The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mark Mitchell came awake, or more precisely awakened while cumming, at 10:17 on a Sunday morning. On one level he had what is commonly known as a wet dream, an imagination-fueled release that had not occurred since he was twelve or thirteen.

But it was no mere dream out in the field. In the field, a wave of sexually-driven subtlety penetrated all things, eventually dissipating as it stretched beyond a sustainable distance from its source. The wave had a particular vibration, shaped by the mind and genitals whose union, combined with that all-important third element, now unreplenishable, gave rise to it. Mark’s conscious mind would have called this wave the vibration of More; to the subconscious that had helped birth it, the vibration had no name—it was simply a near-desperate spasm aimed at the alleviation of a perceived injury.

The injury, or problem to be solved, was all about cessation, the cutting short of possibilities. Emotionally, the man exuded the chemical signatures of someone facing a form of famine, the recognition that scarce resources had all been consumed. The problem was this: too little, or too few, or not long enough. And so the vibration needed to sing of extension and addition, like taking time and stretching it, or taking opportunities and multiplying them, or taking a talent and enhancing it, or creating an attitude of furtherance and doubling down on it.

So this vibration of More was, and was sent out when the man experienced it for himself, with an orgasmic release that was also more. Though it touched everything in its path, the vibration’s passage went unnoticed by almost everyone and everything. The exceptions were rare—only four women were directly changed by the event, along with one slightly weather-worn park bench, wet with a morning mist that had turned to a light drizzle.

We can say with some assurance that a bench could know nothing of its transformation; the four women are a different story, or four different stories.

Cynthia Gilwood was the only one actively engaged in what could be called a sexual act when the wave passed through her. She had been officially dropped as a friend by Karen Corso the night before, but her greatest concern upon awakening at 8:22 that morning involved bananas. She had nursed a small dildo inside her pussy all during her time at Kevin’s party, making it move, changing its angle of penetration, even causing it to mimic the in/out thrust of a real penis. At some point while speaking with a student who created tromp l’oiel sculptures of fruits and vegetables out of banana pulp, it entered her mind that unripened bananas might be an interesting sex toy. If she could find bananas that were stiff enough even when peeled, might she be able to squeeze them with her interior muscles, which seemed to be legion, more or less carving into the malleable surface? That wasn’t what she’d meant when writing to Mark that her openings could be her art form, but hey, give it a try.

Before going to bed she looked at various pole-shaped carvings in art history. They existed all over the world, from carved stone pillars in India and Iran to wooden totemic behemoths in the Pacific Northwest. In some sases the phallic shapes were intentional, symbols of growth and transformation. All of them, frankly, were shaped like something a giantess might enjoy sticking up her ginormous vagina.

There had to be something she could use for the purpose she envisioned that would be far superior to a banana—maybe she should find another sculpture major to discuss materials with. Fashioning homemade dildos out of raw clay might work, but clay could tear or break, and it was gritty, essentially a form of dirt. So bananas, at least to start with. Cynthia couldn’t hope to create intricate patterns on a banana like those she saw in her books, but couldn’t she squeeze selectively, changing the uniformity of it’s surface?

When she awakened in the morning, not hungover but not exactly clear-headed, she showered and inserted her Ben Wa balls inside her vagina, and made them roll around as she went out for coffee and some banana shopping. She bought eight pounds, all different degrees of ripeness, hoping for the best but expecting to crush a lot of them to useless pulp. Also, at the drugstore next door, a three-pack of feminine cleansing wash, because who wanted to go through the rest of the day with banana bits up their hoo-ha?

She did it in her kitchen, standing with her legs spread and knees bent. She learned pretty quickly that she’d end up eating most of the bananas, unused—only the extremely green ones could last any time at all in there. The first of those broke apart when she tried to move it via Conveyor Belt; no big deal, she had eleven more of these stiff green ones.

She had mild success with the next, learning that it worked best if the banana curved up, not down. This one she was able to move without breaking by employing Glacial Caress, and she used those same muscles to try to shape the banana, pressing and slowwwly drawing in here while not contracting there, creating unequal pressure. When she cunny-pushed the eject button on this banana, she held in her hand a shiny blonde ”sculpture” that looked somewhat serrated, with its surface texture compressed, almost like it had been heated and polished.

