Telepathic Body Count

TELEPATHIC BODY COUNT

by ContinentalPsyOp

I suppose it all began when I finally decided to open myself up to a personal relationship with Thoth. It's like they say, I let go and I let Thoth. Thoth, take the wheel. As the bumper sticker says, my God is an Ibis-headed Ancient Egyptian Force of Ineffable Incomprehensible Power Eternal as Nile Herself.

Thoth is Love. And Hate. And every emotion you could ever possibly feel and many you never ever will.

Do you have a personal relationship with Thoth? Ask yourself, what would Thoth do?

But that's all I got for you in way of prologue.

1. Sing the Alma Mater

When you do what I do, you have got to feel the vibes. You have got to get your shoes and socks off and feel the tremors.

Metaphorically, of course.

And I don't know if you absolutely have to do anything when you have what I have. I have never met anyone else with what I have got. Do I even want to? Not just yet, at least. Not on this trip.

What a long, strange trip it's been, too.

Finally, for the first time in a long, long time, I felt that instead of being on the run constantly, the energy was such that I could go to earth for awhile. Get underground and stop traveling. Burrow. Stay. Build and feather a nest.

Never sleeping in the same place twice has been exhausting. Fun, creative, but exhausting. It has been a necessity, but perhaps, it is no longer a necessity anymore.

Wouldn't that be nice, you might think to yourself, if you do what I do and live how I have to live. Sleeping in the same bed every night. Settling in and getting comfortable.

I have not been unhoused, but I have been homeless.

Perhaps you would agree, should you have what I have. Sleeping in the same place for an extended period of time has felt risky for so long. Perhaps you can imagine how desirable it would be for that experience to feel safe again.

How exciting it would be if you had figured out where to go and how to get that safety.

I had an idea on the place.

Way out yonder, where I might hide out long-term.

But first, a trip home to the old alma mater.

That was the place where this gift-and-curse first started emerging. But it was long before I could manifest it and control it enough for it to be more than sporadically useful.

But once I developed it to full strength, returning back to familiar spaces and places and faces, became a yearly and sometimes semi-yearly right of passage.

The one nice thing about having to cross the nation so regularly, to stay on the road, moving within towns, then suddenly making a big move across county or state lines, is that I developed several comfortable coves to keep returning to on my travels.

Stuck too close to a military base that might be doing "psychological warfare" techniques? Why not hitch a ride down this away, and in another hitch you can be back at the alma mater.

Big category-five storm stopping your plans from crossing the nation just now? Why not pop up north and take refuge back at the alma mater.

Sit in on a lecture in your favorite academic building, while a cute, nineteen-year-old sophomore sits up and down on your cock until you cum, the entire classroom being and acting utterly oblivious.

Not even aware, not even watching.

And this adorable sophomore whom I know is a sophomore because I asked her when I sat down, "hey, what year are you?" and she told me, "sophomore," but I don't know her name, she is enthusiastically fucking me, in the middle of class, no one watching.

Skirt up and thong to the side, just riding up and down, penetrated and never coming all the way off, in the lecture hall's back row. Like a wet dream made real.

I told her we could and she was like, "not," but I was like, "bet," and she was like, "okay, bet," and then I said, in a loud voice, "Can anyone hear me?" but professor kept lecturing and the students kept asking questions, not responding. "Anyone? Tell me to shut up if you can hear me?"

She was agape but I told sophomore, hey, put down your phone, no phones, and she put her phone down.

That's the real test of my mind control powers. Getting a nineteen-year-old to put her phone down. Especially when she's witnesses an actual miracle.

The way I did it was to sit there early, in the lecture hall before the rest arrived, and get each one as they walked in. A quick little tap into their minds and a reminder that I'm not there and that I would be a permanent blind spot for the next week or so.

In other words, I'd be understood purely subconsciously by them, only seen and recorded at that level. While they were awake, I was a living ghost.

But, when they slept...

The professor and adult students whose brains I tapped in that classroom that day might all have the same recurring dreams for some time, but who ever discusses their dreams with people in the depth necessary to discover this strange phenomenon?

So once they were all in, the professor lecturing happily away and half the students happily tuning him out already, I moved over to this adorable blonde cutie, lovely fitted skirt and an outfit that looked put-together and fashionable past the point of scholarly modesty.

Hence the instant physical attraction. Hence the loving the perfume she was wearing, to class.

"Well, it's a bet," I say to sophomore.

"Like, for real?"

"Like, you know," I tell her.

"Oh my god I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, but I'm holding her mind just gently and I can feel that she can't believe she finally has the excuse to do something like this. She loves fantasizing about having sex in class, but with everyone watching and sometimes with others taking turns. But, just a nighttime fantasy for her, until now.

"C'mon, take it out," she says in a whisper, pulling up her cute skirt almost discreetly and slipping her white thong to the side.

To be comfortable I undo the front of my pants, lift myself up to pull them to my ankles, and then sit back down.

As soon as my ass hits the seat, feeling the chill of the plastic since I had only been sitting there for a minute or two before dropping my pants, her warm cunt hits the head of my cock, and oh god is this sophomore's cunt hot.

She's tight and textured, still opening up for me and the image in my mind is of a silicone cock sleeve with lots of internal ridges and sensation.

She turns over her shoulder to look at me while she goes up and down slowly. "Yeah, I'll be your fleshlight," she says with a naughty smile.

And I break my contract with her mind, as slight as it was, realizing that my mental images were slipping into her brain.

"But say that again," I tell her with my words and she says it again and I hold her hips tight, hold her down on my lap so I can be buried as deep up in this sophomore as I can go, just pulsing and loving how sweet she is.

"Yeah, I'll be your fleshlight. Make me your fleshlight," sophomore coos, sounding like she means it.

One hand on her hip then the other hand feeling her up through her clothes, sheathed deep in her and pulsing, the mellow sounds of the lecture and the student questions around us but oblivious.

Cumming inside her and nuzzling the back of her neck and holding her by both hands as I cum inside her.

So many points of contact, a circuit of energy through our bodies, my hands holding her hands, my cock in her cunt, her hips on my lap. So much energy, so much connection. Plugging her open sex and releasing, pulsating semen inside her, coating her, lubricating her, loving her. True intimacy.

Never kissed her.

Don't know her name or anything other than I approved of her looks and her perfume today.

I hold her close anyway and snuggle her there. She smells so good. I hold her on my lap until I'm soft, and then she slips her thong back in place and her skirt down and returns to her seat in one smooth motion.

She looks at me and smiles at me, shocked and surprised at what we just got away with.

I feel like I've just run a half-marathon, and then received a world-class massage for ninety minutes.

She has such a nice smile, I take a photograph of her with my digital camera, no wifi access. Straight to memory card. I go through phases, when I'm more involved or less involved in mementos. My life is pleasure, so my memories will be pleasures.

Once I've composed myself, and if I'm no longer interested in hearing the lecture or the class discussion, I tell the sophomore, in my special way, to "feel good about herself and her studies, to pay good attention in all the rest of her classes and to take good notes. To always be able to focus during class no matter what else was going on in her life."

Technically, these are just "suggestions," and while I'm not going to be around when she has to go forward with them, I'm pretty sure she's going to take these suggestions, whomever this lovely lady truly is.

I think it's something in how I say it to her.

So, after I bless her life, or prophecy in her life, however you'd like to say it, it's time to wander around, get to know people and their secrets.

How? Just ask. It takes only a little push in the right spot at the back of the medulla that opens up those psychic passageways. College students want to talk about themselves. They're adults but still in a playground. The cognitive dissonance needs release for the tension.

I help these young women release their tension.

I help them find absolution over things they feel guilty about. To make sure their newly restored confidence and acceptance is here to stay, I reach into their minds to make sure. Checking my own work.

If I'm sleepy, I love a nice, unexpected nap in a dorm bed. I don't worry anymore about anyone showing up to surprise me, if I don't know whose bed I'm napping in. But there's no bed so nice to nap in as the bed of a woman's, still warm and, considering these college students, likely unmade from the night before.

And, because of how shy and awkward a college this was and is, almost certainly the night before was a celibate one.

I loved returning to familiar grounds because when the mind needs to hold so much together, taking away as much of the new and unfamiliar as possible takes away some of the effort necessary to hold it all together.

Knowing the nooks, knowing the crannies, knowing the happy places to find what I was looking for, this all made the whole experience far less stressful.

Created a comfortable place to relax and explore.

To develop a preference for favorite dorms, because they still had the most group-friendly showers.

To renew acquaintances with beloved faculty members, especially if you might have gotten carried away and left one or two pregnant. They were trying at the time in their lives with their spouses, taking fertility enhancement prescriptions, but they and their new children were happy now, no one the wiser and no one asking questions.

To pursue a connoisseur's fetish, such as desiring to take so many cherrys and open so many hymens in a weekend.

Again, because I wanted these to be sweet, romantic, meaningful encounters and positive memories in my lover's lives, I kept them to a reasonable number, no more than between three and five deflorations on a weekend's visit.

But sometimes, especially on those impromptu return visits, coming back because I found myself trapped nearby and was unable to get where I wanted to be, on those occasions, I came back just to fuck and frolic.

Getting there from the scary, weary road is usually fairly simple.

I get myself to the nearest major city, which is a big one. It's easy there to find someone who has a nice, comfortable car and will either let me drive, or be a very good and safe driver for me.

There are a few suburban mall and commuter rail parking lots that I prefer, places where it is easy to find nice cars and nice companionship.

I like to tread lightly on people's lives, the better I might stay out of sight, so the first thing I get them to tell me, when I press on that internal spot that makes them tell the truth, is what the rest of their day is supposed to be like.

I'm great at getting people to cancel unimportant plans, and to call their colleagues or spouses or other family members and pretend to be stuck in traffic, to have to be taking a big detour out of their way, to be having car trouble, to having a phone that just died, whatever is necessary so no one will be looking for them.

I always return them intact, but I need to borrow them and their vehicle to head back to the alma mater, and if they were cute, maybe have some fun with.

In this case, I did not have any fun with her until the end. She was a chubby milf, driving back to a small city near my school's campus, about an hour out of her way, if she only dropped me off. She had some interesting sexual secrets in her past, about cheating on her ex-husband early in her marriage before she stopped and he never knew.

She spoke beautifully about it, it was very sexy and she often masturbated thinking about this other man and their affair, but also about her husband, now divorced, at that age. She was making him compete and he was at his best.

Then the other fellow moved away and died and it was very sad, but a safe fantasy, she felt, to keep coming back to.

I took a photograph of her driver's license out of her purse with my digital camera, and recorded most of her story with my digital voice recorder. I love hearing their stories later.

When she drove me to campus, we kissed and made out in the front seat of her car for awhile. We parked in a remote corner of a remote parking lot. She was a good kisser, and I liked feeling her up through her clothes. The casual cottons and polys of modern, casually corporate clothes.

The lovely feeling of her bra through her shirt. The underwire and the pillowy promise of her lusciously lace-enclosed tits.

A cute chubby milf, on her way home from a business trip, children grown and in careers of their own, she working towards her retirement.

"Let's go as far as third base," I said, and she nodded into my kisses and guided my hand down the front of her open pants and under the compress of the tights she wore under her pants for a smoother line, and under the satin panty she wore under her hose, and through the matted hair of her milfy bush and then deep, immediately deep into the sopping wetness of her milfy pussy.

"You're sopping wet," I tell her, the words mangled among our kissing lips.

She giggles like she's still college age, "I know," she says. Her arousal fully activated. She is ready to fuck. However I want, whomever I want, so long as it is soon.

She's about to suggest the back seat, and I don't need mind control powers to tell that.

I need to be fair. Enough teasing. "Thanks for the ride, I know how to find you," I tell her, my lips still kissing hers, my fingers playing with her other lips. Even confined by her bottoms, she's spreading her hips wider to welcome me.

"Mmmmmmmmmm," she pouts. "Does that mean you're not going to fuck me?"

"I'm not going to fuck you now," I say, emphasis on the now, implying the later.

"Oh, good," she says. "Because it has been a while, and you do need to fuck me." Big kiss on my lips. "Soon."

"Yeah, well, gotta get to class, you know, hey, clean me off," and I take my fingers out of her, hold them up to her lips, and feel her entire mouth take both of my gooey, sugar-coated fingers into her mouth at once, sucking hungrily like it's actual sugar on my fingers and not her sugars.

"I knew it, I knew you were a college student," she says, once she thinks she has my fingers spit-sucked clean again, "no wonder you get me so turned on."

That was her telling me her own story about this encounter, which she would definitely be remembering. My gift. I was the college student she gave a ride to and went to third-base with once, and that would explain if we never met again.

Her spirits were lifted, her groove was back.

She drove off, again on her way to her original destination, her home an hour away, and I wandered across campus, into an academic building. Into one class, in progress--ugh, too much work, and then into a classroom next door, which looked like students were waiting to get into, but a class was still finishing up in that room.

I could wait, too. And I did.

I slipped inside the class finishing up, sent out a basic "don't notice me" pulse to the professor and students still there, and sat and waited for the next class to arrive, so I could have an entire hour or so for my play without interruption. Setting myself up properly like that, it was easy to turn off the consciousnesses of everyone as they entered. This was blondie sophomore's class, and no wonder I was ready to go with her, after that milfy appetizer.

Once blondie sophomore was absorbing all my positive vibes, my positive messages, and was positive for my semen, I could slip out of class, and wander about, doing good deeds as I saw fit.

Learning of problems, fixing problems. Getting a group of friends hanging out on the lawn to start making out like mad.

Who could say how I might spend the day?

Giving long-lasting suggestions like I did with that sophomore, learning secrets like I did with that morning's milf, or just causing titillating scenes to amuse myself: coming home to alma mater brought out the best in me.

Of course, I would wander over to the student union eventually for lunch.

Chillax, sit with some cliques and mine them for all of their gossip. That's where the digital voice recorder came in handy again. Not to cause trouble with, but because it is such a beautiful sound, the sound of gossip, the sound of secrets, the sound of shock and shame.

After lunch, time to chill and get ready to fuck again.

Wander through a dorm, seeing what people were getting up to.

The choice, to get high and get baked on some dank weed? Depends on the weed, let me inspect that stuff first.

Lay back on a dorm bed, chilling watching a movie? Depends on the movie, and is there a dorm cutie to cuddle up with on that bed, while watching the movie?

Spilled something on the only clothes you're traveling with, the ones you're wearing? Depends on the dorm, but then it's time for naked laundry, and once we're stripped and fucking in the laundry room, making sure everyone who next enters the laundry room has the irresistible urge to rip off their clothes and join an impromptu orgy. The famous orgy in the laundry room that would go down in history for thirty-eight lucky people there that day: thirty freshmen, three parents, one older sister who is a senior on her college's campus, a local pizza delivery guy, one female campus safety officer, one male campus plumber from the campus services department, and one female cleaning lady assigned for that year to that dormitory building.

Or maybe meet two perfect roommates, or two besties who should be roommates, or two or three or four young scholars who look like they would be great together.

And then taking them to some nice, comfortable place, sometimes a dorm room, sometimes someone's off-campus apartment, sometimes the nice house of a trusted, faculty member, friend, and lover.

But whatever the combination, always fucking my balls dry before dinner.

Then dinner, then more fun.

Is something interesting happening on campus? Do I just want to go to the library and read peacefully for hours, until it's time to find a bed and a bedmate(s) for the night? Or do I just want to crash back at the dorm with my new friends? Learning about them and loving them and blessing them with my words and my thoughts and my cock and my cum.

"Your skin will be clearer, your hair will be brighter," I tell them, and they laugh but they believe it. They believe it because they know it is true and they can feel it already.

If they needed prescription pills to feel this way before, or to feel how close those pills could get them, I take away their need for the pills and I make this higher mental floor their new baseline.

"Improved mood" their doctors will write at their next visits.

If anyone is hunting me I am sure it must be the pharmaceutical companies because what I do puts them out of business. Okay, too dramatic. What I do hurts their profits.

They want lifetime addicts and I only need to give one dose to fix what those companies messed up.

Love is cost-effective, and that's what I open up for them. Open up their brain's love valve and give them a major starting dose to dissolve into their blood stream slowly, of my super-charged love for them and their essence as a being of light and goodness in the darkness of reality.

And that first night back on campus I find a woman's dorm bed that smells like her and I bed down with her and love with her, and when we're tired and fucked out we pass out, tight and close in that narrow dorm bed.

Don't even mind the tightness and the crampedness when waking up with her the next morning. Her young lithe body feels like a miracle, and feeling my stiff, sore arms from where they lost feeling last night from holding around her while we both slept, it feels like the proof she never wiggled out and was mine even in her sleep.

But now it is another day and it is time to fuck her friends.

Or maybe not her friends. Maybe new faces, new asses in tight jeans, new twenty-somethings dressed in business attire for on-campus interviews. Maybe back to the employed, and see which cute professors are keeping office hours. Anyone new on faculty whom I have not sampled yet?

Or perhaps I am on a mission, like I was that trip.

I heard some not-so-nice gossip about some of the young men on campus. I don't like boors and I don't respect the illiterate. Being anti-intellectual is not a good look on campus.

These unfortunately were some boyfriends of the young women I had been getting to know in the dorms. Older, of course. Seniors living of campus. Needing to use AI and plagiarism sites, to get them through. Taking up the places of people who would use every minute of their time on campus to learn.

Time to pay them a visit. Time to make them watch their girlfriends fuck me right in front of them. Time to make them get naked and fuck each other. All it takes is saying the word out loud to them. Turns out their girlfriends love seeing that. They love seeing their idiot, asshole ex-boyfriends kissing each other, making out deeply. They love seeing these morons kneeling to get each other's dicks wet. Their now ex-girlfriends love seeing these young men sodomize each other. Pity, but deserved.

I would have been happy to just borrow these young women. Had these young men been better behaved, I would have gladly shared.

But it is my duty as an alumnus to uphold the values and traditions of our alma mater.

It is a small college, yet there are those, yadda yadda yadda.

Nasty fun was not my main purpose in these return trips, clean fun was. And mostly clean fun I always mostly had. It is a joy to borrow everything from everyone, save for the new clothes I often found "comped" for me at the campus bookstore, helping me blend in oh so easily again on campus.

Refreshed and recharged, I was ready to head out Monday, for where I thought I could likely settle down for a longer term.

But then one last surprise: the college was getting ready to host some kind of entrepreneurship and finance seminar for the economics and mathematics students. All of the finance classes were hidden in the mathematics major.

But the speakers were all business leaders who were transitioning to becoming gurus. They mostly had books to promote, some on more bestselling lists than others. All had the time to speak at a collegiate finance conference.

I had time to hit two panels before I left. The first in the morning, had four different big-shots, three of whom regularly appeared on business network streams.

It broke with protocol, but suddenly, they each decided to have a competition among themselves about who could donate the most to fund a new addition to the college's general fund.

The crowd was electric, and the line kept feeding on that excitement as the line kept going up.

These narcissistic money-lovers barely needed any push to show off their disposable cash.

"Don't just announce a gift right now," my thought goes into their heads. "Actually take our your phone and wire transfer it over during your speech, ask for and get the routing numbers, go ahead, announce a spontaneous quarter million to the general fund."

