The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In one way, Mark felt like the world’s biggest idiot, an addled Aladdin with only two wishes left to be granted by a genie, who then fell asleep halfway through uttering one of the wishes, oops. Yet he wasn’t to blame, because he hadn’t fallen asleep—he’d been literally fucked unconscious during his supposed Valentine’s party, which was an entirely different thing.

Jesus H. Spliced, it had felt like Cynthia’s pussy had become a dozen pussies gang-raping him in a tunnel, or like she’d miniaturized ten well-trained hands and had them implanted onto her vaginal walls to do wonderful/terrible things to him in there. He could remember now how he’d had something like a dream snippet the morning before, no real plot, only that Cynthia’s pussy had been as fine and tight as he’d always imagined it would be, yet even better because when she fucked him there had been this astounding ability, this talent or genius or...

Prodigy, fuck. He’d had the dream to begin with and had mused on it upon awakening, thinking of her hotbox as a freaking pussy prodigy, maybe taking what the dream had already given and injecting it with steroids, making it even more so. And the result, every bit as miraculous as a Russian girl’s tits growing bigger in the act of being fucked—Cynthia had, poof, been granted a prodigal pussy, or even a conscious cunt.

“I’ve created a monster,” he said, though nothing about it felt monstrous. He hadn’t literally turned Cynthia’s vagina into a raging beast—it just felt that way because it could do things, moving like it had its own brain. Perhaps, no different than flesh and glands being able to grow on a woman’s chest, there had been some subtle rearranging of her anatomy in there, some cause that ended up as special effects—only her gynecologist knows for sure. He was pretty sure she’d retain all that, whatever had happened in there. She’d be a pint-sized gorgeous as get-all super-lay, out in the field.

Lasting only today, with him, similar to the way Natalia’s boobs had gone back towards their normal size? Might be true, only just a bit ago he’d dreamed of having run into her in New York in the future, reuniting their genitals, reuniting themselves. And the dream fucking had turned into real fucking and she’d blenderized him even more magically than today.

He felt like he had a basic choice to make concerning his attitude this morning, and it was classic: Glass half-empty, or glass half-full?

He had no morning wood to exploit, no chance today for all the woodwinking he’d envisioned ahead of time, which was a real downer. But there was a brainiac pussy waiting to do him in three years time, Cynthia Gilwood waiting to do him in three years time, and the feeling in his dream of the future had indicated far more than a casual or momentary reunification. It had felt like being drawn back to the fuck of one’s life, which, in this case, had been little or no different than reunification with the love of one’s life. Those emotions had been in the dream, just as clear and tangible as the images, the words and actions. There had been no thought, for either of them, of ever letting go a second time. Maybe not marriage or any of that, though he couldn’t rule it out as an eventuality. More like an inseparability, but only after a separation of years—that had been the feel of it.

Which meant they would lose touch. In the dream he’d momentarily thought about their history—he must be living that right now, and there were still weeks of school to go. What had he done, or she done, or Karen done, with or to or concerning one another? More threesomes? Though come to think about it, there never had been much of a true threesome, more a taking of turns.

He got up to pee, and on his way to the john he saw a note magnetized to the refrigerator door. He emptied his bladder first, then padded back to read.

Mark,

I’m sorry I stole your apartment keys last night, though I’m not the least bit sorry for coming back this morning. You’re incredible, or we’re incredible. I can barely move my legs and at the same time I feel like I’m walking on clouds.

I think I might have fallen in sex with you, or possibly love—I don’t even know if I can tell the difference right now. Don’t freak out because I know you’re Karen’s, and please don’t tell her I came back—I won’t do it again, I promise. I may have destroyed my friendship with Karen already; if you tell her I returned for more that becomes a certainty.

These are strange times for me. You’re an artist, so perhaps you will understand when I say I suddenly feel like the inside of my body could become the medium through which I can make art. I’ve always had a fascination for Egyptian temples, ritualistic structures and architecture, especially the entrances, where you pass from ordinary life into a sacred space. This may sound crazy, but I believe I might have sacred entrances, too, that could be worthy of the term “art” if I can master their living architecture just right.

Don’t be a stranger, but also don’t expect more from me than I can give when you’re involved with one of my best friends. I know where I stand in that pecking order.

This was not our time. I’m not sure why that is so, but we aren’t meant to be together, even if you and Karen split up.

Your keys are back on your key ring.