She tried again with an almost identical banana and got better results—she’d thought of a barbershop pole while manipulating this one, and sure enough the serrated curves did have the hint of a corkscrewing motion to them. Crude, yes, but how many women,if they were crazy enough to try, could even do that?

Cynthia paused to make some green tea, and it occurred to her while the kettle boiled that her life had taken a very strange turn in the past few days. She hadn’t been much of a sexual being, and here she was on a Sunday morning literally going bananas.

“Trying to sculpt bananas inside my honey pot? How did that ever happen?”

She didn’t know. The entire scenario was ridiculous on its face, that was for sure. She also didn’t know why she’d been willing to infuriate Karen by fucking her boyfriend, but she had. And rather than regretting it she’d hooked and crooked her way back to doing it again.

“Because his thing was made for me. We belong together.”

A fact she didn’t question, while also understanding that we don’t always get what we want when we want it. If she had what she really wanted, would she have all these bananas sitting on her kitchen table, some destined for attempted sculptural fruit-fucking?

“I should have my head examined.”

It was probably for the best that a trained psychologist did not examine Cynthia’s head. If they had, and if she’d been honest, they would have been confronted by a woman who believed her sexual anatomy had an intelligence that bordered on the paranormal. They would have heard about muscle control where there should be no muscles, and so might have reasonably come to the conclusion that Cynthia Gilwood was a psychologically disturbed woman, convinced that she possessed “sacred entrances” capable of engaging in a kind of “super-sex”.

But no examination of that kind, no confession of that kind, was going to occur. And even more so when, just ninety seconds later, Cynthia Gilwood was transformed yet again, penetrated by the wave of More.

The wall clock above her kitchen sink read 10:16. She didn’t happen to notice, and the numbers would have held no meaning if she had. It is something to note, however, that she inserted the next banana inside her vagina just as it was turning 10:17.

She stood on the linoleum floor as she had before. In went this new banana, curve up, halfway in with the assistance of her hands, then she Glacial Caressed it further, and thought of a wine bottle opener this time, like the barber shop pole but...

“Yahhhhh!” she shouted, as something happened in there that sent her flying backwards. Her shoulders and head slammed against the refrigerator door and she saw stars, her entire body convulsing at the same time. She wouldn’t have even known to call this event a spontaneous orgasm, because it was of an order beyond orgasmhood, and because her head had hit the refrigerator rather hard.

Her eyes remained open, but what they saw made no sense. It was as if the drizzle outside had moved indoors, fine particles slowly drifting towards the kitchen floor from a cloud that wasn’t there at the ceiling. She sat dazed, on the floor with her legs spread wide, her back against the refrigerator, which hummed with cooling current as though nothing had happened.

But something had happened. A knock her off her feet and half out of her mind climax from the Black Lagoon had happened, and her head pulsed and her pussy was in shock and her heart kathudded and for some reason the world smelled like banana puree.

She didn’t really think thoughts for a time; it was more about awarenesses that eventually became linked, and from these linkages further awarenesses could grow that behaved a lot like thoughts. Wordlessly, she felt that her pussy was buzzing, and that it was empty. Wordlessly, her nostrils inhaled microscopic banana bits while her eyes watched particles float all around the kitchen. Wordlessly, she connected these things to the internal climaxageddon that had sent her flying.

It was a good ten minutes before she could construct a coherent string of words that encapsulated the realization.

“I aerosolized the banana.”

Just one story that only began to hint at the power of More.

Karen Corso was thinking about sex in a more abstract way when the wave hit. She had awakened early, just before seven, showered, ate and was well into writing her Frida Kahlo paper, determined to get it done early so she could go to Mark’s place and suck him off.

Had she fallen in love with Mark Mitchell? Sometimes she thought yes, but other times it was more like she’d fallen in love with his thick organ because she just didn’t know how to get enough of it. And yesterday, such a rollercoaster, her brief fear that he might actually dump her for Cynthia. A big mistake that one—how had she ever felt she should give Cynthia as a gift? In her head it had seemed so romantic, so perfect. In reality there was something too perfect about Cynthia, like giving her man a thousand-dollar bottle of wine. Sure, she had two giant jugs of wine he could drink from any time, but she feared his taste-buds had changed.

But then their time together yesterday, the beautiful adventurous sex but also the sharing, telling him a tiny piece of her story, which she’d never done with her boy toys.