That powerful thought passing wordlessly across the crowd of formally-dressed wannabe-tycoons.

And he did it.

"Success means wire transfers," the flashy tv-host speaker announces, and then says he's going to show everyone how to make one. And he announces his sudden gift. "General fund, means use it for any purpose. Now, plenty of people, announce the gift, but never actually give it. Well, I'm going to give it when I announce it, because success--and this is a speech about how to be successful, right? Success means you do what you say you're going to do, and you go right to do it, you don't wait. You never hesitate."

Everyone is thrilled! It is far more interesting listening and watching to this than whatever else he was going to say.

I put another thought out there, targeting the next speakers on deck. And, voila.

The next speaker decides to do the same. Tells some anecdotes, makes the crowd laugh. Then pulls out his phone and whisks a matching wire transfer through the ether, plus a little more: a cool half million.

Woah. Everyone's impressed now.

Third speaker gets up, she matches, a half million right off the bat, then delivers her boring speech, and all I've had to signal to these two others, brain to brain, was "don't be outdone." That simple thought, right to them. Don't be out done. And then they were sure they were not.

It has not even been an hour, and I've raised over a million dollars for my college's general fund, out of the blue. Not bad for the weekend I've had.

It's not over yet.

Hitting the first speaker, the biggest pocket, with the same thought, don't be outdone, which I can tell is already reeking off of him, he stands up, interrupting the last speaker before the panel ends for questions, saying he had upped his donation and now donated a full million dollars himself.

He holds up his cell phone, proving it. Showing off his banking app screen that he's so rich he can wire seven figures just from his phone. Boom. Like that!

Two million for my alma mater in forty-five minutes. This was not worth the fun I had this weekend? Spread love and did some unexpected fundraising? Ah, now you understand the curse of my blessed life. Never to be known or acknowledged for my contributions.

My only reward was in the doing.

So I did and I felt good about myself. The last speaker wanted to steal back some glory for herself tacked on his modest five-hundred thou' at his speech's end, but he also acknowledged to the room that he was not as big of a fish as the lead speaker on the panel, the business network star. Two-point-five million to my alma mater, and time for my ride to get here.

That milf I wanted to get to know better? She took some time off work and we were going to have a road-trip vacation for the next few days as she drove me to my new lay-low situation. Then would sell her car and fly herself home. I'd make sure she'd end up with enough for an even better, brand-new car when she got back.

Compared to everything else, fundraising was easy.

I was especially interested in seeing her fuck a series of young, eighteen-year-old men, college and otherwise, as we stopped in our travels. She had been without for so long, she deserved an abundance of plenty for awhile. The flood after the drought.

"We'll pick up lots of young couples." I said to her. "Pick up some couples and split them apart. I'll get the young women, you get the young men. A night to remember in a hotel room, then driving on the next day."

"Sounds wonderful," my milf said. "Do you want to drive or do you want me to?"

"I'll drive, today," I said, getting behind the wheel. "You can give me head while I do. So I can enjoy your mouth before all those young cocks defile it over the next few days."

She giggled, and from the passenger seat, undid her seat belt, leaned over, and did not say anything, just bobbed her head and worshipped my cock as we cruised down the highway.

2. The Work Done They Sang An Hymn

The pool was made with perfectly joined granite. A feat immediately drowned by its success.

Half of the water-men were specifically brought in from Akkad. A hippopotamus's weight of gold was paid for them, by the Lord of the Two Lands, and even more spent to bring them around the water-passage and across the Wadi beds to fine Kemet.

Such fine construction as this pool was the result, and now the Kassite water-men from that famed water-city of Uruk, would stay forever in Kemet and teach their ways to the Lord's water-men. Who, themselves, were already wise in the ways of Hapi the Water-Fat Irrigator, Lord of the River that Brings the Plants.

Fresh waters from Nile, flowing here into this basin large as any natural oasis on the western side of Nile, and flowing out through these intricately wrought channels, the Kassite specialty. But the other chamber, to where the river waters must flow from through the pool for the Lord's wives and guests, another passage wide enough to traverse, with another pool far beyond, and a stone portcullis to separate the two.

But wise as the Kassites were, quite shocked were they when they learned from the Lord's water-men, what would be on the other side of the stone portcullis.

The scribes recorded the reactions in their private notes. It was a source of no small amusement among the scribes thereafter. Foolish, marsh-sick Kassites, underestimating the Black Lands as always.

3. Playlist of Songs for Running and Jogging

You know I like to stay traveling, moving around as much as possible. Call me paranoid, but if you could do what I can do, you'd be paranoid, too.

I never knew I had this power until it showed up during college. Who knows what is out there in the world that I also don't know about? Who knows who is out there, looking for people like me, that I don't know about?

For a long time I was lonely, but now I just don't want to be found. Too risky.

But, against my better normal judgment, I found a place to hideout for awhile. An aerie, if you will, like some bird of prey. Not that I'm vicious. I want to pass through people's lives anonymously, lovingly, not violently.

It's an anonymous new house, built all in a row with dozens others. Nothing in my name, but I've got the actual owners and bill payers in a happy trance. They decided they wanted to live in comfortable, semi-tricked out vans "off the grid" while still going to work, working overtimes, and letting the money pile up in their bank accounts. They can't figure out how they're not saving money despite living in nice vans and showering at their chain fitness clubs, but that is because I have the passwords for their accounts and use their bank funds to pay the bills. I have some credit cards in their names, which I use mostly for online shopping and having things shipped to this row house of theirs.

Just because I can control other people's finds doesn't mean I don't use the mechanisms of the real world. The whole point of the gift is better functioning in the real world.

I like the house because the downstairs is behind a wall, a heavy brick wall enclosing the development. But the second story looks down upon the newly-paved walking-biking-running trail winding through this new section of town, with its thousands of single family homes, townhomes and the occasional rental building, all recently built in the last ten years.

The part of town that was prosperous, that was booming.

And the wide, safe trail was oh-so-popular with the young married wives and the young mommies. The windows of my bedroom looked right down on this ever-changing sexual delivery service that the city had so thoughtfully constructed for me.

The way it works is simple.

I awake, as I did today, at the crack of ten-thirty or thereabouts. Whenever I feel like it. Alarms, their sound, tends to hurt my gift. My gift likes to sleep as long as it needs to.

So I get up, pull back the blackout curtains, raise the Venetian blinds, and greet the morning, already nearly over.

Blue skies, white clouds, sun already tastefully to the south and thus not blinding me with its insistent brightness. Ah, lovely.

I glance out upon my anonymous kingdom, the houses across the way, on the other side of the the large walking trail, are the same as always; cute, calm, reassuring. No government agents surveilling me. No drones in the sky. No government agents coming my way.

And then what to my wondrous eyes should appear? Down on the walking trail, a lovely brunette with long flowing straight hair, brown with honey highlights from her stylist, wearing a tight black outfit of a proper wintery puffer-coat per the wintery temperatures outside.

But on her legs and bottom? The thinnest of thin leggings. Straining against the perfect round plumpness of her butt. Her cheeks separated by either the thong she wore under her leggings or the slutty thong-design of her leggings.

This bitch wanted to put her ass on display. This brunette bitch wanted men noticing that perfect plump ass of hers.

Mission accomplished, bitch. You got noticed.

So the way it works, I focus on her eyes, even as she looks front on her walking way, and I send out a message.

"Sure, wonder what's in that new development, sure, wonder what those units look like inside. Look left."

And when a second later, she turns left and looks over to the housing development where I'm staying, I know she's wondering what it looks like inside.

"Bet they're nice inside," I send to her. She's walking forward but now looking towards my townhouse. She's getting closer to the corner, where the walking path intersects the city road that leads to my development's main front gate.

"Turn left, bet you can sneak into that development and look around."

When she turns left at the corner and passes out of my sight from my bedroom window, I send her the four-digit number of my street address, with an image of my front door. Nice and strong, the strength into her brain that usually gets the results I like.

I go downstairs, unlock the front door and undo the alarm on the door, and prepare to wait. It won't be long.

I put some music on. The first track is some Velvet Underground, but when she turns the handle on the door and opens the front door to my house and lets herself in, closing the door behind her quietly, Foreigner is singing about how they were waiting for a girl like you.

I watch her approach my door from the western side of the house and the bedroom window over there, then move back to my bedroom. The psychic link to her I established when I saw her is still holding, I can still feel her in my mind and if I want to I can see through her eyes, see what she is seeing. I like peaking and seeing my townhouse getting closer, the closer she comes.

The downstairs looks occupied, but I'm upstairs.

Through her mind I can feel the cool handle of the door and the dream-like way she feels as she opens it and steps inside. "This must be the development's model home, just explore around," I tell her through my mind and she feels it like it's her own thoughts.

"Take your shoes off," I command and she undoes the laces on her black sneakers right there in front of my door, and steps out of her tiny sneaks, her low white socks a girlish note to her all-black athleisure.

In her white sock feet, she looks around my borrowed kitchen and my borrowed living room and the dining room and the downstairs bathroom, opens the door to the garage but quickly closes it when an alarm sounds. The alarm stops and all is quiet and she's relaxed again.

Up the carpeted stairs she steps in her white ankle socks.

I'm standing in a robe in my bedroom, the same spot where I first saw her a few minutes ago.

"Hi, welcome," I say to her, and I smile.

"Hi, thanks," the brunette says. "Is this the model?"

"You're the model," I say, and she laughs.

"No, I'm not, silly."

"So you want to work out? Is that what you're doing?"

"Yeah, that's the idea," she says, idly looking around the bedroom. "Get my heart rate up, get some fresh air."

"Heaving breathing, yeah, I can get behind that."

"I didn't say that, silly."

"Those leggings really show off your ass," I tell her. I can feel her brain, she thinks this is not real, it feels to her like some day-dream while she's walking or jogging. That's fine. I'll send her home exhausted and sweaty. I push the part of her consciousness that usually gives me complete honesty from a woman.

"Yeah, I like to show off my ass. All my boyfriends tell me I've got a great ass," she says. "You know that position, I think they call it like reverse cowgirl or something? All my boyfriends like it when we do that. My husband, I was married once, he really liked it, too. And dogggy, but I come really quick in doggy."

"How quick?"

"Like, really quick."

"Show me."

She went over to the bed, bent over the edge and began pulling down her leggings. Her lavender blue thong came with it. "Come on, this talk of yours made me wet," she says.

I open my robe and walk over to the bent-over submissive trance-slut. Some of this is my... encouragement, but there's a lot of inhibition that I am releasing.

I take my place standing behind her, rub my cock on the swelling lips of her cunt.

I open the cheeks of her ass so I can see her asshole. I wetten the thumb of my non-dominant hand in my mouth, then use it to circle the wrinkled grooves of this cute, strange lady's shitter.

"Oooohhhhhh, you're one of those guys," she says. "Lucky me. My ex-husband was like you. It's when I really learned to love anal."

"Love anal, huh?" I ask.

"Love anal," she agrees.

"Lucky girl," I say. "Lucky girl indeed." Her pussy is getting wet while my cock has been getting hard, and now I'm stuff enough to part her first opening.

"Oh, fuck," she says, feeling me get seated in her. Set so I can't shake loose now.

"Yeah, you're getting fucked, huh?"

"Yeah, you're gonna fuck me. Are you gonna fuck me now, mister?"

One hand circling her asshole, one hand holding her hip, and now my hips start their motion, working my way into this woman. All because five minutes ago she looked like a horny slut showing her ass to the whole world on the walking path.

And now her path has led her here, bent over a strange man's bed, meeting a stranger by way of my cock in her cunt.

I haven't cum since I fucked the last woman I saw on the walking trail last evening.

There's a fresh twelve hours worth of cum in my balls, and I'm not going to take my time holding it back from this new brunette honey with her store-bought honey highlights.

Her hair whips while she's getting fucked. Even though the only skin I can see is her ass and some of her thighs and some of her lower back, her skin is healthy and soft, no ink, no scarration.

I wonder what type of lower back tat I could put on her. What design, what words. Her cunt is good and juicy and I can still picture her in my mind, how she looked with her skimpy leggings pulled up and her fat juicy ass all taut and tight and presented.

Presented for the purpose she was now fulfilling.

She put her ass on display to catch a high quality man, and now she was being fucked by someone who did not tell her his name and who did not know hers. I reached into her mind just for a tap and a push to get her here. Who she was and what her details were, like her name and age and story before this, were all a welcome mystery to me.

I knew her ass with her leggings pulled down was soft and bouncy and her cunt was tight and wet like it was made for thick wall-stretching cocks, cervix-tapping cocks like mine.

Damned if doggy did not hit her, whomever she was, in all the right spots like she promised.

And then like that! This cute stranger dressed nearly all in black but for her white ankle socks, her ass exposed and me pounding away at her, her asshole button getting pressed, the bed pressed right up against her exposed clit, and she was not lying, she was not telling tales. Doggy does make her come quick.

She comes like an air raid siren, like she's losing her mind, glitching out and restarting. It's loud and unintelligible, a woman giving in to her needs, to her essence. And in her essence, she is made of stars.

Her asshole seizes tight on the pad of my thumb and starts pulsing and contracting along with her grippy cunt. I don't know who she is or if she's really safe but her body is like a symphony and I love how her body is showing me this noisy, wonderful crescendo and I think in my own mind, "Seed her! Seed her," and I picture myself ejaculating white, milky white, into her swollen red and pink, so good, so good, so good, so very good and fulfilling, so refreshing.

Twelve hours of my cum go into her but it feels like twelve months.

I refuse to pull out and so make her finish her orgasm on my cumming, spasming cock. I refuse to pull out and so keep myself inside her, keep myself pressed deep in her, keep my hand on her hip holding her to me, lovingly, honoring her and honoring her fuck and bonding with her.

"God," she says after awhile of cozy, magical silence. "It feels like you fucked my pussy and my mind."

"Don't forget your soul."

She giggles. "I mean it." She moves under me.

"Not yet," I say, touching her back gently. "Not yet. Stay there a little longer, it feels so good."

"I know," she agrees, and stays there.

"You work out on that trail a lot?" I ask.

"Sometimes. Less so since the weather got colder. But now I've got a reason to."

I step back so she can pull up her thong and her leggings, which she does quickly, and spills not a drop of any of that milky white seed inside her. But she stands up to get the stretchy tight bottoms up over her soft hips, all the air from the fucking comes out of her in a silly, wet queef, which embarrasses her for an instant. "Sorry," she apologizes, but I tell her, "that's the sound of a girl who got pounded."

"Oh, I definitely did," she says. "I can't believe we met like this. What are the odds."

I love how a brain will try to make sense of what just happened and what we did together. "Yeah, pretty lucky," I agree. I don't know what's going on in there for her, I stopped reading or trying to push after she bent over and pulled her pants down for me.

That's what beautiful about this gift. If you're a good judge of character, you're really only giving people permission to do what they want to do and be who they want to be.

"I couldn't resist those leggings," I tell her. "You looked so hot in them. It was indecent, you're so sexy in them."

"Thanks. That's why I got them. I told you, guys love my ass."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Well, I guess I love my ass. And I love guys loving my ass."

"You like men checking you out?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Sometimes. All the time, if they're hot."

"And you want them to look at you and think about fucking you?"

"Of course. I mean, I guess."

"Sure worked for you today," I say

"Sure did," she agrees. "So, you like, live here?"

"I stay here."

"Cool," she says. "I was wondering what these places were like. You know? What they looked like on the inside?"

"Yes," I say. "I'll bet you did wonder that," and I smile.

4. Singing Along to Taylor Swift

Someone with powers like mine, you want to avoid cameras.

Not that I've ever met someone with powers like mine. But I have to imagine that is because we all take the same precautions. If people do not know about you, they cannot take your brain out of your head.

But still, a man has got to live.

I prefer to live in the homes of single women, and the best time to go shopping for single women is Saturday night. Not to the bar, not to the club, not to the apps. To the supermarket.

Women food shopping on a Saturday night--these are their best plans and they dress accordingly. Sweats. Ugly slides and maybe socks. Hoodies that likely do not match the sweats. Hair up in the messiest of buns and ponys. Makeup or almost no makeup and blemishes uncovered. They ain't here for no man.

No, they are not and that is why it is so much fun. Love only arrives when you're not looking for it.

I don't overly worry about the supermarket's cameras. I'm not here to do anything illegal or overly immoral. I'm here to meet cute. And, I'm here to give my victim--ahem, my target--ahem, the new love of my life--exactly what she wants.

You'll see. Right from the start.

When I enter the supermarket, I get my shopping cart, and immediately that part of my brain kicks in and I am sending out what I call the passive sonar. Calm projecting the mental receivers so I am hearing and feeling the thoughts passing through the consciousnesses in my general area.

Mumbles and fears and the mess of images that people's brains are.

Fine-tuning the frequency for the subatomic frequency of the particular human brains inside the store, feeling the emanations of their thoughts, the waves through space that human eyes cannot see but which can be felt, if you can tune into the right frequency, and which can be understood, if you practice and understand.

Who wants a boyfriend? Who are the women here who are desperately single? Who wishes they had a lover taking them on a date tonight? Who is projecting her longing and her need into the ether?

I push my cart unsuspiciously as I do this. I put a few staples into the cart, so I don't have to also use my mind to make people think I'm not suspicious. I mean, I'm not. I'm not stealing the goods. Just here to steal a heart. Or two.

Bananas. A box of cereal. And just about to add some coffee to my shopping cart, my mind weeding through all the thought-electricity I'm catching, when I feel her right before I see her. That vibe that had been resonating. Sixteen months single since she finished nursing school, lives alone without even a dog or cat, just a fish.

Curly hair. No makeup. Matching green sweats with a visible panty line--the sweats are old and comfy and not the outfit she would ever wear for talking to a man. Her panties are tiny bikinis, despite having her period.

That's fine.

I'm more interested in the free room and board and don't mind waiting to take her for the full ride. She's got a mouth that will be more than soft and wet and deep enough tonight.

We're just getting to know each other, after all.

Sure, I have a place to stay in this town, but having a single place to stay is not enough. Maybe you'd say I'm some type of predator, reading my memoirs here, even if I leave my campsites better than I found them, but I need to think like a prey animal. How do prey animals build houses? They always have another way out.

So, should my main spot get compromised, I need to have another place nearby to flee to, just in case. I hope not to need it, but I cannot afford not to have it. The stakes are my brain remaining in my skull, those stakes are worth the effort.

I bump my cart lightly into hers, and give her a hard mental push: I just said something incredibly witty and funny, you should laugh giddily and look at me accordingly.

She turns to me like she just heard the funniest thing all year, turns to me like she's been surprised by a movie star, one of her favorites. "You are too much!" she says when she regains herself.

Her face has the normal blemishes of a woman with decent skin. The other best reason to shop for pussy on a Saturday night at the supermarket is because this way you see them how they look first-thing in the morning, or when they don't care, or when they are stressed and at their worst. You see the worst of what you're going to deal with, you see the things you'll have to confront which mind control will not be able to change, because the one person you can never hypnotize with this gift, this curse, is yourself.

Under her sweats there is some softness and some curves, she makes her cotton clothes look squeezable and huggable, extra squeezable and huggable.

