculous assets swaying haphazardly and screwing with her balance. Fortunately, DB was not coping any better. Julie grabbed her nemesis by the hair with one hand and shoved the other roughly between her legs, squeezing her cunt hard. DB yelped in pain. Baby, if you think that hurts, let me just say: you ain’t seen nothing yet!

With a rough grunt and raw force of will, Julie hefted Decepticon Bonnie above her head and tossed her into the air. The treacherous slanderer went flying through the air, arms pinwheeling, into the waiting maw of the running wood chipper. She screamed for real, then, and then gurgled, and then died, as whirling blades tore apart her petite body, grinding her up like a housecat being pulled into a garbage disposal.

DB’s minions, Rich Bonnie and Jen, stared transfixed in horror at the gruesome demise of their role model. Julie, on the other hand, materialized an umbrella out of nowhere, took two steps to the side, opened it and pointed it at the wood chipper.

Finishing processing its grotesque human input, a ridiculous spray of gore and viscera worthy of early Peter Jackson at his most excessive shot out of the wood chipper’s outlet vent, plastering Jen and Rich Bonnie with blood, brains and dangling intestines. They, rather predictably, screamed. Julie, conversely, stayed immaculate thanks to the convenient umbrella and flashed the shocked duo a dapper grin. “Hey, what goes around comes around, you know?”

Damn, that was satisfying.

The whole dream ground to a sudden halt. Jen and Rich Bonnie faded away after screaming. Julie tuned to look at Raj. His eyes were wide and his whole face was trembling like he was going to cry. Yeah, this was really selfish. Raj and I are the only people actually here, after all, and I might have traumatized him to act out a petty revenge. Shit! But he hadn’t woken up in terror yet, and Julie thought maybe she could salvage this. Given that she had scared the shit out of him after getting her own rocks off, she wanted him to enjoy the rest of the dream.

She was growing, physically taller. She’d had that happen in dreams before, when she intimidated someone or when someone was into femdom or had a ‘giantess’ fetish. She turned back to Raj, cupping her arms around her enormous gag boobs to remind Raj of their existence and thus soothe him, fluttered her eyelashes and put on her best porno-pouty voice.

“I’ve been very naughty, and I scared you. I’m so sorry. I think I might need to be punished, but there’s a catch. You can do anything you want — this is your dream — but you have to punish me for what I just did in a way that makes your cock get hard like a steel rod. Can you do that for me, Rajveer Datta? If you think you can, you have my permission. Go for it, big boy!”

He seemed impressed that she knew and remembered his full name — few students would — and his trembling face slowly turned back to the wicked grin as he thought about the possibilities open to him.

Julie kept growing — both in height and cup size. She swelled up to the height of the buildings around her. Bentonville didn’t have skyscrapers, but she stood a good three or four stories — and her chest had swelled so wide her arms couldn’t wrap fully around her breasts anymore. Yet there was no pain or sense of body horror — the breasts seemed almost buoyant and impossibly perky with upthrust nipples each larger than her head.

A scratchy, fabric-textured appendage grabbed her waist from behind. A looming, cheerful figure as large as she was strode in front of her. The figure behind her grabbed her arms and bent them behind her back. A black arm with a white felt glove grabbed and squeezed her sensitive nipple, and she positively howled in ecstasy.

Animated parade floats! She was being grappled by living, inflatable cartoon characters the size of busses! The one in front of her was Matthew Mouse — the most popular and beloved (and among the oldest) animated character in the world. Glancing behind her, she saw an inflatable Fixit Boy — the 50s, retro-styled mascot character from a popular post-apocalyptic video game. There was just one detail amiss from their usual appearance: they both possessed giant, raging inflatable cocks! She knew the fantasy-script called out for her to be wide-eyed, to beg or plead or act scared, but she just couldn’t — she burst out in joyful, good-natured laughter instead. The image was just too absurd to be either negative or serious about.

Her enlarged breasts pulled her upward like helium-filled balloons. She felt her feet leave the ground. There was no pain or spinal stress; it just felt surreal and oddly unconstrained. Her assailants provided more than enough constraint to satisfy her wicked libido, however — binding her arms, pulling her hair, squeezing her vulva and crushing her between their inflatable bodies. Fixit and Matthew latched on to her back and front as she rose, floating up with her.

I’m thirty feet tall, buck naked, floating up into the air on my immense tits, not in control of my own body and about to be gang-raped by inflatable parade floats of famous cartoon characters in front of a big crowd. Fuck yeah — bring it on, Raj!

Inflatable cocks penetrated her anus and vag. It felt so weird — not bad, but very novel. She focused on the sensations, struggling to memorize and enhance them. It was like balloons coated with Vaseline sliding into her, very unlike either flesh or a plastic dildo. Maybe a jelly dildo, but even that was only slightly similar. They squeaked as they pumped in and out roughly, even as her buoyant breasts — now wider than she was tall — dragged her through the sky like twin hot air balloons.

She glanced down at Raj as the floats fucked her, and was pleased to see that any trauma had been obliterated by the sheer boyish glee etched on his amazed face. He had his cock out and pumped it, frenzied, as he watched her get railed. Then she rose, and he became an ant, and then a speck, and then nothing.

Thrust. Moan. Pump. Scream. Grind. Repeat. The ludicrousness of the encounter did nothing to diminish its brutal eroticism. Below her, the crowd was like a moss curtain — but she knew that at her size, they could see every explicit detail, watch the creamy wetness drip off her hungry, violated cunt as Matthew and Fixit drilled her rhythmically. The floats’ cartoon faces kept their fixed, cheerful, family-friendly expressions even as they stretched her vulva. It was simultaneously thrilling and humiliating, and she cackled in a mad delirium.

As she neared climax, her sexual heat became a ravenous hunger and her hands tore free, digging into Matthew’s paunchy belly. The float popped like a balloon, shocking her, and her whole body stang in brutal pain from the snap — almost like a whip-crack. Holy shit! I just murdered Matty Mouse! I wonder if DeSantis has a bounty on offer for the vile little fucker’s scalp? Hee! The sting and her own masochism pushed her over the edge, and she came violently even as Fixit Boy continued to drill her ass.

Apparently Raj watched a lot of squirting porn, since she exploded like a champagne bottle — girly-cum raining down on the crowd in a veritable monsoon.

Mrs. Loomer — the first-period history teacher who always made a point of lecturing and humiliating late students, a category the perpetually fatigued Raj often fell into — got the worst of it, swept away by a descending tidal wave of Julie’s ejaculate like Richard Peck in the final scene of Ghostbusters.

Julie giggled as she slowly came down from her orgasmic bliss, and found she couldn’t stop. It was something she rarely did, but it felt good. This dream was honestly just fun. All the imagery was so absurdist, whimsical and gleefully over the top. Despite the obvious humiliation and rape kinks, there was no true malice in it at all. It soothed and massaged her psyche, pushing aside the bitterness and cynicism that had been building up within her since her visit to the DEO.

Sadly, though, it was losing its coherence. She watched cheerleaders — not just her Angels but vast myriads of them, including pros from several NFL teams — float up into the atmosphere like released balloons, giggling, gasping and moaning in ecstasy, carried aloft by their exposed, ridiculously inflated assets. Their turgid nipples all pointed skyward.

Julie awoke gradually and with a relaxing languor, semi-consciously grinding her own rock-hard nipples against her bedspread for the little bit of extra texture-stimulation needed to pump out a third, relaxed orgasm over about twenty minutes heightened by the scents of damiana and jasmine in her pillow. Then she got up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, vacuumed up the occult circles around the bed, showered, got dressed and got ready for a new day, a spring in her step.

I need perspective. I’ve failed at a major life goal. I’ll find another dream, in time. I’m still pretty, popular, young, healthy, skillful, level-headed, solidly middle class, possessed of a deeply wild yet safely imaginary sex life and... oh yeah, a Practicus Adept able to warp the very fabric of reality. I should be grateful for what I have. I will be grateful for what I have; I decree it to be so, and I have the strength of self to make my psyche comply... hopefully.

Dreams, after all, are a natural mechanism with an evolutionary purpose. They ease stresses, induce catharsis and help to heal injuries within the psyche. That, in the end, is why they exist.

May 10th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Decepticon Bonnie was red-faced with fury. It was a weird, absurd look with her platinum blonde pixie cut — it made her head seem even smaller somehow. “You threw me in a wood-chipper?!”

Julie was proud of how cool and collected she played it. “Uh, what?”

“Don’t try to deny it! I heard some guys talking about it!”

“If I threw you in a wood chipper, do you really think you’d learn about it second hand? I mean, wouldn’t that tend to stick out in your first person memories?”

DB’s brow furled as she thought about it, so Julie pressed her advantage. “Look. Where did I toss you in a wood chipper, and when?”

“In some anonymous weirdo’s dream, I heard!”

“And how is that possibly my fault?”

Even Decepticon Bonnie could recognize how silly this conversation was making her sound. She shook a pom-pom angrily at Julie. It was not especially threatening. Pom-poms aren’t innately good at being threatening. “This isn’t over!”

“God, I hope not,” Chinese Bonnie threw in. “It’s entertaining in its sheer inanity. Seriously, Kellerman, you’ve got a screw loose. Get a grip!”

DB vibrated in place angrily, hissing and sputtering like a ruptured balloon before stalking off.

May 15th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie had been meditating outside the Dalton’s Five-and-Ten. As the “first DalMart”, it was a minor place of power attuned to Yesod and Chômsolivël, the third-order governing Aethyr of Prototypes; Julie was on good terms with its genius loci and could replenish her mystic reserves there. She closed her eyes, opened her mind and let the mystic light of Ain Soph Aur ripple down the ten Sephirah and into her body.

As a result, she didn’t see Lorcan sit down beside her until he’d been there a few seconds. She started, the Qabalistic visualization crumbing as her mind returned to reality. “Oh. Hi, Lorcan. Sorry, I guess I zoned out a bit there.”

She knew Lorcan Flannigan. Obviously — she knew everyone. Weird kid, in with the stoners clique. Recent immigrant from North Ireland. Really into environmentalism and nature-stuff. Hung out with Albert, Toshia and Lynn Harland. Dressed like shit in ratty clothes and still managed to look handsome, with his pretty-boy features, subtly muscled torso and messy, tousled brown relaxed quiff. Nice leather jacket, though. Bit of a rebel, but in a quiet rather than an overt way. He was semi-cool, at least, and seemed like a nice enough person when they talked. Julie was cautious of ending up on the wrong side of his wit, though.

Today, though, his cocky confidence was gone. He looked awkward and really uncomfortable. “Julie, um... I really need to talk to you. This will be a bit of a serious conversation, and not one we want to have in public. Some place quiet and neutral would be best.”

The tone concerned her. Five minutes later, they sat opposite each other in a shady, tidy alley behind the Crystal Bridges Museum. “I guess I should just spit it out,” Lorcan said. “I’m an Adept, just like you. I’ve done ill by you and want to make atonement.”

Julie’s heart skipped a beat. Fear clenched her. Seriously?! There are two Adepts in fuckin’ Bentonville? This did not amuse her. She’d astrally nudged her parents into moving here specifically to avoid the kinds of occult intrigue and murderous True Lodge politics that went down depressingly frequently in places like New York, London, Hong Kong or San Francisco. Had he tracked her here, or was it really coincidence?

And why didn’t her precognitive danger sense go off? Either he wasn’t dangerous to her, or his esoteric masking was able to foil her divinatory abilities. Adepts are always dangerous, so that leaves only one option.

Julie centered her mind, stood up, put on her best poker face and bowed formally. “Julia Lambert, solitary pathworker of the Practicus grade in the Hermetic Order of the Interior Adytum, apprentice to and released under the recognisance of Adeptus Major Lady Catherine Eleanor Grimwald of the Themis-by-Maat Chapter House of Abditus Argentum in Boston.”

Lorcan stood up as well, looked even more flustered. “Um, yeah, uh... wow. My name’s Lorcan Flannigan, apprentice to, um... Big Willie. I don’t think he actually has a last name. We never had a formal freehold, but we used to get together in the Lion and Eagle pub in Belfast. Solitary. I think you’d call what he taught me Celtic-shamanic primal working? You know, Old Faith tree magick stuff. But with bits of Wicca, phonomancy, Kundalini and a bunch of other stuff mixed in. Big Willie was never big on categories and labels, y’know?”

Julie nodded, perceiving his discomfort. Well, that explains his reputation for pharmaceuticals, I guess. “It’s cool. If I was big into Hermetic status games, I wouldn’t be in Bentonville, now, would I?”

He laughed, but it was awkward and strained. “I think you may have stumbled into my dreamspace, and I may have gravely disrespected you while you were there. I come to apologize, beg forgiveness and bring an offering of atonement.”

Julie frowned, knowing she had to be terribly cautious. She did not want to admit to casual dream-walking, though given what the boys had been talking about in school it was all but impossible a fellow Adept wouldn’t have figured it out. Politically, though, that wasn’t quite the same thing as an actual confession. It wasn’t an actual crime, mind you. The True Lodges didn’t have many crimes related to mortals. But it could be... embarrassing in some circles. He would also logically have to know she was a total dreamslut, but she didn’t let that concern reach her face. “Please clarify.”

“I didn’t know you were, um, real — let alone a fellow Adept — until the morning when my familiar daimon told me I’d been dream-working with someone else.”

She couldn’t remember a dream with him. She was sure she would; he was pretty handsome. Had he erased her memory in the dream? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. A chill crept up her spine. “I don’t recall a dream about you. Not all dreams are remembered, however.”

She phrased the last statement carefully to avoid any lie-detecting dweomers — with Qabalist mnemonic training, she personally certainly did remember all her dreams.

Lorcan was turning scarlet. He squirmed around with his hands in his pockets, clearly mortified. “You wouldn’t have been able to see me, Julie. I was invisible. I, uh... came on you. And I beg your forgiveness.”

Oh, wow! Julie had a moment of total mental dissonance as she tried to reconcile her image of Lorcan with her assumptions about what kind of a person the Oscars dreamer must have been. And he was an Adept! It just goes to show, I guess; people are not their fetishes...

She clenched her hands in anger — not at Lorcan, though. “You have done no wrong. No one should ever have to apologize for their fantasies and dreams, Magister Flannigan. Not ever, under any circumstances.”

He nodded slowly. “Please. Just Lorcan. I mean, we’re in Physics 30 together. I’d be failing if you hadn’t let me copy your notes. Still, it was... unsavory, and not a fantasy I ever wanted anywhere other than my own mind.”

Part of Julie wanted to tell him how much she enjoyed it, how hot it got her after she processed the unreality of it, to dispel the aura of sullen shame that clung to him. Her smarts kept her silent, however. She could, in theory, still claim she had blundered into his dreams in an unusual pathworking accident. She had no desire to confess her voyeuristic sprees — even, especially, to a fellow Adept who would actually believe her, and could be a serious threat to her. She had made more than her annual quota of selfless and stupid decisions recently, and wasn’t about to say things to a stranger her political instincts warned her could bite her in the ass at a later point.

