The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

That Sunday, Mark was able to keep Karen separated from other lovers, although he knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge some form of entanglement forever. He didn’t think Cynthia would be a part of this equation; if haremhood even had the possibility of lasting three years, he would gladly give it all up to be with her in New York in the future. But for now, everybody else might have to find a way to live with one another on occasion, accepting the fact that his subconscious self had not been scared away by stories of haremical throat-slittings.

He’d washed up and consumed half a cup of coffee when first contact was made, the door buzzer buzzing. Because of the morning’s dream he had a pretty good idea whom it might be; sure enough, the moment he opened the downstairs door Susan jumped his boner, long legs wrapping around his middle while a silk blouse full of tits pressed into his face.

He carried her moaning and grinding up to his bed, and knew before he’d gotten her stripped from the blouse and bra that her nipples had grown. Longer, fatter, more thrusting—they reminded him of Cynthia’s outwardly jubilant thrusters, only these didn’t have Cynthia’s puffy areoles to soften that transition. It was soft even breast-flesh and boom!, nipplear missiles.

Maybe the best word for them was obscene. They looked uncompromising, full of themselves while being jammed full of terrible need. Having that need given such obvious form made his dick mimic their thrust, though he kind of hoped he hadn’t also adopted the almost hair-trigger orgasming that characterized their enhanced state. He sucked them, lightly, and had just begun to pinch and pull when Susan erupted with a mattress-bouncing climax. She looked soul-shattered, her head tossing back and forth, hips bucking and bouncing so hard that he could swear he heard the rattling of assorted knives in the other room, stacked loosely in a kitchen drawer.

While Susan lay groaning and partially incapacitated, Mark gathered all those dangerous knives, bound them together with duct tape and hid them under the kitchen sink, right where his stash of special pills had been sheltered the past few days.

When he returned to the bedroom, Susan lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Her nipples, from all appearances, were not backing down very much even after sex. He remembered how, in the morning’s dream, Susan had been wearing a short tight dress with her nipples jutting under the fabric like crazy, and how the thoroughbred’s husband had been unable to look away from them.

“I’m not the Susan I used to be,” were the first words Susan spoke to him that day. She propped herself up on elbows, engaging him more directly. Her eyes were moist, like her girl-juices had flowed up to fill them. “I need sex, lots of it. Lots of it.”

“I’ll try to help out,” he said, so hard and ready.

“I don’t think... It won’t just be you. I saw your unfinished paintings, at the student arts building.”

That was a shocker. “And?”

“And the woman in the paintings—she was there kneeling in front of them, crying out in a kind of sexual ecstasy. Glowing, with her tits changing sizes like a computer program given contrary coding.”

“Oh shit!”

““Nobody else was there; I don’t think anyone saw.”

“I have to go there, fast!” he said, moving swiftly to his dresser for clothes.

“To put out a fire or put out her fire?”

“I don’t even know,” he said, but his dick was still hard even in his panic, so maybe it knew.

“I want to be your art patron!” Susan blurted next, like she’d bust if the words didn’t come out.

He stopped in mid-shirt buttoning. Art patron—that was straight from the newest dream. The idea had probably been in his head because of what Cynthia had said in that dream of their future, that he was going to be her art patron, her art form being what her “sacred entrances” could do.

“We’ll talk about that a little later,” he said. “Why don’t you rest up here, and hopefully I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“With glowing girl?

“With glowing girl.”

Her breathing became more rapid, and she opened her legs and put fingers to her pussy as though taking its temperature. “I seem to love the idea of putting my finger in glow girl’s light socket.”

He’d just bet she did.

Mark called Karen on the short drive to the arts building, just to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind about working on her paper for much of the day. She picked up the phone and said “Hello lover-boy,” in a way that turned the three words into a hot little sex song.

She wasn’t making the progress she’d expected on her paper, because every time she ran into a tough patch she put the paper aside to work on her new song. He asked what the new song was, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. “How great it is to suck your cock, that’s what.”

She was serious.