I’ll never forget last night and today. I regret nothing.

Cyn

Mark snort-laughed. Infuckingcredible—either he’d dreamed her into writing those words this morning, or dreamed a future where the words had been written. And maybe there was no difference, which was also strange as shit.

“You, dear Mark, are going to be my fucking art patron from now on.” That’s what dream Cynthia or future Cynthia had said. As he understood the term, that meant he’d be a deeply committed supporter of her as an artist, collecting her work. “And here she says her art will be a kind of performance art, what she can do with her ‘sacred entrances’, holy fuck.”

On the part about a pecking order she was selling herself short... Damn, he’d have to learn to avoid all the common phrases with “short” in them. She could never be short-tempered, or shortsighted, no short-circuiting and who knew, maybe no short stories allowed, just the long-ass ones, chapter after chapter.

No short-term relationships, either. And though she might believe right now that he, they, were the definition of the term—wham, bam, and how’d your pussy learn to do those things ma’am—she was the one with staying power, the one truly at the top of his pecker order.

He sat at his little kitchen table, reading through Cynthia’s note a second time. So she had a nickname, or a pet name, and it sounded exactly like “sin”. She was sinful, all right. Sinfully hot.

And sinfully not here, and not available to be sinned with again here, there or anywhere. He felt disjointed, uncertain of his next move or any move. It was Saturday, no classes, no imposed structure, and he was pretty sure he knew more about what would happen on an early spring evening three years in the future than he knew how this day would go.

He kept seeing Cynthia as she’d appeared to him last night, totally naked and finer than fine, and then future Cynthia, more confident and mature, better hair and tits that had graduated from great to pretty much majestic. Last night in real life, she had come at him or on him so fast that he’d barely had time to register how amazing her body was, her breasts sticking straight out like they’d been magnetized by something across the room, her nipples and areoles the same way, jutting forward as if attached to a vacuum cleaner nozzle.

“Torpedo tits to the Nth degree, now and especially then,” he muttered, picturing the way they’d grown, or would grow, not changing their shape or thrust, just their volume and the way they were scaled to the rest of her body. And he pictured the teenie-weenie waist, and the womanly swell of her hips and how her pussy had been shaved so bare it almost looked pre-pubescent.

“Chipmunk cheerleader.” All cute and adorable and squeezable and, best of all, lusting for his nuts. How unfair was it to have to wait three years for that? And how unfair was it to receive two quick super-fucks—the first one knocking him unconscious—that gave him just enough of a taste that he felt haunted now, like a piece of something he absolutely needed would always be just ahead of him, his cock racing around a track so wide in circumference that it took three years to cross the finish line.

He kept seeing her now, seeing her then, wanting her now and wanting her even more then, and at a certain point he knew it would drive him crazy if he kept thinking about three years from now, as opposed to today. The Three Fuckateers of his cock/drug/brain had given him a glimpse into his future, or had created a future for him to glimpse, but like a man who’s been shown the time and manner of his own death, it would only drive him to distraction if he began to live ahead of his own time, fixating on events completely out of his reach.

“I have things to do today!” he said, sounding like he meant it. And he did, though he didn’t have a clue what they were.

“I could start with getting dressed.” There, a beginning, only how far out of joint was he when putting some clothes on felt like a great achievement in planning? He should shower first... No, because that would mean washing away the scent of Cynthia.

“Pill!” Fuck, now there was something he could do with some gusto.

He rummaged under the kitchen counter and withdrew his very last pill, hoping its yellow-jacket color would give his dreams the power to sting a shitload of women one last time. He held the little capsule in the palm of his hand, feeling like he should perform some sort of ritual, sing Karen-style sex songs, chant the word for fornication in every language, maybe even smudge his dick with sage smoke.

Because this was it. If living the One Thousand and One Nights, this would be the final night of storytelling, his fate hanging in the balance. If living a genie fantasy, this would be the final wish, the most precious wish, and the one he might look back on with the most regret, wondering how he could have so stupid as to squander such an opportunity. It didn’t help his frame of mind to know that, in exchange for a second go at Cynthia’s pussy, he’d unwittingly, unconsciously, ceded his next-to-last wish this very morning.

He needed coffee, even though he already felt jittery. He spilled coffee beans on the floor when he poured them into the grinder, not a great omen. When he poured milk into the acid brown of his coffee, his eyes watched with great interest as the colors mixed, taking a long time to become uniform. It was like looking for the white of conscious decision-making to blend with the dark thoughts, the deep of night thoughts, the two uniting to make the perfect brew.

