The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

For the first twenty or thirty hours in the hospital, I didn’t remember the desert. I didn’t remember the wandering, with sweat dripping into my eyes until seeing became blinding light refracted through water, every feature of the harsh Arizona landscape distorted.

I didn’t remember how after nightfall, the day’s heat hurdled into bone-numbing cold, with me lying there half-submerged in sand. When I did remember, the whole of it flooded into me in a dream as I slept, and I awakened knowing the dream had been no ordinary dream. Though more illogical than any nightmare, it was a memory, and once remembered I knew what they wanted.

The direction was more like a request, but it was an insistent request, the kind that’s made with your arm bent behind your back. At that point, lying under fluorescent lights with an IV drip re-hydrating my body, I didn’t even consider how they never would have shown the meaning of the blood and the sand without knowing in advance what I would be driven to do.

I heard about my rescue. When the search party found me lying face down at four-thirty in the morning, their skipping flashlights fooled their eyes. One guy actually retched a few yards from my body, because he believed I’d been skinned, or cut in half—and not like top from bottom; rather, it appeared that my front had been removed, only the back half still there.

Closer examination showed that I was alive, with the front of my sun-ravaged body incongruously submerged in the red sand. “Sand” is an inexact term here because the sands in that remote part of Navajo country are not fine and loose like we know from beaches, or movies about the Great Sahara. It’s more hard-packed, a layered mixture of sandstone and pulverized volcanic ash. Yet arid and granular it is, and somehow the front of my naked body was six or seven inches into that coarse surface, and my hands and arms had dug much deeper. They were fully extended into the earth, and I had even formed a little bubble of space for them, a miniature chamber.

I was dehydrated, baked, bitten, half-frozen and barely breathing. The rescue team knew who I was—Jake Fripp, part of the surveying crew contracted in from Flagstaff. But they had no idea why I’d ventured into the remotest part of Navajo land—the “Empty Quadrant; Entry Forbidden By Tribal Law”, as it was labeled on our maps—in the afternoon heat, without food or water, my cellphone ditched in the dirt next to my truck.

I couldn’t say why, either, not until the dream that was really a memory. Once remembered, I didn’t speak of it because they were worried about my brain from the exposure and the dehydration, and I could imagine how it would sound if I let loose what I knew. That, and the fact that I needed to be perceived as harmless to accomplish the task.

So what was this dream that was really a memory? It’s not an easy one to tell, because of the way one thing could mean several things. Parts even happened, like wandering in the desert in a delirium, and sinking into the earth and reaching down into the little chamber under the ground. I acted things out, even though the important parts were all inside.

It goes like this: I’m walking in the desert, but the desert is not really the desert—it’s inside me, like I’m walking the surface of a particular plane of existence. I realize that I’m clothed and I strip everything away, even my underwear and shoes, because I’m going somewhere sacred, and I can’t get there carrying anything at all. I walk and I walk, and I know I’m really truly walking in the desert, but I’m not afraid because that’s only outside, that’s only my body. Inside, the me that’s my spirit descends through layer after layer of—I don’t know how to say this quite right—me-ness, like I’m a living onion made of dozens of layers of consciousness all lying one atop another. I know it’s really special that I’m able to penetrate all these layers, to even know they’re there.

On the outside my tortured mind and body react to the heat, to the parching thirst and the sun cooking my flesh. I go through the sweaty vision thing I mentioned before, and somehow half-burrow into the earth. Inside it’s completely tranquil, because I’ve come to a final layer, a solid place to land. It’s the desert, too, but I’m not fooled. This is no ordinary desert, because it’s down at the very heart of my soul. And there on the floor of this desert, right in front of me, is a hole. It’s no ordinary hole just as this is no ordinary desert—it’s the final place inside, the absolute core.

It’s point zero.

I know, without needing to question how I know, that I can never peer inside that hole. It’s covered with a living vibrating energy material, a shimmering layer of protection, and it is absolutely forbidden to ever look inside. I have the sense that if I tried, my eyes or whole head would be blasted away in an instant, and I would vanish like I’d never been born.

I can’t look, but that doesn’t mean I can’t touch. That’s not being tricky—I know I can touch, and it’s desired because I have to know. So I lay down on my belly, making myself as flat to the earth as I can, and I reach down through the layer of vibrating guardian energy, and feel around.

Sand. I feel nothing but sand. Cold impersonal grittiness sticks to my fingers, getting between them and chafing my skin. It’s more than physically irritating—it’s devastating, that here in the deepest possible place of all, this is all there is.

Until I spread my arms out a little bit, feeling around the small chamber. My hands come to something completely different, a circle of warm where it had been cold, something soft and fluid and welcoming where before there was only hard unfeeling grit. It’s blood. I know it’s a circle of blood, and my heart pumps with joy, with elation. Inside me, inside us all, there is blood and sand. I know; I have been shown. They showed me, and now I am transformed.

That’s the end of the dream, though it’s far from the end of its implications. Lying in my hospital bed with nothing else to do, I had time to think about that dream and all it was telling me.

The physical part, the part with me wandering naked in the heart of nowhere as I half-knew I was, did one hell of a number on my body. I took off my clothes, got sunburned to blisters and lay upon the ground with a force—they called it a kind of body digging—that almost made me a part of that ground. I dug my real hands down and created the chamber where I might feel around, and my hands were bloody from the digging. So yes, there was actual blood and sand; I can see how it might appear that it was simply a hallucination about physical torment, with nothing of consequence to be understood at all.

But thinking that way is to deliberately misunderstand, to reject the gift. And I’m no dummy—I know there is no circular pile of sand and encircling ring of blood inside me, not in a literal sense. It’s what the blood and the sand really are that matters. They’re completely true representations of what lies inside everybody at the absolute core, no exceptions, and I touched them both, and either learned the gift from that, or was given it.

I’m going to clue you in via a circle, because the dream gave the form of the circle to help me understand. And the circle begins here: I’ve been thinking about what longing is, and just how deep that goes. Longing, first cousin to yearning. Look it up in a thesaurus and there the circle begins. Longing leads to yearning, bends around to wishing, around again to pining, to aching, to craving. And finally, it loops to where we needed to be all along, smack-dab on top of lust.

