The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Impulse Control

by Pizzahead

Eleven — Magical Mystery Medicine

A good lawyer—the kind Nancy had envisioned herself being before attraction magic turned her into a deranged cock-addict—would argue the case like this: “My client rarely remembers his dreams, and those he can remember explore mundane themes like forgetting that he has a chemistry test to study for, or finding himself naked while standing in line at a Starbucks. Therefor, the two dreams he remembered in every detail just this night, which contained philosophical complexities several orders above any dream previously experienced, were no ordinary dreams at all. We posit, then, that these rare dreams are a form of celestial—or infernal, take your pick—communication.”

My imaginary lawyer sure could say that again. The only other dream I’d had that might compare had actually been more like a surreal memory, where I’d been with the old magician I’d saved from drowning, and he’d introduced me to the living book of spells. Dreams couldn’t reach out from their residence in the mind and change the outside world—I didn’t think so, anyway—so what had happened when meeting the book might have been veiled, but it had been real, not a dream. No dream could have given me the magic I’d been enjoying and fucking-up with since earlier in Christmas season, and a dream sure couldn’t bestow me with a cum-forever cock.

Coincidence, that I’d found myself searching for that book of spells in one of tonight’s dreams? Coincidence, that I was shown how I’d been ensnared by my limited magic? I’d say fuck the very concept of coincidence in this matter—only a fool would see the two dreams from this night as the ramblings of the subconscious mind. And that wish in me, to not be a fool again, was like an engine. I had a mission, because I believed, completely, that I’d been given a mission.

I can be something close to a man of action when properly motivated; there’s no other way to get up a rock-face while climbing, and cabinets and walls don’t build themselves. It sounded like the ice had abated outside, and a quick phone-check of radar showed the worst of the storm moving east. I showered as quietly as possible, washing all the sex off me, then used my brand-new kettle and French-press to make coffee. Once caffeinated, I bundled up with everything I could find to keep warm, my stepmother sleeping through it all.

What I was going to do might be crazy. I had cross-country skis in the basement of my old house, but out here there was nothing for me other than multiple layers and grit. I sighed, knowing that none of it would be easy, and stuffed three granola bars into my coat pockets to keep myself together, then stepped out into a crusted-over world, still dark.

Where I lived now was about two miles from anything resembling a major road, and I trudged, my eyes watering, my boots making cracky-crunchy sounds as every footfall broke through a layer of ice down into wet snow. An after-storm wind was kicking up and it was fucking freezing.

I don’t know what I would have done without the magic. The sky had lightened considerably when I encountered my first snowplow, and because it was going so slow, I could cast an impulse spell on the driver. He might have stopped anyway—I was standing in his path—but it’s unlikely that without the magic he would have agreed to let me climb inside the cab. I’m certain he wouldn’t have wandered off his assigned route, responding, with a series of invisible nudges, to my laments that I just had to get to the interstate.

I never would have thought of it this way before, but hitchhiking is like a study in impulsive behavior. No one sets off thinking they’re going to give a ride to a total stranger, and yet some people do stop—more so when road conditions have them moving slowly by necessity, and they find themselves tapping the brakes almost despite themselves. Once I got to I-75, that was how I made my way north towards Wolverine.

I was in the company of a beer-gutted loudmouth the last thirty miles, who reflexively complained about his two “good for nothin’” sons. I took it for a while, but then I cut the cords every time he had the impulse to open his mouth. He got confused and fought it for a little bit, then settled into an angry silence, blowing air through his nose while grinding his teeth to nubs.

It might be uncomfortable silence, but I could think, and as one frosted mile slipped into another, I kept pondering the second of the night’s two dreams, prying out its secrets. I’d been unable to resist chomping down—taking the bait—once the spells had been given to me; I got that. But I wondered about the ending, with the introduction of a third hook, even when others had me by the throat—what was that all about? In the dream all I’d been able to see of that lure was that it was carved like Lila’s legs, and maybe they were so gorgeously formed that they were every bit the miracles that Nell’s tits were, and Meghan’s pussy. But I thought there was something else going on, some other message. Maybe the book always liked to work with threes—some kind of natural, or supernatural, law?

And that third hook had felt like piling on, like catching a bear in a trap and then pulling its teeth out, so he couldn’t even chew his leg off. That made me wonder if some of my “mistakes” could have had hidden hands involved—the old magician making a hidden appearance and forcing the discovery of the potioned eggnog, for instance? How many spells could the old man wield, anyway? As far as I knew he could have been monitoring my movements through a crystal ball, making sure this happened, or that other thing didn’t occur. And did he just happen to crash-land in such a way that I would be the one to find him? That felt like a set-up, too, but any thinking in that direction was no different than a big, “Why me?” Some people are born poor and others rich, some beautiful and others plain, and some are destined to find happiness, while others commit suicide. And some, apparently, get roped-in by wrinkled magicians who serve the whims of some sort of intelligence beyond themselves—that’s why.