“Bitches Brew,” he said, the title of a favored Miles Davis album coming to mind. “Last pill, last chance...”

Into his mouth the pill went, chased with liquid heat.

“Let this be one hell of a bitches’ brew,” he said like a little prayer. Fucking amen.

The phone rang a few minutes later, K. Corso on the screen. He answered, caffeinated but still naked. “Hi.”

“Well that sure didn’t go as planned.”

“I guess not.” For Karen, only one go at his cock. For him, no morning wood and so no new conquests. “But what you tried to do, the candles and wine, creating that Valentine’s atmosphere...”

“That’s what makes it so awful! Valentine’s Day means ‘be mine’, and I got undermined! It’s not your problem but Cynthia and I had an agreement, rules of engagement or... And she broke them! She wasn’t supposed to do that!”

Harems, bad. This had only been two women, and he could already imagine Karen sharpening her kitchen knives with photos of Cynthia on a dartboard. There had probably been a nasty scene of some sort between them last night, not a bad thing to sleep through.

“What did Cynthia do to you? She was just sitting on top of you and not even moving... I thought for a second that she didn’t even know how to do it, like she’d gotten so far and needed an instruction manual to know how to fuck. And then you were groaning your lungs out and flopping like a fish!”

“Yeah, I...” He had no idea what to say, because you just couldn’t tell a woman that another woman had the best and most talented pussy you’d ever had the pleasure to meet.

“You passed out!”

“I know. I know that now, not then.”

He heard her breath, like a harrumph through her nose. “I never thought she’d be, you know, someone to worry about. I mean I never would have... I know she’s really lovely but...”

“You don’t need to worry,” he said. Because Cynthia was backing off; maybe because that was her nature, but he’d bet it was the dream he’d had between their fucks. It could have been prophetic, showing him the future, but more likely it had created that future, which also shaped the present.

“I didn’t get enough loving last night,” Karen went on.

“I didn’t either.”

“Well who’s fault is that? I tried to awaken you a bunch of times.”

“You sound more angry than worried now.”

“I’m frustrated! I wanted to do things; I need to do things! I get all antsy and my mouth... I need you!”

Her mouth—probably driving her crazy because it had pent-up blowjob fever. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I must have been exhausted or something.” Maybe Karen really was his girlfriend for the next few weeks, because here he was apologizing and making excuses.

“I’m sorry, too. I just wanted to give you... I can’t even imagine what I was thinking but it felt so right, giving Cynthia as a present. I thought we’d all, you know, be together one time, every man’s dream.”

“I can’t even believe how generous you were being. Everything was great about last night, until I... Well.”

A pause. “There’s a big party at Kevin Rutland’s place tonight. Do you want to go?”

Mark’s adrenaline spiked, probably from shock. “You mean go with you? Out in public?”

“What, you don’t want to be seen with me?”

“No, that’s... I thought... You said we wouldn’t go to parties or movies together, that...”

“That is so two or three days ago. Things have changed a great deal since then.”

“I guess they have.”

“People are saying it’s the biggest party of the year. Starts at nine, but won’t be in gear until ten. I could meet you at your place beforehand and we could walk over together.”

“Great. Excellent!” Although how would he explain that he was with a babe like Karen Corso? Would anybody believe it could just happen? “When should I expect you?”

A pause. “There are a few things I have to get done, immediately. A paper on Frida Kahlo and I just have to make progress on my digital film project. Maybe three?”

“But that’s...” Six or seven hours to get blowjobbed and tit-fucked and Karen pussy-fucked on a day where his dick felt unmoored in relation to time and patience, like he was waiting for sex with Godot. “That’s early for the party, but if you had other intentions...”

“You listen to me, Mark Mitchell. You fell asleep on me last night and I didn’t get enough loving!”

Mark braced himself for the inevitable, the admonishing words or cloying attitude that would be the dark side of having a girlfriend with an altered mind. Instead, he got:

“I’ve been working on a new song this morning.” And she sang without being asked, her voice more confident than the other day:

“It’s so hard, when I need you so

But life is calling, and I have to go

You know it hurts me when I’m stuck in a class

The clock is ticking but the time won’t pass

I can’t sit still with these papers to write

They fill my day but I’m longing for night

It’s so hard

And that’s all I can see

And it’s so hard

When you are inside me

You are so hard

Oh baby feel so alive

And when you’re hard like this

I’ll be your hard drive

Hmmmm hmmmmmmm, hmmm hmmm hmmm.

Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm, hmm hmm hmmmmm

It’s so hard, wanting something this way

Feel like I’m somewhere else half of the day

It’s so hard, oh God you’re inside my head

I’m free to move but I’m still chained to your bed

We all have dreams that we feel we must live

And look at me, I have so much I can give.”

Her singing faded out, and there was silence on the phone. “Then the refrain again,” she said.

“Karen, that’s really... good.” Not Grammy material or anything, but the lyrics said more about her emotions than before, and her voice was smooth and round, with a good range. “You’ve sung before, haven’t you?”

“Church choir way back when, and my parents gave me singing lessons into my early teens. Later, there were guys who wanted me to be lead singer in their bands, but I think that was more about, you know, trying to get me in the sack. Or, if they were serious, the show.”

Meaning Karen in skintight clothing and make-up, on stage performing make-you-hard rock. ”I’m really impressed. It sounded very heartfelt.”

“It’s how today will feel to me until I’m at your door. I’m serious, you’d better take your vitamins between now and then because we have half of last night to make up for.”

She said she loved him before ringing off, and he knew, after being fucked unconscious by Cynthia with Karen right there in the room, that he’d better say he loved her, too. And in a way he did—love the one you’re with and all that.

He finally showered and got dressed, and for a change of pace walked over to Café Magoo for a scone and an espresso. Turned out she was here today, the blonde barista, looking so fine with her hair pulled back, in a white T-shirt with the words, “Great At Grinding” written across her boobs. Also a name tag—it looked like a new policy, as all those working had similar tags affixed over their left collarbones.

Jill—finally a name, no longer “the blonde barista”.

He didn’t stare, too much. Just some, mostly focusing on the shape of her chin with its alluring cleft, and how she had what he thought of as duck lips, an intriguing anomaly of design that tugged hard at his dick-strings for some reason. She met his eyes once, her expression bright and friendly. But he was nothing special to her, why should he be?

There were round tables and chairs outside, the day sunny and warm, but he strolled down the street a little ways, choosing a sitting bench with a tiny urban park behind it, the sun at his back. His head and shoulders were dappled with the shade of a dogwood that would soon be in bloom, spring here even if not fully sprung.

Jill, Jill, Jill... He sipped, and closed his eyes, trying to sear those duck lips into the part of his brain where dreams come from. And if that didn’t work, he’d think of her when he awakened tomorrow, his best and only chance at putting the newly understood morning wood method to good use.

It struck him then that he was having a day a little bit like in Karen’s song. He hadn’t exactly pissed his morning wood opportunity away—more like had the magic juice pumped right out of him, and gladly. But he’d had plans, and they hadn’t worked out, and now he had anticipation gnawing at him that made it almost impossible to focus on his schoolwork. Unlike Karen, waiting for the clock to move forward a handful of hours, he was dealing with waiting through one more night, and after that the interminable length of several calendars.

Also unlike Karen, he was falling behind in his schoolwork, and not doing nearly enough about that. The fact that he was waiting didn’t mean the clock had stopped ticking.

“It’s so hard,” he lightly sang, Karen’s melody catching like good tunes do. He laughed—she’d managed to get inside his head in her own way, fair revenge for having infiltrated hers. He sang: “It’s so hard, I’ve taken my last pill. And its so hard, just have one crack at Jill.”

One crack at Jill, one crack to get the leggy redhead, one crack for anything new. The curtain hadn’t yet dropped on the sex-play he’d stumbled into, but anxious hands were taking hold of the ropes, knowing how the the final act was rapidly winding down.

He thought of what might last beyond tomorrow morning’s dream-by date, and fresh lyrics came to mind. “It’s so hard, when school’s gone Karen, too; she’ll wave good-bye, ‘It’s been nice fucking you.’”

Because their relationship would last only a little while, his access into her panties and giant bra sunsetting at graduation. Kind of sad, and he wondered what would become of her afterwards. Back to bossing boy-toys around, unchanged by their time together?

He could try to re-order his earlier thought, that she be his to fuck for the rest of the semester. Make her drop him while also sending fresh input into Cynthia, that she aim her little genius pussy his way the second he could call her and honestly say that he and Karen were kaput.

