Impulse Control
by Pizzahead
Fifteen — The Burn of Memory (Three Months Later)
“That has got to be the coolest car I’ve ever seen! Your uncle’s really going to let you keep it while we’re here?”
That from Sally Redmundsen, formerly and rather briefly known as Sally the Dairy Queen Virgin, as I came to a stop in the circular driveway of our beach villa. I was already thinking of this fully restored 1967 marina-blue Corvette convertible as my Florida car, which, if I went there, would be a pretty big hit to my bank account. There was no “uncle”—the car was rented for a week, but there was an option to buy, and damn it all, it felt like a keeper.
I had been right that I wouldn’t be putting many miles on my old Toyota, but that didn’t mean spell-a-porting took away most of the need to drive. It had taken me only a second to travel from Darien, Connecticut, the location of my most recent assignment, to Boca Raton, but that didn’t include the scouting work I’d performed three weeks before. I’d needed to arrange a safe—meaning familiar and private—landing pad in Darien and South Florida, a hell of a lot of driving. Down here my landing pad was the small garage where I’d be keeping the ’Vette, or any other car I chose for down here. And now that I was in Florida in the company of others, I needed the car to get around in.
“Is this place g-great or what!” Rock beamed. He stood couple-close to Sally, not with his arm around her, but you could tell. She turned her head sideways and smiled at his small stutter; there hadn’t even been any magic needed there, as Sally had not been put off by Rock’s speech impediment even from the beginning. I had hoped they’d like each other, and it was pretty much love at first sight for Rock, and close enough for Sally—especially with a couple of instances of impulse magic sprinkled in.
Finding her at her workplace had been easy enough, and I’d gotten her to go out for an upscale meal with the two of us. It helped that she was incredibly horny—she hadn’t been a virgin by choice—and she liked Rock, which became something insistent when I’d gotten inside her impulses and made sure her clitoris applauded, just a title bit, whenever Rock stumbled to get his words out. They were both sweet-natured but a little bit damaged—Rock because of his stutter, and Sally because of her horror-show of a restrictive mother—and while slurping pasta together I’d nudged them towards togetherness as best I could. The rest had been up to them—I left the two of them with the car that night and spell-a-ported for a fuck-fest with Mary McCabe, aka the redhead with the superb ass and cocky grin from Pete’s Java Brew, and just three days later I received a four-word text from Rock, complete with a happy-face emoji: No longer a virgin! Whether Rock had been referring to Sally, or to himself or the two of them together, I never asked. It was all good.
“You’ve got to come up on the deck and see the view!” Sally said, taking my hand. “Everyone’s either there or down on the patio by the pool. And just wait until you see the patio!”
I glanced at the big cooler on the passenger seat and Rock took my meaning. “Way to score, bud. I’ll bring the b-booze in. Go check out the view before the light fades.”
And so I joined the small crew of eighteen and nineteen year-olds that comprised this Easter Break vacation. The view from the deck was pretty amazing; the patio below, surrounding a large swimming pool, was about as wide but longer than four basketball courts bunched together, with a guest house and a line of stately palms at the far end. Beyond that was the beach and what I guess you’d call the anti-sunset, a distant wall of purple-grey clouds meeting the Atlantic Ocean at the horizon, the sun disappearing directly behind us. Everyone down below was either lightly bronzed or slightly lobster-broiled—they’d arrived the day before, while I’d been up north sabotaging the political career of a wannabe, now certainly not gonna-be, candidate for the United States Senate.
The vacation crew, nine in all, was: Me; Rock and Sally; Billy Chatham, an artist who’d collaborated with Rock on a couple of graphic books; Christina Stone, Billy’s girlfriend and a really excellent guitarist; Chad Hanson, a news-junkie I’d been hanging out with on the few days I attended classes, to help orient myself into the who’s-who of the political players I was being dream-directed to subvert or influence; “Peach” Harrison, a lovely science nerd with the creamiest complexion you could ever wish to see; Rhonda Barnes, a friend (and perhaps lover?) of Peach’s who was a freshman at Michigan State; and Stacy Putnam, a champion swimmer in the state regionals, who had instantly become the hottest girl in our high school once Nell and Lila graduated.
With the guest house, the villa could comfortably sleep twenty or more. We were originally going to be ten, but Stacy’s long-time boyfriend, Mountain Mike Maggos, kept forgetting the trip entirely, and had ended up missing his flight. Stacy didn’t know if he’d eventually show up; with his recent memory issues, presumably from playing football since he was seven, you could never know what he would or wouldn’t get around to doing.