I was going to be one of the book’s agents now; just thinking that thought had a resounding force inside me, like a bell tolling The Uncomfortable Truth. But how did that work—would I be allowed to choose any new spells, or would they be assigned? If choice was possible, what I craved most was time-travel magic—I figured it had to exist—where I could go backwards and let Nancy break up with me in the car that night; either that or I could try to keep her interested by nothing more than impulse magic, like I’d done with Dawn later on. No attraction potion eating away her sanity, that was the main point. I could also erase the even bigger fuck-up with the eggnog, casting a spell on Nell’s mug while she drank it, keeping everyone else unaffected.

But then when I really thought about it, my position had changed. I still wanted the attraction potion inside of Nell; I didn’t have a shred of any intention of giving that up. And it was pretty much the same with Meghan, and Lila, too. I hadn’t wanted them spellbound, but now that they were…

Lila had bragged about her flexibility, and how tight she was, and I hadn’t really tasted any of that yet. Maybe it had been stupid of me, but every time she and I had engaged in sex, I’d been trying to run away from her, or convince her to stop. That meant I hadn’t really fucked her properly yet, and—I was ready to admit this to myself—I wanted to. Unfinished business—I hated that. You start climbing a rock-face and dammit, you get as high as you said you’d climb—what’s the point of stopping halfway and saying “good enough?”

What I needed was some kind of magic to temper the attraction spell, keeping it strong but not fevered, not all-consuming. What would that be, a dilution spell? And it wouldn’t hurt to be able to mess with people’s memories. The more I mulled that one over, the more I found myself aching for it. I could get Nancy and her parents to forget that she’d ever reached such a manic state, and it could help me to clean up any future messes I made. If I could selectively erase some parts of the past in targeted minds, who would even need time-travel?

I definitely didn’t have it all figured out when the green of the Wolverine exit sign appeared in a field of white and gray. Morning sun was trying to break through heavy clouds, and I thought for a few seconds that I might get rays of golden light beaming down, a movie-moment to show me I was on the right path. But no, the clouds never parted, and Beer-gut didn’t take the exit—he slowed and pulled onto the cleared shoulder, and barked at me to get out. His ill-temper didn’t phase me at all, because down below I could see a truck plowing in the direction I needed to go. I might be able to catch another ride, but I was within hiking distance anyway. I was going to make it.

I thought to text Meghan when traversing the off-ramp, figuring she’d be perplexed and worried about my disappearance. I told her I had to run an errand, and would be back later in the day. I texted Nell, too, conveying that I’d do whatever I needed to do to see her later in the day, and that my phone was going dead. There were voicemails from all of “my” women, and Nancy’s dad again, and I didn’t listen to any of them, because what was there to say? What I could or couldn’t do with or for any of them all depended on whether I had any success at the end of this journey.

I did snag a magical-mystery ride part of the way there, in a well-appointed Ford Expedition. It was a slender woman a few years older than Meghan who found herself stopping to pick me up, and she had her teen-age daughter, very lovely with conspicuously gorgeous lips, riding in the passenger seat. It was a short ride—I probably could have impulsed the woman into going on past her home and taking me right to the nowhere spot on the road I’d been to before, but I didn’t even want that. I did, however, end up casting a spell on the daughter, wondering why she kept glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.

“Do you have something you want to say to me?” I asked, meeting her reflection and pulling at her impulse to spit out what she was holding back.

“I really like your mouth!” she shouted, startling her mother, and herself.

The pot calling the kettle black because she had lips that could be kissed for weeks. Her mouth was pretty much to-die-for, and I told her so, which got her smiling, which made her mouth even sexier.

The mother wanted to say something and was holding it back, and I pulled there, too. “Sally, we know nothing about this young man! He could be—“

“I’m harmless,” I cut in, thinking how far from the truth my words were. “But if I make you nervous and you want to let me out…”

She would have done it, the bitch, but I fucked with her impulse to put pressure on the brakes and on we went.

The girl, Sally, misread the scrunching of her mother’s face, caused by the inability to chuck me out of the car like an old candy wrapper. “You can be so distrustful,” the girl said without any interference from me. “He seems nice, and it’s freezing outside.”

To which the mother added the pursing of her lips to her facial contortions, before saying: “Who hitchhikes in cold like this? Who hitchhikes anymore, period?”

“It’s a great way to meet wonderful people like the two of you,” I replied, catching the daughter’s eyes in the mirror again.

She laughed, getting the irony when it came to her mother. Who—I should give her credit for this—just gave up on her intention of dumping me out of the car.

“Ahh,” the daughter sighed, no idea why. It sounded sexy to my ears but more than that, it got that fabulous mouth opening deliciously.

The mother kept glancing over at her daughter and she was holding tight to words that were dying to come out. I was too curious to let it go so I pushed, and the mother whipped her head sideways and said: “Sally, are you a virgin?”