Mark felt the hairs on his arms rise at that thought, like his body sensed a coming storm. What was this, a message from his brainstem or his cock that only a fool would attempt to re-write the strange forces already let loose in the world? He looked up at the sky—no dark clouds gathering at incredible speed like in cheesy movie, but he felt like they could come, if he were boneheaded enough to overwrite the designs from his subconscious mind with new instructions from a different place, maybe an ego place.

“Okay, okay,” he said. Maybe he could have tried earlier, when he’d have an additional night and morning to set things straight again if all hell broke loose. But tonight in his dreams, and tomorrow morning in that morning wood zone, those were it. If he inadvertently offended the subconscious penis gods, he’d be stuck with his offense, living with some sort of shit for the rest of his life.

So, Cynthia again when he was twenty-four—he could live with that, even if waiting sucked. And Karen horny for his dick for a handful more weeks, hardly a burden. And with Karen, what had that all been about in his dream, the thought that she would become famous?

“She could be a porn star tomorrow,” he said, noticing how a pigeon on the sidewalk cocked its head at his words, like it might want to know the details if Karen Corso was going to turn stripper or porn performer. “Yeah, I’m talking to myself,” he told the pigeon. “You would too if you dream-mesmerized a girl bird with huge breasts, and had to wait a few years to bonk a sparrow that has a case of nuclear nookie.”

Twenty-four—that was still so young, but damn, it felt a million years away. He sang again: “It’s so hard, waiting for three whole years; we go our ways, and focus on our careers.” Which was supposed to be a good thing, the natural and necessary thing. Cynthia to New York City, it seemed, and for him... No idea. There had been no particular sense of where he’d been or what he’d been up to.

More singing: “But then one day, I look at you on a train, and I see, my cock’s still inside your brain.”

He laughed. He was giving it his own goofy lyrics, but the tune to Karen’s song wouldn’t quit him.

“Oh my God, a musician. She’s going to become a real musician.” He had no proof but didn’t need any. Karen, in however many months or years, making a name for herself in whichever style of music, with her tits giving her Dolly Parton-style extra attention.

He laughed more at the absurdity of it all. The patterns his dreams and dick had created were stealthy indeed, and it looked like lives were being changed for years or even decades, not just the short term.

He rose from the bench, feeling both happy and sad about it all. Was this what was meant by the term bittersweet?

“At least I know I won’t get hit by a bus in six months,” he said, not really choosing a direction to walk in, but his feet carrying him back in the direction of Café Magoo. For another espresso, sure, because Karen was going to come at him this afternoon like Thunder Woman riding a hurricane.

And for another gander at Jill the final pill thrill, like a follow-up reminder for his cock.

Mark needed to read a ton of material for his two art history courses, read even more for his lone English class, begin to formulate some sort of paper for his Chinese poetry class and complete a series of landscapes or cityscapes for his drawing class. He did none of that, though he did manage to get his ass over to the arts building and draw Thunder Woman onto the last canvas for his independent projects course. Tomorrow, depending on what tomorrow became, he could bring out his oil paints and brushes, and crank these canvases into high gear.

He called Jorge while drawing there, letting it spill that he’d end up going to the night’s big party after all, only he’d be taking Karen Corso. Jorge didn’t believe him at first because Jorge wasn’t stupid, and it took a bit of convincing, and even more convincing that, yes, he was actually going with Karen.

“Heavenly habañeros!” sums up the moment Jorge was convinced, because he kept repeating that, over and over. “How? How does a thing like this happen? I need to know, man!”

“I don’t know what to say. How about wIsh really hard, and you never know.”

“No, seriously. I saw the two of you together, but not together, not at all, only a few nights ago—you know, the last time we were out for a beer? In a million years I would not have thought that you and she... I mean, what did you say to her? Did you make moves, or find some weak spot, or...”

“Jorge, it just happened.”

“No, things like this do not just happen! If they did I’d already be humping Karen’s beautiful friend, throwing her up in the air and catching her tight little thing in my lap!”

Mark had no advice to give, and much to hide, including knowing just how tight Cynthia’s little thing was.