We think we know lust. We lust over lust, not even realizing its power. That’s because we don’t tie it to the longing, to the yearning. Longing, my friend, is a round pile of sand. It’s there inside your deepest chamber, coating everything.

People long for something their entire lives. They long for mother’s milk, for approval, for love and money, for an edge or an advantage, for Nirvana or a single moment of certainty. It’s the sand, clinging to every action, every thought or emotion without mercy. Nothing is purely itself; it’s itself with sand stuck all over it, always creating friction, always irritating something so very deep. It makes us want, always. We want, we long, we lust. We can’t help lusting.

Sometimes I wonder if the greatest spiritual masters understood this. There are tales of prophets wandering in the desert, emerging bearing messages of deliverance. Could it be that they could see the interior sands as I can? Could it be that they, too, knew of the ring of blood, the answer to all desires?

Call it what you will, but what we always want is what nothing but the blood can deliver. Let’s call it fulfillment, fulfillment of what it was we were longing for. A rich warm soothing circle surrounds the longing, ringing the yearning and wishing and pining and aching and craving. It’s right there; the pile of sand wouldn’t even be round without the circle of blood containing it. The two are one.

But oh, the lifetimes spent without ever opening the hands to find the fulfillment. We only journey the perimeter of the sand, robotic ants incessantly repeating the same trails. The desires are never quenched, the longing never warmed and washed away.

Yet we know. We know unconsciously because the blood is there at point zero, too. And knowing of the possibility of fulfillment only makes the desires stronger, makes them eat at us, heightens the discomfort. It’s as if the blood is calling; we hear it and know it’s right there, yet it can’t be found.

I knew I had the gift twenty minutes after remembering through the dream. When one of the night nurses came to check on me, I could peer inside her—don’t ask me how. It’s like a second sight and what I see is their point zero.

She was filled with sand, and the really beautiful part? Those sands could be shifted, targeted. What she or anyone else ached for naturally was their own business; my business, now that I could see and affect what I saw, was to make them ache for some specific feeling, or outcome, or event. Or me.

I could have stirred her into a lather if I’d wanted, but I didn’t want. I did want—the sand was heaped inside me, too, but I could wait because I didn’t yearning pining aching crave her, the somewhat chubby forty-something night nurse. I was waiting for someone else because—and this really is impossible to convey correctly—the request came with instructions to some degree. The instructions were in the outside parts, the inside parts, the real sands and the symbolic sands, the meaningful blood and my actual blood, staining the red Navajo earth from the digging. There wasn’t one thing from that trek into the real and imagined desert that didn’t speak to me of the request, and how to make it happen.

So I lay there healing, my hands bandaged, my blistered shell peeling away to become real skin again. I might have smiled and laughed at the metaphor if moving my lips that much didn’t hurt like fuck. I was literally shedding my skin, the transformation on the inside taking place on the outside. Jake the Frippin’ Snake, being reborn in a hospital bed.

I never got a visitor from the surveying crew. I was the twenty-three year old unskilled newbie, on the job not even a week and I’d wandered into the desert, what a flake. A doctor told me I’d been fired and I couldn’t pretend to care. He misinterpreted my disinterest and a psychologist came to interview me, a tall and skinny woman with a hard, thin-lipped mouth.

I decided to practice there, peering into her sands, evaluating every grain. Her name was Dr. Elizabeth Rothko, and psychologists are no different than anyone else. She was filled with longing, and she wanted my psyche to be well, healthy. I made her really want that.

She had forms on this old-fashioned clipboard with boxes to check—yes, Jake exhibits symptoms of paranoia; no, he shows no signs of hearing voices—that kind of thing. I rubbed her sands all over the process of marking that clipboard, then dangled the blood, tying the promise of soothing warmth to giving me perfect marks. She started her evaluation slowly, deliberately, but as she questioned and I answered, her neck began to flush red. Watching the tormenting sands make a woman ache for something was a stirring experience, believe me. Dr. Rothko wasn’t ugly but she wasn’t my type, either; even so I got an erection for the ages as her pen began to fly across that clipboard, the hand-pressure so hard that one of the sheets tore in half.

She didn’t have an actual orgasm over giving me a clean bill of mental health, but it might have been close. Even without me going there, my stirring the sand and dangling the blood went there, like lusting that way breeds physical lust. Which filled me like a tidal pool when my next visitors walked in, a sharply dressed man whom I couldn’t give two dumps about, and a woman at his side that I’d give my right nut for.

The man introduced himself as Dr. Benjamin Bragg, and he was not a medical doctor like the others. He was the on-site director of HIROP, whom we’d been contracted to work for when I had a job. The hot babe was Julia Winthrop, a representative from the military. She didn’t tell me this and she didn’t have to—she oversaw the budget for the entire HIROP deal, and wanted the project to proceed without a hitch as a way of advancing her career.

I knew what HIROP was all about even if I couldn’t remember what the acronym stood for, and that became my very first stirring of the Julia Winthrop’s plentiful sands, the need to tell me. I stirred her before even asking the question—she began to shift her legs like she had to pee, and let me tell you I watched with an eagle’s eyes, because what a set of legs. She had a curvaceous athlete’s body under a fairly modest white blouse and sand-colored skirt, with heeled sandals that did wonders for her ankles and calves. The flesh on those bare stems was everything my skin wasn’t right then, all smooth and tanned and so absolutely delicious that I wanted my metamorphosis to include two snake’s tongues, just for the pleasure of licking my way up both thighs at once.

Her expression showed bewilderment, anxiety, and her cheeks turned bright red. I dangled the blood then, fucking advertised it, letting her sense the fulfillment that could be hers. Only then did I ask: “What does HIROP mean?”

“High infra-red observation project!” beautiful leg-woman blurted in half a heartbeat.

She gasped afterwards and looked stunned, and I swear I saw and smelled her sweet pussy filling with sand right then and there. The tiny taste of fulfillment through uttering the words might as well have opened a chute, her deep sandy core’s contents beginning to trickle into her love tunnel.

The circle again—I lusted intensely for this woman, and seeing and smelling how I could manipulate her lust was making mine stronger, more powerful. She grasped the railing at the end of my hospital bed and held on with whitening knuckles, and I hadn’t even gone there yet, stirring her lust for lust, with sex with me as the blood that could deliver her.