There's no security blanket animal in her cart or in her purse. Minimal jewelry. The stress pimples on her face I can live with. I'm sure they'll benefit from a thick dose of Vitamin E.

I look her deeply in her eyes and push again, saying outloud, "Hey, when it's right," long pause, "it's right."

And I touch her--gently, in her mind, reading the effect I'm having on her, and it is all golden, everything is rose-colored and her world suddenly went from dreary to pink.

"If it's right," I say aloud again, "say it's right."

She looks at me and smiles like I just asked her to prom like she had been secretly wishing I would.

"It's right," she says. "It's, like, so right."

Oh that sweet smile. Reading her I get flashes of that cute ex-boyfriend of hers, who was such a dick to her but whom she was all head-over-heels for the whole time and never realized he was cheating on her until the end, but it's been so long she's all innocent again and believes in love again and reads romance novels and erotic stories online every day... she's from upstate and only has a few work friends in town... I love it when I hit the jackpot on the first try... don't need lots of cousins or family coming over when I'm settling in at my new nest...

"What's your name, beautiful?" I ask her.

She gives me hers and I make one up for me and give it to her.

"Nice to meet you," she says, and sticks out her sweet, ladylike hand. Her handshake is so soft and delicate, I cradle her hand in between both of mine, and kiss her fingers.

"Enchanted," I say. "Enchanted."

I tell her, with my words that have a push, to finish her shopping and to wait for me in her car in the parking lot. She smiles and says great, then I decide for her which coffee to buy, pat her on the bottom, and let her go get the rest of the things on her list.

I need to get the rest of the things on my list.

Still feeling good from getting myself a backup place to stay that should be fully equipped and have all the comforts, my brain has plenty of power left. Now to find some real fuel.

I recalibrate my passive sonar.

Drugs. Mushrooms. Psychedelics. Cannabis. Cocaine. Any and all party drugs, who has got the hookup?

Supermarkets, bars and restaurants, health care: fertile places to find people with secret connections.

First I came in here to find a customer, now I'm here to find one of the staff. My semi-sub-conscious is feeling for a few key search terms--I'm mostly interested in some mind-expanding substances for me and my new roommate--and I feel that there is a manager doing restocking over in the dairy aisle, and this manager is thinking about psychedelics non-stop.

I push my cart over there, and while I do, I feel that one of the two cashiers, is not only holding some good stuff, but has a brother who can get pretty much everything.

The cashier is busy now with the small line of two customers at her register, but I know who's going to ring me up later.

Over in cheese, the manager is a cute blonde in her mid-thirties, slim-hipped from never having had a child thanks to the reliable IUDs she has used ever since having had a scare once with the NuvaRing in her twenties. Her current IUD is in year two of its happy life. Which is good because she has a boyfriend who fucks her all the time. He's in his fifties and is a happily married car salesman, with grown kids so she knows he's not shooting blanks.

When you probe into a mind, all of these events come rushing out at once.

Her married boyfriend doesn't know she loves to trip balls, not just suck them. She does that mostly by herself or with friends or with other lovers whom she picks up when she cheats on him. She always does some type of substance when she cheats on him, feeling guilty and feeling like trash. Even though the only reason she ever acts out like this is because her married boyfriend is busy doing something like vacationing with his wife or taking his kids to or from college or going to one of their graduations and is not spending that time with her.

I make sure she hears a voice in her head. "Hey, can you hook a supercool guy up?"

She turns, sees me, feels that subconscious euphoria I project into the back of her skull, and says matter-of-factly, "yeah, I can hook you up. See me in my office, in fifteen minutes, behind the customer service counter" and then she gestures with her head, to the front of the store.

"Can we make it five?" I say. "I'm about to check out."

"Okay," she says. "Hey everyone, I'm going on break in five, you can take yours after." There are two clerks stocking cheese from the inventory carts and they make no acknowledgement. I think that's a wry comment on my own abilities, but I'm the only one there who would get the comedy of it.

I push the cart to get on the checkout line for the cashier I chose. Funky colors in her hair. Beaucoup ink and metal piercings. She looks fun. I introduce myself to her with the same fake name I used on my new girlfriend, and she tells me her name, it's fun and sounds like a scent of perfume that everyone loves.

"Hey, I'm going to party with your manager in her office in a few minutes," I tell her in a low voice that I make sure resonates with those key decision centers of her brain. "You should come with. She says you've got some great shit you could spare."

She has pills. Pills and the last of some excellent shrooms that she tripped that past weekend with out at Big Pines with a group of friends.

Her body is lean and her breasts are small and her hips are narrow. Her store uniform is tight on her breasts and tight on her hips nonetheless. She has a lot of makeup on, big full lips and big lashes and winged mascara. She could go from this store to a scene show. Her cheeks are flawless. She only needs perfume, something as bold and naturally sexy as she is.

The store has a special code to ring up items for no charge as damaged and unsellable and she does that for my cereal and bananas and coffee.

There's no one behind me on line, and I see the manager go into her office, leaving the door ajar. The cashier has bagged up my purchases, which of course I did not have to pay for.

"C'mon," I tell the cashier, "close your lane and let's go, it'll be cool," so she puts up the sign and pulls the lever to close the gate and she goes with me around the customer service desk, to the manager's office.

The manager is sitting behind her desk, looking over the papers there. "Yes, please close the door," she says, and I do. There's a deadbolt lock and I lock the door behind us. I put my groceries down on a small table.

"What're you doing here?" the manager asks the cashier.

"She's my guest. She likes to party, too," I say.

"Is that right?" the manager asks. The cashier nods her head.

"Ladies, why don't you take your tops off for me, I'd love to look at your chests," I say, with that impulse behind it.

What I love is how they smile as they undo the buttons on their store-issue shirts and then pull them over their heads. They each have on functional, drab bras under their shirts.

My mind tells them to take each other's bra off, and to give each other a sweet kiss on the lips before they do.

The kiss they give is commanded, but their smilies are their own natural response.

Smell each other, I tell them, mentally. Don't rush things. Hold each other and take your time.

The manager is shorter than the cashier, so as they embrace, feeling themselves press against each other, the manager naturally begins inhaling the scene of the cashier right at the base of her neck, and then up to behind the younger woman's ear.

The cashier is melting in the arms of the older woman.

"I love your tattoos," the manager tells her twenty-year old employee, and traces the designs with her fingers. "Thanks, I love yours," the cashier says reflexively, talking about the ones the manager had hidden under her work clothes. Older ink, from a time in the manager's life when she was as young as the cashier.

They kiss more and finally succeed in undoing the other's bra hooks, until they are skin to skin, nipple to nipple.

While they make out, I comb through their brains, uniting their consciousness with mine, so we all communicate telepathically for awhile.

The women love this, and the feeling of looking into another woman's eyes and hearing her voice while you're feeling her tongue inside your mouth and slipping your tongue into her mouth fills them with such joy and euphoria, any resistance their subconsciousnesses might have offered is now replaced by pure encouragement. They are now my partners in crime. They love this magical feeling and they want more of it.

Speaking of magical feelings, ladies, I tell them... who has what?

The cashier empties the pockets of her tight black pants. She puts what she has on the table. Uppers, downers, and things to trip balls on.

The manager has a real and natural reaction. "I didn't know you were holding all that shit! You can't have that on you while working your line!"

I can't help but laugh. I calm her down, of course.

The cashier gives me her shrooms and some of the pills I'm going to want my new girlfriend to take and enjoy. I have the cashier and the manager each take a mellow downer to help them feel extra special on this shift. They are fine with that.

I plant some future orders into their brains, and the cashier and manager both say that I can come by anytime to pick stuff up. I have them write down their addresses, because I think I'm going to want to pick up stuff like that at their homes, in their own beds. They are all for that.

I say my new girlfriend is waiting for me in the parking lot, but she's on her period, and I don't want my first sex with her to be period sex, and they tell me that's very considerate of me to wait and that she's lucky to have found such a good boyfriend as me.

I say thanks, but that means I need to get inside now. The manager laughs and says she's on her period. But that tatted-out party-girl cashier sure as fuck is not. She just finished hers and "if you want to fuck, we can fuck," she says.

Right here, right now.

Off come those tight pants, off come those shoes and socks--not in that order, obviously. Off come her bland boring panties, she has the shaved lips but hairy bush style that women her age had embraced.

She kneels to suck me, but I stop her.

"No," I say. "I want to get to know you through your cunt, first."

The manager giggles, watches the younger woman bend over the manager's desk. "Oh, okay," she says, casually compliant.

I'm not pushing anymore, all the suggestions have been made and now their consciousnesses and their bodies are entirely under their own control. I wound them up, but now they're technically under their own power. I'm not making things happen anymore, I'm just enjoying.

I take my pants down but not off. I take my place behind the cashier, facing away from me, about to get to know me by the way I feel.

I rub my penis against the soft skin of her hips, of her ass. I tease her lips with the head of my cock. Feel for her opening. Her breathing and her noises are all her own. I ride up the ridge of her cleft until I sink into the part of her that holds all the depth.

"Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh," she says, feeling herself be penetrated by a stranger. A stranger whom she feels inordinately close to, but a stranger all the same.

Reaching into her brain to feel her thoughts and emotions, I feel her feeling dirty and shame, a double shame, shame for letting this happen and shame for loving that this is happening. She feels dirty inside and I let her feel dirty inside, I love feeling those feelings of hers. I love them for her and I love her cunt for me.

I settle myself into her and begin my pump. I look at the manager and wave her over. Topless with small but lovely shaped breasts with pink nipples. I get to know her through the feel of her nipples in my mouth. Then through the feel of her kiss, the kiss of her lips and her tongue and her mouth, while I fuck away at her younger employee.

It feels so good, I lean into it. I hold and squeeze that little manager while I pound away at that tight cashier. I rush to my orgasm.

After all, my new girlfriend is probably waiting for me in the store parking lot.

It feels like I'm coming for a whole minute. Such cleansing joy. Such total reset.

I make sure the manager kneels down for when I finally pull myself out of the cashier. Out of the cashier's cunt, right into the manager's mouth.

"I can't go home unclean to my new girlfriend," I tell them. They agree.

The manager uses her mouth to suck up the last of my cum and the cashier's juices, and then uses the cashier's ugly cotton panties to dry the saliva off of my dick.

"Don't forget her," I tell the manager, indicating the cashier, still bent over the manager's desk in a post-fuck cum-coma. The manager does not need to be told twice, and dives face first into her employee's pussy with the skill and technique of a woman who has done this before in her life, without having to be mind controlled to do it.

The manager cleans out my creampie from the girl's honeycunt, and tongue-fucks her young employee to a tongue-tastic toe-curler of an orgasm. The cashier's body tenses and her noises get so high, the human ear stops being able to hear them. But her boss is mmmmmmmmm'ing between her legs the entire time, very aware of how her tongue is making this cashier's break a break to remember.

No doubt this is not the first sloppy threesome to take place in this supermarket manager's office.

I make myself presentable again, make sure I have my new friends' home addresses in my pocket, and make sure I have my groceries. As I exit the store, my new girlfriend is in the driver's seat of her cute girl car, a two-door coupe of course, pulled up in front of the store, waiting for me.

The radio is on, and she's listening to Taylor Swift.

She sees me and smiles, waving at me like a young woman with a case of puppy love.

I give her a kiss when I get into the passenger seat. I'm looking forward to sleeping in her bed tonight, and I'm looking forward to seeing how good she sucks cock, when she blows me in her bed that night.

Coming down a new woman's throat, then falling asleep on her pillows, wrapped in her sheets, I will have arrived at a cozy place at last.

5. Sing An Hymn To Barley

Frolic. Frivolity. Laughter. So much laughter.

This pool brings joy. Brings happiness. They dip their reed straws into the large jugs of the beer and they dip themselves in the cool water. They dunk themselves down to feel the cool granite bottom of the pool on the bottoms of their feet.

They surface and they laugh. They joke about how it is to enjoy the river without worrying about the hippopotamus.

Truly their Lord is a great Lord. His craftsmen are great craftsmen. His water-men are great water-men.

They party in the sun in the main pool, at the new residence. They do not question how the water is brought in and brought away, it seems obvious despite how this chamber is walled off, made private from the rest of the estate. It is not uncommon for a river-pool to be engineered, but such a large one with such finely made walls and floor, this was true luxury.

It is not uncommon for the revels by an in-home pool to be protected by walls from observation. Why should the servants get to glimpse this?

The guests of the Lord of the Two Lands relax in the pools, the scribes sitting by to write down any requests the guests might have.

They are utterly aware, when the sign is given to raise the portcullis that was engineered down the stream and around the bend, beyond the sight of the revelers. But the scribes know.

They've been waiting for the signal all day.

6. Sing Those Party Hits

I want to have a party.

The nice thing about being me, I know my party invitations are going to be accepted.

The secret to a good party is good party planning, so I make sure my place is ready in advance. My place? As if there is anything to connect me to this row house other than me having the keys. I don't even carry identification with me. Money, credit cards, yes, but that's all I need.

I don't worry about getting pulled over. I never speed. I'm never in a rush. Why would I be? This gift is the closest thing to stopping time that the Gods could torture me with.

I am using my next-door neighbors as the main pantry for my house. We have back porches and it is easy for me to access their place through that back porch door. I have them leave it unlocked, in case I want to drop by.

They are a young married couple, in their mid-twenties. Frank and Alicia. I make sure they keep their house well-stocked with all the things I eat. They are both good cooks, and have truly embraced their new happiness, taking care of their neighbor. They're church folk. Regular Sunday attendance, plus Wednesday Bible Study, and even though I'm in their lives now, they have not changed at all to the outside world.

The charity they are showing to their neighbor is their honor, and they know their Deity knows, and that keeps them oh so happy, knowing their wayward brother next door has food to eat and friends in his life to look after him.

The true owners of the row house, living in vans outside their jobs and showering at their chain gyms? Yeah, they're doing fine, money rolling in like crazy, but Frank and Alicia don't give a flying fuck about them, never asked about them once.

Frank does not even mind sleeping in the garage next to his truck anymore. We put a nice twin bed in there for him and everything. Pillows, blankets, bed frame.

The garage door does not get perfectly closed, does not get totally flush with the wall to keep the air out, but that's okay, he bundles up tight when he goes to sleep in there. Sleeping in the garage is better for Frank, because then he does not hear Alicia inside the house. She gets pretty loud sometimes, especially when she's having more fun than she ever had in her marriage. She's taken to talking dirty like a fish to water. A fish with a dirty, dirty mouth.

Sleeping in the garage is also good for Frank because it helps him get up and get right to work. He's picked up every extra shift he can at the Plant. Even though Frank only works in the paper-pushing human resources department, there is lots of overtime he has been able to rack up. They all know he has a cute wife at home, but he tells them she does not mind and they are trying to save up to start a family.

Frank never tells them about sleeping in the garage and how free he feels, now that he only has to focus about work. I make sure of that, I check in with Frank regularly, and make sure that the gay couple a few houses over come by once or twice a month to make sure Frank's sexual needs are still taken care of.

The programming overlays stick better when the underlying biology is not fighting for basic needs. That Frank's natural inclinations did not point that way was no matter. He had been deprived long enough once I entered the picture and stopped his access to his wife. I needed her clean for me. Plus, exploring Frank's memories found those experiences years ago he had never told Alicia.

Never told her, kept hidden from her, kept buried so his wife would never, ever know, until I came around.

I thoroughly enjoyed the evening I had Frank tell Alicia all those sordid stories. I think Alicia enjoyed learning the truth about her husband.

I know she definitely enjoys watching her husband with her gay neighbors. I think the first time, she did not realize what was going to happen, and she certainly did not expect to enjoy watching her husband like that. But oh did she. She loved watching it and it made her insatiable to watch it, I didn't need to do anything to enhance the experience for her. Seeing her husband suck dick and get spit roasted by the couple next door, and she was hooked. Frank was sleeping in the garage forever more, and Alicia was making sure those neighbors of hers were always and regularly welcomed over.

The novelty wore off with Alicia fairly quickly. She was fairly dull, without a lot of interesting thoughts of her own. Not much of a reader, and too repressed to enjoy good erotic stories. Big hips, small breasts, but a happy drone in the working world, some sort of government paralegal who earned a decent living, and was happy to spend it on things I might need.

Like bottles of water for the party I was going to throw. And fruit slices, as refreshments.

She kept both of those things, regularly for me. Without Frank's bad influence, and the bad influence of her family, Alicia was eating healthier than ever before in her life. Frank might need to treat her to some new clothes soon in smaller sizes.

And maybe a tattoo. I wasn't sure yet.

But after getting a case of water, and a fruit platter to put into my refrigerator, I had Alicia tidy up and clean the house's downstairs and upstairs. Nothing too fancy, enough to make it safe and fresh and clean for guests.

I set up some bluetooth speakers for party tunes, linked them to a dedicated tablet that could play a dance mix over and over. Turned up the heat, I wanted this place cooking when I got back. Turned down the right lights, and soon Alicia and I had made my place look like a party, the only missing ingredient: the guests!

It was evening now, so time to find people ready to party.

Sometimes I have parties in the middle of the day. I like those, because it is easy to find people at work in the middle of the day to recruit for a party. And then I've got a house full of women in work clothes, dancing like they drunk. But they ain't drunk. I just put on some good beats and removed their inhibitions.

But under work clothes is work-appropriate underwear. I wanted the semblance of a real party.

I drove to a nice shopping area where there were several mid-range and upscale restaurants. They were easy to find. Park the car, then follow my nose: whichever perfume hanging in the air was enchanting me, that was the direction I went.

For the party, I wanted a good ratio, so I could watch as well as enjoy. I wanted to recruit six couples, and at least four extra women. A table of four, like a hen party of friends would be ideal.

The method was simple. Make eye contact with the target first, ask her "do you want to come to a great party?" and push at the same time. "Yes, I definitely want to come to a great party!" would be the reply that told me it took and she would now listen. "Hey, what's all this?" Her boyfriend or husband would say protectively. But then I'd look him in the eye and repeat the same verbal and push, and then I'd tell his girlfriend or wife with my mind to reinforce me, and she would say, "c'mon honey, let's go to this awesome party instead!" and then he would say "okay," and the way I structure it, he would listen to her, and she would listen to me, and we would have fun.

The first couple I picked up was young, standing at the bar, fit and slim, lots of ink on their visible skin.

Then, for balance, a nice older couple sitting at a restaurant, finishing their entree. I told them to get the check and join us. They were all ready to go.

Two couples on a double date at the mid-range restaurant next door, they were all dressed a little blue-collar, but I liked the way the women looked in their tight jeans. I thought they'd be fun for everyone. And luckily, just as I locked them up, in came a hen party of five female friends, all late twenties, early thirties, all done up to show off to their friends. Perfect.

I did not want to wait much longer, plus there were some very cute waitresses at this second restaurant. So I pushed their manager to cutting them early, and they were all thrilled to head to a party. Free booze, the key to a server's heart.

A couple was arriving in a minivan just as we were leaving, and so I decided to add them to the party and have them handle most of the transportation. Everyone who I put into the minivan got the suggestion in their minds that they were selected for this super exclusive, super sexy party, and they should all start chatting with all these other cool people to get to know them.