“Maybe I’ll sing it for you tonight.”

“Can’t wait to hear it.”

“And then I’ll suck your cock.”

She rang off, his erection having received a boost. He hid it with the folded bedspread he’d brought with him as he made his way past the guard desk, and into a waiting elevator.

He ran full speed to room 305, heartened by the fact no one seemed to be around. Just about the entire painting department had been at Kevin Rutland’s party last night; with the plentiful beer and brownies, it would probably be two or three in the afternoon before students trickled in to work on their projects.

He expected to hear Natalia crying out, as Susan had said, but there were no sounds other than his sneakers on hard flooring. He rushed into the room, slowing to navigate paintings and worktables, aware of a bluish flickering in the direction of his paintings.

He stopped short, deep intake of breath. Natalia was sprawled on the floor in a semi-fetal position, her inner blue light sputtering like a bulb with a short. Right at her feet stood a classmate, Heather Walls, bespectacled but not needing the thick glasses to make her eyes so big.

“She’s flickering!” she pointed, looking at Mark.

Think, think. “What are you talking about?” he said, going to Natalia, kneeling and covering her with the bedspread he’d brought.

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? She’s glowing! Sparking!”

He lifted Natalia—she was light, almost all of her weight pure girl muscle. “I saw you at Kevin’s party last night,” he said. Standing up, positioning Natalia like a newlywed bride going into the honeymoon sex suite.

“Huh?” Meaning, what does that have to do with anything when one of the school’s models had gone sputtering glowworm.

“Hash brownies, Heather. You’re hallucinating. People all over campus are having hallucinations this morning.”

“What? But look at her! “Don’t you...”

He backed away, staring at Heather like she had tentacles growing out from her head. “You should go to the emergency room. Get your stomach pumped out.”

“But I didn’t have any brownies!” she shouted as he turned and walked as fast as he could, out into the hall with Natalia flickering under the blanket.

The sun had popped out between big puffy clouds and Natalia’s luminescence wasn’t so noticeable outside, a good thing when the blanket fell away as he lifted her out of the car several doors from his building. In the door and halfway up the steps, Natalia fought for his dick, getting loose so he had to let go of her. The final six steps became a mighty struggle for progress as a fully glowing Natalia kept trying to pull his pants down.

He didn’t know the exact dream parameters making her be this way again—more Thunder Woman modeling must be in her mind, obviously, or she wouldn’t glow. And more sex for sure, unless she broke his dick trying to get his pants off while they were still buttoned and zipped.

Inside, Mark finally had his threesome, and it was not like anything he’d ever pictured. Natalia was in a state the entire time that was akin to a religious person in a kind of rapture, off on some other plane. Susan seemed both surprised and eager; she wanted more of Mark’s cock but also Natalia, and that was the part that sometimes got her forehead wrinkling with puzzlement. She had to be aware that girl-girl lust was like a foreign species of flower suddenly planted in the garden of her loins, but that knowledge did nothing to halt her from burying her head between Natalia’s illuminated thighs the first chance she got.

Natalia met Susan’s probing tongue with gasps that sometimes solidified into pornographic Russian, her head twisting in clockwise circles, her body sometimes going into muscle-tightening spasms whose visual wonder took some of the hard from the term hardbody and transferred it right into Mark’s dick.

He didn’t know if Susan had ever eaten another woman’s pussy before; from the sounds she made you’d think she’d been dying to drink from a thigh-warmed juicebox her entire life. It had an effect on Natalia, her cries escalating in intensity, her strong legs rising into the air, then suddenly powering down with mattress-bouncing foot-stomps. Mark was kneeling beside the pair, wondering whether to jam his rod in Susan’s pussy or dangle it in front of Natalia’s twisting mouth, when Natalia’s neck stiffened, and her eyes sought him out, burning with blue intensity.

“We... model!” she gasped. “Model! Model!”

Maybe the girl wanted to model? And an interesting twist, because not “I model” this time, but “we”.