Maybe he really isn’t dangerous, an idealistic part of her mind offered. Then her more disciplined mind clamped down on that. Choose to believe he is. It’s a good bet, because the consequences of being wrong are far less serious than the other way around.

A moment of inspiration struck Julie then. Lorcan was penitent and off-balance now. She should press the advantage while it existed — and maybe help him a bit in the process. She flashed him her best winning prom queen smile and put a hand on his shoulder casually. “Tell you what. I’ll totally forgive you for your dream — and any other dreams, too. I’ll never hold it against you or seek any form of physical, social or mystic retaliation. In exchange, you overlook my little nocturnal adventures and never tell anyone about them, or me being in Bentonville or being an Adept at all. Agreed?”

The terms wildly favored her, but his face still flashed with delight and sheer “thank god” stress relief when she made the offer. “Yeah! Absolutely! So totes a deal!”

She held out her hand. “Shake on it.”

He clasped her hand and shook it vigorously, delighted to be free of the Damocles sword he perceived to be hanging over his head.

“Then it is sealed,” she said more formally.

She saw in his brown eyes that he understood, that she had lured him into a formal magus compact. He didn’t care, though, still just relieved that the matter was resolved. Julie was relieved too, honestly — the only person who could really understand her nocturnal adventures was now sworn to secrecy regarding them.

It turned out, though, that she needn’t have worried at all. “Julie, your dream-walking stunt is so cool. I’d never narc on you, I swear. I wish I could do shit like that. It sounds like you’re having so much fun, and even helping some people along the way. I owe you one for Donny Broekner, honestly. And were you responsible for Harry the Creeper dropping out?”

“No comment.”

He laughed. It was a deep, good-natured laugh. “You’re really cool, Julie, even if you’re like super-formal an’ shit. I’m glad everything’s good between us.”

She was glad too, but while spirits were high she decided to press for one other piece of very valuable tactical information. “Everything is great between us, Lorcan. I have to admit to being curious, though. Have you really mastered the Manifold Shroud of Gyges? I mean, in Malkuth, not Yesod?”

He laughed. “What, turning invisible in real life? Fuck no; that shit is super hard! I’ve read about it, but I don’t know if anyone could pull it off for real in the modern world. I doubt it.”

Julie, conversely, knew of three people confirmed to be able to do it. She didn’t volunteer that, though. She was just glad she didn’t have another thing to be paranoid about here in Bentonville.

Suddenly, though, Lorcan blushed again. “Julie, you have to know I’d never —”

“Lorcan, I know. People are not their fetishes and fantasies. Believe me, I really understand that as a deep truth. It’s the DEO, getting inside everyone’s head and blurring the lines on that. Never apologize for you dreams, even — especially — the raunchy ones. It does not befit either the station of an Adept or the basic dignity of a human being.”

Lorcan nodded. “Thanks. Really. Speaking of the DEO, though, I did bring a gift of formal atonement I still have to give you.”

He fished out his wallet and held up a little pot baggie. At first, Julie thought he was offering her drugs and was trying to figure out a polite refusal — and then she saw the cutting of hair inside the bag. Unnaturally neon red hair.

“Is... is that really...”

Lorcan grinned. “Yeah, it sure is. I heard you Hermetics can make sympathetic links out of this kind of thing.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “We can. How did you... I mean, it is possible she suspects...”

“Miss Dikscheide has no idea. I was very sneaky. She has a pet black lab. I sent my daimon to inhabit the dog, bite off a lock of her hair, run off and bury it in a pre-selected spot. I waited a full day to collect it. She’ll have no way to connect anything you do to her to you, me or anyone else.”

Julie snatched the baggie and pocketed it possessively. “Lorcan... thank you. Deeply. The balance of profit is now with me. I will find a way to repay that to you, I swear — though likely after graduation at this point.”

“You don’t have to. Really, we’re good.”

It occurred to Julie that Lorcan might be using her here, or at least gaining a dual advantage. He might have his own reasons to hate the Coordinator. Honestly, everyone probably had a reason to hate the Coordinator. But this wasn’t a problem — he really owed her nothing, and friends with shared interests were always a good thing.

“If you wanted, I could take you to prom. It would probably be a status boost...”

He shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. I don’t care about status. I’ve already got a date; we’re becoming a bit of an item. Well, hopefully, if I don’t mess things up. It’s a weird relationship, and a bit new to me.”

Julie smiled warmly. “Sounds cool.”

“Julie?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck her up. Don’t hold back. She’s a genuinely evil woman. She has it coming, more than you will ever know.”

Julie nodded slowly. “Count on it.”

May 18th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie leaned back, laying on the hood of the vintage ‘22 Silver Ghost Rolls Royce. Julie cherished status symbols, so posing on the antique Ghost was a thrill to her in and of itself.

She wore only a skimpy purple string bikini with grey strings, matching the colors of the Magnolia Stallions and Angels. It was a thong. She’d worn a fair few sexy things in her time, but never actually a thong; it felt odd and exciting running up her ass crack. Her silky red hair was loose, splayed around her head like a corona. Her legs were spread, bent at the knee, one ankle hanging over each of the beautiful antique’s headlights. The Spirit of Ecstasy — the Rolls-Royce hood ornament — stuck up right between her spread legs in a bit of deliciously naughty symbolism. Yeah, well, I bet my own little Spirit of Ecstasy tastes better. In the waking world, it’s probably more expensive, too! Here, though, you can get it at a real bargain price...

Chinese Bonnie was bent over, her ass thrust up in the air, her hands on Julie’s knees and her toned and tawny legs spread in an inviting V as the photog snapped pictures. She was wearing glossy purple fuck-me pumps, as if her long legs weren’t great enough already. Snap, snap, snap — the photog got shots of her upthrust ass. Julie wanted to see those pictures, even though she knew she never would. CB smiled nervously down at Julie, finding the photoshoot a bit awkward.

“Climb right on top of Julie,” the photog told CB. His words did not brook disobedience, so she didn’t disobey. “Get your face right close to hers, and sweep your hair to the right side so I can shoot you face to face.

She slowly climbed on top of Julie, step by aching step. Her substantial collection of gold necklaces dangled down as she crawled over her friend’s prone body, scraping Julie’s chest, teasing her. Julie marveled once again at what a beautiful young lady her friend was. Her long, silky chestnut hair hung down from her head like a curtain. She wasn’t an especially busty girl, but the tight string bikini gave even her B-cups an impressive cleavage. Her nipples were hard, and quite visible through the thin purple fabric. Her skin was a smooth and flawless toast-brown, matching her glittering brown eyes; she had a perfect hourglass figure.

She was more glammed up than usual for the photoshoot, with silver eyeshadow, black eyeliner and a nude but glossy lipstick. Her round face still held its fundamental, playful impishness, however — even if right now she was really nervous. She felt vulnerable in the skimpy string bikini, and that vulnerability made her unspeakably appealing to Julie. She swept her hair like an especially feisty glamour girl, though! Snap! Snap!

Chinese Bonnie’s lips were slightly open, and just two inches away. Julie could smell her familiar YSL Black Opium. She was surprised the dreamer got that right — boys weren’t usually that attuned to perfume. Could... could this be Chinese Bonnie’s dream? Julie’s heart fluttered with taboo excitement. The perfume wasn’t the only sign. The shoot included Julie, Chinese Bonnie, Pink Highlights Bonnie and 80s-hair Bonnie, but had left out Decepticon Bonnie and her minions Jen and Rich Bonnie. Not that Julie wasn’t thankful, but you had to know the squad to do that. All the bodies also seemed true-to-life so far, and Julie could see rather a lot of them in these bikinis. A few times she’d wondered if Chinese Bonnie had a bit of a girl-crush on her — she was so snarky, though, that it was hard to tell.

Was it even possible? Taking time to think about it, she realized it was even probable. Sure, she’d set up her orrery to link Mars and Venus with Mercurian energies, just like she did every night but it was just a model. She’d put too much focus on the model and not enough on the real night sky. If Mars and Venus were in opposition in reality, she might get shunted to a girl’s wet dream about her by default. She felt an angry shame, the same way she did whenever she messed anything up that she had the skill to prevail at. Then she glanced around at the nubile young bodies filling out skimpy bikinis surrounding her, and grinned. As mistakes go, this one looks to be turning out pretty sexy so far. It might just be time to ride the delightfully-curved waves of the sapphic seas...

Her eight-cornered mirror was between Mars and Saturn, so this dream wouldn’t alter confidence and accidentally motivate anyone to out themselves the way the boys had on the DEO tape. That was good — Julie really didn’t want to be responsible for her friends outing themselves.

The photographer was a balding, pot-bellied, sleazy guy with taped-together glasses — but his voice was the stuff of raw command. Julie had mentally nicknamed him Sleazo. She didn’t recognize him from the school, as either faculty or student — he could be a janitor or some maintenance guy, perhaps. But his very tropic genericness was another point of evidence that this might be Chinese Bonnie’s dream.

Everyone had just been calling him Sir so far, and Julie just went with it. She was getting pretty adept at fetish dynamics from her nocturnal sojourns, and enjoyed the BDSM subtext. Given that subtext, the critical words fell like a sack of hammers when he said them.

“Chinese Bonnie, kiss Julie.”

Julie’s heart skipped a beat. She’d wanted this since, well... at least since the parade. Maybe longer. Oh, god, do it! Do it!

But CB hesitated. Nora stepped into frame (and wow, Nora’s chest looked just mouth-watering in a string bikini!) and took CB’s hand gently and nurturingly. Her big, round doe-eyes were even wider than usual, and her voice was filled with desperation. “CeeBee, we have to do this! It’s a charity calender, and they’re going to keep all the nudity hidden with objects and camera angles anyway! It’s for the Stallions, for MWA and for the future of our squad! We’ve got to just do whatever he says and get through it! We can’t let our friends down.”

It all clicked into place for Julie then. No one other than a squad member would call Chinese Bonnie that in 2024, so Sleazo wasn’t the dreamer. CB was. She knew the script, too. This was what they call a ‘permission fantasy’ — Bonnie’s psyche needed an external authority figure to tell her it was okay to make out with girls. Hence the photoshoot dream. It was a healthy way to explore a taboo fantasy, and Julie would be more than happy to help her out with it!

Chinese Bonnie nodded nervously. She closed her eyes, leaned down and kissed Julie. It wasn’t a chaste kiss. It wasn’t exactly Frenching at first, but there sure was lip smacking and slurping involved. Julie felt Chinese Bonnie lower her body down until it crushed against Julie’s own, sharing body heat. CB’s hard nipples dug into Julie’s breasts, and Julie had no doubt she was returning the favor. Julie’s arms rose up to hug CB, crushing them together. After a while her fingernails slid over the most sensual recesses of her neck, massaging her and stealthily building up her feminine heat. When their lips finally broke apart, it was only so Chinese Bonnie could gasp and moan. A few seconds later, they were locked together again, this time wide open as CB’s tongue explored Julie’s mouth.

“That’s enough.”

No it isn’t! But Julie obeyed, pulling back. She had a feeling that voice was going to tell them to do some hot shit, after all, and the permission fantasy wouldn’t work if she subverted it by undercutting the authority.

A minute later, Sleazo had Nora, Pink Highlights Bonnie and 80s-hair Bonnie lined up in a row, arms around each other’s waists — Nora was in the middle. He handed Julie and CB big litre-tubs of vanilla yogurt. He’d taken to calling 80s-hair Bonnie Farrah, and Julie could faintly see why — even beyond her hair, she bore a faint resemblance to a really young version of Farrah Fawcett.

“You’re going to feed your friends,” he told Julie and CB. “Use only your fingers. Be sensual.”

CB looked awkward. Julie didn’t. She pulled open the yogurt tub and stuck two fingers in up to the second joint, then held them out to 80s-hair Bonnie. She licked them clean, very slowly and sensually. Julie was keenly aware of the symbolism, and approved — she kept her two fingers together, straight and hard like a cock as 80s-hair Bonnie serviced them. Julie’s hoo-hah approved of the symbolism, too, enough so that she was glad the dark purple fabric of her bikini bottoms wouldn’t show stains.

CB giggled, dipped her own fingers and offered them to PHB, who licked them clean almost as sensually as 80s-hair Bonnie had — albeit with a touch more vulnerable nervousness. Julie’s devious mind churned rapidly (along with other parts) as she moved over to Nora. She dipped three fingers this time instead of two, and got as much yogurt on them as she could. She held them out to Nora, slightly spread apart. Her best friends tried to lick them clean, but Julie had been clever. It was impossible to do so neatly. Pearl-bright yogurt dripped over Nora’s lips, over her chin, down her neck, into her ample cleavage and onto her bikini top. Nora giggled nervously; Julie giggled back in what she hoped was an awkward, apologetic way. One didn’t need a PhD in Sexual Fantasy Logic to guess what the next command would be!

“Lambert, Liu. Both of you together, lick that off. Be sensual about it, and slow enough for me to get good shots. Tease her. Arouse her.”

Thus, for the next minute, Julie and her beautiful Asian teammate licked the suggestive white fluid off Nora Alders. CB got to her lips first, and it inevitably turned into making out. Julie navigated lower, licking the yogurt off her neck and upper chest. Her adroit tongue scooped up a droplet running down between Nora’s breasts, and she got closer up with her best friend’s assets than she’d ever been before. Nora was tenting like crazy. Julie licked a splotch off her bikini top, and got motorboated in the process. There was sadly no yogurt actually on her nipples, but, well, she might not know that...

Julie wrapped her mouth around Nora’s left nipple and sucked hard, the thin bikini barely providing any barrier. She massaged it, flicked it with her tongued, teased and tormented it. Regardless of what she did, it stayed ridiculously stiff. Nora moaned like a porn star, and Julie thrilled at the very idea of that quiet, familiar voice being twisted to utter such pornographic sounds. Julie glanced down. Yeah, Nora’s skimpy bottoms looked as wet as her own felt.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sleazo said. “Let’s move on to the next set while you ladies’, ah... ‘spirits’ are still high.”

The five girls got stood in a line. It wasn’t just Nora; the whole team was tenting. Nobody commented on Julie’s lipstick around Nora’s nipple. Sleazo handed each girl a bottle of baby oil. “Oil each other down. Squeeze. Rub. Explore. Molest.”

The team obeyed. Nora seemed especially eager to rub Julie down even as her own hands spread slick gloss over CB’s toned frame. Pink Highlights Bonnie and 80s-hair Bonnie giggled nervously as they squeezed, massaged and explored each other. At one point Nora’s hand slid right down between Julie’s legs and gave her vulva a firm squeeze. Julie froze, shivering in ecstasy as she struggled not to come early.