I had to look away—I didn’t want her to rape me then and there. She was part of the request, the direction, and the direction would be ruined if I got her humping me right in front of her colleague. Dr. Bragg stared at her with obvious disapproval; they were not work pals, and he resented having her supervise the project over his shoulder.

She excused herself for ten minutes, and I knew from the shifting of her sands when she returned that she’d masturbated somewhere. The relief was only stopgap and incomplete, but it helped her to be herself again.

Dr. Bragg had studied the clipboard with my perfect psychological markings during her absence, and when she returned we all began to talk. They questioned me casually at first, as though this were nothing but a check-up from concerned friends. None of that was real. They wanted to know why I’d wandered into the empty quadrant and stopped there. I said I didn’t know, that I’d been delirious and not even aware of my surroundings.

“And you went off into the desert because…” Dr. Bragg led me on.

“I had to pee.”

“In the middle of nowhere?”

“I don’t think my bladder cared if it was the middle of nowhere.”

“So did you? Urinate?”

“Does that matter?”

“You walked for miles!”

“Apparently. I really don’t remember.”

“You stopped right at… It can’t be a coincidence!”

“What can’t be?”

He couldn’t say. We both had our reasons for being obtuse, and I think Dr. Bragg wanted to strangle me right about then. His sands needed better answers, and he found my feigned ignorance infuriating. The yearning for answers in that one was extremely deep—no wonder he was a threat, his project so completely unacceptable. And it wouldn’t be enough to just go and change his mind, as I might have done over time. The project had become larger than its creator, the driving force now in multiple hands.

The questions kept coming—how closely had I studied the map, had I heard anything about that area of the desert, did I see anything unusual in the landscape, in the skies, anywhere? I knew where he was going—he kept trying to get me to say that I’d seen the tower. I’d dug my hole some fifty yards from it—I guess I did see the thing, though it was just a hazy shape, bent from my sweat-affected vision. It obviously hadn’t been turned on or they would have found me sooner.

One question was of particular concern. Dr. Bragg wanted to know what I’d meant when I kept mumbling, “They aren’t ships”.

“I said that?” I asked, not faking the ignorance this time.

“Dozens of times. You were helicoptered in and they said you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“I have no memory of that.”

“Which is not the same as having no idea what the words mean,” Julia bore in.

Beautiful and sharp; she had kept silent for the most part, and even the sound of her voice was dangerously yummy.

“I read a story about a ship they supposedly found in the desert,” I replied, staring at the ceiling tiles like I could see it there. “Near the Salton Sea. It must have been that.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, as the desert-bound Spanish galleon was one of the Bigfoot-style legends of the region. But that was hundreds of miles away in California; my deflection was lame and these people were looking right through me.

I needed Q and A time to be over, and pleaded fatigue. They left, not at all satisfied, and without intervention I knew I’d have to deal with them again on their terms, not mine. Before they walked out the door, I stirred just a couple grains of the lovely Julia Winthrop’s sands. She returned to my room five minutes after departing, all alone.

“We aren’t finished,” she said, staring at me from the threshold. “I’ll be back and you’re going to give me straight answers, do you understand?”

“Okay,” I said, still not looking at her. “Just give me some time to heal. A few days. And keep that Bragg fucker away from me. He pisses me off.”

“A few days,” she agreed, without being made to. I probably owed her something for that—my compassion, perhaps, which didn’t fit so well with the direction. “And Dr. Bragg can be… Well. I’ll convince him that you need time to rest from your ordeal.”

Would I have treated her differently if she’d been canny enough to stop right there? After pretending to be sweet, the bad cop emerged.

“But after that, you’re going to cooperate, Jake Fripp. You don’t even know the trouble you’re in, and we... I’ll personally squash you like a bug if you keep throwing shit like that Spanish galleon at me. That’s a promise.”

“I’ll be a good boy,” I promised in return, and it was worth the pain just then to lift my swollen lips into a smile.

I was a very bad boy before she even left. I reached in and made it so she’d be feeling very antsy by the end of the few days she was giving me, unconsciously needing to hear my voice like her pussy’s happiness depended on it.

It did depend on it. The chute that had opened earlier, with the sands funneling into the poor woman’s pussy… The longing she was going to feel would be like her pussy had become an overfilled hourglass in there, the volume of the trickling sand too great for the vessel to hold. She wouldn’t literally burst, but she’d feel like she could.

Only she couldn’t, not without the fulfilling blood. And guess who’s voice, on the way to guess who’s dick, represented that blood now, the only thing that could wash away that sand, soothing her terrible itches?

Why, Jake the Frippin’ Snake’s, that’s who.

I healed, although different zones of my body healed at different rates. My front received less sun than my back, and it surprised me how quickly my face changed from swollen freak back to normal. I have dimples when I smile, and I could smile easily now—it no longer hurt at all when the skin stretched. One of the nurses kept calling me “surfer boy”, because my fresh skin was so tanned and all that sun had bleached my dirty blonde hair to the paler tones of a lifeguard’s.

Most importantly, my dick was good to go—it never got badly burned, but I guess any sun at all comes as something of a shock to a dick. It gave me a bit of trouble, if you’d call spontaneous erections trouble. I kept imagining what Julia Winthrop must be feeling, and how my erections were probably nothing compared to her heat. She needed my voice and she wasn’t getting it, and every minute of the day or night the relentless sand just kept sifting down. Metaphorically, her pussy must already be caked with it. It was probably in her bed, in her shoes, under her fingernails. Sand gets everywhere.

As for me, I’d graduated to walking the halls of the hospital, loosening stiffened joints. It was on one of those corridor walks that I noticed how the Navajo orderlies or nurses looked away from me, or hightailed it to someplace I wasn’t. I’m no expert on Navajo customs and beliefs; I do know they’re superstitious like crazy, fearing ghosts and witches and spirits with a logic that reads as the opposite of logic to a white man. It was their land I’d wandered into, and I had to wonder what they understood of its importance. It was thirty square miles, more or less, of desolate territory marked as forbidden for a reason. Though they owned it by treaty, they didn’t go there; I had, and they weren’t treating the other patients like lepers, only me.