I found my way to the patio area and said my hellos, breathing in the salt air while watching the group’s mood change with the arrival of the booze. Rock had wheeled it up on a little dolly—it was a very large cooler, heavy with beer and wine—and I helped him lift it down the marble steps, everyone crowding around to make their selections and pop tops.
Stacy hung back behind the others, keeping her eye on me without being too obvious about it. I cast the impulse spell on her, and the memory and rheostat spells after that. One particular memory inside her glowed brightly in significance; I’d known it would be there and I dialed it up, turning it into a hot coal.
It was instantaneous, the flaring of Stacy’s clitoris, accomplished without the imposition of any other magic. She glanced at my crotch—that’s a good girl, focus yourself upon the candy the wicked magician wants you to eat—before sidling closer and saying to me: “I think I’m in the mood for a big bottle of wine.” She met my eyes when uttering the word “big”, giving me a chance to smile knowingly, or wink or anything.
I gave nothing away as she picked out a bottle of red, an Italian that the guy at the liquor store had said was fabulous. Stacy read from the label at the back: “From the famed Piedmont region, this full-bodied gem delights with its complex flavors; look for a hint of cherry on the nose.”
She might as well have been describing herself, minus the Piedmont part, because Stacy was a complex gem, and very full-bodied just where you’d want her to be. Even more to the point, I was determined to get her cherry all over my nose during our overlapping time here.
I figured she knew how a lot of people in school had referred to her, until just recently, as “The Shrouded Showpiece”. She had all the looks a girl could want to be a standout cheerleader—or porn star—but there was a quirkiness to her personality where it was often like she preferred to be hidden in plain sight. Style-wise she had tended towards ankle-length skirts and form-masking silk shawls, and she had this way of tilting her head so her mane of wavy near-black hair often obscured half of her face. You saw delicate, almost childlike features when you could get a good look at them; it was really an unusually compelling and expressive face, the coral blue eyes and killer cheekbones made even more striking by the fact that they were so often partially hidden from view.
Yet Stacy had something of an alter-ego as a super-athletic swimmer, and since the tenth-grade she’d become a real workout warrior. But, unlike so many gym-rats, she kept her killer physique mostly hidden from view, except for the rare days at school—many thought of them as the special days—where Stacy would appear in a skirt as short as her normal ones were long, and the shoulder-shawls were traded for form-hugging tube-tops, sometimes with scooping necklines. To peer down a long school corridor and catch sight of her on one of those days, showing so much of what was normally hidden, was to feel a knot forming in the throat, and a pressure stirring in the pants as you either thought or said, Neo-style, “Whoa.”
In a way she was like a taller and more streamlined version of Meghan at that age—I’d recently been drooling over old photos of my stepmother in her teens—but then that enigmatic face, and she had a more formidable rack. Because I had Nell in my life, I thought of Stacy’s tits as being merely very impressive, as opposed to “Holy shit!” That didn’t keep her figure from being literally traffic-stopping, though, whenever she was in the mood to show it.
Which was happening more and more these days, and there just wasn’t any hope of going the shrouded route down here in sunny Florida. Even with the sun’s exit dipping us into nightfall, it was warm enough that Stacy was barefoot in ass-hugging white shorts, her fine legs already showing some tan. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the first time I’d ever seen that, and you could just eat that face. Her prominent breasts made a quite a shelf out of a simple teal green T-shirt, and I got the impression that she wanted me to notice them as she held the wine bottle out to me, a corkscrew in her other hand.
“Joining me with wine, or are you having beer like the others?” she asked.
“Wine,” I said, making her clitoris like that choice, and the fact that she’d just drawn a line between the two of us and the others. “I think I need to know what a hint of cherry on my nose feels like.”
Feeling the energy in her clit, her eyes widened and her weight shifted. I noticed for the first time that her shorts were so tight that she was showing some camel-toe.
“Really beautiful here, isn’t it?” she asked, her head indicating the villa and sumptuous patio area, while my mind and eyes were stuck on the camel-toe.
From shrouding herself to an out-there camel-toe display, all in the space of about seven weeks, and without a scrap of impulse or attraction magic—had she been showing herself like this since arriving in Florida, or was it more about my arrival? I didn’t stare too long, and found myself smiling, and saying, “Yes, so beautiful,” while picturing how it would be even more so if the white of those shorts became several shades darker from runaway saturation.