“Mother!” came the shocked response, and the daughter’s reflected eyes locking onto mine for a couple of meaningful seconds. I didn’t make the words come out of her mouth, but with volumes to be read in her expression I was almost certain she would have said: ”Yes I’m still a virgin, but I don’t want to be!”

A sower of family chaos, that was me. So far I’d turned a smart and motivated young woman, Nancy, into a fever-slut who needed to be sedated, and I’d fucked both my stepsister and my stepmother—who was still happily married to my father—and I’d also fucked another married woman, Dawn, who might possibly wish to get together for more extra-marital fun and games, and here I was stirring up bucketfuls of tension inside a stranger’s car, while lightly musing upon how I could return one day and relieve a fresh-faced pillow-lipped beauty out of her virginity.

Mom stopped the car abruptly, almost dangerously, when we got to their turn-off—she probably thought her foot, or the brakes, wouldn’t obey again. As I was getting out of the car, my eyes lighted upon clothes hanging at the driver’s side rear window that I hadn’t really noticed before. There was a familiar logo on a dark blue shirt, which turned it into a recognizable uniform.

“Which one of you works at a DQ?”

“I do,” Sally said, which got her a fast, “Don’t tell a stranger where to find you!” from her mother.

When I stood on slushy pavement and closed the door, Sally rolled her window partway down and called out, “I work nights!” right before her mother burned—more like slid—rubber away from me.

“Not a fan of impulse-controlling perverts, are you?” I called out to the disappearing Expedition, knowing they wouldn’t be able to hear. And I wondered: Was I on my way to becoming a public menace? “You’re already a public menace,” I answered my question, the steam from my mouth punctured by a jet of wind.

As such, I kept thinking about the attractive daughter while walking the last couple of miles of my journey. After spending naked time with Meghan, Sally had looked so young and innocent, with a softness to her form that might be inspiring to explore. I pictured her lifting her sweater over her head, exposing very creamy breasts huddled inside a baby blue bra, her expression gone just a little bit fearful. That succulent mouth opening in anticipation as I cupped her tits, and rolled her nipples. And then the sounds, “Oh God, yes!”, as together we placed her innocence on a wooden boat that passion set fire to, before that unwanted history drifted away from shore.

As a card-carrying sorcerer, maybe I could rob her of her virginity without ever once touching her, and wouldn’t that be biblical, a kind of immaculate penetration. Maybe I could find out what she dreamed sex would be like, and once her clitoris came to life on the impulse field, I could take her for a thrill ride that fulfilled all of her dreams, and more.

That was, as Nell had pointed out, the romantic in me, even if it was a twisted sort. And that was the thing—I would be living in one world if this trek didn’t pan out the way I hoped, and in an entirely different one if it did. Even if successful here, I might never find a woman who made me feel harder than Nell, nor one who could fuck half as expertly as Meghan, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t want to seek out more, to taste all the differences and savor them. So what if I had invisible hooks in my mouth, my soul tethered to the whims of an intelligence I might never understand—I might as well embrace what freedoms I had, and make the best of them.

I don’t know if I would have recognized the spot of highway with all the snow cover, but I didn’t need to when I could sense its import. There was no obscuring fog this time; all looked completely ordinary, just tall evergreens and snow-laden scrub that wouldn’t be easy to hike through. It was obvious to me that I had to turn north and just plunge in, picking my way through brambles that caught at my parka and scratched at my face. Gloved hands and a scarf over my mouth helped, but the thorns just got thicker and thicker, the footing trickier. My forehead stung like I’d gotten a good scratch there and I stopped to tighten my hood around my head, and then kept going.

The earth dipped into a leaf-filled gully, and a sense of dread, unlike anything I’d ever experienced in my life, seemed to rise up from my feet, snaking its way to my adrenals, and my heart, and my tongue. I couldn’t stifle the scream of terror that forced its way out of my mouth—I just knew I’d be axe-murdered any second now. Death was all around me, piles of corpse-leaves leaping at my legs as the wind howled, and gnarled tree-skeletons reaching out with their tortured limbs. I needed to turn and run run run!

I didn’t run. No one in their right mind would ever wander in here and keep going when experiencing those emotions, and that must be the point. But I wasn’t in my right mind; there might be a terror spell stirring my flight response as I kept fighting the brambles, but I was no ordinary trespasser. I was a young man willing to do foolish things so as to not be a fool, willing or allowing myself to be reeled in. One foot after the other, even with the hairs on my arms standing straight, and then the next foot after that one, even as thorns caught at my parka hood and pulled it back, exposing my face for a fresh attack.

“Let it be written that I find you, you fucker,” I told this hostile, clawing landscape. “Let what I need be written.”