As for the white or Hispanic doctors and nurses… Clueless, which told me plenty. My post-Julia Winthrop life plan, Act One: Get away from Navajo country, where the people could see or sense what I’d become. Put another way, why hunt where the prey recognizes that a predator is afoot?

But that was post-Julia, and I was still in the opening stages. She called me at 6:37 on a Friday evening, seventy-seven panty-staining hours after leaving my room. I know she had an issue with soaking her panties because she told me, on the phone.

With my voice given the power to affect her so strongly, it was pretty much phone sex from the first hello. I said that—hello—and she hissed in response.

“Who is this?” I said next, playing dumb. A louder hiss into her mouthpiece. Also ambient sounds, wet and busy sounds.

“What’s… happening to me?” she poured into my ear. “This is crazy, I… I need to get hold of…”

“This is Julia Winthrop isn’t it?”

Silence, except for the somewhat liquid sounds of a woman’s frantic squanking. “Are you playing with yourself?” I asked.

“Ah! Oh God, oh God, just like that!”

Lying in bed as I was, my cock felt like it could stiffen until it crashed through the ceiling. “You want to fuck me, don’t you? You wanted that right here when we met.”

“Ah! K…keep talking! I’m… so close…”

“No, you talk. Tell me what you’ve been thinking and feeling the last three days or I won’t say another word.”

“N…no! Just… I need…”

I knew what she needed, and kept my mouth shut.

“You make me horny!” she blurted, and I had to keep myself from laughing because it sounded like something an English-challenged hooker might say. “I kept replaying your voice… I keep soaking my panties! Do you know how many times I’ve had to wash or change my panties?”

I could throw out numbers, but remained silent. I couldn’t directly see or change her sand over the phone—good to know—but it might as well have been pouring out from the little holes in the earpiece. Three days of aching and pining for my voice had turned a sharp and savvy professional woman, a well-disciplined and ambitious woman, into something as solid as Jello.

“I kept thinking this couldn’t be happening! No one, no man… Oh God, say something!”

“You come here and I swear I’ll fill your hot cunt with my voice. I’ll fucking shout into your lovebox and you’ll…”

But she already was, into my ear so loudly that I dropped the phone. Her orgasmic screams were human but animalistic; the only time I’d ever heard anything like it had been in a documentary film with people in a trance state in Haiti, purportedly taken over by spirits in some kind of ritualistic dance.

I hung up the phone, and not because I didn’t want to hear the whole vocal ride of her cumming. In the spirit of the moment I’d gone further than I intended, sending her into the blood when I’d wanted to keep dangling it. I’d given her relief, dammit, and now I couldn’t be sure that she’d come to me in a state of desperation. Hell, if the orgasms washed the sands and cleared her head, she might even order the National Guard to come to my room and pump me full of lead.

That’s what she should do if she valued the project and her precious career, over any future A-bomb orgasms. I didn’t know how a woman would choose in such a situation—duty to country, or duty to pussy?

I just had to lie there and wait, and I didn’t have a good feeling about it.

I don’t like sitting around thinking about the things I should have done or not done. Though young I already had a stack of those regrets—I shouldn’t have cheated on Miriam Menendez, the prettiest and sweetest girl who’d ever shown an interest in me in high school, and I should have listened to my aunts and uncles when they told me I’d have nothing but regrets if I became an English Lit major—that sort of thing.

Now I could add phone-boning Julia Winthrop to the list. I didn’t regret turning her into sexual nitro; the problem was the artlessness, like I wanted to get a girl’s attention and smacked her head with a mallet rather than tapping her on the shoulder. There was no way she wouldn’t know I’d done something to her, and that I could do things like that.

A rookie mistake. I hadn’t gotten it wrong that I was intended to turn Julia into a quivering pussy with a woman attached; in fact they knew I’d find the prospect irresistible. But there had been a mix-up, a misreading of the instructions. I’ve botched the assembly of IKEA furniture before, so I know how it happens.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I looked at human desires through a lens that turned them into caricatures, somewhat simplified and distorted. My desire for a woman like Julia was clearly sexual, but how many additional elements were piggybacking on what I saw as pure animal lust?

I pictured her as she’d been in my hospital room, and it was like peeling an onion again. She was older than me by three or four years, and I’d dreamed of that since age fourteen or so, the experience of an older woman. She was also an authority figure of sorts, with her posture military straight and her chestnut hair styled so crisply that it looked more disciplined than shaped. I had a thing about smartly dressed professional women, the completely unattainable ones who look at men and assess the size of their wallets, not their dicks. Hadn’t I wished, without believing it could come true, that I could strip the rigid veneer off a woman like that?

She had really impressive girl muscles, too; I could see in her legs, neck and arms that she was a workout warrior, and I’d had fantasies about screwing that kind of girl since forever. So without even thinking too hard, I’d come up with several potent fantasies that were more psychologically nuanced than Dick’s dick wants Jane’s pussy. Peering into even deeper drives—the wish to be special, the wish to be desired, mother issues, the desire to stick it to “the man” even if the man was a woman…

In the end I wasn’t interested in staring at my own navel. I needed to stare at Julia’s, and find the layers there. If I’d been more patient and gotten the taste of this woman’s desires, those known to her and the repressed ones that might trip her up with their surprising power, might I have thrown her into sexual meltdown in a way that felt less forced, less obviously imposed?

I had no illusions—there was zero chance she fantasized about making it with young unemployed guys, or peeling skin guys, or delusional guys trudging all over the territory of the her important projects. I’d been marked as trouble the moment they realized I was still breathing. I’d trespassed into a sensitive military project, and everything I represented was the opposite of what a woman like Julia Winthrop found hot.

She didn’t appear that night. There were two bulky guards posted outside my door, though—I discovered this when I tried to go for a little corridor walk. I peered into their sandy depths and it was frightening, their lust for violence. I learned a couple of important things in about ten seconds—one, there are people in this world itching for the chance to break people, and I mean break them. Two, I had very little power to affect guys like this. There was pretty much nothing about them that instilled desire in me, other than the wish for my own survival. I could “do” men to some degree, I thought, especially if it was just tweaking the intensity of an already existing desire. But it made the ability stronger when I could imagine humping the person I wanted to affect. No wonder I’d been directed to mess with Julia, not Dr. Bragg, the project’s creator.