“They were just tools, but Mark is my boyfriend and he has a tool.” So obvious, the difference, but for her it was revelatory. She couldn’t be sure she loved him; did it matter, if she liked him more than enough and absolutely lived for his tool?

“My favorite organ in the world,” she said.

Several of Frida Kahlo’s paintings depicted internal organs. Like the one she had just written about, the painting titled, “The Two Frida’s”. In it, the artist had painted a double self-portrait, herself twice, siting side by side, both looking out, appearing to engage the viewer. One wore a colored blouse and skirt, perhaps almost peasant in character, while the other was more formally attired in an intricately patterned white dress, maybe even a wedding dress. This Frida had an open cavity where her heart would be, and the heart had been placed upon the other Frida’s chest. It was still connected to the first Frida by a snaking artery, which ended pinched between scissors that she held in her hand.

Karen loved the emotive power, and the magic realist style that made such an image possible. It was matter of fact and impossible all at the same time, a fantasy that hit you in the reality where you lived, like what could and couldn’t be were merely two aspects of the same world. And it spoke of so many things: The duality of our natures; the fragility of our hearts; the sharing of an organ, God she loved it when Mark shared his organ.

Karen thought of Mark’s cock as being a little like the artery connecting the Fridas—it only stretched and connected her to him figuratively, but even so it was like her mouth craved something to suck on, and substitutes like hard candy simply wouldn’t do. Her breasts were restless, too, a strange emptiness when there was nothing between them, and though she kept squirming in her chair because her butt felt like it had ridden a horse across country, she’d welcome him back there, too, any ol’ time.

“It’s so hard...”

That tune had really stuck in her head. She liked how it spoke of sexual longing without hitting anyone over the head with it, a real evolution from the crudity of her first compositions. She wondered—could there be a way to express a churning need to suck her man off again and again, but with the particulars just slightly obscured, a neat trick of sexual innuendo right on the edge of acceptability?

It seemed that song lyrics were getting more and more explicit these days, though she remembered laughing to an oldie from way back when, possibly the 1930’s, the one that went, “I’ve got a hotdog for your roll.” She sang the little bit she remembered: “I sure will be disgusted, if that dog ain’t full of mustard.”

She moved her computer aside and picked up a pen. She didn’t know why it felt better to hand-write lyrics, rather than type them. Maybe they’d feel too official on the computer, like she wasn’t just fooling around. Like she intended to actually do something with these songs. She had a good voice, good range and tone, and she could belt it out if she wanted to—lungs, boy did she have lungs.

Mark loved her huge lungs and they loved him right back. But her mouth, God how it needed him to fill it. Several times this morning she’d found her cheeks drawing in, and saliva welling up. She hadn’t even realized she’d been fantasizing until she had so much spit to swallow that she almost choked.

How to express her desire to run over there and suck him off. “These lips are aching for you,” she whisper-sang, no particular tune. No, that wouldn’t lead anywhere. How about, “Oh baby, I’m in a mood; I know that love never tasted so good.”

Now that one had possibilities. The words suggested a tune in her head, a driving rhythm, something with a pulse. “Oh baby, I’m in a mood; I know that love never tasted so good. I lick my lips every day and night, I need you here if I’m gonna be right. Oh baby when I draw you in, you warm my tongue so it wants to spin...”

She had to swallow, her mouth filling. Not a bad reaction at all, was it, like singing about sucking created the reactions of sucking. Authenticity, baby.

She went to the web on her laptop, looking up the price of guitars. They varied, naturally. She wondered if she should take up a different instrument, something she could blow into. A flute would be wonderfully phallic... But no, the guitar was more versatile, and she’d keep her mouth busy through the singing. And Mark.

Back to the lyrics, this song taking shape. “And when I feel you glide on my lips, my cheeks get hot and my virtue slips.” She didn’t know about the word “virtue’, maybe revise that. And a change here, perhaps back-up vocals: “I pull you in so deep, so strong you’re mine to keep, and when you cry my name, I’ll know you’re never never never never never gonna be the same...”

The lyrics were more perfect to the moment than Karen could have known, because in less than a minute, she would undergo a transformation where she would never never never be the same.

Like Cynthia, approximately six blocks to the northwest with a banana up her pussy, Karen wasn’t looking at the clock function at the top right corner of her laptop. If she had noticed, she might have seen the numbers changing from 10:16 to 10:17.