Karen’s heavenly habañeros arrived at his apartment door at 2:56 p.m., her body sheathed in a clinging purple dress with black tights and heels. Her tits, there for anyone to see with the plunging neckline of the dress, were tightly compressed in a bra that might be a size or two too small for all she had, making them bulge even more than usual. He had carefully de-Gilwooded his bedding and himself—yes, Karen already knew that Cynthia’s pussy had done its thing in his apartment, but no need to rub her face in its potency, so to speak. Much harder, apparently, to cleanse a particular scent out of one’s mind, because he could swear he smelled Cynthia’s sweet musk, plain as bumping and grinding in the night, right there in the fabric of Karen’s bra.

The bra was a garment quickly discarded, Karen’s huge tits glistening with baby oil over top of him at 3:04 p.m. For a period of time her breasts became baby oil dispensers that she would occasionally replenish, gliding and smooshing them against his legs, up and down and all around his pulsing dick, spreading oil on his abdomen and chest, on to his neck and finally his face. Once his front was saturated he and she joined bodies, slithering together, her boobs like greased airbags deployed after last night’s crash.

Karen never mentioned Cynthia or the way she’d fucked Mark into oblivion the previous night, but he had the sense that Karen was making a point of being more thorough, more sensual, taking her time at increasing the pressure cookers inside his balls. He figured the last thing in the world a woman like Karen Corso expected was to be out-sexied in bed, and, like the saying goes, a bit of friendly competition never hurts.

He loved her approach, never a moment where her tits weren’t somewhere, pressing and spreading, nipples leaving hard nubbin trails in the oil, dual tit-tracks in the shine. As always happened with their lovemaking, the more she gave the faster her own breathing became, the tips of her breasts pinker than slow oiled friction could account for. He wondered how she would do him first, and thought he’d put money on a long involved tit-job. But a moment came where she pivoted on her knees, turning backwards above his crotch. He had a beautiful ass-first view, with her boobs hanging long and wide in front. When she turned her head to look back at him, he saw her mouth, and the odds changed right then because Karen’s lips were swollen in size just way her nipples were, so full and lust-filled that she might find it hard to speak if she tried.

She turned away from him and he couldn’t exactly see the meeting of minds, his dick wanting hot action, her hot mouth wanting his dick. She did nothing, nothing but breathe, seconds stretching as if they, too, had become swollen.

When the spell was broken it was as though her head had learned to pounce, her lips and tongue wetly devouring his meat like upper lip and lower lip and tongue-tip and the insides of her cheeks had separated to form a pack. All of her slow deliberation and artfulness were gone, Karen literally growling at his cock while it was deep in her mouth to muffle the sounds. She sucked him down her throat, tonguing where the trunk of him was rooted to his earth, then spat him partway out, swishing with her cheeks and lip-strumming his circumference. Back in and down, back out and swished, down out suck swish, down out suck swish...

So much can happen in the space of a few breaths, even when those breaths are heaving gasps originating much further down than the lungs. Karen’s body began to shake, and her head, too, just as he felt the fire blaze in his balls, that no-return spark catching and sending out its force. Karen screamed before he spurted, her voice cock-muffled down into her throat, a true hummer, vibrations of sound an added stimulation. He came into her and she scream-jobbed him through it all, her juices fragrant and warm on his belly.

He got a great look at her pussy when she fell forward, boobs all over his thighs. Her pussy lips were just as swollen as the ones on her face, and they were too inviting, needing his thumbs in there, spreading her, probing, her rear rising to initiate more contact. Mark attacked her eagerness with a good wide three-fingered jab, driving in and pulling out, finger-fucking her hard, squish-jobbing her in what struck him as a symphony of wet sound.

She was all “Ah! Ah! Ah!”, no words, pure animal heat, so it shocked the hell out of him when she begged for his cock. And maybe he should have been just as shocked that he was already hard for her again, but he wasn’t, shocked that is. He pulled his legs back from the weight of her boobs, positioned himself and in he thrust, doggy-style, pumping full throttle, no easing into it, no art, just a good old fashioned pussy pounding, living an American dream, or at least the dream of this one American.

And sex with Karen became his name: “Mark! Mark! Mark! Mark! Mark! Mark! Oh God, Maaaarrrr!”

Maaaarrrr—it sounded so close to Karen asking for morrrre, and he was sure as hell going to give her plenty more, before they went out together for the very first time, to the year’s biggest party.

Where everyone he knew or even sort-of knew would look at him and look at Karen and Karen’s tits with him, and wonder what kind of dream-dick pills he must be taking.