She arrived at six the next morning in a gray ensemble with slacks. I was awake, barely, and never heard her enter the room. She was just there, a few steps inside the door, regarding me with her arms crossed over her chest.

I could see the evidence of her combat with hyped hormones. There was something to the bend of her body and the tension in the clenched arms that suggested a woman in a straightjacket, and her hair was different. Iit had been completely straight before, and now there were unruly banana curls all over the place.

“Hello,” I said.

“Shut up!” she spat, and that’s when I got the full picture of just how wild her eyes were. ‘You say one more word without my permission and I’ll have you fucking torn limb from limb, do you understand?”

I nodded. The woman was terribly unstable—even her sands were different, like her lust pile had eroded oddly, or had gone through a process of upheaval. The need for my voice was still eating at her, yet her desire for relief from her desires was as strong as anything in there. I didn’t doubt she’d do something impulsive, something way off base if I opened my mouth.

“I don’t know how you did it. You know, don’t you? What you did to me? Just nod our head, and if you lie I swear I’ll…”

I nodded.

“You fucker! You cocksucking fucker!”

I didn’t even move, though underneath I was looking for something, anything.

Her lips quivered and her face went beet red, like a particularly strong wave was passing through and she had to hold on for dear life. I’d never seen a woman stand with her thighs pressed so tightly together, and I had to hope that she’d been experiencing these riptides all along, so she wouldn’t think I was doing something new. She bit her bottom lip; she was fighting it, fighting the urge to want my voice, to hear it say sexy things, to feel it stroking her pussy like soundwaves had tongues.

“Unh!” she finally burst out. “Gaahhh! It’s… GAHHH!”

The door flew open in an instant. “You want us to…”

“The fuck out! That door stays closed unless I call for you!”

The room smelled like her pussy, and watching her fight its needs was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Her face had changed again when she stared down at me—she was a fucking warrior, keeping her hands still, her legs together. “You can turn it off!” she mewl-spat. “I…I know you can and you will!”

She barked the name “Mark!” and the same suit came racing in. To me she said, “Do what I just said… or you’re Mark’s boy-toy for the rest of the morning! Then say something, and I swear if…”

“Say what?” I asked, already having done the invisible deed.

She flinched at my voice, an instinctive defense. But the effect was gone, her elevated needs washed away like sands down a drain. My voice was just a voice.

“You can go back outside,” she instructed Mark, letting out deep breaths, her tight muscles learning how to relax again. “But if you hear one strange sound from here on out…”

He stopped and regarded me like roadkill in a bed over his massive shoulder. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

“How?” she asked once we were alone. “You tell me how. Understand that you have one chance here, no lying, nothing left out. You do that and you live. You do anything else...”

“I get it.” And I did have it. I had an angle, finally, because she was showing herself. Much of what made her tick shone like a new planet in the night sky; it was partly the way she was going about things, choosing to conduct this interview in private rather than in the company of the intimidating stiffs. There was only one answer—one attitude, actually—that could explain that.

I tried to make myself look afraid and remorseful as I spoke. Pretending to feel guilty while confessing is the easiest thing in the world—grow up Catholic and you know. I hadn’t done that since I was twelve, but I guess manipulation during confession is like riding a bicycle.

I told her almost everything—the feeling of being directed into the desert almost like a zombie, the memory dream, and flying through the layers of myself until I reached the final place with the hole. The protective energy, the reaching down, the blood and the sand and what they meant, point zero and everything.

She sat in a chair halfway through and leaned forward, drawn by the narrative. I could see the possibilities beginning to take shape behind her eyes, but even if she’d managed to appear stoic I would have known. Her sands were active; they were eager, the lust beginning to build. Not lust for me—that was where I’d mixed things up, imposing my desires rather than exploiting hers.

Her lust needed to be honest, native, otherwise she’d feel my fingerprints all over it. I stuck in an invisible finger, intensifying everything that had her stirred up. Revenge, manipulation, climbing the ladder and squashing those who stood in her way if need be—she knew those things all too well, and so remained oblivious to my influence.

“They gave you this sight?” she finally asked. “This ability?”

I thought I could smell the woman’s pussy again. She wanted it so bad she could fuck it, and I shoved it in. “It wasn’t like that. It was just being there alone, in that place. The Navajo orderlies here… they know. They know a person can’t spend time there without coming out… Well, like me.”

“All the hoops we had to run through, their silly tribal superstitions about that land…”

“They’re afraid of me. I think, to them, I’ve become a witch or a demon. They know I can make people feel what I feel.”

“And you feel…”

“Lust. I thought I knew what it was… It grew inside me out there, like it’s what I’m made of. Now it’s like a power, pulsing all through me. I get carried away with it. I got carried away, with you. I feel it and then I can…”

“Project it into others,” she answered for me. “Make them burn until they’re crazed and desperate.”

As she said that I got a glimpse, very distinct sensory snippets of what she’d gone through over the last few days. The aching between her legs, the masturbating that helped but not enough, her attempts to dampen the fires with a giant blue dildo—she even went to a bar and picked two guys up, fucking them in an alley. When that didn’t help she found a sex shop and bought stuff, a lot of stuff. Nothing was enough until my voice, talking dirty to her. And then the cumming, crashing waves of it, leaving her writhing in a sex puddle on her kitchen floor.

Seeing all that was like the best porn movie ever inside my head. It was all there at once, like her ordeal was packed tight, and all I had to do was unfold it to watch it play out in front of me.

She was thinking about the same thing, remembering her helplessness. Primed for the kill, I said, as if thinking aloud: “I fucked up. I think if I’d tied the relief to something other than my voice, you never would have known what hit you.”

She met my eyes, hers burning. “You just… think it?”

“Pretty much. I make the lust go out of control and tie the relief to what I want. You felt how strong it can be.”

“Yes.”

“And I made you need…”

“You,” she said, like I’d enforced a craving for turd soup. Julia Winthrop wasn’t fond of men in general, and she was a grudge-holder. The wish to get back at me for what I’d done was very much alive. That was a form of desire, too, and I bent it.

“I’m done with you, but not everybody feels that way,” she said. “Since you loved him so much, I’ll arrange for Dr. Bragg to question you again. And just so you know, he’ll think you insane if you tell him what you told me. No stupid tricks, either—Mark out there will not allow you to leave.”