I put instructions into the driver's mind that would get them close to the house.

When the doors closed and they drove off, everyone was having a great time. I sent the hen party of women to the truck that one of them drove here in, telling her to just follow my car. No need to let them put an address into a phone's navigation program and then find it later and wonder.

The waitresses I took in my car, and yes, I did have the blonde sit up front while the red head sat in the back, and I did have the blonde give me oral gratification while I drove us home to the party. She smelled good, and her hair felt good in my hand while I drove and while she sucked me.

Her redheaded coworker in the back seat undid her black pants and started fingering herself, watching her friend blow me. And that was all on her own, I didn't make that happen, but I could watch her in the rear view mirror as she did it. She moaned and commented on how hot it was, watching her friend suck cock. That's what I live for, when my gift only exposes the truth about people, when it gives people opportunity to live their truest life, their bestest life.

The caravan of my car and the hen party passed the minivan where my directions had stopped them, and I gave the minivan driver the command to follow us into the new development we turned into. To park near the pool house, and then walk in the direction we drove until they found the house.

My car and the hen's truck both fit in the row house's two-car garage. And as soon as those women got out of the car, they heard the dance music blaring from the downstairs living room, and those hips started moving.

Once inside, shoes came off and without any need of any extra substances to relax and feel the music, these women were at the hot party they had been promised. All they had to do was feel that this was a hot party where they could let go and dance, and as they walked through the door of my borrowed garage into my borrowed kitchen, I made sure they felt it.

The party was on.

The rest of the party, the five couples total from the minivan, now came in through the row house's front door. They had talked and buzzed themselves into a frenzy, and they got the same treatment as they entered the house:

The overwhelming sensation of being at the best party of your life, and the only thing to do was be your true self and let loose!

And boy was it hot in here! I had turned up the heat inside and now it was kinda uncomfortable having all these clothes on.

People all took off their shoes out of courtesy as they entered what was to them, my house. Now, as they got down on the living room dance floor and started moving to the dance rhythms, they felt the heat and began reaching for their jackets, reaching for their scarves and sweaters and talking them off.

This party was getting hot fast, and they needed to be comfortable. Soon, the arms and the back of the nearby couch were a pile of cotton outer garments.

Women and men were dancing like they were drunk, pushing up against each other in this simple living room.

I loved watching the party shape and party form. Loved seeing everyone taking my suggestions so seriously, so well.

I watched it happen from the outskirts, checking to see everyone was checked in and enjoying themselves. I went around with a basket for them all to put their phones. No need to be disturbed for the time being.

When I entered the party for real, I had stripped down to a black t-shirt and black boxer-briefs. Watching the women dance was my favorite form of foreplay. Watching them work themselves up, watching them warm up their bodies on the floor, get their blood flowing all over, especially through their pelvises, this was how I liked to see them.

I slipped past the men on the outside of the dance circle, to the most confident women dancing towards the middle of the room. Pressing tightly against them, feeling their bodies close to mine.

Making eye contact with them, smiling, sharing the energy. A blonde with an exposed midriff. Feeling her put her arms around me, swaying into me in time with the music. Holding her by her hips, she's still in jeans, but not for long. Spinning from her, into a brunette with humongous breasts in a tight bodysuit top. Dancing tightly into her, crotch to crotch. Her dancing back at me, knowing she's feeling my erection through my cotton underwear.

I took so much trouble to get these seventeen strangers together for an impromptu dance party this evening, there was no need to rush it. I wanted to enjoy my party. From the refrigerator, out came the fruit slices Alicia prepared for me. Out come the bottles of water.

Out come the psychedelics I've been getting from my supermarket connections.

I go out my back porch and into Alicia's house. She's in her pajamas, showered and relaxing after working her regular work day then coming home to do chores for me. But she can't relax, it's time to party.

I let Alicia keep her pajama bottoms and rabbit slippers on, but I have her take off her top and put on a black bra that shows off her small breasts the best.

She comes back with me to the party at my place, and the sight of her kicks things up to another level.

A chubby girl topless but for her bra, hips already bouncing to the booming dance music, happy with herself and her daring style: this is a party they want to be at, I can feel it coming off of all of them. Alicia makes it eighteen, plus me, and my living room is packed like a nightclub with so many people now.

It's super hot in here now, so hot and those pills are starting to kick in and everyone is starting to feel a real sense of ecstasy. But that's why those water bottles are there. Gotta stay hydrated. Gotta cool down. Gotta get those cute going-out tops off now, because it's so hot and because they are jealous of Alicia, jamming there in only her bra and her B-cups.

Dancing herself close to some of the husbands and boyfriends in the five couples. Inspiring those girlfriends and wives to strip down to their bras, without me having to push at all. Pure female jealous and competitiveness, a natural phenomena, on full display in my dance-club living room.

Most of their bras match their tops. Blacks. Red. Blue. But not all. It's nice to watch a bunch of strange women dance in only their bras. The smaller shoulder movements so they don't come spilling out of them, the ones who that could be a danger for. The desire to feel the beat in the arms and to lift the arms high above the head, showing off their chests, celebrating their chests.

But the women don't like being the only ones half-naked, and they wives make their husbands strip down to their boxers, the girlfriends do the same for the unmarried men, and like that, it's an underwear party across the board. Everyone in only whatever undergarments they have on, swearing and dancing to the music.

There's a quiet spot on the stairs, where I can sit with different ladies and have the small, sweet conversations you have at parties.

"How do you know Alicia, our hostess?"

"Oh I just met her tonight. Great party isn't it?"

"Yeah, great party."

"She throws such a good party."

"Yeah," I agree.

"I was out with my girlfriends for one of our dinner nights, and we just started talking to these cool people who brought us, I don't even know where I am."

"That's so great," I tell her. "It's so cool you're open to new things."

"Yeah," she says. "Hey, you wanna, like, go upstairs?"

"You think we can?"

"Yeah. I mean, I won't tell." And she goes from sitting on the steps to walking up them, the black thong of her panty showing off her perfect butt as it wiggles upstairs. I take one look at the dance floor and see that the couples have shaken up, and people are just dancing to the music, all half-undressed, the secret underground sexy dance party with real people that many dream about, but few achieve, let alone in the comfort of their own living room.

Upstairs, I find the first woman I've chosen. She's found my bedroom, and is taking off her bra before falling backwards onto the mattress, playfully. "Oooof!" Then a giggle.

"Oh good, you've joined me," she says seeing me. "That's what you're supposed to do at a party," she asks me, "sneak off and fuck. That's why they put beds in the rooms upstairs. So people can sneak off and fuck."

"Is that what we're doing?" I say, pulling my underwear off, watching her watch me do it, watching her eyes focus on me exposing myself to her.

"That's what we're about to do, isn't it, tiger?"

I roar as I jump onto the bed. She shrieks playfully. The music from downstairs is making the floor vibrate. We fuck in our own rhythm.

She's good and game and cute and luscious and obviously very willing. Psychic energy is leaking all over the place. Getting into all of their heads and swirling them around has stirred up things in the air. We've all taken drugs that do things to your serotonin and cortisone receptors and that flood your system with those and dopamine and all sorts of other happy but controversial molecules, some very ancient indeed, some which even the Egyptians of the Middle Kingdom were taking.

And then there's the music itself. Humankind's first magic.

She fucks like she knows if she fucks and is fucked right, she will come from being fucked. Which she does and that makes me want to come to, which I does. Sic? Oh, it's so sick, bro.

Fucking at the party, coming at the party, after glowing and cuddling at the party.

Not for long. Until she says, "hey, that was great, she should get back to the party."

And we do. We don't bother getting dressed, and that's fine, because as we come downstairs, the party is out of hand.

Alicia has been bent over the dining room table, and three of the men, the minivan driver, one of the blue collar guys, and the older married man, are fully enjoying her. The minivan driver has her pussy, while her mouth gives a double-barreled blow-job to the older married guy and the blue collar guy.

On the couch, the other blue-collar guy is sitting next to the younger married guy, and they are both getting head from the two waitresses. The blonde who was blowing me in my car is working over the second blue collar guy, while that feisty red-head deep throats the married man with ease.

One of the women from the hen party is standing in the kitchen with the older married wife, and they are kissing and making out, slowly and sincerely, absolutely dead to the rest of the party happening around them.

The older woman seems to be leading, seems to be a touch more intense and more in charge. The younger hen party gal seems more hesitant, her kisses are slower and she seems more curious and exploratory.

I go over to them and tell them, "hey guys, the bedroom upstairs is free, in case, you know," and I see them break their kiss and open their eyes and make perfect eye contact. They hold that eye contact and nod their heads almost imperceptibly, and holding hands they go upstairs together.

The young married wife, the minivan driver's wife, the two blue-collar girlfriends and three of the hen party women are still dancing up a storm on the living room dance floor. They've got more space for dancing, with Alicia taking a miniature gang bang and the two waitresses keeping the other men busy, so the women who still want to dance can dance.

I get what's happened.

Fucking this wonderfully anonymous cutie upstairs has shed that psychic energy all over the party, and water sought its own level. The ones who were predisposed to raunchiness, found their way to it. The ones less so, stayed dancing.

With the glowing energy of a fresh fuck, she and I headed back to the dance floor, the only totally nude ones in the dance circle now. Our nakedness makes the ladies blush, is taken as comedy. But they get used to it, they give back. My penis gets more than one teasing squeeze, as it bounces and moves in time with the music, in time with my dancing feet.

My butt gets groped, my chest and arms, these women are shameless. Across the dance circle, the woman I just fucked it faring the same. Her friends feel up her bouncy breasts as curiously as I did fifteen minutes ago, but with far more grace.

My controls are long off, these women are under their own power now, under their own power and the power of the beat.

I've been groped long enough when I start to grope back. Touches lead to dancing closer. Dancing loser leads to kissing on the dance floor, and soon it's a kissing circle, sending kissing around the circle in either direction, and then having them bounce back to me. Everyone kissing the woman to their left and their right, except for the women to my left and my right, who kiss me. A playful makeout fest on the dance floor.

The two lesbians return down from the bedroom. They've been up there so long, my lips are sore from kissing all the ladies still dancing. There are two whom I feel a special chemistry with, the young married woman and another one of the hen party girls, and I take them with me to the stairs for some kissing and cuddling.

The rest of the men are ready for a round two, and before I take these two women upstairs and end my night with them, I want to watch the rest of the action before sending the rest all home.

Alicia excuses herself and goes home to her husband, where she can wake him up in the garage and present him with a late-night snack directly from that pussy with which he used to be so intimately familiar.

Even they just had a lovely lesbian experience, the older married wife and her hen party friend are ready to show their bisexuality. Five men and ten women is the kind of ratio that allows every lady to demonstrate her bisexuality, and these ladies were not shy about exploring their sensuality after a killer cool secret party like this.

From dancing in their underwear, to fucking in a bisexual orgy, this was the kind of Saturday night they all had dreamed of at some point. Now coming true.

They fuck for the joy of touch and connection, of intimate touch and connection and stretch, swapping partners and players again and again, fucking in every combination so everyone has the chance to be with everyone else at least once, to feel their kiss, to feel their suck, to feel their fuck.

The two I've picked for the night love the show, love the combinations, love the experience of a private sex show as foreplay.

They fuck hard and fast, this is a sprint now, not a marathon. The sounds of women's orgasms are thick and heavy in the air. It's mostly the girls getting the girls off, but that's fine by me.

I choose one of the women from the hen party as the star of the finish. She kneels in the middle of the room. She smiles. And each of the five men finish on her, one after another, jerking their loads onto her smiling face.

She smiles, she is the one who suggested this. With my help, I admit. She says the word "bukkake" herself, though, and pronounces it correctly, too. That's all her. She's sophisticated, she's not repressed. She watches porn, she reads erotica.

She's come to videos of other women's bukkake's before.

I have one of my two ladies film hers, so I can come to her bukkake another time.

She rubs all the Vitamin E over her cheeks, her foreheads, her nose. Her smile is innocent and pure, pure like the semen coating her face. Fresh from the source. Already cooling and drying like any other high-end skin mask.

Sweet jokes about her nighttime skin-care routine, and this insane underground private party is over. People get dressed laughing, with smiles on their faces. No need to tuck back in these chic going-out clothes. No need to put that bra back on, to comb that hair. People going to theirs cars, people thanking their host, who they recognize as me, sitting on the stairs, watching it all. Thank you so much. Wonderful party. Had so much fun.

They leave like the end of a midsummer night's dream, like mortals returning from faerie.

I take my two party favors upstairs to that well-used bed, and joke about finding the wet spots those two lovely lesbians left. "Oh you mean Dottie and that lady?" the hen party women says, naming her bicurious hen party friend. "Yeah, I had no idea she went that way. She never did anything like that so long as I've known her."

"What about you?" I ask. "Have you ever done anything like that?"

"No," she says, "but I guess I'm going to tonight."

"Yes," I agree. "I guess you are."

"Kissing girls is easy," says the young married wife. "Here, see?" she says, and shows her soon-to-be bedmate, with a long kiss on the other woman's lips.

I feel very good about my instincts that told me to pick these two.

The married wife is a true gem and a bit of a sadist. They're both still there the next morning, when I have Alicia come over to cook breakfast for us, which she does. The married woman explores her sadistic streak by demeaning Alicia for getting gangbanged first like a needy slut, not saying anything necessarily objectively true, but finding all of Alicia's weak points and pecking at them.

It's like its own form a mind-control, the mind-control women have over each other. Addictive to watch, once it gets started.

The married wife is smoking a joint, and she goes from verbal torture to physical, first as a surprise and shock, and then a deliberate process, grabbing Alicia's arm and rubbing the lit end of the joint against Alicia's bare skin, as if to snub out the jazz cigarette on Alicia.

But each time, the woman pulls back, leaving a red welt in a vague circle on Alicia's flesh, Alicia wincing in pain, and her torturer laughing hysterically.

Makes sense. She fucked like the proverbial hellcat the night before, and slapped the face of the other woman while I fucked her, demeaning and degrading her, dominating her and the hen party woman let her get away with her, let her dominate her and took everything she dished out.

She puts six red burns on Alicia's arm before she's done.

When I finally sent her home to her husband, full of my cum, I had her write down her name, address and all her contact information. I had the idea that her happy marital home was going to be my next backup nest here in town.

7. Sing to Call the Ancient

So happy. So much laughter. Music playing. Pipes. Harps.

The sounds ricochet off the granite walls around the pool, dense and immovable. The revelers in the pool splash and play. The games are getting quite wanton now. Everyone is quite drunk on beer and datewine. Everyone, men and women, are quite naked.

The water is frothy with excitement and love. The musicians are busy with the crescendos of their musics. Lusty excitement for everyone, except those scribes patient and loyal, who sit on the sides and watch. Their wet clays and reeds at the ready in the superior Akkadian fashion.

One counts his breaths, to number how many breaths he will take between the giving of the signal to raise the stone portcullis blocking the water channel down stream, and for the results to become apparent.

He has counted sixty on his right hand nearly thrice when it happens.

A reveler is shouting with joy in the pool, and then is gone, suddenly plucked under the water. Then up again, in a fury, then down again, then shaking through the water, as if some god is moving him, shaking him all about.

A god is moving him.

Sobek is moving him. Sobek has him.

Another reveler goes under the pool's surface. Then another. The pool begins reddening from blood and then the others begin screaming. Trying to get out of the pool as fast as possible. But too many of Sobek's children have been let through the portcullis.

The crocodiles stack the bodies under the portcullis stone, saving most of them for later, keeping them in the water, preserving them as best as the crocodiles can.

The scribes make careful notation for their Lord and Master about the screams from the victims and the ways Sobek feasted on them. Scrupulous attention to detail is paid.

8. Playlist of Songs for Strength Training

I still need to work out my body. For me, that means a gym. Luckily, the people whom I am indefinitely ""house sitting" for, already have a recurring gym membership. There's an app on their smartphone for it, which I am also borrowing. Logs in automatically and easily. Even more luckily, it's one of those anonymous, twenty-four-hours-a-day large corporate chain gyms.

This was good, so my first visit can be at three in the morning.

I bring up the app on my borrowed cell phone, scan it at the gym's front desk.

I know this will bring up a picture on the front desk's screen with the biographical details. When I scan in, there's no one at the desk, but my host's i. d. is accepted, the machine chirps approval.

"That's okay, you can come in, thanks," calls out the clerk, wearing the uniform of the gym with its brightly colored t-shirt top.

"Thanks, actually I need some help, whenever you get a chance."

The clerk puts down his mop and walks over. "What's the matter?"

"This photo on my membership profile is really old, I need it updated," and I push a little extra behind my words, right into his brain.

"Sure, happy to help you with that," and he goes around the desk. Moving as if automatically. Re-logging in to the system, finding the right menu box for updating a member's profile and then update a member's photo, and then reaching for the digital camera on the front desk, and turning it to face me, and like that, my face is now the face for my host's profile.

So that way, no one will stop me when I come back to this gym to workout, and I won't even have to push and use some energy just to get a workout in.

All I had to do was one simple push this time, and that was it. One and done.

I thanked the clerk and he went back to his mopping. I entered the gym and had a look around. Nice, clean men's locker room. Nice, new main room with many new cardio machines, many new strength training machines. Absolutely empty though at this hour of night.

Some dedicated breakout areas for stretching, for yoga classes, and of course, the other main area full of free weights, benches and squat racks.

So as not to waste the car trip, I pumped iron for a half hour or so. Waiting to see who might come in. Hoping. But, nobody came in. This was a nice, new residential area with new construction homes and brand new communities filling in old, rocky wilderness that could now be reached by road and water and sewer.

That first night working out, I was sleepy at that hour. It had taken a lot of nervous energy to take the borrowed cell with its fitness club app and go over to the all-night gym to make the photo switch. A small push but one I wanted so much. Because I realized quickly that this was gong to be how I built the local harem.

The line of row houses were so nice and new, I wanted to fully enjoy them. How better than to be able to open any back door or front door or garage door and be welcomed inside any of them. I wasn't going to be wild. The house I was housesitting in was near the end of a long row, and there were twelve more houses from me to the end of the row.

Thus, including my sweet, chubby Alicia next door, there were twelve back porches where I might like to find myself welcome.

I was not going to take the time to be subtle about it.

First step was to inspect the current occupants and start clearing out space. These were all new homeowners.

I do not like knocking on doors. Find it wastes too much time. Better to wait for them to enter or leave. Then I can make eye contact and say "hi, I'm your friendly neighbor. Why don't you show me your home?" and push.

They turn right around, and welcome me in, just like I want. The houses are identical, but it is fascinating to see what twelve different but identical homes are like. How each resident does things similarly but differently.

This new development has attracted lots of couples without children, so each new visit, some might say home invasion, begins with what I call, "the tasting of the women." That's first, via a guided tour of the house, all doors and closets and cupboards open, no secrets. Light pulses from my brain to theirs, this is normal, this is fun, this is good. It is a delight to be introduced to your female neighbors via the rooms they occupy and the scents they leave behind.