Mark had no dream imagery to guide him. Common sense and the growing pressure in his balls told him that Natalia needed her huge boobs to be his Thunder Woman model again, and, lucky for him, the boobs would come by fucking her to orgasm.

So he did. Susan wasn’t entirely cooperative about not being able to drink the rest of her white Russian, but when he grabbed hold of her right nipple on the way to positioning his cock for Natalia-entrance, she lost any will to do anything but writhe and moan. Wanting a new perspective on Natalia’s miracle this time, he urged her onto her knees, taking her from behind, his right hand reaching around to cup her right breast, his left hand to the side, tweaking Susan’s nipple.

Susan was aglow from Natalia’s burning light; he was aglow, his cock appearing dark and earthbound as it penetrated a woman beaming with an almost angelic radiance.

She screamed and Slavicated sexy sounding vowels and he thrust harder and faster, feeling the breast in his hand surge forward, pushing against his palm like an inflating ball. Natalia’s growth wasn’t perfectly smooth, more like gasps of added mass followed by a second or two of rest, and then another surge, flesh filling the gaps between his fingers, pushing his arm forward.

She was getting so big in his hand and he knew when she was getting close to climax, both from the size of her and the way her voice changed, the pitch rising, the Russian sounds being pulled apart into something more primitive, almost pre-verbal.

He pumped faster, faster, and it became that thing, dreamed and now felt, like his cock phasing or ratcheting or whatever inside her. he gasped and out came a long sustained wail from Natalia as she went liquid heat all around his dick, pulling the cum out, both of them shining in that one moment, exploding in the hot bath of shared release.

She collapsed onto her front and he went with her, abdomen on butt, sweat making him glide to the side. His ears rang, his dick ached, and he might have wished for a few minutes to do nothing but breathe, only that wasn’t the plan.

The plan involved Natalia’s head pivoting, her eyes turning ferocious as they locked onto Susan. Mark didn’t understand how Natalia could spring to her feet with such speed and force, not right after all she’d been through, but she did, going at Susan like a lioness after prey.

“Model!” she cried, pinning Susan to the mattress with her lips locked onto a mega-nipple, the two of them rolling this way and that, Natalia’s feet thumping against the wall.

Mark watched for a few seconds before it hit him—model, he was supposed to grab his phone and snap photos of this!

He staggered into the other room, grabbed his phone and got the camera function ready to go. At first he didn’t know what the pictures would even be about—glowing thrust-boobed Natalia girlhandling Susan, right, almost wrestling her, their positioning more dramatic than it needed to be. Mark snapped his first shot and quickly looked at the still image—it looked more like a rape scene than what was actually happening in front of him, because Susan’s cries were not ones of protest.

“More!” Susan cried out. “Both of them!”, meaning work on both nipples at once.

He changed his position, squatting down for a different viewpoint, and that’s when it hit him. Thunder Woman raping a woman... Oh man, ever since he’d conceived of the character he’d been looking for an angle of internal conflict, something she had to struggle against in herself. Natalia’s face, her expressions more ferocious and troubled than made sense in the situation, her honed body portraying both physical fury and a kind of interior tension...

It was all there, Thunder Woman and her Michelle Morris climatologist alter-ego, both good, both helpful, one studying weather and the other essentially made of it. But weather could turn dark, turn furious, and what if there were certain weather conditions that got inside Thunder Woman, wetting her loins, giving turbulence to her hormones. And what if, consumed with and overcome by those drives, the Dr. Jeckyl superhero turned out to have a Ms. Hyde aspect, willing to abduct partners, women, for some high-flying storm sex?

Inspired, energized not only by the sex show on his bed but the way that show could become a gripping tale of super-sexed angst in a comic book or paintings of a comic book, he snapped another photo, drew closer to their writhing bodies to snap another, getting a good shot of Susan’s mouth twisting with so much pleasure it looked painful. He held the phone close, almost getting between them, Natalia’s teeth on a long hard nipple, her own boobs looking like they could crush Susan’s ribcage if she pushed a little harder.