Her lips were wet, and she’d begun to chew at the lower one when she wasn’t testing lyrics, really needing something more for her mouth to do or she might go nuts. All of a sudden her nipples shot forward and her vagina opened up and her ass drew in a deep hungry breath and she bit her lip hard, really hard, tasting blood. A flood of energy felt like it X-rayed her heart and pulled out arteries connected to that vital organ, arteries that stretched and sought entrance in her mouth and in her pussy, looping somehow to tie a new blood channel between all three, the unified organ of pussymouthheart. Sex flowed into her heart and the heart pumped sex and soul into her mouth, and she could taste it as blood but it was more than blood, it was...it was...

Couldn’t say, not as a simple thought, not as a label. She heard the taste, not exactly a sound but something that might be turned into sound.

“Oh baby,” she whispered, needing sex, but even more than that needing to express desire and longing and fulfillment and a hundred other things in melody, and chords and accompaniment...

She stared at the lyrics jotted onto paper in front of her, panting, her mouth continuously filling with saliva.

Love had never tasted so good.

Natalia Gorodina had been awake for hours when 10:17 blasted into her being. She had stretched, gone running, eaten breakfast. The dance studio didn’t open until noon on Sundays, and so she usually spent these mornings at home listening to instruction in the English language.

She had a difficult time concentrating this morning. While cooling down from her run, she’d let curiosity take her to the arts building, where she’d looked at the big canvases that belonged to the Mark man. She was on those canvases, not as painted color yet, but drawn in with pencil and charcoal.

“Is good,” she’d said in front of them. Good drawing on his part, good modeling on her part. But mostly it had made her parts feel good to semi-remember making the sex with him.

“Good recalling,” she said. Or was it good memory? She looked it up, and was undecided between “good memories” and “good times”, probably the latter.

Part of the problem was the way she had memories of modeling for the Mark man that, as they say, were so much like the Swiss cheese. She’d felt a stirring, very strong, when looking at the way he had drawn her on his canvases, all of her anatomy spot-on except for the breasts, which had been given the very full superhero treatment. It made her want to... She licked her lips, and took a quick peek around canvases on easels, making sure she was alone in the room. “I want fuck like bunny,” she said, pretty sure she’d gotten that one right.

Back in her apartment, wearing sweatpants and a cotton tanktop with her legs crossed on the sofa, she tried to recall the good times with Mark, when she’d fucked like a whole bunch of bunnies. She knew she’d sexed him really well, by far the best she’d sexed anybody, though some of the particulars had fallen into the holes of the cheese. She’d felt aggressive like a wolf, very different than with the two other lovers in her life. Her first, a male dancer back in her homeland, had not been all that pleasant—too fast and rough for the first time, and not relaxed because they’d been afraid they’d get found out by the ballet master. The second time was with a woman, again a colleague, and it had been much better. She came, very good sex she thought. She felt good dancing afterwards, too, floating like butterfly.

Mark, he was her third. Not like the others at all, as she really didn’t know him. “Like wild beast inside, craving meat.” That was the way she’d felt when looking at him, which might have frightened her away only it didn’t. He was the one who’d looked a little scared, like he might start an international incident by making the sex with a Russian beauty.

Not at all like the others. He wasn’t a dancer. He wasn’t Russian. And though she did nude modeling three or four times a week for spending money, she had never gone home with an art student. There was always the possibility of being raped... She had wanted to be raped?

“Rape him,” she said, not certain that she had, but not discounting the possibility. Rape him, or rape him as he raped her back, rape him into raping her... It was confusing. She knew the definition of rape; it was not voluntary, and you did not smile and say, “I sex you good” when the raping was over. But hard sex, yes, and losing control, yes. And now she knew that the sex with American men... Truth was she didn’t know about American men at all, only this one, and then only partly.

“Too bad the Swiss cheese.” Because she could remember feeling incredibly hot and having climaxes that felt like they may have fused parts together that had been separate before, but when she tried to picture the specifics, and what he’d done to her, the techniques he’d employed...

Holes. She could be certain he’d been in the hole she’d wanted him in, though, because it had throbbed for the next ten hours, throbbed good.

“He sex me good,” she said. That was a certainty, even if the details had dropped out of sight to be chewed by memory mice.