Later; the night was very young, and I’d already waited weeks and weeks when it came to Stacy. I could have done so much to this woman’s mind and body already, but I had bided my time, because, as Rock’s bullet #5 stated in his treatise on the ways I could use my combination of spells to maximize pleasure for one and all: There is no longer any need to seize the moment. All happy couples, in hindsight, point to the sometimes “magical” moment when circumstances brought them together, or when they finally realized that, “Hey, I really am into him/her, and need to pursue that.” But with the impulse spell and adjustable attraction magic, you can plant seeds at any point, that are made to explode with the force of a revelation at any time you choose.
Since reading those words I had done exactly that with five women, getting attraction potion inside them and immediately putting the magic on a low simmer. That got me not much more than pensive or faraway looks and hearing the occasional sigh, except with Mary McCabe from Pete’s Java Brew. I had dialed her attraction magic several degrees higher one morning, and that had gotten me a proposition to meet up sometime for dinner. We went out two nights later for wood-fired pizza, followed by ice cold beers at her condo, followed by my cock down her throat, Mary cumming so loudly that her next-door neighbor pounded on the wall in response. “He’s been coming on to me for months,” she said later, which in a twisted way was inspiration for me to rheostat Mary into the hyperventilating zone the next time we fucked at her place, juicing her clit so much that her earlier wails were merely gentle warm-up exercises.
Stacy was completely different, in that I hadn’t slipped any attraction magic inside her at all, because I hadn’t needed to. At this very moment her clitoris was available to me on the impulse field, and it was vibrating very much in the mold of a woman on attraction magic. In her case, though, the attraction was of a different nature. It was a specific memory that made her jets rev, and I isolated that and raised the rheostat bar, making her clit buzz, just a little bit, when I asked if there were any wineglasses to be had.
“I’ll get them for us,” Stacy said. “You—”
I buzzed her clit and made that special memory glow a bit more brightly, her reward for her saying “us”.
“Ah!” she gulped, lowering her eyes. For just an instant her eyebrows scrunched—she was trying to work it out, both believing and doubting. Had she really seen what she’d seen? She believed so—why on earth would the memory burn so much if it had been a misperception?
She cleared her throat and said: “Um, while I fetch the wineglasses, your task is to get with the vacation program. You’re the only one here not wearing shorts, you know? Change into some, or swimming trunks—both the pool and the ocean are divine. We’re in Florida! It’s time to shake winter off and have some fun!”
I thought it was time to finally have Stacy Putnam doing her medal-winning breaststroke all over my cock, but I just smiled and slipped away for a few minutes, doing as she said. I got my travel bag from the car—I’d learned that I could spell-a-port a decent-sized bag of belongings if I held it tightly to my body—and I changed into my green swim trunks and the sandals I’d packed, in the bedroom that had been saved for me. It was on the downstairs level of the house, the last of four bedrooms in long corridor leading from a central game room with an elegant, perhaps antique pool table.
When I rejoined the others, a delicious-looking teen in orange shorts and sandals had just deposited several boxes of pizza and side-salads onto a table with curving marble dolphins for legs. On an impulse, admiring her blonde good looks and outright adoring her lips and legs, I cast the impulse spell on her and fished for any inclination she might have to hang with us for a few minutes. I found the opposite; she wanted to get back to her car as quickly as possible, most likely to make tracks before other deliveries lost their heat.
“Did they tip you?” I asked.
“The tall guy did.”
Meaning Rock. “He’s a notoriously bad tipper,” I said, taking out my wallet and handing her a ten.
“Wow, two tips! You guys rock!” I saw that she had the impulse to ask a question, and I pushed to make it come out. “You guys aren’t his kids, are you? The movie guy?”
“No. We’re mostly high school seniors from Michigan. It’s one of those friend of a friend things that we can be here.”
I walked her through the gate that led out to the front, and with a couple of impulse-nudges I had her name, Brit, and a shy admission that she had turned eighteen just four days ago. When she oohed and ahhed over the ’Vette, it barely took any invisible work to score her putting my number into her phone, with a semi-promise that she would call me tomorrow or the next day about an afternoon ride, and maybe a movie.
“You’re the one with the magic around here,” I complimented the ’Vette, which just had to be my permanent Florida wheels now. “Let’s work together and gather up tons of tan-lined pussy, okay?”