After another hundred yards or so the vegetation eased away. My face stung in places and I’d need to buy a new parka, but that was small shit to be dealt with later. The going was much easier now as I picked up a narrow footpath that widened into more of a carriage trail, which curved around a bend and…

“Fucking hell,” I said, when I saw it. Larger than a cottage and smaller than a castle, with some of the architectural attributes of both. Gray, not colorful, but otherwise straight out of a storybook in appearance. And most shockingly—no snow. It wasn’t even winter there, like the structure and immediate environs existed in their own perpetual springtime.

Where the narrow road turned into elegant stonework I shed my parka, just letting it fall to the ground. I didn’t worry about being seen as an invader; I probably would have been turned into ground meat by the brambles if I were a real intruder, and I wouldn’t even see this place if it didn’t want to be seen.

At the base of the steps leading to a tall arched door, I sat and removed by boots and layers of wet socks, wiggling my sore toes in the spring air before climbing barefoot to the top. And I did get my movie-moment, the sun peeking through the clouds just as I reached for the door handle, and lifting the latch, stepped inside.

* * *

Once inside that home/castle, reality is not quite real. Once again in the way of dreams, it’s not quite possible to look around in a self-directed way; I see what I’m meant to see, a narrowly focused viewpoint of my surroundings that I can’t quite seem to override. Similarly, it’s not so much that I walk from place to place, with awareness of each step and the working of muscles that make such movement possible; no, I am just there. I must be moving my body around in a normal fashion, but the experience is of being somewhat disconnected. I might as well be hovering, though I think I’m not.

The initial hit, the first point that I am to see: the old magician I pulled from the lake sure appears to be dead. I don’t react as I probably would in any other place, feeling shocked and checking to see if there is a faint pulse. Here, dead is dead, and peacefully so. The old man was, obviously, quite old, and it couldn’t have done his health any favors to get half-frozen. His body lies upon a stone slab, and he’s dressed in a black suit with a red tie, complete with shiny black shoes. He looks more like the funeral director than the corpse, except for the lack of breath and his positioning, hands clasped at the waist and an expression of calm finality upon his face.

Note to self: No one, not even a powerful magician, lives forever.

I sense a presence behind me, and then I’m looking that way. It is another stone slab, a half-remembered one that’s more like an alter, and upon it sits the book. Or should I give it its due—it is The BOOK. It’s so much larger than I remembered, almost the size of a couch… No, as big as my car… No…

I stop trying to encapsulate its measure as it expands and expands, showing me that it is larger than the building it rests within, perhaps so large, if it wishes, that the entire planet would be nothing but an indistinguishable mote upon one of its pages.

Its version of a parlor trick, meant to humble me? Give the puny human a taste of The Scale of Things so I bend a knee or some shit? Fuck that; I was summoned, and here I am.

So what about me? I think, and I mean to aim my thoughts at it. I’m here, and I know from my dreams that you wanted me here. You wish to use me, to make me be like he was. Am I his replacement? You gave me magic and dangled just the right bait in front of my nose, and now I need your help. So what now—you give me more magic and I do your bidding, is that it? Because you know what I want in return. You know what I need. Will you give it to me? Do we both get what we want?

Silence, that is not silent. Nothing stirs yet I have the sense of a breeze that has entered the space. I know to close my eyes, to be in even more of a dream space, or a dreamy state, and I see the book in my head, manageably sized, opening to show me a spell. It’s more angular, visually, than the ones given to me before, and the shapes seem to occupy too many dimensions, difficult to even contemplate without my brain feeling disturbed.

It sorts itself, somehow, and as soon as it’s complete in my mind I breathe this new spell out. I don’t watch it happen but I know the deceased magician is no more, his body gone to some ethereal place where disposed-of magicians go. And just as soon as I have to take an in-breath, the spell I just uttered is gone from my brain. I understand—I will not be allowed to retain the power to make anyone or anything else disappear. No one should have that power. This spell is one and done.

With my eyes still closed, I see the book open itself to another page, and then another, and another and another… My dick hardens, getting a glimpse of the power of all the spells. I imagine what could be done if I possessed them, or even a fraction of them… Hundreds or thousands tease at me and I can’t absorb a single one, but I get the taste of it, that with less than twenty powerful spells, a magician could walk the earth, for a time, with almost godlike power. Perhaps, through the ages, it was those chosen by the book who were thought to be gods, or devils, or Merlins.

It was always there in human history, a belief that would never quite go away, that some possess powers that transcend the normal laws that govern the world. Call them wizards or shamans, occultists or conjurers. I can’t know that every one of them ever met The BOOK, but all their tricks are here. You need a means to subvert the fundamental laws upon which the entire “normal” universe maintains its balance? Then come here, wherever here is, because what you seek is already written on these pages, and it’s been waiting for you.