She knew where he lived, but hesitated to go back there. She had never had an encore performance with a lover—no rule against it, but it had never happened. And a relationship, impossible. So busy, her schedule, the modeling and rehearsals. And her English was still so poor.

“Not relationship,” she said, picturing a way to get more without the troubles. “Lovers. Not the strings.”

Was that the way to say it, the sex but not the strings? Natalia picked up her iPad for more English study, aware when she reached out that her breasts moved differently than they had in the past. She had checked on the dance studio scale, very precise, and she hadn’t gained noticeable weight. Only her breasts, definitely larger than before. Not a problem; the change wasn’t so great that she couldn’t make do with the bras she had—they would simply be tighter. And she rarely wore a bra when at home anyway.

Perhaps her breasts would go back to the way they’d always been at some point; she really had no preference, only she had felt... “Excitedble?” She thought that was the word. She had felt very excitedble when looking at the drawings of her on the big canvases. It was bad form, she knew, to make jokes about Chernobyl, but the thought had been there when staring at the drawings she had posed for: “I look like Chernobyl girl glowing!”

Unlike others, Natalia did notice the time very close to the wave’s arrival—she saw when it was 10:14, still more than an hour and a half before she could go to the dance studio. She was in the middle of memorizing verb conjugations when, three minutes later, the wave of More passed through her.

For Natalia, the energy’s arrival meant flashes of lost memory resurfacing, and something like a momentary hallucination that she had four breasts, not two, like there were really huge ones superimposed upon those she knew, but living in another dimension, totally there but not detectable from where she was. She dropped her iPad onto the sofa as her nipples hardened and her privates flared. Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily and it was as if the curtain between dimensions raised and lowered itself with stunning speed, her breasts normal sized during one blink, and comic-book full the next.

The perception shifted, gained speed with in-between impressions hitting her senses, not four breasts but eight, eighteen or eighty, like every variable between normal Natalia and comic-book Natalia taking it’s ultra-brief turn at existence.

“Is not real!” she affirmed as chills ran from her toes on up, lighting a very unchilled furnace between her legs.

The blinking spasm eventually ceased and her boobs were normal, not shifting, although her tanktop was distressed, all loose like it had been stretched.

“Is not happen,” she declared for her sanity, although that line of thought seemed to fall into one of those cheese holes, too. She had a sudden urge to go back to the arts building and sit in front of the drawings of her and... and...

“Play with self!” she said, her hands already in her sweatpants, not wanting to wait.

The fourth woman directly affected by the wave of More was Susan M. Jensen, the wife of Donald P. Jensen, M.D. Because she lived the farthest from the epicenter of the event, the energy penetrated her being a fraction of a nanosecond after the others. This hardly mattered, however, as she had already been infiltrated by the fabric of Mark’s dream. It came into her in a manner she had felt before, and she reacted in essentially the same manner as before.

“God fucking damn you!” she uttered with hot breath, instantly needy between her legs, her nipples so hard and pointed they felt ready to jump from her body to go find the source of their excitement. Which was Guess Who.

She knew all of this in the space of six rapid beats of her heart. She also knew there would be no resisting it, or him, or it through him. Maybe because she didn’t want to.

She’d thought she was free and clear when she awaked at nine and had felt no foreign urges, no driving insistent cravings. This was the final morning when he could—no more pills equalled no more fearing, and no more anticipating. or hoping.

Because all that had been alive in her, hadn’t it—wanting something extraordinary to happen while wishing she could run somewhere far away to keep something extraordinary from happening.

She had proposed to Don that they take a spur of the moment trip to the Bahamas, just up and get away from it all. She had no idea if jetting two thousand miles away would make any difference, and of course Don couldn’t go like that. He was far too scheduled, an important man. Sometimes she loved him deeply; other times she felt like the Ingrid Bergman character in “Casablanca”—the world needed her to be Don’s wife, even if her passions lay elsewhere.

She could have gone away alone. He even suggested it, just go and soak up some sun if the winter had given her the blues. The blues—his way of asking, without asking, why she had felt the need to hump some near-stranger at work, thereby getting fired from the lab? He had to know the essentials of the story, though he’d never come straight to the point, never directly asking about it. When he’d tiptoed into the territory the other night, asking if she could be happy being at home for a while, being domestic... She knew what he was getting at. Don was eleven years her senior, hardly an old man but he might have his doubts that he was vibrant enough for her, or available enough. He worked so many late hours, traveled so much for work. And he’d probably noticed how, ever since her two times with Mark, she had been feeling really randy, wanting sex every night, and more than once.