“I’m sorry,” Nora said plaintively. “We have to do it! He said so.”

“It’s okay,” Julie replied in her best sympathetic voice. “It’s for the team, for charity. I understand. Let’s... let’s try to have some fun in the name of school spirit, okay?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, voice breathy. “Fun. We can do that.”

“Great,” Julie said as her hands slid over Nora’s plump ass, leaving slick trails in their wake. She gave the tight ass cheeks a firm squeeze. Nora sighed softly. Julie grinned at her. “Yeah, I think we can have fun with this.”

PHB and ‘Farrah’ were giggling uncontrollably — having an oily, jiggly slap-fight. They rubbed their noses together, Eskimo-kissing.

“Enough!” Sleazo said sharply. “Stand in line.”

The girls obeyed. Julie glanced at her squadmates. Acres of exposed, nubile girlflesh glistened with an unnatural sheen. Bikinis covered all the indecent areas, barely, and yet the image made Julie want to squirm. She saw her squadmates naked in the locker room three times a week after cheer practice. As much as the boys might covet the sight, it was nothing exciting or out of the ordinary to her. But girls in string bikinis covered with baby oil? That was pure PornHub shit — only this particular video starred her and her four close friends, all of whom were ‘good girl’ sex symbols to a whole school. How could the image possibly not be thrilling to her?

Her friends weren’t just naked, she realized. They were being crassly sexualized, and the results of this thrilled her both on the immediate level and a more subversive level, when she considered what the Coordinator would say about it. Huh. Turns out sexualizing women is actually really sexy. Who’da thunk it? She wondered how bleak, cold and sterile the world would feel, if no one was allowed to sexualize anything openly.

“Take off your tops,” Sleazo said.

The girls all obeyed without question — though PHB and Nora both kept stealing nervous glances at the camera rig with its flashing red record light. Ironically, losing the bikini tops made things less porny by making everyone’s stiff nipples less immediately obvious and eyecatching.

“Okay, Julie and Farrah, sit in these two chairs. CB, sit in Julie’s lap. Pinkie, sit in Farrah’s. We can’t get nipples in the calender, so I want you two sets to crush your chests against each other’s to hide them. At the same time, I want you to stare directly into each other’s eyes... and just keep staring.”

Chinese Bonnie sat in Julie’s lap, straddling her. She burst out into giggles as she slid down Julie’s oiled legs, slippery limbs struggling to find purchase absent the usual friction of human flesh. Finally she grabbed the back of the chair to anchor herself. Julie, in turn, grabbed her perfectly curved ass cheeks to pull her into the requested position. Her partner did not protest this.

Both girls were fairly tall, so Julie had to look up to meet CB’s gaze. An absolutely wicked idea entered her mind. She remembered how, when Raj inflated her chest, it had made her nipples abnormally sensitive. That had been fun, but this was the real CB — she wanted to share the experience and kick this dream into a gloriously sapphic high-gear. She seized on that sense-memory and by silent act of will imposed said state on all the cheerleaders — herself very much included.

She got it fixed just in the nick of time. CB’s chest crushed against her own, and both girls stiffened and moaned as if a very erotic electric shock had just coursed through their lithe bodies. Not wanting to be a bad girl and disobey Sleazo, CB kept her gaze fixed on Julie’s eyes the whole time. Dear god, the staring made the nipple-scraping ecstasy an order of magnitude hotter. Chinese Bonnie’s pupils seemed a radiant, almost crystalline shade of brown. They were hypnotic — Julie could lose herself in those eyes. CB’s eyes, her face, radiated a look of raw animal lust. Snap! Snap! Snap!

Sleazo’s voice stayed level and commanding. “Okay, you know what? I’m shooting you from the side, so it won’t show anything. Get rid of the bottoms, too. Cover your partner’s intimates with your hand, if you would, to make it look sexual. And keep rubbing your chests together.”

Okay, hollow dream imago confirmed 100%. If Sleazo was a real guy, he’d be flustered, gibbering and salivating right now guaranteed.

Julie couldn’t help but grin as she pulled Chinese Bonnie’s bottoms off, wishing she could see her bare ass and pussy. Then she pushed herself up on the chair so CB could get hers off in turn. This didn’t quite work, though — without both hands anchored to the back of the chair and Julie’s grip on her ass, Chinese Bonnie slid back and nearly fell off. Much slippery gripping and grinding later, CB had managed to get Julie’s panties off — and Julie was using a controlled breathing exercise to forestall a truly wild premature orgasm.

Pink Highlights Bonnie and 80s-hair Bonnie lacked her discipline. PHB popped off trying to get 80s-hair Bonnie stripped, and she ended up taking 8HB with her. They were rolling around on the floor, screaming in ecstasy and grinding their bodies against each other — a big, hot, slippery mess. Julie watched PHB’s cute little bubble butt clench and tremble as the orgasm wracked her body, making the glistening ass cheeks jiggle wildly. When their moment passed and they sat, clutching each other in their arms, they almost seemed to fade into the background. The focus of the dream was on Nora, Julie and CB now. Julie wondered if CB had willed that.

“Julie,” CB whispered, staring into her eyes. “Julie, baby, I’m, uh... I’m gonna...”

But Julie separated their chests, pushing her back by her shoulders. Yes. Yes, you are — but in due time. I don’t want this dream to dissolve because you’re sated just yet — it’s too good!

Julie turned to Sleazo and flashed her persuasion-smile, trying to sound professional in spite of her arousal. “You know, I have an idea that would be really sexy here. Why don’t I suck on CB’s nipples, and she can act out having an orgasm while I do? It’s not like anyone could tell if it was real or fake, after all.”

“All right,” Sleazo said, “but you need to cover the other nipple. I don’t want it in the shots.”

“I can do that,” Nora volunteered in a chipper tone. “With my mouth!”

Julie turned back to CB. “You can keep it together, right? The calender still needs a few shots after this set, I think, so don’t lose your focus, and don’t wake up. After all, you don’t really want to wake up, do you?”

CB bit her lip uncertainly and nodded. “Yeah, I think I can handle this.”

Nora grinned and nodded also. “This can definitely go on longer.”

Then the two best friends locked their lips over their Asian playmate’s slick breasts, teasing her nipples with their tongues, and further words became both obsolete and impossible. Julie stared up, trying to keep eye contact, but Chinese Bonnie’s head was flung back and her mouth wide open as the piercing tone of her climax echoed across the dreamscape. Yeah, somehow I always figured she was a screamer!

CB’s hands slid between Nora and Julie’s legs and gave two hungry pussies a very firm squeeze. The two best friends shuddered in ecstasy and fell to the ground, clutching each other. Their gazes met for a raw, intense second. They knew each other so well, it was pretty weird — but it was even more erotic.

“Thank you, Miss Liu,” Sleazo said in a detached tone. “That was very convincing.”

Even when she was gasping for breath, CB’s trademark wit was simply irrepressible. “Well, you know Sir, I do strive for a feeling of authenticity in everything I undertake...”

Julie and Nora giggled maniacally, clutching each other. Julie’s gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to how Nora’s ample chest gyrated to and fro as she laughed herself breathless. Then Nora said words that obliterated Julie’s whole world. “Oh, May-Bee, that was... I... I think I’m really into this. For real, I mean. Into girls. Into you and Bonnie Liu. Hee, it rhymes! We, uh, we did a thing together once. It was with a guy, too, but...”

Julie froze in a sudden panic. It wasn’t the lesbian confession. That was incredibly predictable. It was the pet name, May-Bee. Julie’s birth name was Mabel, but it was silly and archaic so she never used it. The only one she had ever told... Holy shit! This is NORA’s dream! I’m doing a lesbian oil orgy in my best friend’s head! Holeeee shit!

Sleazo had a disdainful tone. “Well, girls, that was fairly good, but you do still seem a bit stiff — especially you, Julie. You all clearly need to get more comfortable with each other if we’re going to get some real heat in these photos. I’m going to go take a lunch break. I want you all to have a great big dyke orgy while I’m gone to get yourselves in the proper groove, okay?”

Julie almost choked. Oh, this is just hilarious! Seriously, I’M the one who ended up hesitating and being reluctant?! I’m drowning in pure fluidic irony here! I mean, it’s totally true, but it’s still hilarious!

Having dropped his bombshell and fulfilled his role in the scenario, Sleazo promptly vanished, dissolving into a column of grey mist — but his camera’s ‘filming’ light still gleamed like the Eye of Sauron, adding a delicious touch of voyeurism to the dreamscape.

Nora’s conscious mind seemed to rebel against the lascivity suggested by her own subconscious, though, and she frowned. “Julie, uh... did that sound a bit sus to you?”

Chinese Bonnie looked at Nora, speaking before Julie could. “Oh, Nora, I know it seems weird, but we have to! We have to do what he says! Think about what we’ve done already! We’ve gone so far, we can’t stop now! We have no choice! We have to give in to total sexual abandon and engage in lesbian debauchery! For the team, for the school, for charity, for the squad!”

Julie was tempted to toss in “for the cute puppies,” but didn’t. She really liked where this dream was going, and didn’t want to do anything to derail it. Chinese Bonnie could snark, because she was one of Nora’s dream imagos. Julie wasn’t, so she held her tongue as the disparate avatars of Nora’s psyche argued with each other.

Nora nodded slowly, her lower lip trembling — and yet, Julie was sure she could make out a faint, wicked gleam or sexual hunger in the back of those wide black doe-eyes. “Yeah, you’re right! We can do this thing! For the Squad! For school spirit! The Magnolia Angels always come out on top!”

She held out her hand, and Chinese Bonnie and Julie both set their own on top of it solemnly. Julie made sure her smirk never reached her face. Sunk cost fallacy for the fucking win! That’ll be literal fucking, in this particular case...

Julie felt the dream-narrative push on her mind, prompting her to take the lead here. Made sense — she was the team captain, after all. She wrapped a hand around Nora’s head, pulled her close and kissed her — deeply, longingly and sensually.

She wondered if it was really wise to do this with her best friend, in her own dreams. She wanted it, but she also didn’t want to be selfish and hurt Nora. But... it would be more hurtful to bail now, wouldn’t it? It wasn’t like she was making an obligation. Nora would wake up and remember a hot dream, and be more consciously aware of her real desires. Whether or not anything real happened between them at some later date, that would be positive for Nora. Wouldn’t it? Or was Julie rationalizing?

She could impose her Hod-mind over her Netzach-mind, but that would likely do weird things to the dreamscape. She wanted this, Nora wanted this, Chinese Bonnie and the others were all dream-imagos and didn’t really matter... just go with it!

Julie did. She walked back to the Silver Ghost and climbed up on the car door, spreading her legs wide. When Nora walked over to her, Julie guided her head between her legs. Nora started licking. It wasn’t inept or surreal like with so many guys. Whether consciously or not, Nora had apparently put a fair bit of thought into eating pussy. Julie sighed softly and closed her eyes, letting her friend work. Fingers spread her lips and a soft wet tongue stroked her clitoral hood, eventually sliding it back to slip tantalizingly back and forth over the sensitive little nub beneath it. It was slow and luxurious; Nora was a patient lover.

PHB and 8HB began sixty-nining in front of the car, their tongues exploring eager pussies as they rolled around, cute little asses grinding and clenching. They didn’t seem important, though they were fun to watch. It was becoming clear to Julie who the dream was really focused on.

CB, meanwhile, climbed up inside the open-roofed car from the other side — one foot in the front seat, one foot in the back. She towered over Julie as the latter arched her back, leaning down and gripping the windshield with one hand as she used the other to brace herself on the back seat. Chinese Bonnie knelt down until her cunt was right close to Julie’s face, and started to touch herself. It was exciting to Julie, seeing the pussy so close to her face, smelling it, watching it get wetter and wetter as CB massaged it. If this was real life, this position would rend the shit out of my spinal cord! Good thing it isn’t, and the parade dream helped me adopt a more flexible notion of what I can do in dreams...

Arching her back like that did make her tits look really fantastic, though, and Nora looked up from devouring her for a second to just appreciate that. When she spoke, it was hesitant and shy. “Julie, can I... um, can I put my fingers in you?”

“Nope!”

She looked disappointed. “But, uh, you said...”

Julie grinned wickedly at her. “Oh, Nori, you know me. I simply don’t accept half measures on anything. If you want to put anything inside me, it’s got to be the whole fist!”

Given how her face is naturally built, one wouldn’t expect that Nora’s eyes could go even wider — but, apparently, they can. And did.

Julie giggled — more to herself than anyone else. Because, really, if you’re going to fuck your best friend and have your first lesbian sex experience, why not start with fisting? It’s not like there was any of the awkward mechanical or anatomic issues in dreams there would be in real life — and if you’re going to risk making the friendship go all weird, why not at least get your money’s worth?

Nora rubbed her hand up and down Julie’s thighs, to get it good and covered with baby oil, then made her fingers into a wedge. Julie felt the fingertips penetrate first, and a shiver went through her whole body. Chinese Bonnie, ever the clown, gave her a sardonic cheer. “Nora, Nora, get it in! If she can’t do it, no one can! A-one and a-two and a three-four-five; she’s gonna get it all inside!”

Nora was such a shy, quiet girl — and yet, her mental rendering of Chinese Bonnie’s offbeat sense of humor and irreverent wit was spot-on. It wasn’t the only part of CB Nora captured really well, though. Oh, geez, her breasts when she’s cheering naked, rocking her shoulders back and forth like that... gaah! So hot! Chinese Bonnie may not have much up top, but what she does have sure is mobile!

Nora’s dream-avatar blushed furiously at the cheers — and then Julie, the girl who so rarely lost her composure, burst into uncontainable gales of giddy cheerful laughter. These were abruptly cut off by a high-pitched squeal, however, followed by a deeper, more guttural and longer-lasting moan as Nora’s whole hand just slid right up into her cunt and stayed there.

“Did... did I do it right?”

“Yeah, you (gaah!), you sure did. Oh, god, oh, fuck, yeah. That’s right, yeah, YEAH! So very, very right...”

“Oh, wow, Julie, you’re really, uh, stretchy...”

“You know, (gnnh!), I’ve heard that from (grh!) lovers before. Never in this (wiggle it... WIGGLE IT!) exact context, though.”

Glib dialogue does not mesh well with fisting, apparently. Nora was just so amazed. Julie found it both funny and hot, watching her face as she wriggled her hand around wrist-deep inside Julie. And, given the kind of sensations that produces, the fact that Julie could manage to focus on her face was a testament to just what a beauty Nora really was. She couldn’t resist teasing her a bit more, though.

“It’s not that (gaah!) special, you know. You can pop a whole (fuckyeah-fuckyeah-FUUUU!) baby out of one of these things.”