Those pages continue to be teased in front of me, spell upon spell that are like mosquitos in that they hover inside my brain but never light,not when I’m hunting them. I can’t help it—with all of this teased right in front of me I feel lust, like a cavern in my soul that aches to be filled. As soon as I feel this hunger and know its reality, one spell does alight. Its details are incomprehensible in visual form, yet it decodes itself and imprints the use of it upon my brain. Right after that another spell does the same, and then one more.

No more. Always three, I think. I was right, that there is some kind of cosmic law about that.

I have what I need now. I’ve been given what I wished for, and there is a definite feeling of elation at the scope of the abilities I’ll now be able to wield. It may be a simple doubling of useful spells in a numerical sense, but it feels so much greater.

Any elation is tempered by the knowledge that a price is attached. I’m going to be called upon at some point, or many points, to use my magic in ways that may or may not feel right to me. I’m nearly one-hundred percent certain that the book’s instructions will come to me in the form of vivid and unforgettable dreams, like the ones that came earlier in the morning. Refusal on my part to do what a dream tells me to do… I don’t even go there, because there’s a flare of pain in my gut when I think that thought, and it tells me in no uncertain terms that refusal is not an option. Disobey at your own risk, that flaring of pain seems to say. You’re far from immune to suffering.

I can’t pretend to be completely comfortable with my new situation—it smacks of someone listening to the voices in their head, and then doing some kind of crazy shit. But this is the particular hole I’ve dug for myself, and it comes with massive benefits. Until called upon, I’m free to use both the old magic and the new as I see fit. I will be directed at times to do the book’s bidding—that story, whatever it is, may already be written in some cosmic realm, but here on earth I’ll be the pen going through life using invisible ink—my magic—that makes the deeds happen. In-between these assignments, the invisible ink story is mine to write, or to believe I get to write.

I’m suddenly cold, and as I open my eyes in response, I know that this second encounter with the book is no more. I find that I’m outside again, though I don’t believe I ever walked out the door. There never was any door, because there never was any house or castle. Perhaps the structure and the book inside sometimes exist here, temporarily. Perhaps they don’t exist at all, not in any ordinary way. I might not have even been on the planet for a little while; really, the exact nature of what just took place is totally beyond me, other than knowing what’s been given to me, and that returning the favor will be mandatory.

One thing was certain—I was freezing now, especially my feet. My boots and socks were a few paces away, not on stone steps where I thought I’d left them, but half-buried in snow next to an encrusted bush. It’s the same with my parka, and after a little bit of work I was damp here and there, but dressed for the winter weather again.

Hearing crows calling in the trees, I looked around and had little doubt that I was in the same woods as before, even though I can see no sign of the little dirt roadway or even the narrow path that had brought me here. I had no appetite for more snowbound bushwhacking, and then a frigid hike or hitchhiking back to the center of Wolverine…

And then I grinned, because I didn’t need to do that, not anymore. There were three new spells inside me, two of which were tailored for clean-up operations, and more. And then the other, the last one the book had bestowed upon me, unexpected but totally kick-ass in what it would allow me to do. In my head, knowing the old magician had made use of it, I had already dubbed this one spell-a-porting, and that was the name I’d stick with. In theory I could be anywhere, in just about the blink of an eye.

There were limitations, of course, and potential dangers. I needed to be intimately familiar with the destination—no spell-a-porting to a Parisian cafe, for instance, not unless I’d first gotten on a plane and hung out there, the location becoming a part of me. For now, that meant a fairly limited menu of destinations, environments in my life that I knew like the back of my hand. One of which—Nancy’s house—had to be my very first landing place, so I could repair the fuck-up going the most wrong.

As with the other spells, the use of this one was right there in my head, but I took my time, just standing among the trees, picturing the front stoop of 212 Cedar Street in as much detail as I could muster. I pictured the sidewalk leading to three brick steps, and the little cement porch with its embedded guardrails, needing to be scraped and repainted the last time I’d noticed them. There was a little outdoor mat right in front of the door, a seasonal one with a cheesy illustration of a snowman. I couldn’t know if everything was ice-coated, or if Nancy’s father or some kid had cleared the stoop and walkway. Did it matter? Only if it was all icy, making me slip and fall on my very first magic ride.

All I had to do was exhale the spell, seeing that place in my mind. Yet it lingered in my memory how this was the spell that crashed the old man into our lake, nearly killing him then and probably contributing to his recent death. I didn’t know why he’d misjudged things so badly—did he cut corners and spell himself there after only having seen the place on Google maps? Was it just feeble-mindedness? A mini-stroke? The book deciding that it was his time to make way for a new kid on the block, and somehow making him fuck up?

A touch of fear meant I couldn’t keep my heart rate steady, but that was no impediment. I closed my eyes and just did it, and when I opened them the light was different, more open sky above with the Bakken’s front door right in front of me, close enough to reach out and knock. Fuck me, this was practically like a Star Trek transporter! I guessed I’d keep my car for appearance’s sake, but I wouldn’t be putting very many miles on it.