If anyone is missing we find that out, then begins "the disposition of the men." No need for them around, but how much are they earning and where to dispatch them? Which of their accounts are automatically set to pay the utility bills and other payments for this house?

It's true intimacy to learn the finances of others.

It's sad when you learn how bad their finances are, though. Of course I straighten that out for them. That's the irony they will never understand. I don't want the water getting shut off or the electricity or even worse, the WiFi. I don't want people coming by to repossess or foreclose. I don't want anybody coming by at all to see what fun we're up to.

Of the dozen couples whose hand I touched over the week where I set things up, giving each couple all or most of a day, to truly take my time and get to know each one extremely personally, six of those needed my particular brand of credit counseling. They were living way beyond their means, lots of debt in addition to this mortgage. Many of the young people had credit issues and had older family members on the papers with them.

One thing I was going to give them all was fiscal discipline.

I sampled the ladies and put them through their paces. This was my recreation after the long, deep, heart-to-hearts and fiscal counseling sessions. The best solution was to make sure the men were committed to being good earners and making the sacrifices necessary for long-term financial success.

My brain made sure they all felt deeply committed to that cause. I wanted complete freedom, so I let them understand that their spouse or significant other had just received a great promotion at her work, but that meant she would be working even more, maybe even entertaining at home, and what would be best for them both, but especially her, would be for him to move out.

If he had living parents, he should move back in with his parents. Especially if he was from out of state originally.

Of the twelve, six were from out of state, and all seemed to feel relieved at the end of our talks to be moving back to their home state. Not all of them had parents, but those that did were happy to get home to them, and those that did not, were excited to return to their old home towns and make something of themselves for real.

One was originally from out of the country, but his passport from there still worked, so he got to move home there, too.

What was great was how quickly they resolved to go. Their enthusiasm was building all through the conversation, and just as they were resolving to head home and give their woman the space she needed, while getting a new job if they did not work remotely and sending all his checks to their joint account, still; then their woman appeared with a suitcase packed for him and a boarding pass ready on his phone. One way flight. Leaving tonight.

"Don't ship my clothes and things, donate them to some charity, please," each of these seven men said as they left for home. Amazing how sure, how confident they were when they said it. So noble and above it all. Permanently wired to never regret it.

That's another nice service I think I provide. People are always happy with my work, they will never tell you otherwise.

Seven birds, flown home, out of the area, no need to bump into them, awkward conversations, awkward additional exercises in mind control when I don't need it or want to do it.

In the digital economy, they could be good earners and wire that scrilla anywhere I needed it.

"Tell everyone we only separated for money issues, that we separated to save money. Keep your wedding ring on for now. This is only for a year and a day. Only a trial separation. Only for a year and a day." This is what the women say to the men.

It's emotional but never any kissing. They shake hands and then he goes.

"Spend almost nothing, that's the key to financial success," I tell them, in my special voice. "Keep depositing any income into the joint account with your lady, but work as much as you can and live cheaply and humbly." I feel confident that this lesson will stick for the year and the day limit I'm building into it. Instructions seem to phase better when they have a built-in sunset like this. The tissue absorbs a fading dose more fully than something trying to attach permanently.

I don't expect to still be here in a year and a day when these things wear off. That feels like too long to coop up anywhere.

But over the course of seven full days and nights, I got to thoroughly know and help these neighbors, the seven relocated being the easiest and my favorites.

Two of the in-state fellas were from a far-away part of the state, and I decided to send them both home, since both had family to return to. One seemed very effeminate to me, so I asked a few questions that required truthful answers and got him to come out of the closet to his girlfriend, on his way that night to going home and coming out to everyone in his hometown and starting again.

The other three had family and friends in this city, so they each needed a personal approach to find the easiest way for them to relocate that night to some city far out of state. Some place where they could be set up for success.

Because the fewer problems they had, the less blowback from the the other people in these men's lives like family, friends, co-workers. They did not have the benefit of my special voice and my conversation and my help. They needed to be surprised but not suspicious. It had to look like a stupid idea, it had to look plausible even if ridiculous, even if brought on by the shame of romantic separation, but whatever it looked like to the outside, it had to not look like mind control.

That was the art. That was the precision of the scalpel. The cut that heals.

So, the remaining three each got to move far away to pursue a long-held dream. He got the support of his lady to be there for him, right here in this house, one year and one day from now, just like in the storybooks.

She packed his bag, she booked his flight and his first week of a hotel while he looked for a new apartment and job, and then he left, on his way into his bright, exciting adventure in whatever far-off place dong whatever foolish thing had long been his secret dream!

Proof that I make lives better. That I am a force for good. That this ability was given to me so I could do good in the lives of mortals.

I then immediately fucked his lady again, right there in that house, often in various rooms of the house but always ending up in what had just been their bed.

And so in seven days of deep, intense intimacy, I set the trapped free and liberated the dull. A dozen new lives to play with.

These ladies were cute, but none were what I had in mind for the harem. Choice morsels all together. But each of these ladies could be landlords, sharing the house in one of the smaller bedrooms, doing the important cooking and cleaning and upkeep, in addition to whatever job they had out of the house.

I was nice, I let each of them order a brand new bed, a small twin, for one of the smaller-sized bedrooms they now moved in to. And I happily inaugurated each brand new mattress with each of my neighbors when it was delivered. Once the new beds were there, once we had moved some of their dresses and clothes into their guest bedrooms, then I could move the harem into their vacant master bedrooms.

Since the priority was a quick, small mattress and box spring, plus the new linens for same, and since these orders needed to be split across several companies so as not to arouse any excessive notice, it took another two weeks for all twelve to now be set up as hostesses in their own homes.

Of course I checked in to make sure the men who had been in their lives were taking well to the suggestions I implanted in them. Everything was sticking like glue. Their paychecks kept depositing to the shared accounts, the bills kept getting paid automatically from the bank accounts, and their men were racking up nearly no charges on any of the shared accounts or credit cards.

Meanwhile, I was spending a lot of time at the gym I had joined.

And, I wasn't going at three in the morning anymore.

Having gotten to know the managers and the staff, it was easy for them to give me a copy of the key to various store rooms and closets and the back office. So, if I saw something and absolutely had to have it, I could take her somewhere private.

I did that so I would not have to tell everybody that they were not seeing what they were seeing. You want to get away with public sex, like I did back at my Alma Mater before starting this phase, I had to reach into the mind of everyone in the room. It is doable, but it is still not easy to do, and I even waited to have a fresh board of people entering the room to be able to do it.

But making eye contact and slipping into a private space, even if only a maintenance closet, was quickly becoming my favorite way to screen for new roommates for the ladies in the row houses, which I was starting to think of as "The Ranch."

Each unit had the on-site concierge set up, the actual woman who owned the house. I let them all keep their wedding rings on, too. A year and a day, I would be giving them back. I figured I could move two women at least into each house, a simple gallery of pleasures and delights. All the provisions necessary for a long stay in one place. Instead of having to find a new place each night, I could rotate through any of the rooms of my palace, unpredictable and hopefully unassassinatable. Uncatchable. Never bored.

The nice part to a suburban chain gym is the variety of female beauty that comes through the doors at all times.

Listening to her thoughts, once her body or her face caught the eye. Figuring out what is afoot in her life, how complicate will she be, moving in with her new roommates? How disruptive will this be in her life? Is she a good candidate to feel fucking beautiful and wonderful all of the fucking time? Is she the sort of woman who can handle living in constant bliss?

Not everyone can. It is a biological adaptation, to be able to handle plenty and prosperity and the lack of want. Saving and conserving are different skills than killing and getting and eating to stop from starving.

We celebrate a lot of birthdays together, not everyone, but a small group for each one. Even when they move in to the Ranch, they still have their old life and old jobs and old connections, their old obligations beyond our simple mind-improvement cult. We might go out to a restaurant together. There might be a cake and a sparkler candle but no singing waiters. Private room in the back and the chef's tasting menu and we all sing for our roommates birthday.

But even the vanilla times are kinky because it is us. Everything we do is kinky even when it seems like something vanilla, like celebrating a birthday at a nice restaurant, to satisfy the foodies on the Ranch.

It takes a long time to fill thirty-six beds. But I am committed to this project. The gym helps reroute women who generally live in the neighborhood already. Do they have a lease to break? A house to sell? A partner to leave?

That is easy, and they instantly have a support group of a dozen women who can tell them they are making the right decision!

One of those women is her new landlord, who chose her specifically. I want my neighbor-wives to have more input in the project, so I am letting them "draft" the women we add to the harem. I want them hosting women they have some interest in, I expect it will lessen the psychic costs on me for having to reassure them as the months go by.

I start taking one of my neighbor wives to the gym with me, scouting the women who come in and discussing them. So, one of my neighbors is my date everywhere I go, and everywhere I go we are scouting for talent. Discussing. Comparing, rating, then scanning their brains and concluding and choosing.

The first half-dozen women come from the gym and are sampled thoroughly. But excellent candidates began appearing too quickly to spend so much time assessing each one, and quickly the plan goes awry, and women who meet all the criteria are finding themselves offered "a room in my friends' house where they can stay rent free and get their life together." What is going on in their life that they have to get together? Many times absolutely nothing, no more than an unreleased dream to have a great adventure that leaves her on a higher plane of existence for ever.

That is a dream that we can make come true for them. And we do.

So they move into their new space without anyone having fucked them.

But that only makes the party welcoming them to the Ranch so much more fun and so much more interesting.

9. Sing the Theme Song

It was time for a vacation. Something truly relaxing. A get away.

I wanted more happiness in my life. Supposedly there was a place with more than others. They took cash for admissions and did not check identifications.

I had the car lent to me by the lovely people I was housesitting for. I did not want to fly, lest I be on any type of list. Secret lists that were not public. Lists that could not be real because the people on that list had mutant abilities.

Not that I was aware of anyone else who could be on such a list other than me.

Driving felt safer.

But I would need a companion. Someone fresh.

I was careless, I was reckless. I went to a large church on Sunday and scanned the crowd. Who could afford to be my fun for a few days, and no one would go looking for her and find me? Who could leave a place with me and if I got caught on camera, no one would claim abduction? Surely there must be an adult lady in this crowd who was safe for someone fun like me?

Turns out there were an half dozen. I found them by sending out, in small, controlled areas at a time, "who could afford to run away with a sexy stranger for a few days and get away with it." Dangling it out there like a fantasy during a boring sermon. Teasing it as a wet daydream while singing the same old hymn.

The one I chose was married. Thin, finely groomed, wearing tasteful chic neutrals that understated her education and her status. But she and her husband had talked about something like this, and they both daydreamed about driving off to a carefree time with a carefree sexy man.

The husband sitting next to her in the pew received my brain waves as easily as his wife did. I helped the husband out just enough, pushing his brain in the right spot, to get him to lie convincingly to the kids and to confidently be able to handle them both on his own. He had done so before, when her parents had been sick out of state and she was gone to be with them.

He enjoyed the times he was father without mother, he enjoyed the independence and would not even be bothered at the thought of what his wife was doing. She was at her parents, of course. Even though only her mother was left and even though her mother was away on a cruise off Brazil. Easier to picture his wife someplace safe and proper than where his deep subconscious knew she really was.

I had her text each day, something innocuous, so he could lie to their children more easily.

Taking a woman in her church clothes, no time to pack, just slip way from everyone after all the obligations are ended. And when hubby takes the kids into the minivan, when she is away out of sight, she slips into my front seat.

No need for words. I'm pulling most of the strings, anyway. No need for talking. She smells so good, I'm glad about my choices, no matter how chaotic.

A long drive is a beautiful way to get to know a cute MILF. Especially when she is a mother I'm going to fuck. I'm patient, so I wait until the freeway before she begins the road head.

I drive responsibly in the far right lane while she sucks me and finishes me. Swallows like a champ.

The best way to meet a woman. To feel her vulnerability and have her feel yours. In a few minutes, her tender kiss and her loving mouth have healed me. I am lighter now, I am more merciful, I am recharged and better.

She smiles the smile at me of an intimate. She looks at me with the pride of a woman who will happily do that again. Doing it for you means as much to her and her perfect eyes as her perfect eyes looking up at you while she's doing it, means to you.

Now that she has tasted my cum, it is time to learn her name.

Which she shares with me, followed by her life story. Starting from her present circumstances, who and what and where she was that morning, and then spiraling out and backwards, all the way back to who and where she came from, and forward to here and where she wants and dreams of being.

Many hours and many miles down the road consume this story.

I tell her, "you're better than a podcast."

She's my private podcast, and sometimes she has to tell her stories while I grope her and fondle her from the driver's seat.

It's a long trip and I drive fast.

We've left late and won't make it, so I stop in the early evening at a motel in a roadside town halfway to our destination. The young woman who checks us in goes to a local community college and is cute. She can get us the drugs me and my new traveling companion like, and she can deliver them herself later that night directly to our room. When her shift will be long over.

We christen the motel room with a nice, sweet get-to-know-you fuck. Her married body and her married pussy enjoying the new attention and the new flesh, warmer and hotter than she's used to. We're not strangers anymore, we're lovers on a roadtrip, and we fuck sweetly without any thought of her husband or her kids or anything other than me and she.

I know because I can feel it, I reach inside to her consciousness and she is entirely focused on the sensations from her clitoris and her g-spot and how they lead her directly to the center of the universe, and when the big bang occurs, she sees it occur and she comes.

Loud.

We get dressed and go shopping. There's a cheap retailer. She needs panties and bra for tomorrow. She needs comfy shorts and shoes. She can't go where I'm taking her in church clothes and be comfortable.

She puts it all on her own credit card. So nice of her. She will get to keep the clothes, after all. She has kept her mommy body slim, so the sizes at this store fit her easily, in each department. This is where she shops for her own casual sportswear, her modern foundational pieces. Just because she and her husband make good money does not mean she is not frugal on basics and disposable fast fashion.

I knew this trip was coming, so I had the advantage of packing the morning I left.

The motel has a coin-op laundry. Her clothes, though new, need a wash before they are safe for skin. Not a long or complex wash for cheap clothes. One long delicate cycle and some hanging dry in the motel room shower.

And while they dry it is time for dinner in the motel's simple restaurant.

And then it's time for a shower, and then it's time for the front desk clerk to come by with the drugs and our change from the cash we gave her so she would not have to use her own money to buy.

People have never been more trustworthy than they have been since I could read and control their minds.

She had change for us but I told her to keep it. She put the cash back into her purse then put the purse down on the motel room's desk.

The girls did some cocaine and I smoked some weed. Vicki the wife and Sharon the front desk college student were a natural pair. One an older version of what the younger wished to be. But the younger living the adventurous life that the older now missed and secretly wished would return.

And now here it was, staring her in the face like the hairy, wetly aroused pussy of a twenty-two-year-old stoner and part-time community college student, who had never been eaten out before by anyone with a country club membership.

And while Vicki had not even eaten anyone out since just after college, she discovered that she had not forgotten how to eat out a chubby, stoner college girl.

They, after all, were the source of most of Vicki's college drugs, especially during the long periods when Vicki did not have a boyfriend to buy them or get them for her.

I watched them dyke out like I was watching a film directed by the famous Abigail Winters herself. All natural and passionate. Vicki kept herself so fit, you could not even tell about the age difference.

We told Sharon our plans, and offered for her to come with, but she said she had a shift starting tomorrow at eight in the morning. She had her uniform with her, and was hoping she could sleep here with us, it would really help her get to work on time.

No problem there. We lived to help cute stoner drug runners.

We all smoked weed as Vicki watched Shanon and I get to know each other. Shannon was a good fuck, her skin felt amazing and her chubbiness gave me more to hold on to than the slimmer Vicki earlier that day. But I still enjoyed having had them in that order.

Instead of fucking all night, we passed out kinda quickly together, setting alarms for one cute pile fuck in the morning before all using the shower to get ready. Shannon so she could report downstairs on time for work to start her shift after getting fucked into nirvana, and Vicki and I so we could hit the road and make our destination early.

Indeed we did, driving directly to what might be the greatest amusement park ever created by humans.

Vicki was in her new, incognito clothes and she looked great. Tight leggings, top with wide sleeves that made grabs of her bra-covered breasts extra easy. She bought some new perfume at the store, too, and now smelled like an entirely new girlfriend. Magic.

She texted her husband that she was okay and he replied that he and the kids were alright and missed her but everything was fine there. And that was all she mentioned or thought about him and them all day.

We paid admission in cash and in we went.

I was fishing again. There was a great hotel onsite, and I wanted to stay there with Vicki tonight. But I didn't want to make a reservation or register in any way (we registered at last night's hotel with Vicki's identification and her credit card).

So I walked around with her, projecting out the thought, "are you staying at the park's hotel tonight?"

I knew it was working because every ten minutes or so, Vicki, who was walking around with me, silent, holding only my arm like I was her man, would answer me, out loud, "babe, you know I'm not staying at the hotel tonight, but you know I want to!"

Not as much as I did.

It was after lunch on a line for one of the Space rides, that I finally found the fish. Older couple, retirement trip. They had a nice big suite in the hotel that night, and for the whole week. They were huge fans of the Park and the brand.

After that ride, they came up to us like we were long-lost friends. Because, to them, we were. They told us to meet them at a certain place after the closing fireworks, so we could go with them, so they could show off to us, their suite at the hotel.

Which they did.

They each had a wristband and they lifted up their wrist bands to the front desk staff. "They're with us," they told the front desk staff, meaning Vicki and I who did not have wrist bands.

I was all ready to push but I did not have to. The front desk staff was fine with some couple-couple late-night hanky panky. Up the elevator we went, which had to be unlocked by one of their wrist bands, too.

Then down the hall to the end to their suite, which was unlocked by their wrist band.

The suite was grand, with an even grander view of the Park's attractions.

"Oh my god, we are actually right inside the park at night," Vicki said. She was thrilled without any pushing at all. It was nifty, brought out the innocence in all of us.

That was a perfect time for the older wife to start running the hot water in the soaking tub that had plenty of room for a party of four. A perfect time for the clothes to come off and for the foursome to start.

The orgy was a bonus, I had only planned on making sure that Vicki and I had a luxurious place to sleep for the night inside the park. We had already bought our early-entry ticket for tomorrow, and did not want to miss a minute of the happiness available there for absorption.

But that night, she and I eventually collapsed into the king-sized master bed, and our hosts took one of the guest rooms. There's something about hotel beds and the well-fucked cunt of another man's wife. Ingredients for a perfect night's sleep.

10. Sing To Make Their Tongues Fall Out

The scribe's apprentice fetches the fresh clay from the scribes's storeroom down in the basement of the great house. The doors have no locks because no one has anything the others would need.

The clay comes to the older apprentices, who dab their reads and copy out from the great stones that sit at the end of the line of scribes working this prayer.

From the sunrise and the barley bread and honey and the morning prayer, they bend over their clayboards and write curses and spells all day.

The most experienced and best scribes work in the room before this one. They work in the room where the Wives and the Mistresses and the Daughters and the Mothers come in, all day and all night, hoping and begging and paying for a fresh and personal version of what the scribes have copied so diligently. And always the same question is asked of the scribes in that front room, asked each time.

Will this work? they ask.

Yes, of course, the scribes always reply.