I tried to look disappointed, my spirit crushed. Maybe that was a look she liked on men, because she went on, unbidden: “You don’t look like shit now that you’ve healed. You’re even kind of cute.”

“Thanks.”

“Even so I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth. Have a good life rotting at an undisclosed location. I’m going to make this trespassing charge stick.”

Yeah, well, fuck you too. With a cactus.

Dr. Bragg did come and try to pick my brain, and Mark the beefy giant got a crack at me in the end, cutting off my ability to breathe with an elbow to my windpipe. When I awakened I’d been transported to a cell, God knows where. One of my guards said, “I don’t know what you did but you are so fucked,” and it felt like that.

But all of this was on Julia Winthrop’s authority, and her authority was on lease—she didn’t own it. She’d come back to me sick with lust, and with a little help she left even sicker, though she thought she was cured. Nothing imposed, no foreign matter introduced, at least not yet. I tied that to her being there, to her need to be there.

Which makes the telling of this next part a bit tricky. I wasn’t present for the pivotal events in the desert, and so I have to switch gears, writing as if through another person’s eyes. What follows is not mere supposition, though—that condensed porn movie of Julia’s memories was not a one-time event. Though fleshed out here and there, it’s all quite accurate.

Julia Winthrop left the hospital on an adrenaline high, the sweet taste of a brighter future on her tongue. She checked the weather forecast in her car; satisfied, she made a couple of calls and had everything arranged by noon.

Being assigned to Navajo country for the purpose of overseeing Ben Bragg’s UFO detection towers had been like getting sent to Siberia. She was a rising DOD star, a female force in a man’s world. And this assignment was an insult, a new spin on a bridge to nowhere.

It was like managing a farce, until she saw the blurry images from the initial prototype, located thirty-five miles from the intended location. Something was there, a whole group of somethings, sometimes in formation, sometimes creating undulating patterns above the earth. And without the sensitivity of the high infrared monitor, it would all be invisible.

They needed the equipment placed at the actual site, and she had to bust some Navajo balls to get the first one built. There were treaties to break, which meant undermining the authority of tribal elders. Bragg was useless when it came to outmaneuvering the opposition; he was a brilliant technician but had no skills for actually getting anything done. She knew this recipe and where it led—another inferior man would receive all the credit for her ability to throw opponents to the mat, and win.

Winning—a lunatic actor had turned the word into a joke, but winning was everything when others were doing their best to hold you down. The military was still a boys’ club, and the untouchables up the chain of command were just that—untouchable. There was no effective way to push back when the command structure served as an electrified fence; touch it and your career dies.

Until Jake Fripp, and what he meant. What she wanted was exactly what Jake Fripp had gained—power, the power to influence and undermine.

She’d felt for herself how lust could bloom in fast motion, becoming everything. She’d been absolutely helpless to tamp it down—her emotions and all the nerve endings in her body had united to scream at her that she only needed one thing, one mind-blowing orgasmic thing, and she’d slipped into a dripping swollen vagina state akin to lunacy because she couldn’t fucking get off.

What color would a man’s balls become when he felt like his dick needed to shoot a career’s worth of cum from his howitzer? How long before those aging farts, every single one of them, tried to hump a recruit, or each other? Her prisoner’s metaphors were crank—sand for desire and blood for fulfillment, give me a break—yet as he described it, she would be able to paint relief on anything she wanted, sending her prey into a hundred different career-ending directions.

If it worked. If she were shown the very deepest place inside, and she received the power. There were no guarantees, but it was worth one night in the middle of nowhere to find out. If nothing happened she’d just put a collar around Jake Fripp’s neck, and make him do the dirty work for her.

She let her imagination run with the possibilities as she packed a night’s worth of gear into a backpack. She was on the chopper two hours before sundown, flying over sand and scrub that turned from white and buff to an almost blood red hue. In a gritty swirl they set down fifty yards from the lone tower, almost at the spot where the rescue team found Fripp half-buried in the sand.

Once the helicopter had become a dark mote in the evening sky, she set her gear aside and positioned herself a few yards from where Fripp had fripped-out, digging like a crab into the earth. She watched the red ball sun slip beneath the edge of the world, wondering how long she’d have to wait. The air temperature dropped quickly, but the baked earth retained the sun’s heat, warming her rear, her thighs, her feet. Cerulean light lingered in the west for more than an hour. A scattered dotting of stars became a twinkling tapestry above, and she didn’t move. She sat like a statue, beckoning, desiring.

Far to the south, lightning flickered over the flat top of a mesa. Where she sat the sky was clear, but she could feel the beginnings of a flickering inside. It was subtle at first, yet she could swear…

Yes, oh yes, the beginnings of a gathering storm, heat and energy congealing between her thighs. Fripp said he’d felt it grow in him until he was made of it. She closed her eyes, opened her being totally, asking them, begging them to do to her as they’d done to Jake Fripp.

“Uh!” she cried into the night. The sensations were physical—she had her legs spread with knees bent, yet her pussy felt open as in open. The night breeze carried a pungent scent, her scent, super-saturated like sex-concentrate.

She hurriedly unsnapped her pants, removed her boots and stripped everything away beneath her waist. Hadn’t he said that stripping naked was one of the first signs, the first directions? Though the air was cool she removed her overshirt, her tanktop, her bra. She needed to be naked, naked and so open, her roiling pussy so damned open…

“Unhh! Holy fuck!” she shouted at the first touch.

Her hips began to gyrate. She wasn’t doing it, or was she? It was impossible to tell; she just needed… something. Something big, big to fill all that hot wet openness, that gaping hole.

He had dug a hole. He’d been directed to, needed to, because the answers lay inside, so deep inside a hole.

She had a hole. Sound erupted with the penetration of her fingers, a hiss like a thousand snakes. Had she hissed, or had her pussy? Or maybe them, if they had voices, if they could…

“GAHHH! Oh God, oh God!”