He backed up, went around the bed and took photo after photo as they sucked and bit and grappled. He took so many shots his phone ran out of memory and he had to stop, which meant his meat, hard and throbbing again, entering the fray. Susan was only moments from a nipplegasm so he raised Natalia’s ass in his hands with his hips parting her thighs, driving into her and giving her the big business while she kept going at Susan’s tits.

That something extra... It happened right off the bat this time, a surging squeeze/not-squeeze/squeeze that included the sensation that her cervix was tap-dancing against his tip, his cock vibrating like a wind-whipped leaf in a storm. Whatever it all was sent Natalia into a wailing pussy-spasm with extra-molten liquid heat and friction smothering his dick, and up rose a freaking holy-crap tide, fast and powerful, drawing the air out of his lungs for even more cum-fuel and...

“Yaaaaaaaaahhh!”

His voice was not the only one sounding out, and he couldn’t be sure whether he saw a flash of light when they all came. His ears felt so filled, the pressure leaving his balls so great a rush that his eyes might have played a trick on his brain. And his cock... It felt divided? Frayed? Falling apart and coming together? He didn’t even know, other than something of a different order of magnitude had come into play right there in the last few seconds.

Draining him. He felt like he was afloat on a sweet pussy stream, panting for breath and just drifting along. The morning’s dream flashed—that different tide building, a swelling as unstable as the surface of the ocean. How often, what triggered it...

Later. He just drifted, relaxed. Almost like, for the first time in in his entire life, he was truly relaxed, head to toe and his brain in-between.

Time passed. Thoughts came, and some understandings, but plenty of time to figure it out. No more pills, no dreams beyond that last one to decipher. And he’d given himself more opportunities with it, certain effects that would linger. Changes with staying power.

His bench; a whole section of the dream had been about last night’s bench, and what could happen there. He’d have to go sit there today, see how it worked.

The redhead. Her name was Clarisse, if dreaming could know such things. French, or maybe French-Canadian. Those legs, almost criminal. But summer—in the dream he’d had to wait for her to finally appear, and it had been summer. After graduation.

Graduation. What graduation? What was the point in graduating on time and moving somewhere when the bench was right here on the edge of campus? He was falling behind in almost every class, but what if he dropped out of several classes, or took incompletes, whatever was needed to stick around?

With his bench. With new college girls arriving in the fall.

Spider bench, spider bench, friendly neighborhood spider bench...

Mark was the first to get up. Susan lay on her side, her head on Natalia’s abdomen, sleeping peacefully. Natalia was sleeping, too, but with her mouth sometimes twitching, little puffs of Russian dream gibberish coming out. Her boobs had powered back down again, more Michelle Morris than Thunder Woman, although once again it looked like they didn’t revert to point-zero. They were fuller than the last time she’d left his apartment, and quite different than they’d been before any of this had happened.

Mark took a quick shower, and dressed. When he came back to the bedroom to check on the women, Susan was sitting up in bed. She stood when she saw him, leaning against a wall like she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t fall down. She moved to stand beside him at the foot of the bed, her hair a mess, half-dried Natalia juice making the flesh around her lips all shiny.

“Where on earth did you find a girl with a body like that?” Susan asked, her voice thin and wispy. “Even without her boobs turning into footballs she’s... I mean...

“Russian dancer,” he said, which pretty much explained everything.

They stood silently for a minute or two, Susan tilting her head so it rested on Mark’s shoulder. “I’m so different now,” she finally said. “And you, and me... We’re going to do this again and again, I can feel it. We’re not exactly a couple, more like co-conspirators or partners in sex crime, or...”

“Accomplices.”

“Accomplices,” she repeated, her lips moving slowly, wetly, as if tasting the word. He felt her shiver against him, and her hands went to her chest, cupping the undersides of her breasts, lifting them up for inspection. “Would you just look at these things,” she said, meaning her nipples. “It’s like having two additional accomplices right on my body.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, thinking how the entire structure of his life had been altered by the partnership of his subconscious thoughts with the ultimate co-conspirator, his tricky dick.