11. No Singing At the Library

I don't like going outside. I don't like how people look at me.

Running errands, going to stores, any of that: it never feels entirely safe. The faces. The eyes. Glances lingering a second too long. Too many people turning to look at me at once.

Best to be avoided. Best to stay in the house, any of these houses. Playing with my toys. Enjoying how each one lives her own life and has decorated her own bedroom. Smelling their unique and individual scents.

No need to leave, no need to venture out into the world. This world is better, anyways. No need to venture outside myself, when I have built such an efficient system here, behind and inside these walls and windows.

No need to risk the unexpected and unprepared quotidian.

That trip to Theme Park Land is one thing. A place like that, so many people preoccupied with Theme Park Land around us, as they should be, and not at me and Vicki or any of the other companions we collected the days we were there.

No one stopped us, no one spoke to us, everyone was kind and normal, when we were there. Just in case, when fun time was over, I took the long way back to my happy base of operations for the year and the day. Separate from Vicki, who sold her car for good money and flew home direct. But I took my time and drifted back to my burrow in the ground again, back to my own Rowhouse Ranch in the bougie hills of Hill Country, on the alert to see if my vacation had cost me anything.

It is a dicey thing, to get attention from the security. To have the artificial intelligence take its snapshot of you each day entering the park, enjoying the park, loitering around the park. And each day, it's a snap of you and Vicki and a different couple or couples.

And every night, back at the Theme Park Hotel, it's a snap of you and other women and couples, different ones, entering the hotel where you are not a registered guest, but somehow each night, there with a different registered guest.

At the very worst, they are going to think you and Vicki are hustlers and identify you, take your photo digitally, and then bar you from the premises. Luckily, I have some natural defenses against such an encounter actually succeeding. Because if they just think I'm trafficking Vicki, they have no idea what it is I am actually doing, which is in part, giving this churchy lady seeking meaning and a good time, the best fucking vacation of her life. Plus, we've been buying lots of park merch every day for new clothes. Vicki looks great in the Theme Park's t-shirts especially.

At the very least, they're going to put you on the list of Polyamorous Couples, to whom they direct their Cruise and Timeshare marketing. Good thing I used a real driver's license for my I. D. at the park's entrance, "borrowed" off of someone who looked enough like me that a sales clerk required to check guest's identifications would not complain about.

How do I know this? I read it in a digital marketing textbook.

I am a great reader. For all I know, that is where the brain-strength came from that allowed me to evolve this extra gift.

Besides, there are so many limits to my power. I can take over someone's mind, I can command them to write a book, I can command them to make it good, but I can not command the thing they write to actually be good.

They might put themselves over their own limits, in their manic struggle to complete what I reprogram their brain to do. Finish an actual novel. But for most of them, there are going to be lots and lots of repetitive phrases in order to make the page count.

I know. I've tried. Making non-writers write, non-painters paint, non-models model. I confess, I had to torture a lot of people to find out the meets and bounds of my own mind control talents. I like to think I have gotten it under control by now.

Hence, the library. Hence, using my talents not to command, but to allow me to access the fruits of others' labors. What good are my own unnatural abilities, if I cannot enjoy the best that humankind has produced?

Reading great literature and the hits of the day are also great ways for my brain to relax and reset.

And allows for ample time to see the librarians at work. And, if I like, out of work, too.

The library is the one facility out of doors where I feel somewhat safe traveling. Again, a place where people are mostly ignoring each other on purpose, and are few and far between, relatively, to some commercial and retail locations.

The two librarians assigned to the front desk I got to know first, from my inquiries about items on hold for me that had arrived but were still in the back area, on a cart, waiting to be brought out. Mary was the slender bi-lingual Chicano, in her thirties, patient and cheerful and polite, who most often fielded by book needs. She reminded me of the pious girls who populate most of the Catholic high schools of my youth. She was an adult, but had braces on her teeth and a slight lisp.

My powers allow for different types of seductions. The takeover seduction is the most common; entering her thoughts and getting delicious control over her body and feelings. The other type is what I used on Mary.

I asked her on a date and pushed enough to make her say yes, but as I reached in, I felt her already natural willingness. That was all I did, a little gentle nudge, and peeked to see if she would be receptive and she would indeed. Even if I had not pushed, based on the feel I was getting from inside her brain.

We met for cocktails after work one night, no fuss because I did not want fuss. When I suggested, I simply made sure she said yes, cheerfully, as Mary does everything. She's adorable.

Over drinks, we had fun and I flirted and she flirted back, all natural, no mind control at all. I wanted to take my time with Mary.

But I wanted all of my advances to be welcomed.

So at the end of the evening, I walked Mary to her car, and I said, "I'd like to kiss you goodnight," and I thought in my head, "say 'I'd like that'" and Mary said "I'd like that" and turned her head up to me, closing her eyes, and I took her slender body in her arms and I kissed her slowly and sweetly, holding her and enjoying her taste and her mouth, her thin lips full of fire, which she gave willingly and her tongue which she used coyly. It was a long, sweet, then hot kiss, and when it sizzled most, I let her go and she drove home in a blissful daze.

I know, I drove behind her, reading her thoughts and feeling that special high when you're getting high off of someone else's serotonin drips.

Mary lived with family, and on dinner-dates she told me her whole, entire story. I took ample notes about which potential female relatives I might like to get to know through Mary. But that would be later.

Mary was shy about sleeping with me, and she was incredulous when I said I wanted to sleep with her at first, meaning sleep and not penetrate her. But the way I kissed her and touched her after these dates made her feel that I was sincere, as I was. Mary had no idea but I was getting my dick wet and my balls drained by other women, but I still wanted to cuddle with Mary and love her at night, in my bed--well, the bed I was camped in as mine, even if I was not always camped there each night--since her relatives whom she lived with were so strict and old country that they would not let her sleep with a man who was not her husband in their house.

And with what she made at the library, living with family was the best situation she could manifest for herself. Or could she, I thought?

Mary came out of the bathroom that first night, in nothing but her underwear, which she made me swear to her God would "stay on all night" and I was happy to swear, because she was showing me her small, modest, brown, flat chest and her big, thick, erect nipples, the sweetest, lovingest girl, and when I swore her vow to her God, she kissed me and held onto me as we kissed and touched for hours and hours on soft pillows and between soft sheets.

Squeezing her soft brown ass through her cheeky bikini panty was allowed. Hands on her hips were allowed, hands all over her back and her belly and her small chest made her make delicious, wonderful noises. Holding her and touching her and making her ache. Turning her entire body on and then not touching her where her body wanted to be touched most.

Tease and denial is also sadism, especially for a woman, even a sweet and shy and repressed woman such as Mary. Beautiful to see her twist and writhe, her hips like snakes, holding her body as it contorts against her own pleasure.

Her repression is delicious, the tease will make her penetration when it happens even more delicious.

Mary is at the library five days per week, and I am there almost seven days a week, picking up my materials on hold and passing hours in the reading room as I see fit.

There are great glass picture windows, and I feel safe when I look out of them and no government helicopters are flying, no black SUVs are massing in the parking lot.

No sounds of approaching motors. Only the sounds of coughing and page turning.

I am always there on days when Mary is not there. Her days off, I always drop in at the library. I go right to her big boss, the manager of the library, who is about Mary's age, a little older, a little closer to my age. Cassidy is a cute lady, divorced, no kids, short with a master's degree in library science, likes the job because she almost always gets to wear jeans to work.

The jeans show off her big hips, big ass, and generally chubby middle-aged cuteness.

I meet her the old fashioned way, I go to her office at the library, I make eye contact and enter her mind. "Hi," I say, "I think we have a meeting scheduled," to throw off anybody I don't want to mind-control. "Yes," she replies, "come right in," and when I do, she locks the door behind her.

I am going to take Mary on a picnic this afternoon, we are going to hold hands and make out in a park on a blanket.

But first I'm going to bareback fuck her boss in her boss's office here at the library.

Cassidy has big white lace panties on under her jeans, sweet and innocent but her mind is so easy to take. She's been waiting for this. She fantasized about this. Some sexy man to ravage her in the middle of a boring work afternoon.

And now she's bent over with her jeans and panties at her knees, getting to know a stranger dick-first. She does not even recognize me as a patron, not even a frequent patron, not even as the new boyfriend of one of her staff members. Doesn't matter. I'm rewriting her memory as I fuck her so this just feels like a dream to her.

A sticky, salty, creamy dream that leaves a mess in her panties when she takes them off at the end of her workday. But that's not my problem, I'm just lucky she was not on her period.

Cassidy was such a nice change from Mary. Mary was sweet and intelligent innocence. But Cassidy as I used her was pure need. Big hips, big ass, nice wet grippy cunt. Always wet and always ready to go, immediately when I switched her on. From once I tried her, I was back every time Mary had the day off and Cassidy would be at work in her office. Nice cone of silence around it. I'm always at the library as a patron, I have to go there anyway, might as well get my dick wet.

That is the beauty of the power. To be able to sample not only the beauties, but every woman who had an essence, who has a soul.

Cassidy had some good sex stories, and as I sat there in the afterglow, I had her tell them to me, stories about her debauched, wild experiences with exes and even an ex-husband back along the way. She'd tell them to me, my cum running out of her, then I'd have another fuck with her.

Later, showered and clean and in bed with Mary, I'd rub my erection against the gusset of her panties, because we had been dating for a month now and Mary and I still had not gone further than second base. I confess, I was loving the ache. Loving the need I would feel with Mary, loving the longing and the lust, and I loved busting that lust with Cassidy or with other women, either found at the library or elsewhere.

I mentioned that Mary worked with another woman at the front desk, she was round and fat where Mary was almost too slender, and she was even more shy than Mary, despite taking more effort to make a feminine appearance with makeup and hairbows and wonderful perfumes.

Mary felt sorry for her, so it only took the tiniest push for Mary to suggest that we take her, Jacinda was her name, on dates with us. "You just want a chaperone to hold your hand when we finally make love," I teased Mary. She laughed because it was partly true. Mary had had lots of bad experiences with men and her pussy, leading partly to the genuine asylum claim that made her a citizen and grateful to be one. Her therapist told her that she was ready for healthy sex with someone who cared about her. I definitely cared about Mary and only wanted what was best for her.

Mary, it turned out, was a bit of a voyeur, and she instigated on her own, the makeouts between Jacinda and me during the movies that all three of us would go to and then sit in the back row. I would sit between the two, and when Mary told me to, usually as soon as the lights went down, I would start kissing Jacinda and feeling up her absolutely massive chest. We'd make out and touch, raising the armrest between us, getting as close as possible. If I ever looked over my shoulder at Mary, she would have her jeans waist-button open and the zipper down, and the sweet Chicano librarian would have her hand inside her panties, furiously getting off while her boyfriend madeout with her fat coworker.

After taking Jacinda home one night from our three-way dates, Mary finally relented to go to third base, once she heard that Jacinda always let me finger her. Mary was hairy and undepillated, and she was fascinated to hear that Jacinda was waxed and shaved bare and nude smooth, every time.

Mary got so turned on hearing about Jacinda's pussy. "You're bi-lingual and bi-curious" I told Mary, not pushing at all, and she blushed and told me to be quiet, in Spanish.

"She has such huge, oversized breasts, and you have such delicate modest ones," I told Mary.

"You mean I'm flat," Mary said, unhappily about herself.

"I mean you're both women, both different. Two extremes. It's normal for women with breasts like yours to enjoy playing with women like Jacinda with such floppy, hanging ones. You want to play with them, right?"

"Yes. No! I don't know, go to sleep!" Mary said, exasperated, turning over, but as I held her, I knew I had found a gold seam without even having to use my talents to pry and dig for it.

12. Singing Their Names To Help Remember

When the Great Lord stumbled on the Sun's Birthday, there was demand for copies of the list of wives and royal concubines before sundown.

The next day, every scribal workshop was flooded with orders to copy out the official list of wives and concubines, which not every scribal workshop had a copy of and thus several of them were faked and flawed and fudged with respect to some of the more obscure wives that no one could remember.

The concubines, however, everyone could recall, and that made all the scribes say an especial prayer at evening time for their Great Lord, and they poured out some of their evening beer in hopes that he would recover and having many more famous concubines. They used their reeds as straws into the vat of beer, sucking up the warm but potent beer up through the reeds, then shooting it out of their reeds and onto the ground where the cats sniffed it and turned their noses up from it, as even Bastet should.

The scribes took it as a sign that Bastet would leave their Lord to have what was his, and not take it from him, and that meant he would recover.

13. Singing That Kenny Rogers Hit

Technically, I am a professional card player.

Look, I'm not foolish enough to think you can maintain an identity totally off of the grid, and not have problems. When and if you should ever have to seriously get back on the grid, you might have problems if there are long and unexplained absences.

That is why the real art to lining truly free and independent, truly off the grid, is and requires maintaining a dummy identity on the grid.

Like a permanent non-player character, beeping and bopping through life. Collecting, paying, earning, being. A real person. Not someone who is there then gone then back again.

Living off the grid really requires having a grid identity. Tried to fight it but it is much easier going with the flow, just doing it my way. But prepping the legend is not enough. Got to maintain it, too. But doing so has its rewards.

It's like crossing international borders. For every exit, they expect to see an entry. All the dates need to match so all the stamps match up.

That's why this gift slash curse means I am wary about international travel these days. It is always easier than I think, but it is always an extra terror I do not need when I can roam free here.

Having a bland but legal document takes so much less energy than having to push.

I live on the grid under this identity because I don't really think anyone is looking for me. If anyone has been interested in opening up my skull to see what kind of processor I'm running, well, that shadowy government agency is staying shadowy.

Where I can, I try to stay John Q. Taxpayer. I earn my legal cash taking it from others. When it's enough, I sign the forms at the casinos under the names that match my legal identification. I pay the necessary taxes, I get access to banks and interest on my money and lots of easy credit on the best terms.

It is so much easier this way, despite the paper trail and despite the paperwork.

It has also blended in perfectly with my natural need to move around very, very frequently.

Since poker became the international language of gambling, it has allowed me to live the life I want to live, a life of freedom and comfort, with as much travel and adventure as my stomach and cock can handle.

Government documents are essential to making it easy to cross international borders, even friendly ones. Having them means there are so few less pushes I might have to make. Potentially pushes into trained minds, definitely into minds that don't speak my native mind-culture (it's a mentalist thing, kind of like the accent in the place where you grew up).

Of course, card playing money is not the only income that I'll have coming in at any time. It's not the only way I acquire new things. Most of my clothes, for example, I have someone buy them for me, because it is always easier that way, when I do not even have a paper trail to hide.

One of the perks of my condition, I should think.

Since I prefer to travel as light as possible, that's a good thing.

What I mean by that is this: when I do travel, I pretend to be a business traveler because in the air world, those are the passengers who get the most respect.

It's a costume, I wear it.

I don't even have to waste a push on the airline staff for some type of upgrade. I have points, I have status, I have miles. Have I sometimes, especially if delayed, done a push on a desk clerk for a spot-award of miles, up to the limit of what will pass without suspicion? Of course.

If she's cute, do I sometimes get her to come to my hotel and give me head while I take pictures?

Yes, of course, I am a mentalist after all. There's a code.

We've been given this curse but we must turn it into a gift.

We, as if I've ever met anyone else with my condition.

Not that I'm sure I do want to meet anyone with my condition. Someone who can read my mind? No thank you.

That is why something (madness?) compels me to write to this blank page. Someone to tell my true story to. In my mind, haha, someone who can appreciate the struggle of being blessed and cursed all at once.

No one ever said you have to use powers for good. No one ever said I haven't used my powers for good. I'm still here and I haven't really hurt anybody. They were entertained and I left them with happy memories, if any at all. I always made sure to implant joy into the brains wherever I can, especially of strangers I meet.

So, typical trip might be like this last one.

Flying from a place that has lots of card rooms to a place that has lots of card rooms.

I get a rental car at the airport for extra freedom. The clerk at the counter not helping me is cute, so I push into her mind. She's part-time here, part-time at the nearby university. Studying she's not sure what, maybe business, she hasn't picked a major yet.

She's had four lovers, all boyfriends, and one date that was forced but she chose not to make a big deal of it. She feels guilty because he was the best looking of all of the men who have been inside of her.

I'm getting roommates, I'm getting parents divorced, I push in more to her mind and there's memories and getting by, I'm just feeling vibes now, and when I'm out, she's done with the customer she was helping, and in my mind and then back in her mind, I tell her she should help show me to where the car I'm picking up is parked, and then she says that out loud to the clerk who just handed me the keys to the rental car, and I push quickly into that soft mind that I already tried when it became my turn to be served, and I tell him to say yes you should and he says "Yes, you should," and I tell him he should believe that, and I can feel his brain; ready, warm, snuggling around those agreeableness chemicals that his medulla now allows.

So, back to the section of the parking garage dedicated to this rental car company's lot, we go.

I give her the idea that she should tell me about her tastes sexually and romantically, because I sense she is more sweet than kinky, and she happily does so in a quiet but darling voice as we walk to the parking space.

Her name is lovely when she says it out loud, Yasmine, her hair is dark, her eyes are dark, she's the girl next door and she wants a boyfriend she tells me, she says she is single and wants a boyfriend better than the lame ones she has had so far. Her ideas of what that means, I am getting, are flashes of the men on evening-soap-opera style streaming shows. Handsome. Hunky. Sweet.

The kind that would make her come like the women come on romantic shows.

Her ass is lovely in the dark navy uniform pants the rental car company makes her wear. She tells me about her life in her own words; an easier, softer command than the effort it would take to push inside and look around for the answer myself. That would be faster, because Yasmine is not particularly articulate about her own history and self-awareness, even if her tone and her voice are sweet and positive. I think that maybe I should turn that up for her, if at least only for my own benefit for the next few minutes. But then we've reached the rental car.

"Sit in the front passenger seat with me, make sure it starts," my mind suggests to her mind.

Her body thinks that's a wonderful idea.

My carry-on goes in the trunk.

I get into the driver's seat. The engine starts right up. It has a new car smell.

"Unbutton the buttons on that blue blouse," my mind suggests to her mind.

Her hands start undoing buttons like she's at home, and not at work, inside a car, parked in a little nook facing a concrete wall, so there was some modesty. Not that she seems to notice. No hesitation with suggestions, I notice. Excellent spongy grey matter of hers to work with.

Her simple white and pink-roses bra, holding up small B-cups starts to be revealed.

"Stop," I suggest. "Not all the way."

I turn the audio recorder on my phone on, settle it on the dashboard. I want to listen to her voice later, I think.

"Your chest looks lovely, I want to touch you." I touch a small spot in the back of her brain. Serotonin moonbeams.

"You, you can," Yasmine says.

So I reach forward and I do. Holding her and squeezing her through the thinly padded cups of bra.

"Have you ever been felt up before being kissed before?" I ask her.

She blushes. "No," she says.

I keep gently kneading her breasts through her bra, then reach back and undo her bra clasp. It pops open and pulls above as her sweet, larger-than-I-thought breasts pour out, bounce and jiggle innocently.

They fit perfectly in my palms. When I focus my attention on both of her nipples at once, I don't need to add any mind control to cause the sweet sounds and whimpers coming out of her mouth.