Back by the pool with the others, plates were being served up, with everyone settling into chairs around a long glass-top table. A glass of red wine awaited me at the last open seat, which placed me between Sally and Billy, a good distance from Stacy. Not that it mattered—I had permanently rheostated-up the range of my spells, including the rheostat spell itself, so Stacy would have to be all the way at the front of the villa or out on the beach to be beyond my ability to go inside her.
As I sat and arranged my napkin in my lap, I couldn’t help noticing that Stacy had changed into a more elegant blouse, looser and long-sleeved but with a cleavage-baring neckline. The tops of her breasts really bulged; the pizza smelled great but those tits were by far the most delicious-looking items at this table. Had she put on a push-up bra, or a bra that was too small, to give her tits that extra bit of oomph?
“We gave you the Surrealist room,” Billy Chatham said to me. “Did you notice the Dalî and the Max Ernst? I’m convinced that all the paintings in this villa are originals.”
I didn’t know Ernst, but I had noticed the large oil painting in my room that must be a Salvador Dalî, a surreal landscape with an elongated figure in a top-hat, waving a wand at what might be strange animals and nude women flying through the sky. My guess was that I’d been placed in the closest thing they had to a room with a magician theme, Rock making a joke that no one else would get.
I asked: “Do you think that’s the most valuable painting in this place?”
“That would probably be the Monet in Rock and Sally’s room. Make sure you take a look at it; it’s one of the water-lilies and it’s gorgeous.”
“It’s on the wall where we see it when we’re just lying in bed,” Sally commented. “I really love that painting; I wonder if anyone would notice if we took it with us to Michigan.”
A few people laughed, and I caught Rock’s eye. We had plenty of money now, but it was far from an inexhaustible amount, especially with all my traveling. I silently mouthed the words, “One painting,” at him, knowing he’d get it. I didn’t mean one of the paintings from this house—we had decided it was best to score and move on, as opposed to tapping a single well too often. But sometime, somewhere, being gifted with just one near-priceless painting by someone, that we could take to Christies or one of the other auction houses…
Rock nodded at me, and then said to the entire table: “Don’t tell me I need to hire a security detail to p-protect the art. I think—”
“I think we should all toast Rock’s good fortune!” Billy proclaimed. “And it’s high time we get the full story.”
“It was John’s good fortune, too, don’t f-forget,” Rock corrected.
“We all want to hear the details,” Christina chimed in. She turned to me and said, “We know who owns this place, but Rock’s refused to tell us much about how you guys arranged our time here.”
“Here’s to Hollywood and the miracle you guys pulled out there,” Sally raised her bottle of Heineken.
“The f-force was definitely with us,” Rock grinned.
“Here’s to Hollywood money,” I said.
“And to making new friends,” Rhonda added, touching Peach’s arm but with her eyes aimed at Stacy’s rack.
Everyone raised their drinks, and then the clamoring for Rock to explain how he’d gotten the keys to this villa, owned by a household-name film producer/director. I cast the impulse spell on him as he began, helping every now and then to ease his stutter. To speak with a kind of authority to a group—this was in the range of a dream-come-true for my friend, and you could drink in his enjoyment as he recounted how he’d used his cousin Frank’s connections to get five minutes with the famed movie producer, to pitch his idea for a sci-fi television series.
What was the t.v. show all about, they wanted to know, and he said only a little, about the basic plot of a teen-aged protagonist being given a trio of magic spells by an old, near-senile magician, the use of which created all kinds of unforeseen problems in his community. Rock brushed aside additional questions about what the spells did—“Watch the Emmy-winning show if you want to know what happens,” was his response.
He kept things on track by describing how we went to the movie producer’s office together, my role being that of moral supporter, which helped to keep his stammering from exploding. And how our five minute appointment somehow became fifteen, then twenty-five, and how, by the time we’d left the room, three-hundred thousand dollars had been direct-deposited into Rock’s savings account, given for nothing more than the promise that he would submit a script for a pilot and four additional episodes before the year’s end.
As amazement swept the table, I glanced in Stacy’s direction, and she looked a little disturbed, her eyes down. It wasn’t this conversation—it was her obsession with the memory that sometimes burned blowtorch hot in her mind, made even more sizzling since my arrival. I saw just the littlest sideways shake of her head, like inside her skull the question was being asked: “How could such a thing possibly be? He should have a bulge like someone who stuffs their underwear, pretending to be huge.”