In the kitchen over coffee, Mark in jeans and a button-up shirt, Susan naked like she’d forgotten what clothes are, he asked what she’d meant when she said earlier that she would be his art patron.

“I... It’s not entirely clear, but I buy some of your paintings. I collect them, starting with the ones I saw today, the superhero version of our muscle-lover in there.”

“They’re not even painted yet.”

“Like that matters? Finish them and I buy them. Correction—Don and I buy them. He’s my husband, and he’s about to become a supporter of the arts, whether he gives a hoot or not. We, I, support you and promote you, and I encourage others with means to collect your work. I become your champion, and some of the collectors I bring in...” Her forehead wrinkled, trying to see and verbalize something she knew in her bones, or maybe her in nipples, but couldn’t quite see in her head. “I don’t know how it works, but it’s sexy, I know that.”

“It is definitely sexy,” he agreed.

Mark did something then that would have seemed inconceivable a couple of days ago—he told Susan what he could remember of his latest dream. It was hard to tell whether her eyes responded to the words the most, or her nipples. It wasn’t like a therapist taking the details in, looking for symbols and hidden meanings. It was a woman, and specific parts of a woman’s body, getting a fuller picture of the future to be lived.

She didn’t say anything for a little when he finished, only breathed fast and deep, her nipples brazen in their outward thrust. They were hard to look away from, utterly attention-grabbing.

“I might even know who the women are from my part in your dream,” she said. “The second one, your thoroughbred...”

“Our thoroughbred,” he corrected. “You were adamant about getting a piece of that one, too.”

“Her name is Marcy Longwood and she’s...” Susan stopped, and began to laugh. “Oh it’s just too good. Longwood! And I’m going to be there rubbing these nipples all over her body when you give her your long wood!”

She kept laughing, and there might have been more than a trace of hysteria in the sound.

“Where are you with all of this, Susan?”

“I don’t know where I am! I don’t know what I am! A new comic book heroine for you to paint for all I know, Susan the Amazing Nipple Girl!”

Maybe her nipples were experiencing their own form of hysteria, if the word could mean going even plumper and looking like they wanted to go pop balloons or something.

“Susan, I didn’t mean to...”

“I know, I know. It was your dreams, not your conscious you. And hey, I was on the research team that helped cause all of this! Everything that’s happened, to you, to me, our lightning bolt dancer in there... Technically, all of it comes under the heading of side-effects. We expected side-effects, just not... But it’s okay! I mean... I don’t know how it can be okay but it’s okay! I want it! I want Marcy Longwood! I can wait, but I feel like I’ll never be fully right until I help you get her to your... bench? You’re really going to get a woman like that by sitting with her on a bench?”

“That’s what the dream said.”

“A bench. It’s just goofy.”

“Dreams are goofy,” he said, standing up.

“You’re leaving?” Susan asked. “What about Miss Glowdance in there?”

“Help her get dressed when she wakes up. Take her where she needs to go, all that. And you can’t be here in the late afternoon because... well, you know.”

“How many do you have?”

“Not so many, really.”

“Is she... stable?”

“Natalia? I don’t think she’ll light up again any time soon. That only happens when...” He had those pictures on his phone, to be downloaded and turned into art at some point in the future. “It’s a long story, to be told another time. I have to go. I have a date, with our third fellow accomplice.”

“And they are?”

“They are the bench.”

He stopped for a latté at Café Magoo. Jill was there again; her T-shirt today read: The Best Blonde Roast, and he didn’t doubt it.

Mark took his drink and walked down the street to sit on his bench. He half-expected an electric spark when his ass touched down, but there was nothing. He sipped, tried to feel something in him, or something in the bench, or something in the air around the bench—nothing.

He believed, though. The dream had been so strong, and so specific about what could happen right here. He hadn’t fully understood how it worked, but it had worked. He’d trusted it in the dream, and so he trusted it now.

The day had become bright and beautiful, maybe the first day he wished he had sunglasses to put on. The shops across the street, barely visible last night, were all open, and more than a few women were wearing leg-baring skirts, or even shorts.