"Kiss me, then," I tell her. She does. Wet and sweet. "French kiss me." She does, wet with a tongue that knows all about how good tongues can feel.

"Your mouth is wet. You ever suck a man's cock the day you meet him, before?"

"Yes, kinda," she says.

"Who?"

"That guy who forced me. We'd been talking online for a few days but I only met him in person that one time."

"You ever have a cock in your mouth within fifteen minutes of meeting someone before?"

"No," she said, blushing even through her tits were still out at work. Her nipples were dark and thick like erasers.

"How long did it take the guy who forced you?"

"Oh, like hours. We met up and hung out and he took me on a long date and everything."

"Am I forcing you?"

"No. You're hot."

"I'm hot?"

"Yeah, you're like that hot older guy type. It's hot to hook up with a hot older customer at work. I've never done this before!"

Lucky for me, I knew that she was absolutely telling the truth.

"So you wanna do this?"

"Yeah!'


"What are you gonna do?"

She giggles. "I'm gonna suck your dick."

"Okay, take it out then."

She smiles. She's eager. I read her on that next level and feel Yasmine making a happy, sexy memory for herself.

She knows how to open a man's pants while in a car's front passenger seat. The lean. The zipper. The fly button.

"No underwear, nice!" she says, and then sucks my dick like she's my girlfriend already.

I squeeze her tight ass in those tight uniform pants and I rush towards my orgasm. No need to hold back, I'm not impressing anyone, I've already made a permanent good impression on Yasmine.

She sucks like a young woman who loves penis and who loves men and who wants to be a good girlfriend for a good man and she swallows like someone auditioning for girlfriend-hood, for call-me-again status.

While she's swallowing me, I search in her mind for a boy's name she likes and I tell her to put me in her phone as that name. It's not my real name, of course. Then she calls me, so I have the number in my phone.

I tell her that if her supervisor gives her any trouble, to let me know and I absolutely will handle it. Yasmine tells me not to worry, since I rented one of the most expensive cars in their fleet, her supervisor not only won't mind she went on break early, but she says her supervisor is a hot milf who would probably be most jealous she didn't get to join Yasmine in sucking me off.

I check in and feel that this is true, that this woman is ten or more years older than Yasmine and very sexual, in ways that Yasmine has previously felt scared or worried about being, but also secretly jealous of and wanting to be that way, too.

But now, having freshened up some of the pathways in her mind, she's more receptive, understanding and confident about this supervisor. "Jenny." From the images in Yasmine's mind, Jenny's an older, chubbier woman, a natural blonde who has to dye the blonde now to hide the early grays.

But the huge tits on Jenny are also natural, I see looking through Yasmine's memories. I'm glad I've got a way to contact her now. I love women who love to party.

I drop Yasmine back off at the end of the garage leading to the rental counters. Her bra is refastened and her top is rebuttoned. "I can still taste you. Salty," she says, getting out of the car. I blow her a kiss and that's goodbye.

Drive to the resort where I booked a room, already upgraded through the casino-resort's points system. In my business, I need to be comfortable, and I do not want to stand out. Perhaps those anonymous or acronym agencies will start thinking about me if I get the wrong reputation. If people know what I am, what I'm doing, what I'm getting away with.

I don't need a huge penthouse suite. I am not entertaining. Not like that. I'm not throwing a party for anyone. I don't need to throw a party to impress anyone or make a deal or celebrate a deal.

I'm here to work, I'm here to fuck.

A comfortable suite with a soaking tub and a king sized bed. And I don't even need to push to have it.

At check-in, the suite is not ready yet, and just for practice I go into the desk clerk's mind to find out what upgrades are available that they could give me if I pushed the right buttons in his brain. But, it feels wasted. I'm still mellow from the airport garage head I got from Yasmine, still mellow from releasing my pent-up cum into her college-girl mouth.

I'm ready to get to work.

Since the suite is not ready, they offer to take my bag and have it brought to my suite for me when the room is ready, leaving it in the suites's foyer if I wasn't there.

Perfect, I say, since I wanted to start playing already anyway.

I tip the desk clerk anyway, I have the cash and it is good practice.

The poker room I'm most interested in is actually in the casino next to this one, so I take the half-mile to a mile walk that separates each one of these megaplexes from the others.

My feelers casually out, checking to see if anyone or anything is scanning for someone with my abilities. As always, everyone's clean.

When I get to the poker room, when I check-in and tip to get on the list, when I'm buying my chips, my brain is turned off. No scanning, no checking, silent running. It's not until I sit down at the table that I turn it all on again.

Scanning, scanning gently. Checking to see how squishy and open these minds are.

I like these promotional weekends that bring in the gaming rewards program members. These are some squishy brains. They are ready to have fun.

I try to find tables where everyone has a lot of chips in front of them. When I scan the room, I scan for that, with my eyes, and nothing else really.

I'm not greedy. I don't want to make other players give me all of the chips they have in front of them. My plan is to get a third of those chips in front of the other players, and then leave for another poker room at another casino, and repeat.

A good day at the tables is equal to a year's pay in the job I was doing back when I first learned I had this power.

I'm not looking to bankrupt anyone, or go all-in and take someone's life savings. I'm not trying to get noticed, to get attention, to get too big. I'm just trying to live my life. Take my portion.

Now, true, when I sit down at a game, I read everyone's cards as they are dealt. Even if the table has eight, ten players, I call it Octopus-ing, just putting out tentacles into everyone's brain the same. It's easy because I'm only asking for one question: what are your cards? Not asking for any other info from their subconscious, not trying to push or pull in any direction. It's almost effortless, totally passive. Show me your cards.

And so I instantly know everyone's cards at the table.

This is too much information, since many of those hands will be thrown away before the betting starts. But it's useful to know what's off the table, of course. Because it means less effort later on.

I like to win some hands this way, when I know I have the superior hand, playing it hard, without any pushing at all, just betting. After a few of those to build my pile, I like to get caught bluffing, and suffer a big loss. So I don't just win at the table. But I still have plenty of chips.

Then, if I have to, when I am bluffing and want to get away with it, I can push into my opponent after I make a big raise after the turn is dealt, and with my push I can make sure he folds and never calls my bluff.

Likewise, I can and often do, help my opponent to find the courage to call my enormous raise, because those times I know it's not a bluff. I take a lot of small pots but I need to take some big ones, too, if I ever want to have some time off when I'm on a fundraising expedition.

So that's how I play cards. It is not fair but it is fun. They haven't caught me yet.

When I'm working, I'm working. I can only take what the other players have brought to me. I don't force people to re-up or buy back in. That's always their own decision. I try very hard not to take the last dimes of players at the table, and since I've become more conscious about it, haha, I haven't in a long, long time.

I don't set myself any set amount I need to collect. I play the players at the table, I harvest from their piles, and when it would not be ethical for me to harvest any more, I leave. Now that I'm in my good era, I always leave players with enough to be able to earn it all back.

Meanwhile, I've moved on. Another table. Another casino. Another resort city.

A few hours one place, a few hours another, and my room is ready. The app on my phone lets me know. I can ever order room service on the app, and I do when I'm ready to head back there.

I want to take someone back there with me, though. This is the fun part. Trawling through the crowds, noticing the ones who allure me, and scanning their minds. Healthy? Stable? Diseases?

Scrolling through the images in her head are an even better way to get to know a strange woman than scrolling through the pictures in her phone.

Bachelorette Parties are of course, the best. Still easy to spot. Birthday parties, especially twenty-first birthday parties, are easy, too.

Walking through the hallways and long corridors, stuffed with retail shopping experiences that can only be found at this fabulous casino resort. If I don't find a guest who appeals, sometimes I look to the shopgirls, for a fun christening of the room.

Giving their managers the strong impulse to let so-and-so have the rest of her shift off, because she deserves it, so she can come back to my room with me and take her clothes off. Shower in my fancy bathroom and wash herself with the premium products the resort provides in the luxury suites.

I always scan their brains to check their statuses are clean. A memory of a recent test is good, confidence that she has nothing and has never had anything is good, too. After all, I don't go through the trouble to mind control these women and not bareback them.

But sometimes, and more and more in fact, I don't make them shower first back in my room. No need for a room key, the app on the phone unlocks the door. Such is the power of the corporate rewards program.

And then no need to make it far into the room. Just brace yourself against the bathroom countertop, honey, bend at your waist, I'll lift up that saleshop uniform skirt, pull the crotch of your panty to the side, and fuck you standing up. I'll hold your hips, you'll hold yourself against the sink and counter, and then I'll come in you and send you back to your boss.

The joyful, relaxed and drained feeling, after I've drained myself into another sweet shopgirl, maybe working full time at this because she isn't going to college, or at least not yet. No numbers in phones, no memories. Just an erotic dream she can have for the rest of her life. She'll go back to work, her boss won't even comment or notice that she was gone, and later that night she won't think at all about the sticky cum that leaked out into her panty during her shift that day.

But that night or the next morning, she'll fantasize about how I took her and had her, and she'll touch herself until she comes even harder than I came inside her.

I love watching a woman pull up her panties and flip down her skirt. I love watching a woman going back to work in her work clothes, knowing that my cum is in her cunt, and that she's taking my sticky pleasure with her.

I don't always ask them their names and when I probe their consciousnesses I don't always look for their names there either.

This particular time, this last time, it was in fact a Bachelorette Party coming down the hall. It was late morning now, I had played for hours without stopping yet. I was hopped up on winning and the aftereffects of pushing people's brains with mine.

The Bachelorette Party were heading from the elevators to the Pool Club. A half dozen women, all wearing pink plastic tiaras except for one, who was wearing white diamonds.

I thought quickly.

The bride and the bridesmaid whom I liked best I gave the idea that they needed to get something back in the room and they would meet up with every one at the pool in a little while.

Then everyone else got pushed with pure agreeableness. They were each so eager to get to the Pool Club, take off their tops and flash and flirt with the men at the pool, that they were fine with the Bride and one of their friends to have to run off someplace else. Each of the remaining bridesmaids happily let them go without question, each intensely focused on the attention her breasts were about to get her.

The Bride and her friend followed me into the elevator, all of us showing our room keys to the elevator attendant.

But rather than their floor, they let me push the button and up we rode to my floor.

Of course I kissed the bride first, though technically she was just still some guy's fiancée. Her friend was also engaged, but to someone else, and of course she was because the friend was way hotter even than the bride, more naturally slender and more naturally evenly proportioned.

Of course I made the bride and her friend kiss for me, and of course I turned my cell phone camera on to record it. I found a nice place to stand up the phone and decided to record all of us from one decent angle.

Of course I fucked the bride first, and of course I made her eat out her friend while I fucked her. Of course I had the ladies switch. I think it's good for women to taste their friends intimately, and I could feel the intimacy for each other in their brains grow. Making love together was having a very positive effect for how these women would feel about and care about each other for the rest of their lives.

Of course I left in a marker in each of their consciousnesses and subconsciousnesses, to remember me and to give me access to them and to their minds, should we ever see each other again. Their subconsciousnesses were positively aglow with my wanting to see them again, even if the prospect was vague and remote. I did not probe these women to learn about their fiancés, but I did learn that each was quite serious about her own sexual pleasure.

No wonder they had been such fun and they were the ones of their group that my gift gravitated towards.

This was going to be that one hot adventure with that one irresistible stranger that they would recall having, recalling that they were the two hottest girls in their bachelorette party, so of course they had spontaneous threeway sex. True they cheated on their fiancés, technically, by letting me put my dick in them everyplace it would fit, and put it in without the condom they would ordinarily require their fiancé wear. But it was happening at this resort area famous for such hookups, and it was happening on a girls trip bachelorette party, so it didn't really count as cheating because it was during a proper time to blow off steam and go crazy with your besties and so it was, like, allowed. It was the type of thing that could happen on such a trip and that it did was no biggie especially since they only fucked their brains out for an hour straight, and then they did rejoin their friends at the Day Club pool party, and their friends already had their tops off and their tits outs when the Bride and her beautiful bridesmaid rejoined them. And nobody asked questions and nobody minded and nobody remembered after a little more alcohol and a little more cannabis and a little more sun tan lotion, because the other bridesmaids had attracted men, and these hot dudes were quite happy to make sure the bridesmaids backs and butts and breasts had plenty of sun tan oil.

When the bride and her bestie rejoined the posse at the pool, they, too, took off their tops, and let the men whom their friends had already attracted, take turns applying sun tan oil to the bride's back and butt and breasts.

The women looked at each other as the men felt and oiled their breasts: just one more naughty secret for them to share, one more naughty teasing secret that brought them closer to each other than they were to their own sisters.

How do I know that? From her own memories a few days later. Because I had the bride put her information into my phone, so I could see her one more time, fucking her in her hotel room while her friends stood guard outside, needing us to finish so they could continue checking out and heading to the airport, right before she went home, so I could send her back to where she came from with my cum inside her. One of the perks of my condition, I should think.

Read her mind and saw her trip and felt her body and home she went.

And home I flew, too. Banking and declaring my winnings, just another number in the Matrix, not arousing any suspicion at all.

14. Sing the Body Electric

I came home to my favorites, Frank and Alicia.

This all started when I moved into their new housing development. Frank and Alicia were my neighbors across a pair of matching walk ways. Our front doors faced each other across a semi-private shared-entry courtyard.

That accident of fate was all it took to change their lives forever. I've alluded to what happened there earlier, but this is the full story.

I arrived in the late fall one day, introduced myself as a nephew of the couple next door to them whom I had vacated out of their home. "They're going to travel the Silk Road," and Frank and Alica accepted it without question and without me pushing.

They were very friendly and when Frank and I first learned that we were both ready American Football fans, then it was an open invitation to come over "whenever" and watch "whatever's on."

"That's what Frank will be doing anyway," Alicia said. All smiles at that first meeting. All friendly happiness, it was a nice change from some of my old neighborhoods, where nobody talked to anybody.

I was here especially because I was looking for that friendly, safe, normal experience again.

The college and pro seasons had rolled on and now it was early December. It was a Thursday, and I had brought a six pack and some gummies, and I was comfortably chilling on what was becoming "my spot" on Frank and Alicia's front room couch.

"When did Thursday streaming games get good? This ones close," I said.

Frank was surprised, too. "A conference rivalry, close in the fourth quarter, on a Thursday--this is livin' the American dream, buddy."

Frank had a very unique way of talking like that. And a distinct voice. I think he said he had been a radio host in some obscure markets, before radio collapsed and he had to get into human resources.

His wife Alicia did not usually make an appearance; if Alicia was not watching a game with us, he might call to his wife and get her to come downstairs, flirt with her to get him another beer so he did not have to get up off from his big comfy chair, and of course get another one for me, too.

Alicia would sometimes greet me at the door, if she was home, which she usually was for a mid-week evening game. Monday night, Thursday night pros. Friday night college. But then she would excuse herself and busy herself upstairs. I would hear the sound and smells of chores. The noise of laundry, the smell of fabric fresheners and smelly beads. The sound of her showering, the master bedroom was just above the living room. Their townhouse was the exact same layout as mine, only the mirror-image of each other. Reversed. Everything in the opposite direction.

Frank and Alicia were kind of normal looking Americans. Twenties, middle-American, he blonder with bluer eyes, she darker with darker eyes. Both of average heights, she an average amount shorter than he. Both settling into married life and starting to get a little heavy for all the ease and comforts and cuddling, presumably.

Alicia had wide, child-bearing hips and breasts that were still high and full under the bulky tops she always wore while I was in the house.

But the feature of hers that could not be missed were those hips: broad with a bottom to match, her hips no matter how quickly I glimpsed them, always seemed to be the most inviting place for a hand to rest.

Lucky Frank.

So this Thursday night streaming game was like any of the others, except for how good the game was turning out to be. High-scoring. Lead reversals. Brutal hits. The game still tight as the clock ticked by, the lead changing several times in the last quarter alone.

The unnaturalness of this streaming television event should have been the first sign. But, now that I recall, the sound of Alicia upstairs showering had been unmistakable background noise since mid-way through the third-quarter. The soothing sound of a long hot shower. The far-off whine of her blowdryer. Peaceful background noise that lulled me along.

With five minutes to go, the team currently losing to their division rival was at the door: first and goal. But then, the sound of their bedroom door opening, and then the smell: a woman's freshly washed and conditioned air, full of fragrance, wafting down the stairs.

I was in my spot on the couch, Frank was in his chair near the stairs.

The gentle footsteps on the carpeted stairs were Alicia's.

"Hey, babe," Alicia said, stepping off the stairs into the room, and I forget what she asked about next, was it something about dinner with her parents that Saturday or they were out of something and needed it picked up from some store, whatever it was, it was trivial and obviously unimportant.

But it made Frank instantly sore. "Alicia, I told you when I'm intent on a game, ya can't bother me, please, I am entertaining," and on and on like that.

"But, babe," Alicia protested, "but babe can't you like pause it."

Like a good houseguest, I turned all of my attention away from the bickering host couple and focused intently on the screen. While they went back and forth, the losing team had to settle for a field goal to tie the game.

But I was now really smelling Alicia's freshly washed hair and I guess her freshly washed body. She only had on a big, oversized t-shirt that fitted her like a tight dress, covering her ass but exposing so much of her thighs, her thick, shower-fresh thighs, that even though I only glimpsed what was polite as she came down the stairs to interrupt her husband's watching of the game, the t-shirt fit her waist and her breasts snugly enough that I could see exactly how much larger her hips were proportionately to her more modest breasts.

Breasts which would surely grow, should she have a baby inside ready to be birthed from those hips.

I reached out with my mind, very gently, and touched Frank and Alicia each in their minds, very gently, but in just the right spots.

"Awww, c'mon!" exclaimed Frank, loud enough to interrupt whatever his wife was saying. "Tied?" he groaned. "Fine," he said. And then he looked at his wife directly in the eyes and she stopped talking.

"Hey Tim," Frank said, looking over at me and the game. My position on the couch was slightly between Frank and the screen at the end of the room. "Doesn't Alicia smell all nice tonight, all shower fresh?"

"Yeah, Frank. Alicia smells great."

"Would you like Alicia to give you a blowjob, Tim?"

"Uh, sure Frank. I'd love that from Alicia."

"How long as it been since you had a blowjob, Tim?"

"Awhile. Months. Months at least." It felt right to lie to them.

"Great. Alicia, why don't you go over to Tim and give him a blowjob?"

Frank made direct eye contact with Alicia again. She nodded her head, once, up and down, real slow. Then Frank nodded his head the same way, once, up and down, real slow.

Then Alicia turned, walked over to me, smiled a quick smile and said to me, "are these sweats? Let's take 'em down," and I stood up as she was getting down on her knees in front of me. She pulled my sweats and my underwear down in one swift motion, and got me sat back down on the couch, she kneeling over the puddle of cotton clothes between my legs.

Wide-hipped though Alicia was, she had no trouble nestling in and getting right to work.

My ass was seated back on the fabric of their couch and her mouth was down on my dick, all the way to the base in one go. Her eyes closed, not even looking at me or her husband, just all about my dick getting hard in her mouth.