She was a three-finger girl, max, but her opening needed so much more. She shaped her fingers, all of them on her right hand, and eased them in. The angle was weird; she had to bend at the waist and contort her body to get more penetration, all of her fingers inside but her pussy needing more pressure, more bending to make it happen.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was fisting herself, using her hand and part of her forearm like a giant cock. It was an unthinkable action, yet she was so open and slippery that it worked. The friction was smooth and gliding, all that deep penetration taking her into a state where she just needed something even huger to go in deeper, to fuck her deeper and deeper…

“UH! Oh Guh… GUH!”

Her hand was in so deep, yet it would never be enough. She needed more, some massive something stretching her to the limit and beyond.

She pulled her arm and hand out, the squishing wet sound so alien to the barren landscape. She hadn’t brought any of her new toys, no dildo, no giant plunging thing, nothing huge or phallus-like, something that could reach all the way and touch her final layer and penetrate it, fucking the bottom of her soul. Why? Why hadn’t she thought to bring something gigantic to fuck herself with?

“I… need!”

Nothing in her pack, nothing in the tent, nothing but sand and rock, stone and air and…

Tower.

She spun her rear in the sand. Though hard to make out in the moonless gloom it was there, thirty meters tall and as thick as a tractor tire. A maintenance ladder spiraled up to the top, up to the giant phallus-head with its motion-sensitive infra-red eye.

Something called from the inside, telling her to watch out, to wake up, to see that she couldn’t fuck an object the size of a monument. That wasn’t humanly possible, but she needed to go beyond human possibility because she needed the power, the power that was hers if she could just get something to touch her deep inside there, her core, her ground zero. A thing like that couldn’t go in, not literally, but symbolically it might by humping it, by smearing it with all this saturated wetness…

She ran to the tower, bare feet digging into the rough sand, her breasts bouncing with their braless freedom. The metal was cold to the touch but she didn’t hesitate, arching her back, thrusting her pelvis forward with legs spread to grind her juicy cunt against the hard curving surface.

“So hard, so hard!”

This was like before, when Jake Fripp had fucked with her fuck and made her desire something stupid. Only she had a solution now, a way to cumslide all over the fucking thing, to slide and glide, grinding into it, feeling her liquid lips all over it, her opening so… open…

“Fuck! Ah fuck!”

She would never be filled by humping the base of the thing. She slid her gaping pussy away and climbed the ladder, aiming for the top.

“Fill me! Fucking fill me!” she called out, screaming for them to do it, for it to be done. She needed to be filled, dammit! Visions, dreams, hard erect towers, green alien cocks, anything!

“Fill me! Fill me!” she cried, her ultimate there] space remaining elusive, her satisfaction incomplete. She was so close, so fucking close…

No one came to release me from confinement the next day, but I was set free the following morning. They were some sort of military police, a tall guy and a petite woman, both in their late twenties. They wore crisp, sand-colored uniforms, and the female part of the duo seemed to be hiding quite a chest under hers. I didn’t even have to try hard to picture her as a miniature Wonder Woman type—tear away the military discipline and strip her down to an overstuffed bra and a thong, and I’m sure she’d be quite the tasty treat. Fantasizing like that, it couldn’t have been easier to reach inside, sampling her core.

“You’re free to go,” she said without any need to push.

“That’s great. Only, um, where am I?”

They exchanged a glance before the male stiff answered. “About six miles outside of Fort Worth.”

“Texas?”

“Texas.”

“Did they bring my truck here?”

They looked genuinely shocked. “You had a truck?” the woman asked. “Nobody told us about a truck.”

I liked the concern in her eyes, and the way she had to tilt her head back to look up at me. Barely five feet tall, she had fine cheekbones, soft brown eyes and a mouth I could picture opening wide. That was the moment I decided I was owed something for my troubles.

“They took his truck,” she said to her partner, like the injustice was just too hard to bear. “We need to… It isn’t right. It’s just not right.”

“Not our problem,” the tall stiff said.

Not his problem, but it had become hers. I learned later that my petite, large breasted toy’s name was Kathryn. A certain attitude about fairness and justice was native to her, and I pushed the button of that desire very hard. I’d been falsely accused and temporarily incarcerated on the authority of a woman who… And that’s when I got a whiff of information I needed to know—Julia Winthrop was locked away in another part of this very building.

No matter how badly I made her need it, Kathryn couldn’t arrange a face-to-face meeting. But with her desire for fairness so strong, she did escort me so I could get a glimpse of my accuser, by standing outside a particular door.

I was able to look in at Julia Winthrop through a narrow pane of safety glass, and she was a changed woman. Her formerly straight hair had continued to curl, becoming a wild, Medusa-like tangle, and though her powerfully built physique was evident beneath the white hospital gown, she looked as helpless as a wounded deer. She sat on the edge of her bed, forced to hug herself by having her arms strapped to her torso. She rocked back and forth with her legs kicking the air, and I was pretty sure that if I could open the door, I’d smack into a pussy scent so strong it would feel like a wall.

I got the pictures then, right through the glass, of what that night had been like for her. I’d fueled her desire for revenge and advancement to get her out to the desert, and out there her pussy became a black hole of unquenchable need, where the desire to cram something as huge as the HIROP tower inside—to touch a spot that might not even exist—was her only goal.

As intended, Dr. Bragg’s project was on hold, and would almost certainly be cancelled, its bloated budget indefensible when the prototype was already being referred to as The Great Desert Dildo. Dr. Bragg had prematurely switched the special camera to operational as I’d directed, treating the distant command room to the whole lurid display, bright as day, of Julia fisting herself on the desert floor before trying to hump the tower itself. The final images, presumably, would have been close-ups of a gaping wet pussy grinding a multi-million dollar lens into a useless smear. I couldn’t be sure of this, but I figured they’d searched Julia’s apartment, too, to get a sense of what might have possessed her. They would have found a ton of sexual toys there, some abused rather dramatically. Dr. Bragg’s first tower had been overseen and eventually humped by a total perv with a thing about oversized phalluses—the story was making the rounds and the stink would never leave the project.

I’d done it for them, and I’ll never be fully certain if I had a choice. I think it’s probable that not all UFOs are the same, but the ones above a particular plot of sacred Navajo desert are living beings, not vessels. They return, in rather large groups, to procreate there. I don’t need to know the details to understand what’s important—something about that spot makes it perfectly suited as a spawning ground.