“So I’ve heard,” Chinese Bonnie added dryly. Then she grabbed a fistful of Julie’s flaming hair and used it to force her face right up into CB’s wet cunt. Julie lapped eagerly, lifting the hood, teasing the nub, longing for the thrill of making the imago moan ecstatically.

“Julie?” Nora asked. “Is this —”

“I’m sorry,” Chinese Bonnie told her in a caricature receptionist voice. “Julie isn’t available to talk right now. If you’d like to leave her a message, I’m sure she’ll get back to you as soon as I finish coming on her goddamn face!”

“Ooh,” Nora said, and giggled. Her arm shook when she laughed. Julie convulsed, and sucked harder.

CB reached down and cupped Julie’s breasts, squeezing and kneading them. Julie felt CB’s fingers scrape over her turgid nipples, and her whole body started to shiver and tremble in response to wave after wave of little electric shocks. She tried to scream, but CB’s wet cunt muffled that quite effectively.

It wasn’t going to take long. Julie would come just from Nora’s arm being inside her; with her also moving it around, there was no way she’d last over a minute — even before the unholy nipple sensitivity, or the effect of CB’s aromatic juices dribbling down her cheeks and neck was having on her libido. Julie flicked that little nib more rapidly with her own tongue. CB’s thighs started to tremble much like Julie’s whole body already was. She closed her eyes and let the orgasm ripple through her. It was a long one, lasting half a minute. She felt so full, so stretched out, with Nora’s fist inside her. CB clenched her trembling thighs around Julie’s face as she also came. Yup, she’s still a screamer. It feels so satisfying, and weirdly erotic, to make her do that!

The scene shifted, awkward positions and antique car gone. PHB and 8HB had faded out too. It felt more intimate now. The three cheerleaders, still covered with baby oil, lay together on a white expanse with Nora in the center. She was looking at CB. “You’re... you’re really pretty when you’re covered with oil.”

Chinese Bonnie snorted. “Really? I thought the whole covering porn girls in oil thing was just annual maintenance — you know, make sure the joints don’t get rusty and everything stays... stretchy.”

Everyone giggled madly. Nora and CB rubbed their noses together, Eskimo kissing. Julie wondered if this was, in reality, a Nora-CB romantic awakening that just pulled her in. She quashed a flare of jealousy brutally. After what I’ve been doing with the whole student body, I have no right to feel jealous of anyone!

Chinese Bonnie smirked. “Are you feeling especially stretchy today, Nora?”

Nora Alders would never ask anyone to fist her. Nora’s subconscious, however, was apparently quite willing to convey the unsaid request by imago-proxy. Julie grinned, meeting CB’s wicked gaze. “I’ve seen her on the field,” she said. “I think Nora’s a pretty flexible girl. Wanna do some stretching, Nora?”

Nora bit her lower lip and nodded slowly, even now trying and failing to conceal lewd excitement under a shy ingenue veneer.

CB turned Nora around so she faced Julie. Anticipation shone in her eyes. Julie leaned forward and kissed Nora, lips squelching, with tongue. Nora sighed. CB grinned and wrapped her arms around Julie’s back, crushing the petite Nora between them in a slippery sandwich. Grinding, giggling and gasping ensued, along with a fair bit more necking — even if the oil made it kinda gross.

Julie naturally moved downward to worship Nora’s astoundingly perky double Ds. It had been deeply tempting to do that from the beginning, but Julie had resisted. Nora was a bit shy about her breasts. They were a double-edged sword to her — they got her on the Magnolia Angels, and they got a lot of boys to pay attention to her, but they also got her called a slut. People suspected DB’s tits were fake, and people that didn’t know the Angels sometimes extended that to “the cheerleaders” in general.

Right now, though, Nora seemed very, very satisfied with her breasts. Julie buried her face in them, rubbing them, kissing them, massaging them, teasing the fat pink areolae with her smooth, agile tongue. Every time her tongue, or cheek, or nose brushed a nipple, a jolt of erotic electricity surged through Nora’s petite frame; she flinched, and involuntarily lubricated even harder.

Nora ended up lying in CB’s lap, facing upward. Both girls had their smooth, well-oiled legs spread wide. As Julie gradually moved downward, Chinese Bonnie took over the task of tormenting Nora’s breasts and nipples. Her expression suggested she’d coveted that access in exactly the same way Julie had. Julie teased Nora’s belly-button with her tongue, then moved further downward to her eager cunt. Nora had a big but neatly trimmed triangle of chestnut pubic hair. She was already really wet. Julie teased her clit just a bit with her tongue, wanting to know what she tasted like before the fisting.

Then she formed her hand into a wedge, mentally shortening her fingernails first. She ran them along Nora’s pussy lips, teasing her. In a dream, she could get it in effortlessly if she wanted. She didn’t, though. She made an abortive first effort to tease Nora, getting her even more worked up. She wiggled her oil-slicked hand, four fingers in but only up to the knuckles. Nora was gasping and panting. CB was watching, and unabashedly perving, on the whole situation. She pinched Nora’s nipples, making her squirm violently.

“Shove it!” Nora shouted. “Just shove it in! I need it!”

Waking or in dreams, it was the most aggressive command Julie had ever heard her meek friend give. So she obeyed instinctively — it wasn’t a big ask, after all — pushing her hand forcefully up inside Nora and curling the fingers into a fist once it was inside. CB grinned. “Julie, Julie, get it in! If she can’t do it, no one can! A-one and a-two and a three-four-five; you gotta spread ’em extra wide!”

Yeah, Chinese Bonnie’s shoulder-sliding porno cheer is still one of the hottest (and funniest) things ever! CB saw Julie’s expression and winked at her saucily.

Nora’s giggles made her whole body convulse, which only added to the stimulation. Chinese Bonnie’s hands mauled her sensitized breasts roughly. She splayed out her fingers and flicked them very rapidly back and forth over Nora’s rampant nipples. Nora screamed, thrashing about wildly, arching her back, pumping herself up and down on Julie’s embedded arm. Her massive, slippery breasts heaved to and fro haphazardly, pooling and flowing on her chest, but Chinese Bonnie’s quick fingers kept a firm target lock on Nora’s pointy pink pebbles.

Even Julie herself was wide-eyed at what her quiet friend could take, the frenzied lashing of limbs and twisting of bodies. Nora’s cunt clenched around Julie’s fist with shocking force and she exploded like an atomic bomb, screaming in agonized pleasure. The mighty orgasm lingered, leaving her panting and her whole body trembling and shivering even after the hard main climax. It even resurged briefly in a kind of aftershock that forced a longer, throaty moan from Nora’s delicate lips.

Once the orgasm passed, Nora lay atop a smirking Chinese Bonnie, exhausted and sucking in deep ragged lungfuls of air. She seemed almost delirious. Julie actually willed her hand to stop existing briefly, rather than spoil the moment by working it out of a now over-sensitive pussy the old-fashioned way. Grey mist rose; the dreamscape was unraveling, as erotic dreams usually did after the dreamer’s final climax.

As Nora was gradually regaining a bit of mental clarity, CB caught her gaze with a playful look.

“You know,” Chinese Bonnie told Nora conversationally, “I bet our charity calender is going to sell a lot of copies this year!”

She turned to Sleazo’s camera and waved at it playfully. “Sorry, Dad!”

Nora blushed a brilliant crimson. CB and Julie burst out in gleeful laugher, and Nora eventually joined them in spite of herself. The dreamscape unwound fully, then, fading into a soft haze of warmth, friendship, cuddling and newly awakened desires.

Julie saw Nora at drill practice the next day. It was awkward. Nora asked her to hang at the mall, and they did. She wanted to hit on her, Julie could see, but was too scared — and Julie didn’t know if she wanted the complexity of that right now. In the dream, it had been a lark fuelled by estrogen and adrenaline. Here, in meatspace, it would potentially be a relationship. She didn’t quite know how to say, “baby, it was fun, but I’ve still got a good third of the student body to bang before graduation.”

She wasn’t sure Nora would understand that.

And she also knew she couldn’t tell Nora about the dreamwalking, or about anything involving the occult world. She couldn’t tell anyone. She had made that decision long ago, and the lesbian stuff didn’t really change anything. A secret known to one person was a secret. A secret known to two people was a breach that inevitably spread like wildfire. Lady Grimwald had drilled that in to her relentlessly. Telling mundanes about occult things ended up putting their lives in danger or causing nervous breakdowns — not things she wanted to do to her friends. But... she knew, now, how her friend felt, and if she decided she wanted it there would be time to move on that in the future.

After graduation, though. The last thing anyone needs right before finals in their last month and a half of high school is a big drama bomb! There will be time to think about actual relationships — and if I can have or even really want them — when I reorient my life and start adulting for real...

May 13th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Everything blew up just three weeks before prom when the locker room tape leaked. Someone put it on social media through an anonymous account. Julie suspected the Coordinator herself, but she couldn’t prove that. Chinese Bonnie’s home life got really, really tense thanks to the rumored threesome (which she denied stridently, to her parents at least). It outed Kevin Solentino. Nobody really knew who made it, but there were suspects. The DEO issued cryptic statements Julie could tell were more designed to bait the media than address the issue, really leaning on the toxic masculinity angle and hinting at some bigger scandal. The fish bit — reporters from Vox News and MSDNC put Bentonville on their checklists and flew into town. Given the township’s corporate ties, both sides thought whatever the story was might have some greater social significance.

It’s not like there wasn’t enough drama even without it. There had already been one weird pop-cultural echo — actual pig’s blood flying around just before the prom. Liz Fendermann had stripped naked, doused herself with it and handcuffed herself to the main doors of the assembly hall to protest the school’s carbon emissions. (When asked which carbon emissions, she didn’t know.) She wasn’t charged with anything, but got the school mentioned on Tucker Carlson. It likely didn’t do much to advance the cause of environmentalism — it certainly didn’t make it look either credible or sane. Honestly, she turned a life and death issue into a punchline.

A deeply sardonic part of Julie’s mind wondered if she could file a complaint with the DEO over it — as a bi-curious girl herself, she figured having to see Liz Fendermann naked, covered with blood and ranting about tormented eagle souls as she went to and from class must surely constitute some kind of conversion therapy!

The DEO’s announcement about the situation dropped at a school assembly. Jim Peterson — the kid with the knife fantasy — was expelled. Bright kid, engineering student with Ivy League grades — sent out in abject disgrace for talking about a fantasy you could see played out in late-night Cinemax films. Truly a great victory for progressivism! All the other students on the tape that could be identified were required to attend mandatory sensitivity training sessions three days a week, and would need to complete extra credit volunteer work at a women’s shelter over the summer before they would be allowed to graduate. Finally, in order to pursue programs designed to combat toxic masculinity and create a more gender-fluid learning environment, the school would be withdrawing its athletics programs from NCAA eligibility assessments and the Stallions were being removed from NFHS competition effective immediately.

Backlash was immediate. Jim’s parents talked with conservative advocacy groups about a lawsuit against the school district. There were a lot of upper middle class sports dads that were very, very angry about the Stallions. The principal resigned two days after the assembly, refusing to stand before the PTA. The vice principal was on vacation — nobody seemed to know where he was or how to contact him. Smart guy, honestly. The principal’s office was currently being run by a receptionist. The school itself seemed to be being run by Alison Dikscheide. It wasn’t a stable reign, though. Conservatives both wholesome and extremist on and off the school grounds started getting organized. Julie felt sure the Coordinator had over-reached her power — but substantially less sure the damage she’d done would be fully reversed.

“It’s like the whole campus is uniting in solidarity against the DEO,” PHB told Julie at lunch. She seemed peppy again for the first time since her suspension. “Isn’t it great?”

“No!” Julie snapped, frustrated that her friends didn’t get it, couldn’t see the social pattern unfolding the way she could. “The DEO ate the old Student Services Office, remember? It’s the only place in school to report actual sex crimes or racial harassment. If the student body pressures everyone to boycott it, that’s just as fucked up as what they’re getting away with now!”

“Oh,” Pink Highlights Bonnie said, downcast again.

There were other things Julie could say, but she bit her tongue and stayed silent. This is officially work for Adepts, now. Don’t bring mundanes into it — that just complicates things.

May 16th, 2024. Toshia Köhler.

Toshia felt scared but positive. She certainly wasn’t immune to the social tensions brewing at MWA. She’d been dressing a lot more plainly and trying to go unnoticed — and explaining to anyone that she thought would listen that she had nothing to do with the tape. In spite of everything, though, she also felt more optimistic than she usually did, for a simple reason any teen girl can relate to — she had her first boyfriend, and so far everything was going great! She even had a prom date locked in, and had tracked down an absolutely stunning dress to wear. So her confidence was at higher than normal levels when she was ambushed by her locker.

It wasn’t any of the kinds of ambush she was used to, either. In Junior High, kids three years younger than her used to scream “tranny”, hooting and throwing wadded-up paper at her before running off back down the corridors like howler monkeys. That kind of shit hadn’t happened since the DEO came in and some of them got expelled. Nor did the sweaty, forward anime brats with no filters or etiquette come up and ask her if she was into futa hentai or what sex was like for her or other weirdly invasive shit.

It didn’t make things any better for her, though, when the DEO took over — just weirder and more complex. Rather than just being grossed out by her or razzing her, people were terrified of her — and beneath that terror was a simmering anger. The hostility didn’t decrease, but it got subtler and icier. Ever since the bullshit with the drag queens, she had a sneaking suspicion the teenage transphobes would be backed up by bellicose Evangelical parents. It made her suspicious, fearing people were going to be cruel in more sneaky ways. In retrospect, Julie Lambert might be a conceited prat but she had also been wise in warning her not to try out for prom court. She never gave anyone her e-mail or phone number — she didn’t want to get hacked, or get a bunch of anonymous rape threats.

The woke ambushes were actually worse, if only because they didn’t have to run in terror ten seconds after seeing her. Total strangers coming up to her, telling her how brave she was, how much they admired her, wouldn’t she like to go out for coffee with them sometime so they could get their official “nice to the trans-girl” hand-stamp to show off at their next struggle session? Some of them gave her bouquets of flowers — not to hit on her, but as some kind of weird analogue to a “get well” gift. They weren’t obligated to leave, and just went on and on gushing over her in a way that was, ultimately, entirely about them. She hadn’t actually worked out a good way to end those kinds of meetings quickly yet.

The blunt woke people and the anger combined to profoundly disquiet her. Friendship with Toshia was incentivized. Were there woke people subtler than the blunt ones, who still only wanted to be her friend for ideological reasons? Almost certainly. It was insidious. She’d come to the creeping realization that with the influence the DEO had over MWA, she couldn’t really trust anyone — she was trapped in a whirlpool of clawing social pretension. She had no idea where she truly stood with anyone — everyone had a motive to be false around her, in one direction or the other, and she wasn’t socially savvy enough to tell who was who.