I looked over at the game and then over at Frank. Frank was watching the game, not me and his wife. I looked down at Alicia. She had her eyes closed. So I closed my eyes and just felt. She felt really good. She had no gag reflex and was having no difficulty being sloppy and fucking my cock with her face. I touched my hands to her hair and she moaned around my dick, sucking my dick and letting me know by feel and touch and sound that she liked my hands there.

Resting in her freshly-washed hair, sucking up and down on my dick.

Alicia made noise unashamedly sucking on my dick. Chokes and gags and slobbers. I got lost in her sounds, the game noise was just distant background. My dick was unbelievably hard in her mouth, the hardest it had ever been in any woman's mouth.

Her mouth was velvet and her throat was deep.

She had not come up for air once, but kept her throat's attention on the base of my cock the entire time.

Then I heard a clap of joy, and a cheer, and I opened my eyes and I saw Frank looking at the screen, big smile on his face. I looked to the screen: Frank's preferred team was kicking a field goal to win as time expired.

I looked down at Alicia.

Her eyes were open, brown like chestnuts and looking intensely into mine and then I came in Alicia's mouth.

I had gotten laid that morning but it felt like I had not come in months. I was coming and coming and coming and Alicia was swallowing and swallowing and swallowing.

I learned back on the couch on a heap. Alicia got up off her knees and said "thank you" to me, or maybe to Frank, or maybe to both of us, I'm not sure which. Then Alicia went back upstairs, her shirt having ridden up and the bottom of her wide ass cheekily exposed. She was not wearing panties, and had been nude under her t-shirt the entire time.

I pulled my sweats up and said, "thanks for the game, Frank."

"Thanks for the beers, Tim," he answered me. "Just pull the door closed behind you, I'll lock it later. I feel pretty safe here."

"Me too, Frank, me too," I told him, crossing to the door.

"Good night," I said opening the door. "Good night," he said, and then I stepped out and closed the door. I stepped over to my front door, unlocked it, decided not to lock it behind me, and went straight to bed.

Slept peacefully and deeply until my alarm the next day, when I woke up in the same clothes, minus the shoes, that I had been wearing the evening before at Frank and Alicia's.

I showered as the coffee brewed. Feeling the remains of Alicia's saliva and her pressure on my cock and my balls, remembering how good she made the head of my cock feel as she received rope after rope of my release, I was sad to wash off her slimy residue even as I stepped into this hot morning shower.

But then I got busy with work and with an ordinary Friday, and quite forgot all about it for sometime.

The football season turned into the Holiday season, and between work and family, football took a backseat in my life for awhile.

There were some positive leads in my life. I had one big trip that got me enough card-playing income to cover visible expenses for some time to come, but even better, one of my backup location women brought me as her date to her office's Christmas Party. Paranoid as I am, find small size crowds like that are safe and fun for fishing. My date had a co-worker there who I chatted with naturally and hit it off with enough to give her just a tiny mental push and get her number. I told my date and she gave me her blessing, she liked the other woman as a colleague and thought I would enjoy fucking her.

We had a nice first date right before Christmas, then I drove home to my family for Christmas. Great Christmas with the family, really felt recharged and chill.

My cousin Keith decided to drive back with me, which was cool, because I had a bunch of heavy Christmas presents to take in like some furniture (still in the box) and a grill also still in the box.

Keith had a new job in my city that he was not starting until the new year, so he had flown home for Christmas as part of a bigger move he was making.

Everything was calm as we drove back through the gate into my development.

"Ooooh, gated, fancy," Keith teased me.

"You don't know the half of it," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Anyway, welcome."

We parked on my townhouse's driveway. "Front door is actually down the side, this walkway," I told him. "Leave the heavy stuff, let's just open the house first before we bring anything in."

"Cool."

It was a few days after Christmas, and there was a College Football Bowl Game on. I know because the sound of the television broadcast could be heard as we walked up the walk to my front door.

My neighbors had their front door open.

"Hey, meet my neighbors, they're really cool," I told Keith.

"Knock knock, football fans," I said standing in the doorway.

Frank was laying way back in his big lounger chair. "Hello hello, you're most welcome," he called out to us. "Timmy!" he said. He had a ceramic pipe in his hands and lit the burnt-green matter in the bowl as we entered.

"Frank, this is my cousin Keith. He's moving to town to live with his girlfriend. Keith, this is Frank, the coolest neighbor anyone's ever had."

"Please to meet you, you've got some dank dank," Keith said.

The smoke brought on a coughing fit in Frank but he put out a fist for Keith to dap, and Keith dapped it. He was down.

"Close the door, guys," Frank said, when the cough subsided. I closed the door.

"I had to get some air for awhile," Frank continued. "So, Keith, you like football?"

"Hell, yeah."

"You like weed?"

"Hell yeah."

"Well, sit on down, Tim pass this pipe to your cousin. Here's the lighter, too. Watch out," Frank cautioned. "This grass is kinda... hypnotic."

We all laughed.

"Hell yeah that's what I'm talkin' about," Keith said, and hit the passed pipe like an old pro. He took one long drag and was cough city.

Frank and I laughed watching him.

Eventually I got the grass passed to me and saw the bowl needed freshening, but there was plenty of fresh ground bud on the coffee table. I packed it slow and took a hit as we watched two big-conference also-ran teams play their also-ran bowl, slowly without impulse or grace.

But Frank's weed hit nice and smooth with a purple aroma before and after the hit.

In the clouds of the dank, the game seemed to be in extra slow motion and I could see the clueless and bored expressions on the players' faces, already thinking about the party afterwards.

"Dang I haven't been this faded this fast since college," Keith exclaimed.

"I told you," Frank said. "It hits you. When you've forgotten about it, bang, you realize it. You're not just gone, you're," and then he changed his tone to a funny, exaggerated one, "gooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnneeeee."

And then we laughed but that was exactly how it felt.

A little while later, the game was getting later but still had not improved, when we heard the garage door open and then close, and then someone kicking off their shoes, and then bare feet on a kitchen floor, and then the door to the garage in the kitchen opened, and in came Alicia.

She smelled wonderful, of a perfume maybe just a little younger and cooler than she was, and that perfume and pheromone scent wafted immediately into the living room.

"Uh, oh," Alicia came in saying, laughing. "Don't call nine-one-one, they'll think you're Pablo Escobar."

She wore an oversized red sweater over tight black leggings and bare feet with brightly painted toes.

"That's cocaine," Keith said, confidently and cockily.

"Hi, Alicia," I said.

"Hi, sweetie," Frank said, and she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. "This is Timmy's cousin. Tell me again what you name is, I'm sorry."

"Keith," he said, rising. "I'm Keith," he said, putting out his hand to shake the hand Alicia then extended. "Hi, nice to meet you." Keith was over six feet tall and seemed to be accentuating that he was as he met Alicia and shook her hand. Standing close to her so she had to crane her neck somewhat to meet his eye contact.

"So what are you boys smokin'?" she asked.

"That same purp I was having earlier," her husband answered.

"Oh good, can I have some? Who's got a fresh bowl for me?"

"I'll pack it," Keith said. "You have a grinder?"

"Right there," Frank pointed out, and Keith got to work, sitting back down on the couch.

"Oh, goodie, I can't wait," Alicia said, and sat down on the couch right between Keith and me, close enough that she kinda had to squeeze between us, and her thighs were tightly wedged, one against each of us.

"Did you have fun out, sweetheart?" Frank asked.

"Yes, I did."

"Where did you go again."

"First a facial," she paused for effect, "then a mani-pedi... see do you like them? Nails and toes?" She stretched out her bare feet and bare toes and her hands and stuck out all of her digits for male inspection and approval, which she received.

"And then," she concluded, "the part I really need this grass after. The bikini wax. And I got a full Brazilian, what they used to call the sphinx. You know, like, the hairless cat of Egypt? And it... hurt!" Another pause for effect, the smile never leaving her face.

"But it's worth it, right, babe?" she asked her husband.

"So right, babe," Frank replied, not rising an inch from his lounger.

"Here, all done," Keith said, handing the repacked bowl of the ceramic pipe to Alicia. He kept the lighter in his own hand, indicating that he'll light her bowl for her. She takes the pipe in hand and leans her head forward to let him light it for her.

He does and she covers the carburetor hole on the pipe and takes a long, steady draw.

As she does, Frank says, "Keith just moved to out fair city to be with his girlfriend, she lives here already."

That hangs in the air as Alicia effortlessly processes the smoke and lets out a blue cloud of magic, without coughing once.

"That's nice. I love guys with girlfriends," Alicia says. "Are you going to live together?"

"Yeah, maybe," Keith confesses then backpedals. "Save on rent."

"Shower together, you'll save on water, too," Alicia says, and laughs. Then everyone laughs.

"Guys with girlfriends are sexy," Alicia says again. "You gonna see her tonight?"

"No, tomorrow," Keith says.

"Why not tonight?"

"She's driving back from her parents house with her brother."

"How wholesome," Alicia says. "Light me again," and Keith does. Her second hit is as big as her first.

"Your turn," she says to Keith. "Light your own but make it a big one." He does and the coughing fit he immediately has makes sure that he is even further gone now. Alicia giggles a sharp, high giggle.

We all kind of chill out for awhile, let the screen and the commercials wash over us, grooving on the grass and the vibe, grooving on how nice and cozy the couch is with Alicia squeezed in tight between us, Frank peacefully across the room in his lounger throne.

The game is lame, but the room is happy and safe and warm and peaceful, and Alicia's perfume mixes no nice with the dank purple smoke.

Maybe it takes fifteen minutes of this mellow silence until I see Frank staring over at Keith, Keith looking blazed and bombed as anything, and Keith then starts on his raw honesty, because everything he says sounds authentic and true:

"You know, you're just, like, really cute, in a really hot, girl next door way. Like, the way you smell and look and move and all. Like, you've got big hips and thick thighs and all, but you like, know how you use them and stuff, you know how to dress them. And, you look like, your hips and all, you really know how to, like you know, take a fucking."

That made Alicia giggle again. "Take a fucking, huh?" she teased him. "Have you ever taken a fucking?"

"I don't take a fucking, I give the fucking," Keith boasted.

"Oh yeah? And you give that fucking to your girlfriend right?"

"You know it!"

"You fuck her before Christmas?"

"Right before I took her to the airport and she got on the plane to fly home."

"Left her all sticky?"

"Yeah."

"Naughty boy. Naughty girl. You gave her a fucking. You fucked her."

"Damn right."

"Think you could fuck me?"

"You know I could."

"Right here? Right in front of my husband?"

"If he's cool, I'm cool."

"You know, I sucked your cousin's cock already."

"What? No shit?" Keith was shocked.

"Yeah," Alicia said. "Your cousin, he's got a nice cock."

"Okay."

"Is it bigger than yours?"

"What? No, no way?"

"Oh yeah? You've checked out your cousin's cock? You been snooping on Timmy's package?" She and Frank laughed as they teased Keith.

"No, never!" Keith claimed.

"Does your girlfriend tell you it's big?" Alicia teased him.

"No. I mean, yeah."

More Alicia and Frank laughter.

"Did you really do it with Timmy?" Keith asked.

"What, blow him?" Alicia asked. "Yeah, I did."

"She did," I said. "She's amazing. Probably the best of my life."

"Awww, that's so nice. See, Timmy is sweet, Timmy knows how to treat a woman," Alicia said.

"Aw, fuck, I do to. If he's so nice, how come I'm the one with the girlfriend?" Keith asked.

"Because more women like assholes than like nice guys," Alicia said. "Stand up," she told Keith.

"What, why do you want me to stand up?" he asked, but he was already doing it.

"For this, silly," Alicia said, undoing his belt's buckle and opening his jeans, then pulling them down his hips. "Hmmmm," she said, before she yanked down his tight black boxer briefs.

She turned back to look at me. "Well, Timmy, he is bigger, so I'm going to start with him first, okay?" and then she turned back to him, because it was a rhetorical question.

From what she did with her neck, I know she turned back to him and took him in her mouth as soon as she did.

But I'd have know that from the sounds Keith was making alone.

It was instantly apparent that Alicia gave way better head than Keith's girlfriend.

Alicia only took her head off his cock once, after a few minutes, when she turned back to me and said, "it's okay, take yours out and stroke yourself to it. C'mon, get yourself ready, it's okay." Then back she turned again, and I saw the back of her head bobbing back and forth.

Giving Keith all of her throat that she gave me. Maybe even a little more.

I looked over at Frank, he was watching his wife being a little whore and grinning from ear to ear. Grinning and intent, but not seeming to pleasure himself.

But watching Alicia give sloppy toppy right there, next to me on the couch, made me so turned on my cock felt like it was going to burst out of my pants. As noiselessly as possible I dropped them to my knees, and staring stroking away, watching my married neighbor's head bobbing and bobbing, choking and gagging and moaning on my cousin's cheating cock.

I was loving this live sex show, when Alicia took her head off Keith's cock again, but looked at her husband this time. She nodded once, slowly up and down, and then Frank returned the nod. Then Alicia stood up on her tip-toes, kissed Keith on his mouth, a deep sloppy French kiss.

They kissed and embraced deeply like lovers, then eventually Alicia pulled back.

"I love guys with girlfriends," she said again. "Guys with girlfriends are so sexy." She pulled her sweater up over her head. A sexy beige and see-thru bra underneath. She unclipped her bra from the back and tossed it away.

"Take your clothes off," she told Keith, and he kicked off his already-lowered pants, kicked off his shoes and socks, pulled his shirts over his head, while Alicia pulled down her leggings and thong panty together, gracefully pulling them off over her feet and ankles.

"See, doesn't it look cute all waxed," Alicia asked me, her entirely smooth sex now at eye view. "Give me a kiss before he fucks me," she said, and I leaned forward to kiss her swelling lips. I slip my tongue forward to make it a French kiss and taste how wet and lubed she is for the cock she's about to take. She tastes ready for it.

"That's good, thank you sweetie," Alicia tells me.

She lays back on the couch, I have to stand up so she can stretch her legs out and be mounted. Keith's cock is hard and he's stroking himself, too, using her spit still as lube. I only have my hand.

So I stand up with my cock in my hand, watching Alicia make herself comfortable on her back on the couch. Opening herself and rubbing her wetness all over her lips, making her finger tips glide over her clit with the wetness seeping out of her needy cunt.

She looks pink. She looks ready. Her lips don't want to close, they want to stay open and show off how pink she is inside. So healthy, so irresistible.

"You like married pussy, boys?" Alicia teases us. "You like pink married pussy. Pussy so pink he had to put a ring on it."

"Stand closer together, let me make sure I'm not wrong," she commands and we obey. Our cocks are both rock hard now, both sticking straight out. "Hands away," she orders again. "Hands over your heads."

Her eyes go back and forth between us. Looking. Lingering.

"Yep. I'm right," she says. "Not by much. Don't feel bad, Timmy, he didn't beat you by much. Come here," she said to Keith, and he does not hesitate.

Alicia turns her body so her husband can see her penetration. She's not looking at anything else now but the cock about to open her up. And when he does, she stops using words, and she and Keith grunt together, fucking on the couch as casually passionate as can be.

It's hot and I stroke my cock while I watch. I like seeing her open for him and taking him, the long shaft going in but never all the way out of her as he thrusts and she takes it.

I like seeing her face, her expressions, her eyes, and most of all her mouth. Her lips. Open. Closed. Kissing her lover. Moaning on her lover's cock. Just feeling the feelings of a new man taking her. Of the new man she was taking for a test ride. The someone else's boyfriend whom she was taking for a test ride. The other woman's boyfriend who was being unstoppably unfaithful with Alicia tonight.

"Fuck me, you cheater," Alicia teased him. "Fuck me in front of my husband, you cheating boyfriend," Alicia teased him, laughing in Keith's face as she rode his pumping and fingered her clit. "Don't stop, cheater," she told him, closing her eyes and fingering her clit. "Don't stop until I come, cheater," she told Keith, closing her eyes and rubbing her clit, and I was sure, picturing his girlfriend in the room with us, watching. Crying.

Alicia's mouth was gently parted and looked intensely hot. Like she was having more fun than she even thought she would.

She came on Keith's cock with her fingers furious on her clit and her eyes closed and her calling him a cheater in a higher and higher pitched voice, getting more and more shrill until she came and instead of words it was just sounds.

Keith released his orgasm into Alcia at the same time, extending her own waves as she rode his furious spasms to one more peak, and even as he began to collapse in refraction, the joy of humiliating a woman she had never met brought her to yet one more climax before she pushed Keith off of her, letting her pussy relax and let his member go.

Keith just collapsed onto the floor, exhausted and literally spent.

I'm still horny, having edged myself during their climaxes, feeling their orgasmic waves wash over me. Their moans, their shouts, their words, their unintelligible half words.

This was so beautiful and unexpected, I don't want to burst, lest some new surprising treats emerge next.

And it does.

The air is hot, full of silence and sex and energy. Peace is not only a word, it is a present energy.

Alicia's eyes are smiling. Chestnut brow, ripe and shining with complex flavor. Her mouth is heaven, her lips are smiling sweetness and freedom and acceptance and new boundaries.

"You want sloppy seconds, you can have it," Alicia tells me.

I do and I get them. Quick and fast while Alicia giggles and Frank says something approvingly. "Yeah, that'll show her," or something like that.

She feels different, swollen, open. She glides so easy, like a woman does after you've been fucking for awhile. She's open and hot already and so wet, so very wet and lubricant slick wet that it feels more like penetrating a sex toy than it does a woman. Penetrating a woman, she needs opening. Alicia is already open.

It does not take long and the come I have inside her feels as good as the one in her mouth a few weeks ago.

She holds me and giggles while I come in her. She feels proud of herself and kisses my cheek before I dismount her.

No one says anything after that. Everyone catches their breath and eventually gets dressed again. The bowl game long over.

My cousin and I don't say any goodbyes to our hosts. We walk over to my townhouse, I open the door, turn on the lights, turn on the heat. Run the water. Everything seems fine. Then we take the packages out of my car, bring them into the house.

I take a shower while Keith calls his girlfriend. Their conversation is boring and bland as ever. He goes into one of my guest rooms and goes to sleep.

By the time we wake up the next morning, we're not even thinking about what happened yesterday, and Keith is looking forward to meeting up with his girlfriend tonight back at her place--now their shared place. I'm thinking about tasks for work that need doing before Monday, and about the cute girl I met at the office Christmas party, whom I'd like to go out with again.

The new year to be seems bright.

Sometimes you make one tiny push in the right place at the right time, and everything else seems to flow from that, without you having to do anything else.

The sublime joy of riding my powerfulness to a point of tourist-level helplessness.

15. Sing A Reprise Then Fade Out

River. River clay. Straw basket. Scribal slab-board. River reed scratching its eternal meaning. Tablets in a kiln for drying. The city burns. The tablets are buried. Thousands of years until they are dug up. Reassembled. Taken away in scientific boxes.

Eventually put into a university's museum's display case.

The notecard says it is an ancient Akkadian spell for immortality.

Looking at the small chunk of old, dried clay, and remembering guiding the reed across the wet clay on a summer's night. Reading the tablet through the glass, and knowing that one morning right after opening, I was going to come back in a disguise, smash the glass, grab the tablet, and run away fast and far.

THE END.