Which he wouldn’t or couldn’t do. Too tired, so many people needing him to get up at five in the morning and get back to the hospital. People had different callings in life and his was healing in the medical way, not the sexual way. And yes, her brain was addled now, though there was nothing he could do about that. Her pussy was addled, too, and, unfortunately, the cure for that disease was not inside her husband’s pants.

He did know that; she was sure of it. The other night, when he came close to asking what had happened at the lab and she knew he’d go no further, she answered in the most honest way she could: “I can’t talk about any of that.”

Because she couldn’t. She couldn’t even write a letter about it, or type out an email about it, or spill the beans about Mark to her dog. She’d tried that last one several times, just her and Petunia locked in the bathroom together. Petunia had tilted her head with quizzical eyes, and Susan must have been a sight. Her mouth could twist, and sounds that resembled words could tumble out, but no deal on saying what Mark had done to her no matter what. She was pretty sure she couldn’t even tell a fly on the wall, to take her secret and dance the message to other flies in a trash can.

That inability, like being caught inside a trap with no exit... She kept feeling that she should feel that Mark was a monster—and you know you’re in trouble when you feel you should feel something, but can’t. Did drug-changed monsterhood come with a Teflon coating, or was there something else afoot here, something she ought to just come out and acknowledge?

Because it would be dishonest to say there hadn’t been a twinge or three of disappointment riding on the back of her perceived freedom earlier this morning. He’d run out of pills and nothing had happened to her again, and rather than jumping for joy she’d felt blue, as Don would put it. Extra-great super-potent glory sex had its charms, after all, and despite knowing in her head that she had been victimized and treated as a sex object, betrayed by her own body, her nipples becoming flashpoints for searing climaxes seemingly without a ceiling, sensitivity building upon sensitivity...

So she’d gotten horny again, and all on her own. And had been thinking after breakfast, with Don due to leave for a conference in Atlanta, that she might spend some time in the bathtub with Big Bruno, the name she’d given to the dildo she’d bought a few months after she and Don had married.

And then, sometime around ten in the morning, that hot wind of Mark blowing into her, just like that. She cursed him and wanted him, and her nipples, obscenely pert and throbbing, really really wanted him, but not before getting in her car and going... She wasn’t sure where, although she knew she’d find it. She’d be led, like the wind from Mark’s cock came with a Google map that had now been imprinted in her DNA.

Pretty amazing stuff, what the lab had cooked up and Mark had ingested, screwing with his sexual chemistry and whatever else without meaning to, a one in several million bulls-eye. And a thousand to one the team, her old team, would never even know what their drug could do. She knew, and just fucking couldn’t tell. She wondered if, when she died, her ghost would be able to tell.

She knew it was time to go to... somewhere. Her vagina and her nipples were telling her to get dressed and go. She was given a choice, no irresistible impulse to dress a certain way, but she felt sexy and so she thought she’d dress sexy, her shortest skirt with very high heels, pantyhose, a flattering bra and an almost see-through white silk blouse.

Her stand-up nipples made her hiss and bring a hand up hard between her legs when the bra raked across them. Breathing fast, she fastened it and moved on, the sheer pantyhose up her legs, the skirt and blouse. There was no hiding the excited state of her nipples—they were positively criminal under a blouse this thin.

And if Don were here to see them in this state? No telling what he would think, or if he’d want more time in bed with his wife when her nipples visibly begged for attention like this. And even if their sex life did experience a revolution, perhaps a resurrection, it wouldn’t be enough.

Her nipples needed Mark.

They felt like they had days ago when she’d raced to Mark’s apartment, only they were bigger now, fuller. She could feel how they were changed, and had the sense, somehow, that they would never go back to being what they had been. Always this sensitive? She didn’t think so—a human being couldn’t function for long like this; they’d go insane. But heightened, bigger and better, always pulsing some for his touch, for that cock...

“Like I’ve been ever since, only so much more,” she said, knowing she didn’t have the full picture, only an intuition, or a series of little inklings. And good Lord could inklings get her wet.