Well, except her boyfriend. He cared about her, and she trusted him. He was also decidedly un-PC in some ways, so she felt it unlikely he was angling for woke prestige with her. The situation left her with paranoid tendencies and a trust circle of exactly one person — but one was enough. There’s only a month and a half of high school left, and then I can take some time and figure out where I fit in better. I can survive that. Heck, isn’t high school pretty much hell for everyone?

For all the weird corridor ambushes she’d experienced, though, today’s was truly new. She closed her locker after getting her social studies textbook and abruptly found herself staring into the cameras of two national news crews. There was a balding man from MSDNC and a very pretty, very brittle blonde newscaster from Vox News. Miss Dikscheide was there, too, spewing out a nervous, incoherent word salad full of progressive buzzwords. Something about toxic athletic culture. She heard transphobia several times. She just stared at the cameras, a bit dazed, and desperately hoped there weren’t any stains on her shirt after lunch. “Miss Köhler, we want to understand more about the athletics culture here at MWA, and how intersectional transphobia has influenced...”

Toshia glanced from the Vox reporter to Miss Dikscheide and back. All she’d wanted was to be a girl — not the girl that crushed the gender binary and brought the Genderbread Man into classrooms. Just a normal, quiet girl. She’d told Dikscheide that three or four times now, and had it waved away glibly each time. Her newfound romantic engagement gave her the will, the confidence to be more assertive this time than she had previously, however.

“Sorry,” she said sharply. “I don’t do the Cardassian Neck Trick. Not for them, and not for you either.”

Then she got her books and walked away, knowing she was the only person at school the DEO couldn’t just have expelled. The journalists stared at each other, baffled.

“No,” a representative for the Kardashian family told an MSDNC correspondent later the same week. “Neither Khloe, Kim or Kortney have ever cracked inappropriate jokes about lynchings or teen girls hanging themselves, transgender or otherwise. We don’t know what any of this is even about. We haven’t heard anything about this supposed ‘neck game’...”

May 24th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie had been burning the midnight oil trying to finish a curse box for the Coordinator. She’d planned to move against her after graduation — it really would be safest, if she were only considering herself. She wasn’t, though — she hoped the expulsions and dissolutions could be reversed if the Coordinator was discredited quickly enough that people were eager to reverse her policies. But that had to happen soon, for the expelled students to still have time to study for finals and the Stallions to avoid dropping out of the NFHS circuits.

So she’d take a risk. It wasn’t a comfortable idea to her. She was only a wild child in dreams. In the waking world, she was cautious and meticulous — critics might even say paranoid. But her True Will had spoken to her when she made a life decision in the Coordinator’s office, and she wasn’t about to eschew its advice now after Lorcan had given her a non-murderous means to follow through.

Harry Lansing had confessed, though it wasn’t public yet, so she decided to scrap his curse box to lessen the strain on her chakras when adding a new one. It didn’t save her any time, though — they were all personalized.

She got Marvin to help her spoof an e-mail, without saying where it was going. It was very important that she personally not be involved in anything suspicious related to the Coordinator, obviously. A group of students apparently wanted to give the Coordinator a “Class Protector Award” — yeah, given the Coordinator’s politics, why not drop a Whedon reference — as a birthday gift, but needed to know her birth date. The DEO receptionist gave it without a second thought — it wasn’t like it was a piece of information mundanes viewed as overly sensitive.

So she had the Coordinator’s sign and could start carving her natal chart into the sandalwood box-pieces. Funny — Julie would have pegged the Coordinator as an Aquarius, given the whole social revolution thing, but she was actually a Capricorn. She did have a brutally appropriate Mars-Saturn square in her chart, though — fittingly, a warrior who devours her own. The carving was a painstaking process taking days — more if she messed it up, as she had twice with DB’s box. She didn’t mess up at all on the Coordinator’s, however.

She struggled to settle on a curse, though. All her visualizations and astral work ended up derailed by horniness. She’d done so much sex magick recently that its astral essence had imprinted on her bedroom furnishings, her ritual implements and even her body. She could reconsecrate, sterilize, wipe her chakras and realign them — but that would take days, or maybe even weeks. So, as was her wont, she chose the most practical course of action open to her. It would be a sexual curse, then.

But what? Something that would humiliate the Coordinator, undercut her social standing and the cult of personality she was building. Julie knew she was going to give some big speech at the prom. It would probably be pompous and condescending. Her karma-style curse on Decepticon Bonnie had worked really well, honestly. Unlike more direct black magick, it only punished her when she did something wrong. Why not repeat that?

So Julie put together a curse-mantra with a simple, karmic basis: every time Alison Dikscheide assumed a stance of moral superiority she did not objectively possess in order to lecture, castigate, accuse or preach to others, she would feel a surge of involuntary sexual arousal causing a gradual but cumulative erosion of her composure. Hopefully it would teach her to stop being a wokescold.

More importantly, though, it would hopefully undercut her and break her tyrannical social power. When she tried to deliver a speech, it would overwhelm and embarrass her — people might even think she’d worn a remote vibrator to a high school formal event, like in all those trendy web-model videos. Yes, that would be perfect. Julie could even seed the idea at prom, if the Coordinator acted in a way that made it credible. She tuned the spell for that outcome, not wanting anything too overt or out-there to happen.

Julie drew on her own memory-imprint of the Scorchin’ Tartan dream for symbolism, getting a tartan-print shirt to cut up at the local Salvation Army. She visited the activist students’ dorm, and nicked a “male tears” knit coaster the Coordinator had organized a charity sale of to symbolise her bigotry and self-righteousness. She wrapped the hair sample she had from Lorcan in the coaster at the center — it was, obviously, the most important part.

She then wrapped the coaster in a printout of an Internet meme she had found — an image of a social justice activist screaming at the sky in rage after Trump’s 2016 election win; what the ‘channer’ crowd called ‘ree-ing’ — to represent a woke individual losing her poise and self-control. She wanted to make sure, after all, that the Coordinator wouldn’t just keep her cool and act normal when aroused. She dipped the bundle in spicy red chili sauce to keep up the hair-color/temperament/sauce symbolism from Larkin’s dream, then wrapped it in a cutting of tartan cloth.

She taped the tarot Justice to the inside bottom of the curse-box, and the inverted Wheel of Fortune to its lid — a symbolic prison to power the spell by reflecting the target’s own sins back at her to cause her undoing. She made a bed of black henbane — an aphrodisiac with more sinister connotations than the damiana she used on her own pillowcases, and mixed in cinnamon to symbolize both the Coordinator’s cruel personality and her unnatural hair color.

Then she set the tartan bundle inside the box, and tied it shut with a black ribbon printed with the golden Enochian characters of Alison Dikscheide’s name and the intent-mantra of the curse — she had gotten a nifty Enochian font off a free fonts web page for making those, and painstakingly injected alchemically-activated gold ink into the cartridge of a dot matrix printer with a hypodermic needle. She needed the dot matrix because you couldn’t feed paper with black satin ribbons taped to it into a modern laser printer without it jamming, and you couldn’t inject gold ink into their cartridges either. At least, she hadn’t been able to make that work.

The hardest part of making her first curse-box — far surpassing the natal charts, wood-carving, Latin mantra grammar or astral visualizations — had been getting an archaic RS-232 printer to work with her Windows 10 laptop. She ended up having to screencap her Enochian text out of WordPad, convert it into a .PNG file, and print it from a 1990s command-line PostScript printing utility in DosBox. Julie was preternaturally smart, but not what you would call a technically inclined person, so that had been an utter nightmare for her. She persevered, though, and now she had it all ready to reuse. That was one point in favor of technology, Julie had to admit — unlike magick, it was usually really easy to repeat. It thankfully worked this time without any new hassles.

Then, just five days before prom, Julie set the Coordinator’s newly-minted curse-box right beside Decepticon Bonnie’s in the hidden alcove beneath her bathroom sink and went to relax. The hardest part, she found, was leaving it alone and not fiddling with it, constantly checking and rechecking it in the worry that she’d made a mistake. Unlike with DB’s, she couldn’t just remake this one a month later if it didn’t work properly. Multiple other students’ futures were resting on this — and, in truth, Julie had not entirely discounted Pink Highlights Bonnie’s apocalyptic monologue about the swinging pendulum blade. She knew it was well beyond her personal ability to stop such a thing — but if she could slow it down even a bit, she felt she owed the world that. She had no problem getting off with her gifts as an Adept, but she was increasingly realizing she ought to be doing more worthwhile things with them as well.

Still, she centered herself, meditated and disciplined her mind. She would have confidence in her own work. She would accept success or failure with equanimity. At least she tried, right? That’s all anyone could do, in the end.

And... there were still a few more nights before prom night. She had time to finish up a more selfish side project: her prom dress. She may not be in contention for the tiara anymore, but she was still determined to look her absolute best — and that meant the stunning dress out of Lorcan’s Oscars dream. She got the basic materials — ostrich feathers, bolts of fabric, needles and thread — and set about drawing down the pattern of it from Yesod and Tiphereth to mystically fabricate it in Malkuth. Well, after she’d fixed it so it didn’t fall to pieces when someone tugged on the virtue bow in the back, of course. Julie wasn’t dumb. She’d needed to enter a hallucinogenic trance to finish it, but it all turned out really well. Needles of manifest mystic energy wove together transubstantiated fabric like she was channeling Athena herself.

It was your standard mystic fool’s gold, of course — it would turn back to leaves, fabric, goose feathers from an old pillow and various odd alchemical preparations after a month or so. Making actual, permanent items with financial worth with magick was well outside her current skills, and even this had taxed her with the aching pain of spellburn. Of course, she could have just bought a very similar, hideously expensive dress after racking up the cash on Robin Hood — but she was happier with this. She wanted to look good as a manifestation of the skills she had earned as a Practicus and the odder sort of social bonds she’d made over her very weird final school year. Julie was the kind of girl that wanted to be able to say to herself that she made her own prom dress — even if she could never tell anyone else that.

There might even be time for one more spicy dream, too.

The tragic truth is, though, that Julie Lambert had made one critical misjudgement in building the curse-box for Alison Dikscheide: she’d made the strength of the spell reciprocal to the target’s sins, then tuned that back for the outcome she wanted. There was only one problem with this: Julie couldn’t begin to imagine the true scale of the evil the Coordinator was responsible for.

May 26th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie was surrounded by cops. Abnormally hot girl-cops in glamour makeup with silky supermodel hair. Instagram models dressed as cops, honestly. The uniforms were a bit abbreviated — short sleeves, slightly tighter-than-usual tops, bike shorts — but still more on the ‘real cop’ side than the ‘stripper cop’ one. She was in uniform too, she realized, as she made her way to her patrol car.

She willed up a reflective surface — a concave mirror in the parking lot — and checked herself out as she passed. Yeah, she was just delish in the slightly-abbreviated police uniform. She looked leggy and badass with her ponytail and mirrored aviators, and the uniform top was just tight enough to show off her C-cups nicely while still being faintly believable. The red lipstick danced on the line between believably sexy for a cop and full-on porn parody, but she looked overall daunting and formidable — not like a sex toy. Honestly, I could get into this whole ‘effortless cosplay’ thing — I’m vain enough to get as much out of it as the guys who dream the costumes up!

Then she was driving down into the rough, ethnic part of the inner city. Her partner needed to leave for ambiguous reasons. Gang graffiti was everywhere, along with BLM murals and chalk crime-scene outlines. It wasn’t Bentonville, obviously — it was some big city with ghettos, like Chicago or Los Angeles. Whoever dreamed this up has never been in an actual ghetto, Julie realized. Not that she had, but she knew they were more depressing than badass. This wasn’t quite Blaxploitation but the subtext was there. I swear to god, if a white student shows up in wigger cosplay, I’m bailing on this dream so fast...

A call came through on the police radio, with the offense literally being ‘Driving While Black’. Reported literally like that, all calm and professional. Is this an ethnic payback fantasy inspired by that stupid DEO film? If so, am I willing to play it out? She wasn’t actually horrified by non-con at this point, but the racial aspect was not exactly comfortable to her. If she got some kinky fun out of the deal, would it exacerbate the racial tension back in the waking world?

She signaled the driver over in a brick-walled back alley filled with gang graffiti. He was in a battered, dingy looking Chrysler 300 LX. It had been a nice car, once, about ten years ago. Julie was shocked when Deon got out. He looked sheepish, raising his hands. He was dressed ratty — tattered jeans, a stained muscle shirt and a BLM hoodie. It was a stark contrast to his tidy and elegant grooming at school. Other than the clothes, though, he wasn’t too grunged up — he still looked mouth-wateringly handsome. This made Julie even more ambivalent — she wasn’t sure she wanted this dream, but she sure wanted Deon. She decided to pull back her conscious mind and let the dream-script play as it would if she wasn’t there for a bit.

Deon got out of the car and raised his hands. He looked really scared, on a genuine level. This could easily be a nightmare — but she knew it was a wet dream. Her spell selected for those specifically, and her police costume was pretty sexualized, and all the other cops had been total hotties. She pulled out her nightstick and slapped it a few times against her open palm menacingly. “Well, well, what do we have here? Driving while black?”

She strode arrogantly into his personal space, shoved him against the car and started to choke him with the nightstick while keeping her other hand on her service pistol. “Please don’t shoot me,” Deon said, even as his erection dug into her thigh.

She was waiting for the cliché punchline, where the circumstances turn. He tells her the blackmail he has on her, or the six muscular armed black gangbangers come out of the shadows of the alley to take her hostage. It didn’t happen, though, and she gradually realized it wasn’t going to. The ‘taste’ of the dream wasn’t vengeful or vindictive. It was a phobia mixed with a fetish — a wildly un-PC submissive fantasy.

Julie’d actually heard about fantasies like this — there were clips catering to them on porn sites. She’s watched, more out of sociological curiosity than kink appeal. It made a kind of logical sense that cop-on-ebony was an emerging fetish, for the same reason people dressed as Nazis in fetish dungeons. The ultimate taboo power imbalance and abuse fantasy. And the pernicious cop-as-abuser meme still loomed large in the black cultural consciousness, so it was logical that neurosis would spawn its own associated kink. Despite how aggressively un-woke and taboo it was, Julie on consideration still thought it was actually less racist than, say, blacked.com; at least it seemed to be made for actual black submissives as opposed to white men with a racial-sexual inferiority complex caught up in urban myths about black virility and anatomical endowment.

Is this ethical? If I do this fantasy, will it make him less likely to actually call the cops if he or someone he knows is in mortal danger in real life? Julie knew BLM had been ‘advising’ people not to do this in big cities, and it sickened her. I mean, you’re the ones always talking about things that disproportionately harm minorities...