This was a glorious time of the year, when lovely limbs hidden by long coats and parkas came out from hibernation. He felt relaxed, and his mind drifted back to the dream. He was going to make paintings, and Susan would buy them and encourage her rich friends to do the same. Some of those rich friends would get enticed here, to this very bench, and he’d have some power over them that would get them collecting his cum, too. Would they have full awareness of what they were doing, cheating on their boyfriends or husbands? Would they feel like they’d fallen into a fever, that took hold of them before passing?

He thought about the redhead, Clarisse. This sky didn’t look like the one in the dream—there had been more high clouds, and more humidity hazing the light. This was a spring sky; that one had been summer.

And fucking Clarisse, wow. Her legs were so spectacular that it seemed like a shame to go at her in any position where they weren’t right in front of his face to gawk at; then again, fucking was fucking and the legs could be both appetizer and dessert.

All of a sudden he was hard. He crossed his legs, rested his nearly drained latté on his thigh, and felt a warm breeze cause the hairs on his arms to rise. His spine tingled and the breeze grew stronger... Only nothing around him was moving. The grass, stationary. The leaves behind his head, still.

“The breeze is in me,” he said aloud, knowing it to be true.

Also in him, a growing awareness. Strong thighs, jiggling breasts. A heartbeat, ka-thump, ka-thump. Something about it tasted familIar. Tasted? Yes, it was like that, though the taste wasn’t in his mouth.

It was Torrent—he could see her in his head before she appeared to his right, approaching on this very sidewalk. She was one of those embracing the spring warmth with navy shorts and a plain white T-shirt. He thought she had a sports bra on; whatever the configuration under there, she sure did have some fine tits for the sun to shine upon.

She caught sight of him from twenty paces away, smiled and came his way. Not knowing what else to do, he stuck with his idea of a wind blowing through him or even originating from him, and thought of it as easing through her pores, tickling sex receptors all up and down her body.

She stopped a few paces away. “Mark,” she said. “Guy with the tits.”

“Torrent,” he said. “Also with tits.”

She laughed. “You’re really wicked.”

You’d better believe it, he thought, thinking of his hot little breeze going inside those nipples. “Still in brownie land or back down to earth today?”

“Earth. And earth has coffee, thank goodness.”

It also has wonderful beautiful dicks, and he thought of his penetrating wind as conveying that message. He looked her up and down and didn’t hide that he liked what he saw.

She tilted her head, different than last night in that it looked like a controlled act, a way of flipping her dark hair to good effect. “You in a hurry to get anywhere?” she asked.

“Not at all. I’m just soaking up some sun.” And trying to penetrate you in ways that get you wondering if, in this one case, being a lesbian doesn’t feel like it’s too constricting a way to live.

“I need caffeine something bad. You need a refill?”

“I’m okay.”

“Stay here and I’ll be back.”

He didn’t follow her with his eyes as she went to Café Magoo; he didn’t need to. It was like he was locked in, fainter than when she’d been standing close, but still, some sort of connection. What surprised him was that he became aware of Jill somehow, as though through Torrent...

“Well why not?” he said to his bench. Torrent liked women, and Jill was one good-looking woman. Maybe she was looking at Jill and fantasizing. Maybe she was merely near her, and that was all it took. However it worked, he tried to use Torrent like a remote device of some kind, beaming a wish into Jill that she come out and sit on this bench.

Torrent returned a few minutes later, with about the biggest cup of coffee he’d ever seen. She did have sunglasses and put them on before easing onto the bench to his left.

“My eyes still feel sensitive,” she said. “That was one beautiful trip last night.”

“For me, too. I don’t know, maybe it’s too much to say something like this, but I think last night’s trip changed my life.” Breeze into tits. Breeze flowing between her legs, finding her moist and sweet.

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well, just being here, on this bench. I ended up here after the party, and just felt this connection with things. It’s hard to describe, but you’re kind of a part of that, in that I’m just really happy to see you. It feels right.”