I looked around in all directions, curious as to whether anyone had seen me appear out of nowhere, but the street was silent. The Bakken’s hadn’t cleared the walkway to the street at all—probably too bent out of shape about their daughter’s psychological state to take care of simple tasks—and there was just one set of tracks leading out away from the stoop, Nancy’s dad from the size of the bootprints. Someone sharp might notice that I’d gotten to the front door without leaving any tracks of my own; I’d have to learn to keep details like that in mind in certain situations.

I knocked on the door, and when no one answered I wondered if I should work the magic again, this time appearing on the inside. I’d only been inside the Bakken’s house a couple of times; Nancy had wanted to show me something on her desktop once, and her mother, Emma, had gotten pretty upset at finding us together in her daughter’s bedroom. The irony to that: We hadn’t even been touching one another in there, while earlier, in Nancy’s car, we’d been fucking like rabbits.

I could spell-a-port myself in there, and I was just beginning to concentrate when I heard light footfalls. Then, it was Nancy’s mother opening the door.

“Oh, John, I… Anthony is out summoning a colleague, a specialist, who might be able to… Why is your face all scratched up?”

From the bushwhacking a hundred miles away. I shrugged, having no idea how bad it was.

“Look,” she went on. “I don’t think you should be here. Nancy is… She’s…”

Emma Bakken’s eyes were puffy and they began to fill with tears. She’d been crying earlier and that really did make me feel like a shit. But not a total shit, because I might be the devil who’d pitchforked their daughter’s pussy, but I was also the exorcist.

I glanced at the stairs, and Emma gathered herself and said: “Oh no, you’re not going up there!”, the lioness protecting her cub. “We don’t know what’s gotten into her but you… I’m going to ask you to leave, right now. We don’t want you seeing our daughter, ever again! We—“

“Okay, okay,” I said, and maybe I would have made a little phony speech, but the door was slammed in my face. “Fuck you,” I said under my breath, while also understanding her position.

I cast the impulse spell on Emma Bakken and just stood there in the cold, gauging her movements. She didn’t go to a window to watch me trudge away, and she didn’t go up the stairs. She headed towards the back of the house, either laundry room or kitchen, which was perfect. I closed my eyes and thought of Nancy’s bedroom, her queen-sized bed towards the curtained windows with her computer table and a dresser to the left of the door. I knew this space. I could be in this space.

I looked around, and felt unobserved, and I let out the spell. Before I could even inhale after the incantation, I was there.

So… fucking… amazing. I’d felt nothing going from one place to another, other than the sudden change of temperature upon arrival, and the lack of wind. Also, the smell of Nancy pussy in the room, so strong it was like someone had sprayed it from a can.

And the room… Jeez. It wasn’t so disorderly as to say that it was tornado-whipped, but Nancy’s customary neatness had been turned upside-down, and my name was everywhere, hodgepodged all over the walls from floor to ceiling in ink and crayon and blue spray paint. Sprinkled in with the JOHN!’s, John 4ever’s and BJ’s 4 John!’s all over the walls were a few I love his cock!’s and then sat least half a wall with nothing but Cum John Cum, on and on and on, like an after-school punishment, or a mantra. No wonder her parents wanted to get a specialist to come here to help; this shit was disturbed.

The smut-brained graffiti artist was a human-shaped lump fetaled under the bedcovers, laying motionless, turned away from me. I thought she must be asleep, drugged into unconsciousness, but then she sighed, and it was a wakeful sigh.

I cast the impulse spell upon Nancy, and audibly gasped at the force of her clitoris burning. I had an additional window into her, too—I had never perceived the attraction magic as anything but the recipient’s impulses and words and deeds, but this was different, a palpable mass of something glowing at the center of Nancy’s body. It had a shape even though it had no definable edges; it seemed to be floating within her body, and also to be coursing through her bloodstream, like something that was meant to be ephemeral was gradually becoming physical. And it was bright, like I had inner eyes that needed to squint. If that blob were a lightbulb, her insides would be glowing so hot that her organs and the whole house might catch fire.

I remembered something Nell had said on the phone late last night, that she loved me so much that it felt like her heart was on fire. Maybe, in a way, it was, her attraction magic having reached a temperature to where she could feel its presence physically, and not just as enhanced impulses in her clitoris and pussy. Nell was a handful of days behind Nancy in that regard, and I couldn’t let it get this bad for her.

Perhaps I made some sort of sound, because Nancy whipped sideways, and saw me. “J—!“ she got out, before I could impulse-choke the rest of her shouting my name. She gurgled as I put my index finger to my lips and said, “Shhhhhh!”