Is playing this out with him going to raise or lower racial tensions? Would it help heal or deepen a phobia? Julie couldn’t say for certain, but her knowledge of psychology let her speculate. Fetishization was related to compartmentalization and integration. Making a fetish out of something phobic could mean it had less power over the fetishist in a non-sexual context than it otherwise would. The fetish acted as a release valve. At least, so went the arguments of the psychologists she found more credible. There were certainly others making the opposite case. But there was no time for research. She had to decide whether she was going to bail on the dream or not, and soon.

As she contemplated, her dream-self gave Deon a rough, demeaning patdown. Julie couldn’t help but delight in that a bit — she remembered wanting to touch him when she watched him work out, and squeezing his torso and ass thrilled her. Then she grabbed him roughly between the legs, squeezing his cock and balls — and his semi-chub got hard like concrete in response. She could feel it even through the tattered jeans. She shivered, remembering groping the Vanderbilt imago in Larkin’s dream. Yeah, in the right context a good grope definitely did something visceral for her. “Is that a concealed weapon, boy?”

Julie inwardly flinched at her use of ‘boy’, but didn’t bail.

“No, Ma’am! I swear it!”

“Strip!”

“Ma’am, you can’t just... I mean you need a warrant —”

Julie drew her service pistol and pointed it dead-center at Deon’s forehead. “Strip, boy, or get ventilated!”

Okay, I’ve got a pretty badass femdom voice going on here. Deon stripped naked, almost hopping out of his clothes. He looked as good as she remembered him looking, and she was glad he was one of the guys who didn’t exaggerate his body in dreams — it looked exactly the way she remembered it, save that it had a really prominent, really erect five-inch cock. She did another, totally unjustifiable patdown. He seemed to love it when she teased him by threatening his balls while up in his personal space, staring directly in his eyes. Julie, conversely, got far more out of running her hands along his slender but subtly muscled torso or stroking his firm ass cheeks.

Okay, Julie decided. I’m actually going to do this. Just call me Ilsa, She-Wolf of the NYPD! She wasn’t sure how much hormones influenced her judgement — probably at least a bit. She put her hands on Deon’s shoulders and forced him down to his knees with his back against the car. Then she stepped forward so her crotch was an inch from his face and hooked a thumb into the belt-loop of her shorts, tugging them down slightly. “You’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a pickle, boy. Are you just a lowlife or do you have useful skills? Can you be of use to me, boy?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, yes, Ma’am. I can be of use to you.”

She tugged her shorts and panties down fully, letting them fall at her feet, leaving her nearly trimmed pussy peeking out at the bottom of the uniform shirt. “Can you satisfy me, boy?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Well, try. Just act like your life depends on it. Maybe it actually does.”

She grabbed his head and shoved it between her legs as a dominant gesture. She was expecting a brief bit of awkward licking as a dominant pretext to the real action — but what she actually got shocked and delighted her. Deon really knew how to handle a pussy! He clearly knew where the clit was, but he didn’t zero in on it right away. He explored her with his tongue first, both stroking and probing, tasting her excitement. He worked with patience, diligence and technique until her whole cunt was moist and throbbing. Only after the extensive tease did he actually start in on her clit. His disciplined tempo was amazing; he clearly perceived her gathering excitement but didn’t allow it to alter his own timing, to make him speed up or get more aggressive. The fixed nature of it made for a kind of slow tease that drove Julie wild.

He looked up at her yearningly, almost worshipping her with those deep hazel eyes. She saw his thick black lips sealed around her clit, and felt his tongue tease it gently. Yeah, Sam must have taught him really well — for a high school student, his skill was incredible. He was clearly enjoying himself greatly — his cock was still hard despite the lack of stimulation. He must be a strong submissive, to stay hard like that during cunnilingus.

It might also be her body, though — Julie was a leggy girl at any time, and in her current V-spread pose with a kneeling man between her legs, she imagined they looked irresistible. At some point in the dream, her police boots has morphed into black latex bitch boots — the kind a dominatrix would wear — and she hadn’t even noticed. She gripped the hood of the car as her left thigh started to tremble. The orgasm spread through her body like a dew-encrusted pink rose spreading its petals in the morning sun. Her soft climax was no less intense than the hard climaxes she more typically got from rough sex, enhanced in a complex way by the yearning, constant and obedient eye contact.

He got to his feet. “Is that sufficient, Ma’am?”

She was trembling too hard and breathing too heavily to reply to him, so he reached down to pick up his clothes. She stopped him by putting a boot on the jeans — and on his hand. “You’re... passable, but we’re far from done here. Stand up, but leave your clothes.”

He obeyed. She strutted about, unbuttoning her shirt, teasing him. She let it fall open but didn’t take it off, to avoid losing the core symbol of Deon’s fantasy. She didn’t have a bra on under it for whatever reason. It hung open all the way down — not actually showing her breasts, but poised to do so at even the slightest breeze. She still had the peaked cap from the police uniform on, but slid the elastic out of her ponytail and shook her hair out. Deon gaped at her, desperately hoping a breeze would happen by. She strutted around the car in a full circle, her tight cheerleader buttocks capturing Deon’s gaze and not letting it go.

The glamour strut wasn’t just to tease. Julie needed a moment after the first orgasm for the sensitivity in her vag to pass. She was surprised, though, how quickly she felt ready for round two when Deon was involved. She moved to the front of the car, spread her legs in a V and placed her hands on the hood — thrusting her ass in the air. “You’ve satisfied me with your tongue, boy, but it’s not enough. I want your cock, too. Get over here!”

He didn’t actually obey right away. Julie met his gaze and let out an involuntary but good-natured giggle. He was staring at her with a dumbstruck grin and drooling slightly. For a second all the complexities — the BDSM power dynamics, the racial tension, the phobia/fetish interplay — all faded out. In his most essential nature, Deon was a horny teenage boy, and when a hot redheaded cheerleader poses the way Julie just did and invites him to do what she just invited him to do, of course he was going to stare dumbly and grin. Nature of the beast and all.

Julie dove back into her stern cop persona, but that one moment changed things, reminding them both of who they really were: just dopey high school kids having fun. It was the perfect moment of catharsis Julie had hoped for. The dream was fluffy sex play now. The tension around race and police brutality seemed to fade. Phobia became fetish, and fetish was ultimately a form of play.

Deon came up behind Julie and put his hands on her hips. The head of his cock pressed against her moist lips. “This position okay, Ma’am?”

“However you like it, son. Just give it to me slow and steady, and don’t even think about getting off before I do.”

He slid slowly into her, and she sighed softly. His cock felt perfect, and real — her dream-body didn’t need to stretch or warp to accommodate it, and that oddly made the experience more immediate and tangible to Julie. Much as with the cunnilingus, he kept up a very steady, rhythmic pace in his gentle thrusts — in, out, in, out, in, out. She enjoyed the feeling of her sexual heat building slowly and gradually toward the breaking point of her orgasm. It cultivated a sense of anticipation, which was arousing in itself.

She also liked the feeling of his hands on her hips — but she found she liked it even more as they began roaming up her body. As with everything else, he was patient and took his time. That teased her — waiting for those strong, skillful hands — those sculptor’s hands, Julie reminded herself — to reach her breasts. The wait for the breast-play heightened the tension of the longer wait before orgasm, and they played off each other. When his hands did reach her breasts, they were gentle but firm — cupping them, playing with them, teasing the nipples. The first time he flicked her nipples, her cunt spasmed and clenched and she almost came right there. He slowed the pace just enough, though, that there was no disruption in the schedule of his servitude to her libido.

The windshield was reflective, and she could meet his gaze on it. The image itself was simply spectacular — she looked great with a sheen of sweat on her body, her hair disheveled, that peaked cap balanced on her head and her breasts dangling down. He looked great as well — no longer afraid yet still totally submissive, he nuzzled close to her and began kissing the nape of her neck. She shivered. He clearly knew about the less commonly focused-on erogenous zones of the body.

She was nearly at orgasm when she decided to stretch things out. She stood up abruptly and told him to lay on his back on the car’s roof. He obeyed without question, and she climbed up to straddle him. Yeah, of course, if I’m going to do a femdom fantasy we are absolutely not skipping the cowgirl! She took charge of the physical dynamics a bit at this point. It wasn’t as much a pump and thrust thing as a matter of pivoting. She used her cheerleader hip-swiveling trick to swirl his hard cock about inside her slowly and rhythmically, luxuriating in the sensation. It was like stirring a milkshake, almost, and the words of the Kelis song popped into her head. They might as well have been a biography of her senior year, honestly, and she felt proud of that.

She finally let the uniform shirt slide fully open, her naked breasts capturing his gaze the way they inevitably captured any straight or bi guy’s gaze. They bounced left and right as she swiveled her hips and shoulders in time to the music playing in her head. He looked like he was being hypnotized by their rhythmic dance. She maneuvered those magnificent sculptor-hands up to cup and tease them like a bra. It was when he flicked both her nipples with his thumbs at the same time that she knew she was going to lose it really, really soon.

“Slap me,” he whispered softly.

She blinked, briefly confused.

“Please,” he begged her. “Slap me as you come.”

She put on a careful air of disdain. If you’re going to do femdom, do it right! “Pervert!” she sneered, and bitch-slapped him across the face — hard enough that even her hand stung, let alone his cheek.

He didn’t have to tell her he enjoyed it — the way his cock twisted around inside her more than got the point across. The slow tremble spread from her thighs over her entire body as her pink rose unfolded its petals for the second time that evening. She smacked him hard across the face again, and he rewarded her by painting the walls of her cunt white with jets of furious semen. Her crushed her breasts — the only time in the encounter he treated them roughly — and that only made her orgasm deeper and longer.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly.

She smacked him a third time for good measure, managing to coax another pulse of high-pressure ejaculate out of him. “Any time, bitch.”

She winked. He giggled. It was a relaxed, pleasant kind of giggle. Waiting until the passion had passed so as not to taint the whole stern femdom experience, she leaned down and kissed Deon deeply — not a raunchy tongue-diving thing, but an expression of warmth and acceptance. Then she lay atop his body and nuzzled his ear with her nose.

She wanted to tell him this was all a fantasy, to talk to him more seriously and do what the BDSM people called aftercare. The problem was, dream imagos don’t offer disclaimers in a normal dream, and she didn’t want him to think another person was really present. Imagos can snark, though, Julie thought, remembering Chinese Bonnie’s cheers in the lesbian photoshoot dream. She’d never forget those cheers!

Julie grabbed Deon by the throat and shook a finger at him in a way that was domineering, but also such a caricature as to be vaguely amusing. “Remember,” she told him stern but playful and almost self-parodic tone. “All Cops Are Bastards. You know this is true, because large demographics of people are all fungible with each other and tend to have uniform properties.”

He giggled, realizing the absurdity of that. She prodded roughly, keeping the stern persona. “Say it, boy! Say it!”

“All Cops Are Bastards,” he recited, still enjoying the intimidation even as it became absurdist. She slapped his face again, more playfully this time, and he grinned. “All Cops Are Bastards, Ma’am, or bitches as the case may be. May I have one more, Ma’am?”

She smiled down at him warmly, and smacked him hard across the face for the fifth time. Her grinned up at her dopily. The dream unwound into an incoherent haze after that, but it at least felt satiated and emotionally pleasant to Julie.

May 27th, 2024. Alison Dikscheide.

Alison felt like the walls were closing in on her. The DEO may have over-reached its authority. There were... irregularities in financing, and some of them could implicate her. Nobody would dare to care about that if she could produce a strong, new woke crusade for them to rally behind — but all her plans to do that were failing, and this AFHU dipshittery wasn’t helping. The school was swarming with feral hamsters and bizarre meme-posters, and she had to make sure the journalists never got the full story on that — she didn’t want to even try to explain the whole AFHU situation to the media. It had the potential to become memetic and seriously embarrass the left overall, and blame would fall on her head if it happened.

They couldn’t expel that Stockman brat without looking censorial, but Mr. Garris could make sure he failed the course regardless to send a message — and he would. Alison had made sure of that. She shouldn’t have rewarded that Fendermann girl with credits for her protest action. Sure, it was brave and creative, promoting both climate consciousness and body positivity, but it also incentivized the bad, un-telegenic kind of radicalism among the activist cliques and seemed to energize the AFHU. They responded not just to Fendermann but to Alison’s own radicalism, following the unstated but universal theorem of modern leftist activists: adopt the most radical position possible to increase your view count. Unfortunately, as the AFHU had so aptly proven, inanity wasn’t a disqualifier.

The locker room tape had initially seemed like a godsend. She’d expected it to generate a feeling of deep and visceral outrage. It certainly had in her, when she forced herself to listen to it. But there was only one victim at the center of it, that Lambert cunt, and she’d consistently rejected her innate obligation to feminist solidarity by refusing call out the evil of her own victimizers. Dumb bitch was probably afraid as a cheerleader, it would cost her popularity with the jocks. That was how it always went, wasn’t it? Women cutting down other women to appeal to the mores of men.

But everything had still been manageable at that point. Then that ingrate Köhler had back-talked her, right on camera! Sure, the ambush interview was a bit sketch, but as far as Köhler knew she really ought to be grateful to Alison — she’d devoted her career to fighting for a better world for trans-people, after all. Hell, she deserved to be seen as just short of a Messiah by them! And now her media contacts were all being distant with her, all because MSDNC failed to ‘get’ a snarky pop culture reference and Gutfeld laughed at them — as if that was somehow her fault! If the journalist had been some dipshit boomer, she could see it — but she shouldn’t have to explain snark to a fellow Millennial!

Did Köhler suspect something? It was such a shame that she was such a recluse. If Alison had been able to talk her into running for prom queen, it would have been perfect. She could get her elected easily, even if it meant leaning on the prom committee. Then she would have used her menagerie of social media sock puppets to gin up resentment against Köhler among MWA’s Neanderthal population. Axing the Stallions would have been the perfect flashpoint — people would be furious, and blood would inevitably flow.

A really juicy trans-bashing would have been the perfect thing to push her activist career into its next natural stage — especially if she could have finagled managing the official GoFundMe to support the victim again. She owed her current position in large part to the resources from the last one, after all! Given her friendship with an up-and-coming WaPo reporter, it might have even rocketed her to national attention and gotten her a sweet book deal. But that self-righteous cunt Lambert had warned Köhler about the kind of attention she’d attract by running. Still, they were all seniors, so they’d be gone in just over a month — and stomping on Lambert’s prom dreams had been fun.

It’s not like Köhler had any social merit compared to Alison. She was destined to be a thought leader in the progressive movement, and that brat was just a fashionista that hadn’t got the whole “silence is violence” memo. Dikscheide did not question the selfishness of her plans — as a thought leader, what was good for her would inevitably also be good for the movement. Sacrificing Köhler to advance the cause would have been both rational and moral. It had been a difficult decision, but utilitarianism was a core pillar of Alison’s brand of progressivism.