She left a note for Don—wobbly handwriting, get a grip—that she might not be back before he left for his conference. Once in the Audi it was almost as if the car drove itself, because she didn’t have to think, she just knew, somehow. She approached the campus, very close to Mark’s building, but her feet and hands took the car slightly east, looking for parking across from a big block building five stories tall.

It was an arts building; it said so outside but you could smell it, too, oil paint and some sort of resin fumes hitting her nose when she entered. A guard at a reception desk; she had to sign in, and asked which floor had the painting studios.

There were elevators, and once she’d reached the right floor she knew the direction to walk. There were no students, seemingly no life at all. She looked at her watch—10:43 on a drizzly Sunday morning, and it might as well be the middle of summer, everyone packed up and gone home to mama and papa. Or hungover. Or fucking.

Her heels sounded unnaturally loud in the empty corridors. They and their faint echo were the only sounds at all, until she turned right, and was halfway down this corridor. Susan stopped to listen. It only took a second or two to identify the nature of those sounds. She probably sounded like that at times, only... Some foreign quality, hard to say what it was.

He wasn’t here; she knew that, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that she’d been drawn to this corridor, to that particular room, right there where the impassioned cries originated.

Susan removed her heels to proceed undetected. The woman, whomever she was, was in a positive frenzy, moaning and barking out words that remained unintelligible. At the open door now, peering into the room, expecting to see some Mark-crossed lovely writhing on her back with a huge paintbrush jammed between her thighs.

It was a large studio with a high ceiling, messy, easels and paintings tangled in a disorder that probably had some underlying logic to it. She couldn’t see the frenzied woman, but she felt her, inside, between her legs, in deep. The sounds alone were enough to either thrill or disgust, and Susan was thrilled.

She drew closer. It was a foreign tongue being gasped out, something Slavic, and what that woman must be feeling... She was over to the right, back where a florescent fixture must be ready to die a flickering death, an odd blue light flickering. Susan stepped quietly, careful not to knock anything over. She could smell the other woman now, smell her sex like it had been poured by the bucketful. She padded a couple of steps closer, leaned to the side to see around a particularly large canvas...

“Guhhh!” came from her throat as if pulled. She deliberately blinked her eyes, instinctively checking for the accuracy of her perceptions, but she knew it was real. He, not even here, was actively doing this to the young woman, or had done it with enduring effect. Like her, pulled here as though by an invisible leash.

This other woman, very young, body to absolutely die for, all lean and strong and graceful everything, kneeling on the floor in front of drawings on canvas that looked like... They were, drawings of that same woman but with huge breasts, power breasts, and the real woman...

“Guhhh!” came out again. The woman’s body was alive with energy, literally glowing with it, and her breasts...

Susan felt a surge of moisture seeping into the fabric of her pantyhose. She wanted to say this couldn’t be happening, that women couldn’t glow, that breasts couldn’t do that. “Mark’s fantasy, not mine!” some piece of her wanted to say, while another voice marveled at how far this had gone, how far it could go. And she wanted, wanted him of course, but also this, or... her.

It would be incorrect to say the kneeling woman’s breasts flickered from one form to another, because flickering implies instances of not-there, and something was always there, breasts of different sizes, being one and then another and another and another so fast that the changes shimmered, competing with that weird blue glow. Her body, her breasts, transforming or caught between realities, or given tits from various dimensions or possible futures...

Susan slowly dropped to her knees, too. Overcome by the complete and utter impossibility of it, yet knowing this existed, and how it had come to exist. And her nipples, aching and pointing her way, feeling like they understood the language of this other woman’s distress, her anguish of want...

She backed away, on her knees to begin with. If she stayed here, witnessing this with no Mark to give her release, she’d end up like this other, spiraling into liquid frenzy. She stood, backed out of the room.

She had to help this girl. She had to help herself. Not by opposing Mark—she knew from experience that it didn’t matter if some piece of her could look at her situation and say, “You’re being changed into being this way; what you feel and the way you act isn’t what you would choose on your own; this isn’t you!”

“It is me, now,” she said, squeezing out the door, back in the hallway. She could feel the new Susan in her pores and smell it with her nose and see it in the insane pointedness of her plump hard nipples. She had to cooperated with Mark—she wanted to cooperate with Mark. Cooperate his tongue and cock right onto these nipples. Cooperate him deep inside her, just fucking her hard and making her cry out like that glowing girl.