Unable to get words out, Nancy made a close-lipped mewing noise, reaching towards my groin with two hands, fingers straight, beseeching. Her mouth opened and she licked her lips, and maybe this was me being some kind of twisted fuck but I couldn’t help it—I thought I’d never seen her looking so hot before. It wasn’t like being at the bedside of someone who was sick, where the only emotions that made sense would be of sympathy, or concern. It was more like witnessing a creature caught partway through a state of metamorphosis, Nancy’s somewhat prim and studious features being re-shaped the tiniest bit to convey emotions and attitudes she had never known before, like feral hunger and ravenous need.

Her imploring hands were trying to tell me what it was she needed, and rightly or wrongly, my cock pushed forward, trying to meet her halfway. More choked-off mewing; it was an assignment in concentration, keeping hold of her vocal impulses, because she wanted to scream her approval when I removed my parka, and scarf, and boots and socks, and especially my pants and briefs. She didn’t rise out of the bed—maybe it was the lingering effects of the sedative she’d been given, preventing all her motor skills from being there? But her arms and hands moved just fine, taking in the offering of my throbbing cock as I stood beside her bed, and her mouth had no issues with opening to suck me in.

I had come here to dole out medicine. There was a new form of medicine that could help her out for the long run, but for right now, like anyone going through the pangs of withdrawal, she needed her fix.

I was happy to give it, too. The visuals were fabulous—she remained on her side, the covers partly falling away to reveal bare breasts flushed red with her nipples sticking straight out, but it was really her face that got me going the most. Tears flooded from her eyes as she sucked, the kind of tears a woman cries when finally reunited with a beloved dog or cat who’s been missing for weeks. She looked transported with joy, with finally having what she needed above all else right there in her mouth, and the glow I could see within her seemed to be changing color, blue-white heat becoming a warmer hue, more golden.

I placed my hands on the covers and let the mattress take a bit of my weight, leaning in so she could suck me down even further. Nancy had not been wasting her time with those cucumbers; she was doing things with her tongue and cheeks that she wouldn’t have thought to do before, both of her hands around my shaft near the base, rhythmically pumping as she blew me. Perhaps somewhere deep within that dense soup of impulses, she felt like she was auditioning, strutting her stuff with hopes of a call-back at a later date. Maybe she was just a girl so throughly in-love with a cock that being reunited with it was both magical and dangerous.

I could see the impulses arise in her to go faster, and I understood—the impulses rang loud and clear now—that she was indeed on a mission to show me what she could do, like the legal and competitive parts of her mind were all rolled into her tongue, determined to win this case at any cost. My voice became the one I needed to stifle, because her lips did something, a kind of pulling, serving a summons to my balls and ordering them to cum, cum with her, fucking cum!

I couldn’t help gasping as she got her wish, and as I did I felt the emergence of a powerful Nancy-climax, the pleasure of sucking me off and receiving my seed fueling her clit to where it could only do one thing. I shut my eyes and concentrated; it was like playing several musical instruments at once, feeling the flood of my release while drawing her climax into the light and heightening it, and then extending it, all while pushing down on every impulses that wanted to have her bellowing or moaning, and her legs kicking and her rear flopping up and down on the bed. She was far from being as still as a statue as she came, but the noise level was acceptable, unlikely to have her mom charging up the stairs with a knife or a wooden cross.

Once her release crested, and bit by bit the physical and emotional bliss subsided, Nancy sighed and curled into a ball, a big glob of my cum sliding out the corner of her mouth, pooling upon her pillow. She had a different kind of smile than I’d ever seen on her face before, one that widened and puffed out her cheeks like those of a delighted child, this eighteen year-old high school senior’s features half-transformed into those of a little girl who’d just gotten her favorite flavor of ice cream, and now it might be time for a nap

She appeared so contented that I was tempted to just let sleeping spell-demons lie, but that wouldn’t have been the right thing. My cum had worked wonders on Nancy, but it was only a temporary dosage; she’d be in even worse shape tomorrow if I stopped here. She needed the other medicine, too, the invisible kind. The use of it was new to me, no lengthy studies or trial runs, but I trusted that I could administer it effectively.

Without her really paying attention, I got dressed, heavy coat and all, and stood there for a little while just getting my heart rate all calm before uttering the second of the new spells that had been given to me, the relief that would have some staying power.

In the translation and other information in my brain, this spell had no name, but I figured I’d call it the rheostat spell, because its purpose was to lessen or intensify the effect of already existing magic. Quite handy; one might even say that this spell was essential for any magician to possess, and the fact that I hadn’t been given it at the beginning spoke volumes. Using the attraction spell without any means to adjust it was a recipe for disaster, and all I had to do was survey the walls of Nancy’s room to see what that looked like. She was safely tucked into her own bed, with sanity-saving drugs and John-cum in her system for now, but without this new magic her future would probably be bleak, like a mental institution, no hope for recovery.