Indeed, she congratulated herself for having the moral courage to plan it out, even if the pieces hadn’t come into alignment to actually pull it off. The ends justified the means, and flashy events were necessary to advance the cause of social justice. It’s not like she wouldn’t have been walking on well-trod ground — her plan was in the same fundamental spirit as Harvey Milk outing gay men, and he was lionized to this very day!

Her plan to get one of the Stallions’ troglodytes to shit-kick an eight-year-old on film had also failed. Admittedly, it was a moonshot, but if it had gone off it would have been legendary! Sure, they showed the agitation film, and Havelock had sent the kids out on their ‘treasure hunt’, and she’d unlocked the big fire doors, and the cafeteria CCTV was running — but the spark hadn’t lit, and her cinematically perfect teachable moment about the omnipresent danger of white rage failed to materialize. Not even an older teen shouting at an elementary student in fury (which was, honestly, the more realistic expectation). It was still a great plan to really peel away the facade and show the true evils at work in society, though; it just hadn’t hit paydirt — this time.

And then, just two days ago, her emergency backup scandal imploded. She’d quietly helped cover up Harold Lansing’s crimes. A single rape wasn’t enough to be a scandal, after all. There needed to be a pattern there, to demonstrate social complicity. And, in time, there was. Then he just stopped doing it! She had no idea why. And what was worse still, he had gone from cocky sullen loner to an apparent total headcase!

He was never her ideal scandal, mind you. He was a social outcast, a weirdo with a broken family life, time in foster care and some mental problems. That wasn’t the narrative she needed at all! Trying to persecute anyone with mental illness would get passed over for progressive media focus, and raised-in-poverty kids with broken families? Not the right optics at all! What was even the point of caring about rape if you couldn’t tie it back to rape culture, capitalism, inequity or privilege?

What she really needed was a popular white jock-hero rapist with affluenza, the pupal version of the entitled frat boys that clogged up the world. The closest she’d gotten was the knife-freak from the tape, Jim Peterson. He was at least white, clean-cut and upper middle class. The problem was, with the lack of outrage over the tape, she wasn’t sure she could convince the media he was a precrime rapist. Could she try to pull a Sabrina Erdley? Too risky — conservative media was on the lookout for that kind of thing these days, and she knew that bimbo from Vox was nosing around. There were no good knife crimes around Bentonville recently anyway — she’d checked.

So Harold Lansing had been her last-ditch emergency scandal. Not ideal, not likely to advance her career, but maybe just enough to justify the DEO’s existence and authority for another year to give her time to find something better. And then the little fucker went and confessed to the police! Seriously, who even does that?!

And yet, she felt, things might still be salvageable. Her Hail Mary was that Kellerman kid that brought the tape in to begin with. She said being a lesbian wasn’t viable given her dating history, but she’d agreed that if she made prom queen she’d come out as bi during her acceptance speech, detail a long list of grievances against homophobia in the MWA athletics department and talk about the emotional support the DEO had provided her — how it had been her lamp in the darkness when she thought about suicide or self-harm. So, of course, Alison nudged the prom committee to fix the vote. She was pretty sure they’d fall in line. As long as Kellerman proved a credible witness, she’d be able to justify the continued operation of the DEO to the school board — and, more importantly, to the prevailing semi-woke corporate overlords of the town.

The AFHU was still a problem. She was responsible for wrangling them, but she had no actual power over them. Flair Garret was an anarchist, and was profiting by being even more radical than she was. He worshipped her, she thought, but that didn’t mean she could get him to tone it down. She’d tried. Odyssey Olusange was black, and in with the Arkansas BLM chapter — there was no way she was going to tolerate a white authority figure ‘tone policing’ her.

MWA wasn’t normally like big coastal schools; wokeness wasn’t enforced by gangs of left-anarchists shouting down instructors, blockading classrooms, disrupting conservative speakers and beating offenders with bike locks. The people that ran MWA also ran Bentonville, and while they very much wanted to appear woke, they also weren’t especially favorable to violent anti-capitalist movements growing up in town — for obvious reasons. The culture of campus radicalism wasn’t as natural to Arkansas as it was to California even without interference, honestly.

It would all come down to Twitter — Alison’s followers against Flair’s and Odyssey’s. They had about 30k between them, but some of those were likely duplicates. She had 75,000, but that was probably a hollow number — she’d pulled off an especially sick burn on Lauren Boebert and got retweeted by AOC. That was great for her long-term activist visibility, but she knew most of her followers were only interested in her sniping at Republican jackasses, not anything actually happening at MWA. The AFHU could say as much radical and provocative stuff as they wanted on Twitter; Alison, being faculty, was decidedly more limited in how she could fire up her own base.

It was entirely possible that the AFHU would just decide to storm her office one day, take her hostage and start making demands. Campus police would do nothing, of course, even if she told them to — not messing with ‘peaceful’ radical leftist protests was an unwritten rule these days, at least at any but the most conservative schools. If they did, the Twitterverse would take it as police brutality and end them, and they knew that. She understood all the dynamics of this — she’d helped with similar intimidation campaigns against faculty back during her days as a student activist at Oberlin.

If it went badly, the town’s corporate overlords would make a scapegoat out of her. She knew that — it was simply logical. But if her followers won the ensuring Twitter war, the AFHU would fold. She felt sure of that. She thought Flair and Odyssey knew it as well. But her followers wouldn’t win that war. The question was, did Flair and Odyssey know that? She had no idea. She’d at least managed to intimidate them enough that they were avoiding the reporters — for now. She felt certain they were going to try something big and stupid, though. After prom, she’d have more political currency to try and de-escalate this inane mess.

Alison desperately needed some stress relief. She pulled out a vibe and a lesbian BDSM anthology and went to work. Back in college she’d led a pretty wild and kinky life. It was never public, though, so she could cut it off and pretend it never happened. Even if it got found out, she’d just claim it was all just done out of social pressures to fit into a hypersexualized, objectifying society. Still, though, she really missed those kinky anonymous hookups and wild nightclub nights as a source of stress relief.

Asexuality was inarguably the best identity to claim, Alison had decided early on. It really had been a stroke of genius. She needed some kind of sexual minority status to be credible in her role, but doing anything sexual in the woke subculture was a chump’s game. Yet, if she claimed anything else, people would eventually expect her to back it up. It would only open her to accusations from some ambitious underling eager to seize her position — she didn’t want to end up the next Asia Argento. She knew she wasn’t the type to keep her hands to herself when she got really worked up, after all. So it was best to cut that part out of her life entirely — even if she could really, really use a good rough fuck right now.

Alison had a lot to worry about, obviously. If there was one thing she could genuinely take satisfaction in, though, it was the cake. Coach Larkin and a bunch of the wealthier Stallions dads had pitched in money to get a big, fancy graduation cake for the prom. It was a huge, six foot tall tiered thing, like a wedding cake — wasteful and consumerist. They’d hired some elite professional cake decorator at their own expense to paint the cake in the school’s crimson-and-gold colors, and to add a detailed replica of the school crest in icing and a sculpted black graduation cap ornament at the very top.

At their request, he’d apparently added something a fair bit less wholesome as well: a cutesy, playful image of two well-endowed young girls holding up the giant graduation cap, their graduation robes falling slightly open down the center to show they weren’t wearing anything underneath them. It didn’t show any private parts, or even anything that risqué, but that wasn’t the point. It sexualized the female graduates. It was a microaggression. It reminded young women that no matter what they achieved, they were ultimately still just something to be consumed.

Thankfully, one of the woke students saw the cake while it was still in the cafeteria freezer-room and took a photo of it to report to the DEO. Alison Dikscheide would never allow the next generation of proud female graduates to be represented like that, though. Women were excelling in education in ways undreamed-of by previous generations, exceeding men in both college graduation and honor-roll achievement rates. There’d be no half-naked girls on their prom cake — not on her watch!

She’d spent three hours going through the school yearbook looking for the students those caricatures most closely resembled so she could credibly accuse the Stallions of stealth revenge porn. The students she found took some convincing to fall in line with the controversy, but in the end they bent the knee. Larkin and the team dads had to either dispose of the cake or pay even more to get the decorator in again to cover up their demeaning little doodles with plain icing. Once the decorator had left, she called up Larkin and explained that she’d be willing to forget the whole revenge porn thing — provided the cake boasted her office’s “Diversity, Equity and Inclusion” motto prominently. At his expense, of course. He had little choice but to comply, so the decorator came in a third time to redo the cake.

The cherry on top of the whole cake affair? Two hours after Larkin called her to confirm the cake was fixed and sent the required picture, she made the call that got MWA pulled out of the NFHS for the year, castrating the Stallions’ athletic dreams and reminding all the world’s douchebros who was really in charge in 2024. The timing of it all made Alison feel deeply satisfied and oddly triumphal. Most of all, though, it felt empowering — both to her personally and to the oppressed communities she had been anointed avatar of. It was her hope spot, a ray of sunshine in her otherwise stressful and challenging future.

May 28th, 2024. Alison Dikscheide.

The morning assembly wasn’t going well. Alison couldn’t very well cancel, since she called it to begin with. She’d planned to use it to silence the PTA complaints about the Stallions with a shocking new offense. Sadly, she didn’t have a shocking new offense ready, so she’d have to tread water until Kellerman came out and made her allegations of toxic masculinity at the prom. As such, she’d fallen back on one of her trademark techniques: the bombastic but vague speech full of personal anecdotes of oppression, misogyny and inequity. It was tied back to the Stallions and Angels, albeit loosely — she needed a lot of “you’ve all experienced” and “I’m sure you see it, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself.” Okay, honestly, it was weak — she knew that — but it would be fine in context. PTA members tried to cut her off, but she just steamrolled them with force of personality. She finally finished, and asked if there were any questions.

And then that little blonde twit raised her hand. “Miss Dikscheide, I’m Laura Cannigan from Vox News. I’m wondering if you can clarify the exact offense that led to Jim Peterson’s expulsion. As far as I can tell, he talked about a sexual fantasy in what he believed was a private environment, and has no other charges against him.”

Okay, change in direction. This assembly was now going to be a roast of a fascist collaborator. Alison got the girl up on stage. Well, twenty-something, but she looked like a girl — or a model. Hah — their standard factory model news bimbo; they might as well be clones! Long platinum blonde hair in perfectly coiffed waves, tight blue blouse with the top three buttons undone, vacuously pleasant smile, dangling earrings, short skirt, long toned legs. Very long, silky smooth bare legs. Yum. Wait, what? Alison blinked. That... isn’t what she wanted to be thinking.

For all the aura the newscaster put on of being a submissive little bimbo, though, she wasn’t easily flustered. Alison really laced into her, accusing her of complicity with patriarchal aggression and ignoring the warning signs that presage sex crimes. She just smiled prettily back. “Now, Miss. You don’t need to be that rude to dodge my question. Can I get a clear and topical answer please?”

They went back and forth. Alison only became aware midway through that she was losing. The Vox camera crew was focused on her, personally. Her own heart was hammering, while Fascist Barbie was keeping her cool. God damn it! She had a reason to be calm, after all. Unlike most people Alison dealt with, the bimbo reporter spoke to a different audience — one that didn’t care about her mores and were wholly outside the ideological space that gave Alison her power. She knew Vox news. They’d find a way to cut this manipulatively, make it look like she was bullying their reporter. She had to back up, stay disciplined, not let the little tart tease her with that deep creamy cleavage and glossy lips...

At some point things got physical. She’s walked right up into the reporter’s personal space. Her perfume — some floral, hyper-feminine Dolce & Gabbana thing — seemed to intoxicate Alison. She felt like she wanted to kiss her and kill her at the same time, and had settled on shoving her back. Students hooted and laughed. Some wiseass middle schooler shouted out, “catfight! catfight!”

There was a brief tussle before all hell broke loose. Alison shoved the Vox bitch away from her and she staggered back, knocking over the podium. A screech of very loud white noise flared over the sound system, and everyone covered their ears. And then half a dozen panicked hamsters leapt out of a vent shaft and landed on the Vox newscaster, skittering with absolutely striking speed all over her body until they found the nearest available burrow — right down her cleavage.

The Vox bimbo screamed. It was an incredibly girly scream; it suited her. She grabbed her blouse with both hands and tore it off like she was auditioning to be the Hulk. She actually had really nice, really jiggly C-cups under it, too, packed into a powder blue lingerie bra with yellow lace flowers all over it. The bra was somewhat see-through, and everyone could clearly make out her full brown nipples inside it — as well as the tiny hamster dangling from the front clasp. Alison couldn’t help but smirk in glee at her misfortune.

The reporter danced about the stage in a mad panic, her kicks driving her skirt to bunch up around her legs. She had matching sheer panties, the sly little seductress! Her flailing only made her bouncier, too. The whose school was laughing and cheering at her predicament; she swatted at the hamster clinging to her bra-strap like she was trying to put out a fire before finally reaching up and tearing off her bra, tossing it aside in a mad panic. The whole student body let out an enormous cheer. The denuded newscaster clutched her arms around her breasts, struggling to catch her breath. “What the fuck! What in the unholy fuck even was that! Rats? Why are there suddenly rats out of nowhere?! What is wrong with this entire goddamn school?! Somebody help me! Get me a jacket!”

The hamsters scurried away, and the students started fleeing too — likely not wanting to be bitten themselves. It was only when Alison covered her mouth with a hand to stifle her laughter that she realized she had been drooling. Jesus fuck, am I getting turned on by a goddamn Trumptard? What’s wrong with me? Hopefully, no one noticed. It’s not like there was a camera crew watching her, right? Aw, fuck.

Fortunately, there was someone to take the spotlight away from her. Flair Garrett — a hardcore activist at MWA, and an AFHU leader — stood up and thrust his arms in the air. “Victory to the anti-fascist hamster battalion!”

Alison glanced over the student body. Some aggressively woke students cheered for Flair, but more booed and jeered at him — the reporter was not the first to have an unfortunate hamster encounter recently. The students overall were laughing and jovial — it honestly seemed more like a victory for horny teenage boys than anti-fascism. Still, she could run with that. She glanced sardonically up and down the vulnerable reporter so terrified of flashing her breasts to the students again. Faint red scratches covered her exposed body, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her silky smooth skin.

Alison turned back to the student body with a smirk. “Well, I hope we all learned something today about the kind of qualifications Vox News considers most critical in their up-and-coming newscasters.”

Apparently, though, the reporter wasn’t too scared — or too afraid of exposing herself again — to run up and punch Alison in the face, knocking her flat on her ass. The last thing she remembered hearing before blacking out was the students’ mad laughter reaching a crescendo. The last things she remembered seeing, conversely, were those fantastic jiggling breasts.

May 29th, 2024. Julie Lambert.