She sipped her coffee. He couldn’t make out her expression with the dark sunglasses, but he thought he could feel her sense of well-being and attraction in some way, and a budding excitement that was definitely sexual, even if it wasn’t necessarily aimed at him.

“Can I say something totally weird?” she said, her thighs beginning to move, just a little in/out wiggling on the bench.

“Sure, weird away. You are just down from a brownie trip after all.”

“Maybe it’s because of the trip; I don’t know. But what I was thinking...”

“Spit it out, Torrent. I won’t bite.”

“Too bad.”

“What is?”

“I like biting.”

He laughed. He could feel he was in her, or the breeze was, doing what breezes do, penetrating cracks. “Okay then, just give the word and I’ll bite.”

She snorted. “Watch what you wish for.”

“Might as well be my motto this semester. But I think that horse is already out of the barn.”

Her thighs wiggled more energetically. “It’s hard to know what to do after a great trip like that, ya know? I guess that’s why I’m just sitting here.”

Caught in his bench-web, even a little? He thought she was, and pictured what she’d look like naked. Compact, especially well-developed shoulders and thighs, and tits plenty big enough to park a meat-truck between. Fuck me with your tits, he thought. Fuck me with your tits, fuck me with your tits.

“I guess your girlfriend... I mean...”

“Yes?”

“She must be able to give one incredible tit-job.”

He laughed, genuinely surprised at how directly his thoughts had been given voice. “I won’t say it’s not true,” he replied. “But not one tit-job. Like you said last night, we always want more.”

“I had a couple of boy lovers in high school,” she said, looking away.

Great cheekbones at this angle, her glasses casting deep shadow there. “You were equal opportunity once upon a time?”

He could swear he heard the words in his head, her voice, though, like he’d become a radio tuned into the channel of her thoughts for a few seconds. And what he heard was: “I could fuck you with these tits so hard...”

“I’d better go!” And she stood, too much force in her legs like her body thought she was trying to escape.

“See you around,” he said as she turned to leave.

“You come to this coffee shop often?” she asked, seemingly caught between hurrying off and staying.

“All the time. And when the weather’s nice, right here.I’m coming to think of this as my personal bench.”

“I’ll see you around. I hope...” she said before her legs found traction, taking the rest of her thought away.

And he hoped, too. Hoped she would become a Café Magoo regular. Hoped there could be a cumulative effect to blowing into that or any other preferred crack while sitting tight where he was.

He also hoped that if he could get under the skin of a lesbian that much that fast, it was an indication of just how strong the effect could be on a good ol’ hetero girl.

Like Jill, whom he could still sense, even if it was only a little. He checked his watch—still three hours or more before Karen was likely to show up. There was no rush; Jill wasn’t in that building every day, but she was present more days than not. But fuck it, the dream was fresh and he’d gotten only a tiny taste of this new reality with Torrent. He wanted to see, to learn, to practice.

So he just sat there and tuned-in as he could, thinking Jill, picturing Jill, maybe even to some small degree being Jill, he and she just two particles in a very wide field. Something shifted, a change from picturing her to being connected, and for some reason it felt right to think of her as magnetized, like her mind and body were filled with iron shavings. Completing the picture was himself as one of those old-fashioned horseshoe magnets, his head and his cock comprising the two ends, his spine the curving backside.

RIdiculous, or cartoonish? In the dream he’d seen it as something at least as crude, a giant arm and hand to pluck up the redhead, and he’d known it didn’t matter how he saw it. This bench, in some strange way, had become a substitute for the pills, and that was good enough for him.

He adjusted his position, turning sideways and a little bit backward, his chest and dick pointing at Café Magoo. Come to papa, Jill. Come and rest your fine body on this bench, and let me think of all the things you could do with those precious lips of yours.

He felt energy in his pants, his cock growing hard. Like, really growing hard.

Or really... He sucked in breath, his ass squirming on the bench slats. He crossed his legs and placed his hands on his lap, taking in a sense-impression without feeling and squeezing for all to see.

“Oh fuckity fuck,” he breathed out when he was sure that he was indeed growing, too much.