I cast the spell. There, still so easy to see, was the glowing overheated ball of attraction magic, golden-toned but perilous. Again I pictured it as being like a lightbulb, one that burned miles and miles too hot. Next I pictured a sliding bar, like you might see on some adjustable light switches, and I connected the two images, and slid the bar down, and down more. I could watch the gradual dimming in my head, or wherever the attraction-magic field existed. The attraction magic still existed—I had no power to take it away—but instead of a runaway lightbulb attempting to glow like the sun, her attraction for me would be more like a sixty-watt bulb, plenty strong for lighting up a dark room, but its light not even visible if placed outside on a sunny day. Like this, Nancy ought to be able to get back to her normal self in terms of her aspirations and life plans. She’d still have feelings for me that were more than if I’d never turned her water into a potion, but they ought to be manageable now.

I figured that she and her parents would reward the expert they brought in as being a genius, because as soon as he started working with his new patient, he’d find her largely—though far from completely—over me. Years from now, with Nancy going gangbusters in school or setting the legal world on fire, they might all have a good uncomfortable laugh, about the time she was on a trajectory to throw it all away because she went temporarily off the rails, or episodic, all over that boy.

Mission accomplished, I needed to spell myself somewhere else before Emma came to check in. There were details in the room that didn’t look right, like the cum at Nancy’s mouth and on her pillow, and my boots had made some dirty wet spots on the floor. I removed my scarf and quietly wiped at the floor, removing that evidence. As for my cum… Fuck it, let them believe she’d kept a jar of it out on her windowsill. They wouldn’t even care, once they realized their girl was more or less back to being herself, cured of whatever had ailed her.

Where to next? An idea came to me, a means of easy experimentation, and so I did the reverse of my last spell-a-portation, and magicked my way back out onto the front stoop.

I rang the bell, and just as before, I could sense Emma Bakken’s movements on the impulse field. She hesitated to answer but there was also an impulse to see if I’d returned, and I reached in and made her come to open the door. On the way, I closed my eyes while casting out the very first of the three new spells that had been given to me, what I guessed I’d call the memory spell. It required a good deal of concentration—there was only a tiny window of recent experience I wanted to wipe clean, and nothing more.

Emma opened the door. “Oh, John. I—“

No recognition. Of me, yes, but not of the fact that I’d just been here.

“Mrs. Bakken, I just wanted to ask how Nancy is doing. I thought—“

“John, please, we… What happened to your face?”

“Demonic brambles. Don’t ever mess with them.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Bakken, what matters is Nancy. Have you considered getting an outside consultant, perhaps one of your husband’s colleagues?”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s before she said, “Why, Anthony is… Dr. Marston should be here soon. But—“

“I feel better already. Thank you Emma, Mrs. Bakken. I won’t bother you anymore, I promise. I’m just glad that Nancy can get the help she needs.”

I turned and trudged away, trying to place my feet into the tracks Anthony Bakken had made earlier in the day. Coming near the ornamental cedars almost at the street, I sank into unbroken snow and hid, no longer in view of the windows of the house or almost anywhere else.

I had done a good magical deed, although I wasn’t certain that my moves had been all that well thought out, every angle covered. I had three new magic arrows I could use—spell-a-porting, memory-adjusting, and rheostating—and I had no doubt that they all worked. The bomb that Nancy had become was defused, but did that mean I was through with her? I could go back into her room and cast the memory spell there, too, snipping out her recent memories, of me just being there getting a blow-job, or of her entire experience of going nuts over the past few days. But that last one didn’t even make any sense, because I hadn’t thought to find and steal her journal, and unless I repainted her walls, what the attraction magic had turned her into would remain there to be seen.

I made a decision to let her remember everything, no intervening there. These kinds of things happened to people—they got mad crushes, or became overwrought, and I suppose this wasn’t the first time that someone had become sex-obsessed. It would be interesting, too, to see how Nancy behaved with me in the coming weeks or months. She’d still be magically attracted—that might last for years—but it would be to a much less severe degree. She’d remember that I’d told her I was seeing Nell—would she state her case about our having an open relationship, and want to fuck me again anyway? Would she feel betrayed or outgunned and just move on? And how would I feel if she did want to remain in a semi-relationship with me, happy to continue her oral education with my dick instead of cucumbers? Jettison her, or whip my thing out and take what I could get?

There was still so much to figure out. My new spells were beyond great, but they added complexity that I didn’t think I’d caught up to yet. So far so good, unless I was back at laying invisible mines for myself, as I had earlier. I couldn’t detect any traps from what I had just done…

But that meant nothing. I’d already seen that a magic spell could be like a sword with no handle—wield it and you might end up slicing your own fingers. I was determined to get it right this time, taking advantage of what the magic could do for me without a whole bunch of “D’oh!’s” from screwing up all over the place.

My first rule of thumb about being a magician, learned the hard way, would be this: When an accomplished magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, it’s bad form when the rabbit craps on his shirt.

I wanted to go around smelling like I had pussy all over me, not shit. And not sulphur.

There had to be a way to get it right this time.