Julie had been consoling Pink Highlights Bonnie when the hall monitor sent both of them to the gym for the struggle session. PHB was distraught over her own role in Hamsterstorm ’24. She didn’t especially care about either the Coordinator or the reporter bimbo, but they both knew the blame for this was all going to fall on Marvin and not the AFHU. They’d laughed themselves silly at the Coordinator getting punched out at the assembly last night, and then PHB just started crying.

She was still wrung out and on edge today. As entertaining as it had been, it wasn’t a good thing in the grand scheme of things. There was going to be some kind of formal hearing after the prom. Thankfully the DEO didn’t know about PHB’s role in the matter — Marvin had apparently kept stoically silent about her all along. PHB was a puffy-eyed wreck. She felt it was her fault. On some level, she might have been right, but that didn’t matter. Julie just wanted to see her friend be all cheerful and adorkable again.

80s-hair Bonnie had gotten caught by the Coordinator calling CB ‘Chinese Bonnie’, and it was deemed a racist nickname, so after interrogating her the Coordinator added the whole Angels squad to the Stallions’ mandatory training over the tape. It wasn’t Julie’s first privilege walk — they had done one back at the beginning of each year. (They told the students it was mandatory, and the parents it was strictly optional.) To say the Coordinator was not in a good mood for this one was an understatement. The exercise was simple, but tense. The students — the Angels, a bunch of Stallions and other male students on the tape were forced to line up in the gymnasium.

They were asked a bunch of invasive questions about their demographics, beliefs and family life — their race, their family’s wealth, their sexual identities, their immigration status, their mental health. (This was probably illegal, but no one had challenged it successfully yet.) Each time they identified as a privileged group, they took a step forward. If they were an oppressed group, they took a step back. When the Coordinator had asked Julie her faith, she just lied — saying Catholic and stepping forward.

Sure, she could have said she thought of the Godhead as being a kind of deistic, mechanized server process with elements of Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Islamic, pagan Egyptian and Chaldean theology in Its interior schematic, executing on the hardware matrix of astral ley lines strung between the constellations as if they were Its neurons. She could also had said that she regularly performed what could loosely be described as brain surgery on It in order to effect alterations in the fabric of reality using Goetic seals, secret names and the universal archetypes of the Tarot as her scalpels and sutures.

She hadn’t said that, though. She thought it would make people think she was weird. Well, that and it would get other Adepts to silence her with lethal force for violating the Praei Silentum — both fates best avoided. She’d kept her mouth shut during the big class discussion about whether God was a ‘He’ or a ‘She’ for the same reason — even though anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see that the Godhead was clearly an ‘It’!

Sometimes they demanded white male students confess to a microaggression or racist act when they reached the basketball court’s goal line and ask the students behind them for forgiveness. At the first privilege walk, Randy Beumiller had refused to confess any racist act. “I haven’t done anything,” he’d said. “I don’t do that shit.”

“White people are innately racist by virtue of being raised immersed in a white supremacist culture,” the Coordinator had told him. “Refusing to acknowledge your own racism and work beyond it represents a proactive and conscious commitment to white supremacy.”

It’s just original sin, Julie had realized back then. This really was a pseudo-spiritual cult initiation. They were doing the exact same thing the church did — creating a synthetic universal transgression, and proposing rituals to absolve oneself of that transgression in order to gain salvation — rituals which required exclusive loyalty to their ideological sect. The Catholics ought to sue — they’re being ripped off!

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Beumiller had said. “I don’t care what you do. I refuse to confess to something I’m not guilty of.”

So they expelled him for promoting white supremacy. (His parents later talked the principal down to a suspension after threatening to bring in the media.) After that students had started forming secret cells to discuss the most innocuous forms of bigotry they could confess to. Sometimes I think black people smell funny. One time on the train I asked this hot black chick if I could touch her hair. I’ve only ever dated white people. I wore dreads a few years back, before we knew whites weren’t allowed to. It was an open secret that the Coordinator taped the sessions — no one wanted to say anything that a Twitter mob could use to ruin their lives a decade down the road, but nobody wanted to be suspended either.

At the first walk the Coordinator had made the frontmost white male students kneel on their hands and knees, stripped to their underwear, and stacked textbooks on their backs. That definitely wasn’t in McIntosh’s original exercise, but if you had a cult of personality like the Coordinator did, you could apparently get away with it. Troy, Brett and Marvin had all gotten that multiple years in a row now. “These books represent the psychological strain your microaggressions inflict on minority students,” the Coordinator had told them. “As you feel their weight today, remember that this is only an exercise for you, a learning experience — but it is a weight minorities bear every day of their lives, incessantly binding and mis-shaping them to conform to white supremacist ideals.”

“Is this actually supposed to be kinky?” CB had whispered to Julie, staring at the row of athletic young men (and Marvin) in their boxers, grunting, on their hands and knees. “Because it kinda feels that way.”

The exercises weren’t any more comfortable for the students at the back, either. The Coordinator goaded them to describe instances of bigotry they’d experienced before the class, subtly coaching them toward hysteria. Students front and back were often left in tears so the Coordinator could deliver a righteous lecture about the social ills causing their anguish. Students who cried were often rewarded with grade points or exemptions. It was insidious in how it cultivated a moral panic about bigotry and incentivized giving in to a mood of emotive hysteria.

If the Chinese Cultural Revolution had been like Darth Vader — an evil atrocity, yet still majestic in its ruthlessness and zealous power — then the American Cultural Revolution was a lot more like Kylo Ren: constantly schismatic, cautiously queer-adjacent while still being corporation-friendly, obsessed with symbolism and language to the exclusion of reality, an endless fountain of memes and most likely to be spotted crying with a snot bubble running out of its metaphorical nose.

In a way, that gave it a deceptive kind of power — it was so silly in its overblown emo-hysteria people could easily forget about the lives it was ruining, the psyches it was traumatizing and the once-strong society it was dividing. What else could be said of the first revolution in history to transform whining and temper tantrums into terror weapons? Yet for all the absurdity of it, people lived in constant fear of them. The Long March Through The Institutions carried over, though, and the big character posters, and above all else the struggle sessions. And, of course, the most important similarity: like their Sith parallels, both were entirely willing to destroy whole civilizations in order to expand the reach of their own authority.

Julie’s morbid introspection was interrupted. This session was about CB, so the Coordinator had taken her up-front. She looked scared. Julie felt a lump form in her throat. I’m already watching one friend have a polarization-induced slow motion nervous breakdown. I don’t know if I can bear to watch another.

Yet she also knew that if it came down to it, she wouldn’t stand up to defend CB. She was tempted to, but she was too innately practical to actually do so. One does not offer emotional support to a friend when doing so would compromise one’s ability to offer more concrete practical support to said friend later. It wouldn’t be productive to make a martyr of herself, nor to draw attention to herself being in conflict with the Coordinator before the effects of her curse-box had settled in. Chinese Bonnie would have to fight her own battles.

“Tell me,” the Coordinator was asking. “Is there anything your peers do that makes you feel alienated from them? Something othering, that implies inferiority or reduces you to a base characteristic?”

CB nodded slowly. She glanced around. Nora wasn’t in this session, but Decepticon Bonnie was. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Well, kind of. But it’s embarrassing to talk about.”

“It’s okay,” the Coordinator said. “We’re not here to judge you. We’re here to empower you, and to help others confront their own hidden biases.”

CB bit her lips. If there was the faintest sign of a smile at the edges of her mouth when she spoke, Julie thought she hid it well. “The truth is, I often feel different from many of my peers because... I have a small chest. Sometimes I feel they flaunt it by wearing clothing designed to emphasize their breasts...”

Inwardly, Julie cackled. She had no doubt CB knew exactly what the script expected her to say, and this was a legit clever twist. Decepticon Bonnie was near the front in a low-cut halter top. More to the point, though, the Coordinator wore a very tight brown sleeveless sweater and black pants. Like many of her outfits, it danced on the fine line between acceptable as business casual and too sexy for school faculty. It was still probably on the right side, though... barely. She and DB were the most stacked women in the room, and both were showing it off — though Julie thought the Coordinator might even beat out DB by a single cup size.

The Coordinator blinked, dumbstruck by the swerve. A few people giggled softly. “Is... is that the only way you feel othered?”

CB shrugged. “It’s the most prominent one, certainly.”

It took the Coordinator a few seconds to compose a more substantive reply. “Women should never shame each other for their bodies or the way they dress,” she said awkwardly, “but we should all also be conscious not to shame others for the shapes of the bodies they were born with...”

“Wait,” a fat Indonesian girl at the back said. “Does that mean breast privilege is actually a thing now?”

“Well,” PHB said, “girls with larger breasts sure do get favorable treatment from society, just like the other protected groups...”

There was a lot of giggling now, and the Coordinator was angry. “Stop laughing! Especially you men! You have no right to laugh at the sexualization of women! You! I saw that! Eye-rolling is a harmful practice rooted in white supremacy!”

Oh, wow, Julie thought. The Coordinator is tenting like crazy! Everyone in the session could tell; it was hard to miss — except she didn’t seem aware of it herself. Everyone was struggling not to laugh. Was she even wearing a bra? Well, so much for her outfit being within the bounds of acceptable school-wear — it had just gone full porno! Better still, she was getting flushed and breathing really heavily, which was only serving to further accentuate her unwise wardrobe decisions.

“So,” Julie asked in her best level, serious and sincere voice. “Should the girls with larger breasts walk forward? Maybe based on cup size?”

“Clearly,” Troy said loudly to DB, “the girls with the biggest tits need to take their shirts off and get on their hands and knees so we can stack books on their backs.”

Troy’s parents were influential in Bentonville; he could get away with saying things other students couldn’t — within limits. He didn’t always know where those limits were; he’d been suspended four time in the last two years, and took it as a badge of pride. It wouldn’t matter to his future — unlike PHB, he was aiming for a football college. Julie wondered if he was going to make it an even five before graduation.

The students lost it, bursting into gales of laughter. The Coordinator shook with fury, marching right up to Troy and DB. “To mock a privilege walk is to celebrate your own privilege and proactively participate in the oppression of others! It is a act of premeditated fascist collaboration!”

She gestured wildly as she shouted. Her breasts gestured wildly with her. Unlike DB’s, Julie reasoned, the Coordinator’s probably were real. She was sweating, and almost panting. Her sweater clung to her ample chest even more tightly. Her skin gleamed. She clutched Troy by the shoulder. She was struggling to continue her lecture, but only managing to moan.

“You know,” Amed said to Donny, “I’m not sure everyone still has the shape they were born with!”

Decepticon Bonnie covered her chest defensively. The Coordinator turned to look at her.

“Oh, sweetie,” the Coordinator gasped with odd affection, “don’t let them shame you. Your body, your breasts, are beautiful. Be proud of them...”

And then, almost in a trance, the Coordinator reached forward and cupped Decepticon Bonnie’s breasts through her shirt with her hands, in a decidedly unprofessional and unplatonic way. She sighed. Everyone struggled in desperate fear not to giggle. Clarity of mind finally returned to the Coordinator. It was only in looking down at DB’s breasts that she realized what her own nipples were doing. She fled the session in a panic, covering her chest with an arm.

The gathered students listened to the clip-clip-clip of the Coordinator’s heels recede into the distance down the corridor fearfully. There was no longer any faculty present. Students looked at each other, baffled. “Are... are we done here? Are we in trouble? Does anyone know?”

No one knew. Troy elbowed Amed. “Did you see those pointers on her gazongas?! Holy sheeit, man!”

Everyone laughed uproariously, far more than Troy’s crack warranted. It was a kind of catharsis, Julie reasoned, a breaking of the tension and terror the Coordinator worked so hard to cultivate.

The spell is working, Julie thought. Prom is definitely going to be entertaining this year!

May 29th, 2024. Alison Dikscheide.

What the fuck just happened?! She’s lost it while leading the privilege walk. She’d had to come in at 3 AM again to tear down all the AFHU and “2 + 2 = 5” posters before the reporters saw them. She’d been doing that nearly weekly since they started appearing. She was short of sleep — that had to be it. Or was she having some kind of breakdown?

The incident with the Vox reporter was a nightmare. She’d been told to manage the AFHU, and she’d failed, and now Vox was almost assured to investigate in depth. That was bad. They probably wouldn’t get the full story for a few days, though, which meant prom was her last best hope for political survival. She had lots and lots of reasons to be stressed, but stress didn’t usually make her horny.

It had been so stupid not to wear a bra. She liked to think she had a dominant sexuality, that she used it to make the juvenile man-children of the world uncomfortable — to keep the upper hand and stay in control. But she didn’t feel in control right now, squatting in a locked maintenance closet shoving fingers in and out of her sopping pussy. She needed an orgasm just desperately. She rarely felt shame in her sexuality — her approach had always been to track down anyone causing her shame and destroy them with utter ruthlessness. But now she felt sordid — masturbating amidst moldering mops in her workplace after having felt up a student!

That cute little bottle-blonde with the pixie cut — Kellerman. She was so innocent, so shielded from the world by her privilege. Alison couldn’t get her out of her head. She had the face of an angel and the body of an Instagram model. She was obscene — deliciously obscene. Alison felt passingly bad, for a moment, about fantasizing about a student. She felt worse for fantasizing about such a heteronormative icon — wasn’t she supposed to be pansexual, primarily into alt-girls, femboys, genderfuck and body-affirming butch-punk? Or was that just what she told herself over the years?

Regardless, the little pixie did it for her like nothing else in the last few years could, and — even more disturbingly — the Vox bitch was her only solid competitor for Alison’s libido. She didn’t introspect long — her heat was too strong. Besides, I could fix them, transform them, bend them. That would make it a subversive fantasy, and thus an acceptable fantasy. Even a meritous one. Alison imagined Kellerman in that skimpy cheerleader outfit — the one that both so offended and so aroused her — bent over with a restraint bar on her arms and a ball gag in her mouth, crying, as Alison punished, re-educated and broke her with a thick, ribbed strap-on. Yes. Very nice.

She worked out an orgasm, lying on her back on the grimy cement floor of the janitor’s closet — a good, strong one really — after a while, but her heat hadn’t really gone down. It just wasn’t going down, and she didn’t know why. She’d just have to be consciously aware of herself and make sure she didn’t do anything else unprofessional.

May 30th, 2024. The Universe.

The karmic debt driving the curse-box on Alison Dikscheide was vast. Its power gnawed at the very fabric of reality. Magick is a subtle force, and it find subtle paths to enact its caster’s will — and not always in the way the Adept may have intended. Corrosion wore away the seal of a pipe under Julie Lambert’s sink. Water began to dribble down into the alcove where the curse-boxes were stored. The scent of cinnamon and henbane filled the air as water sank into Dikscheide’s box, and the water permeated with those herbs also seeped into the other box carven with Bonnie Kellerman’s natal chart. Soon the odd aphrodisiac scent permeated both boxes, binding their fates together. Julie Lambert really had no idea what she’d unleashed. It was, in the end, all a matter of karma.