The floor was wet. She was on her hands and knees in the hallway and there was a little shiny puddle and it was drool, she was fucking drooling.

“Stand!” she grunted, and did. Not stand and fight, but stand and go, go get his rod inside her body, go and rub these freaking nipples all over his face!

Go! Go!

There are two more stories to tell in relation to that wave of More. The first concerns a perfectly ordinary bench on a brick-lined sidewalk, with a landscaped bit of green behind it and a row of small businesses across a narrow street from it. This bench—we might as well call it Mark’s bench—did not change in any perceivable way, and it might be correct to say that the bench was completely unaltered. It took Mark sitting upon it for an alchemical change to come to fruition. The bench would eventually have many stories to tell if it could, of women drawn, of conversations begun, of trajectories altered, of mind-traps set and comely young prey caught. Perhaps, as a cosmic joke, there was an active spider’s web spun between the right rear leg of the bench and the base of a curving armrest, with similar stories that could be told.

We can bypass all those tales of spiders and benches for now, to focus on Mark Mitchell at 10:17, on the Sunday morning that next reorganized his life. When he awakened explosively, the sheets at his groin receiving what might be called The Big More Dreamload, he knew that something had changed. The force of his release for one—an outright wet dream for Christ’s sake—which came with the certain knowledge that every vague or specific plan he’d had for this final morning’s woodwinking had instantly become obsolete.

Mark drifted in a near-delirium of cum-shock for a time, much like the previous morning. When he could think thoughts, the phrase “pissing away an opportunity” came to mind, given a new twist by ejaculating his woodwinking aspirations away. He had no morning wood to manipulate, again just like yesterday. But this time, climaxing from the force of deep dreaming rather than a surprise Cynthia reaming, all was not lost. The world had become filled with more woodwink-like possibilities, not less, and he wouldn’t have to wait three interminable years for them.

As his brain hiccuped its way to being fully online, he instinctively understood the new parameters, some. And as this partial understanding began to act as a tributary flowing into the wider river of specific dream remembrance, he understood more.

Susan at an art opening, his paintings. Accomplices, the two of them. Women, and a bench. That bench, where he’d just spent part of a foggy night. Lure a woman to that bench and... Not exactly sure how it worked, but he got the gist of it.

The redhead, and her hubba-to-the-tenth-power legs. Summer. Fucking. Here. Not this little apartment but still here, on the edge of campus.

The redhead was French. He’d assumed Irish or something like that with the hair color, but no. And he trusted that the dream was correct, that somehow his unconscious mind had picked up clues he hadn’t really registered. The woman was French.

He remembered what a lesbian school friend had said to him one time, after she’d gotten into a relationship with a French girl: “If you ever get a French woman, you get to live with how they come with three other big ‘F’s”— great Food, constant Fucking, and always having to Figure out what the fuck they’re saying!”

His Frenchie had been saying in Frenglish, “More, mon Dieu more!”, and he thought he could understand that just fine.

“I think I’m going to get a bottle of French wine for tonight,” were the first words out of his mouth that morning. He laughed, and sat up in bed, feeling the sheets more or less glued to his groin.

Problem-solving—three thousand fucking cheers for the capacity of the subconscious mind to engage in problem-solving while asleep, even when under the influence of hash oil butter. Or who knew, maybe even because of the hash oil butter. Because this “mistake” in dreaming of sex with enough force to lose his load over... That was no mistake, not a case of ejaculating his dreams away. That was a push, or an after-burner, sending out a solution to his dilemma concocted by a smarter, or perhaps hornier, part of himself.

“A fucking park bench,” he said, amazed by the unlikeliness of it, and the simplicity of it. He, awake, would never have come up with that one in a million years.

He wouldn’t move away after college. He would stay, and sit on that wooden bench for so many hours that the pattern of its slats might become permanently imprinted into the baby-soft flesh of his ass. Luring. Reeling in. Affecting. Fucking.

The redhead. Jill, the barista. Women he didn’t even know yet, but Susan knew them. Other women, students or teachers, administrators, office-workers or shopkeepers or just lovely women out for a stroll... Anybody he wanted enough, desired enough, as long as they passed close to that bench?

His smile had turned into a Cheshire grin, but it faded away as another piece of the new puzzle fell into place.

“Oh shit.”

Shorthand for the fact that, sooner or later, he was going to have to deal with some sort of harem after all.