It wasn’t personal; not for me and I think not for them. They simply needed the project stopped, and Julia was the means to achieving an end. I’d seen in the process that her insides weren’t so attractive, but who am I to judge? All people have dark places—I have them, too, and mine can be especially dangerous now.

I reached into Julia through that locked door, and arranged it so her unrequited lust would subside, and she could gradually become herself again, almost. She had an aggressive streak inside that was true and real, and with that powerful body, competitive spirit and good looks, I thought she’d make an ideal female wrestler. I had a compelling picture in my head, of Julia in a skin-tight outfit, cumming right in the face of opponents squeezed between her muscular thighs. I stirred that need in her before turning my attention back to Kathryn.

“I’m ready to get out of here,” I said, manipulating her sands invisibly.

“How will you get around? I feel so awful that they… It just isn’t fair!”

“I’ll manage.”

“No, no, somebody needs to take some responsibility here. There’s a truck stop a few miles away—I’ll drop you there, and you can… I mean if you want to leave... Or stick around for a bit, it’s up to you.”

I was in no hurry, especially when indulging my fantasies Kathryn-style. I’d only had five lovers in my life, and here was a really pretty woman, an older woman in uniform, with knockers. She got strangely overheated on the short drive, needing to peel away her jacket. Its covering power was nothing to sneeze at, as she had two extremely plump breasts powering out against a white button-up blouse. I liked that view and she had a totally appropriate response before even being pushed. Her tits had always drawn attention her way, and she loved flaunting them in certain situations. I made her go one step further—she finished the drive with her blouse totally unbuttoned and drawn to the side, her left hand slipping into the white bra cups to tease her nipples to complete hardness.

“i... like it when you watch,” she admitted, feeling the rush of a natural inclination pushed to extreme lengths.

“I think you have the best rack I’ve ever seen,” I said, seeing how her eyes kept leaving the road to assess my erection.

“I just think you should be compensated!” she insisted, pulling the car into a shady spot far from the restaurant and fuel pumps. “It just burns me up that… Unzip your pants!”

Her braless tits were in my face before I’d even unbuckled my seatbelt. She wanted them sucked but I’d been waiting too long, and I turned sucking my cock into her personal god. Either she really knew what she was doing or the fever I’d induced turned her into a virtuoso. Best of all, she groaned into my cock as I got close, and she came when I let loose at the back of her mouth.

Her release shocked her, and her body went limp. I put one arm around her and played with her big tits as she slid back to something like normal. She loved having her tits mauled but I took it way beyond that, rolling her fat nipples and making her crave the contact.

“Don’t stop!” she shouted when I pulled away experimentally.

“You’ll get in trouble if you don’t get back, right?”

“But your truck! We need... And I need...”

“Find me a motel, and come back as soon as you can.” And feel the need to dress sexy as hell, I silently added.

And that’s exactly what happened. She showed up at my door with a raincoat draped over a black mesh bodystocking, her nipples looking like they were magnets and I was iron. I pulled them in, and kept them stuck to me no matter what position we assumed.

Though not a virgin, I felt like one. No shyness, nothing like that, but sandpile sex with invisible blood orgasms for Kathryn was not sex as it had been before. She screamed so loudly that we had to tone it down after midnight, as people began knocking on the walls to both sides of our room. By then it was fine; we were sated, and barely able to move.

“Best sex of my life,” she whispered before dozing off.

I liked that I didn’t need to make her say that. And I liked her, too, enough to keep a good thing going, at least for a little while. It turned out she was married—oops. He was stationed overseas, and due back at the end of the summer. I felt like I learned a thing or two about fairness and compensation from Kathryn; that’s why I increased the pressure on her to perfect sucking cock to such crazy heights, and set the clock going on a timebomb of desire directed at hubby’s travel-weary dick.

You want to know what my dreams were before this all happened? I was going nowhere and I knew it, so my aspirations weren’t very grand. My parents split apart when I was in college, and I have no siblings, so few attachments, really. Work was crazy-scarce in the Flagstaff area; I could get temp jobs or shit jobs, but nothing that led anywhere. I wanted to get out and do something that felt like something, and I thought I’d save up just a bit for a really fine bicycle and touring gear, sell my truck and see where the open road took me, one slow mile at a time.

Maybe that’s a stupid dream; I could see all along that it had a Hail Mary aspect to it—throw myself up into the sky and hope life caught me with generous and capable hands. I never did get my truck back—I had the power to bend people, but nothing can penetrate the haze and maze of Pentagon bureaucracy. I was frustrated, and maybe that’s why Kathryn organized a fundraiser, and got me a few thousand dollars to begin pedaling my dream.

A fundraiser. I always suspected women were smarter than men; now I was sure of it. I didn’t put the idea into her head because I never thought of it, and she made it work through pure ordinary effort. If it had been me under a tent at a green market, with a sign for saving whales or replanting trees in the rainforest, surreptitiously bending do-gooder inclinations my way... Well, no need to give away my secrets for staying afloat. And if I did do such a thing, you could bet some of those proceeds would end up with the whales and whatnot.

I think I’ll make my way back west to Navajo land eventually, and I might even try to get out to that special spot again. I don’t know what I expect from it—maybe nothing more than to feel them overhead if that’s possible, big invisible orbs humping other invisible orbs. I feel like there’s an enduring bond between us in some way, though it’s a feeling I don’t fully understand.

But that’s later, perhaps when it’s too cold to be somewhere else. It’s early summer as I write this, and I’m headed north and east. No particular destination and no time frame—I want to see what comes my way. There are a lot of great-looking women in this country, and I see them as I never did before, maybe because I’m not breezing by at sixty miles an hour. I’ve taken to keeping a journal on my journey, so I don’t mix up one town or one woman with the next.

So let me know if you’d like to hear another tale from the pussy trail. I get carried away sometimes and I’ve made a few additional mistakes, but nothing I can’t ride away from. I’m sure I could shape that kind of stuff into a story, just as I shaped this one. I tend to write when it rains, though there often isn’t time. When it rains the pussy pours, as they say.

One last thing before I get on my bike again: You want to know what I think is the most implausible aspect of my story? I’m using my otherwise useless degree in English Lit, to help me figure out how to write it. Who woulda thunk?

Okay, that’s it. Jake the Frippin’ Snake, out.