Logic—she was right to look at the world that way, but there are exceptions to every rule, and the realm of magic is exceptional indeed. The memory that plagued her was from almost two months ago, when there had been a Valentine’s party at Billy Chatham’s house, while his mother was away on a business trip. I’d made the tactical error—not an error at all with the benefit of hindsight—of boning my date, Mary McCabe, in a downstairs bedroom, which happened to be the bedroom where a bunch of the party-goers had ditched their jackets and sweaters after the halfway closet got filled.
It wasn’t the first night Mary and I had fucked—probably the fifteenth or sixteenth, but who was counting—and I’d been conducting a kind of experiment with her, keeping her mind fuzzy about the details of my dick and growing it larger with every subsequent encounter. It was like training an extremely tight pussy to be able to absorb more and more, while taking delight in the increasing degree of surprise, leading to outright incredulity, every time Mary “discovered” just how huge I was.
Bullet #7 in Rock’s treatise: Familiarity need not equate to predictability. By hazing memories in a targeted way, some aspects of everything from acquaintanceship to lovemaking practices could not only seem fresh or like the first time, but in the girl’s mind could actually be the first time, over and over.
That was the master-stroke Rock had come up with, applicable in so many different ways, including Mary’s non-remembrance of my cock. When Stacy had quite innocently opened the door, seeking her sweater, she got about five seconds worth of stunned viewing of an extremely sexy redhead being fucked by a Godzilla-worthy cock, before shutting the door as any decent person would do. When I saw her twenty minutes later, standing next to Mountain Mike in the backyard with her arms crossed, probably shivering, I cast the impulse spell on her and found her clitoris pretty much on fire. She saw me and glanced down at the crotch of my jeans, and she blazed even hotter without me doing a damned thing to make it happen. Being no dummy, I was able to reach a conclusion: the best-looking girl in our school, who sometimes behaved a little eccentrically, had a size fetish. That explained her involvement with a six-foot-eight giant like Mountain Mike, who, personality-wise, wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Up until then I had intended to steer clear of Stacy, partly because I didn’t relish the thought of having my head torn off, but mostly because I had plenty of other action going on. I was seeing Mary two or three times a week, and the attraction magic was set high enough in her that she pretty much worked her hours at the coffee shop, and attended her two night classes, and the rest of the time she was either fucking me or dreaming of fucking me.
I’d been perfectly content with that for a little while, but when Nancy left me a wistful phone message on Valentine’s Day, wishing me well and saying that she had always imagined the two of us enjoying a special meal that night, it got me thinking about her, and missing her enough that I ratcheted-up her attraction potion the next day at school. I could read the change without any fresh impulse-snooping when she waylaid me during a study break, insisting that I finally show her my chalet. A bit of that wildness was back in her eyes, framed by new glasses that almost made her look like a different woman for me.
We drove two cars to my love-nest, and there with the wood stove radiating and her attraction jets high-revving for the first time in six or seven weeks, she made the case that we should have the experience, at least this one time, of making love on a real bed.
“I don’t have a real bed,” I countered. “There’s only the comfy couch down here, and a futon mattress on the floor in the loft. But think about what you’re saying, anyway. Your parents believe I’d be a bad influence on the devil himself, and if they knew you were here, alone with me…”
“I decide what’s good for me, not them. I know I got obsessive and confused back in December, but I’ve been fine since then, really. We’ve both been keeping our distance… I undressand how that was needed—I had to see for myself that I can be happy, be grounded, whether you’re a part of my life or not. But I think back to all those times, parked in our secret spots, just going at it and always so good together… And there before I went away for Christmas, we got to where we were amazing together. You can’t deny that, John—I had you getting so hard, wanting it even after we’d done it two or three times. And I’ve never stopped feeling something for you, all along. Usually it’s there in a quiet way, like birdsong out the window, but recently…”
Just recently, I’d turned those gentle bird sounds into the voice of a parrot on her shoulder, repeating, “Awk, you need John cock!”
“I don’t know…” I said, pretending a frown while making her clitoris just ache.
“God, I… I know,” she insisted, pressing into me and licking her lips, telling me that she hadn’t ever stopped practicing her blowjob skills on stand-in objects. Placing her mouth right next to my ear she purred with hot breath: “You know I like to be really good at everything I do. There are a couple of guys who’re making it obvious that they’re into me, but it’s still you and your cock when I fantasize—it’s your cock I want. I feel like I’m a cock-sucking present just waiting to be opened, or like I need to have my debut…”
She lowered a hand and pressed into my erection through my jeans, and I let out a sigh.
“I could always make you hard, always. Let me show you what I can do, John. I’ll make you feel so good and I’ll swallow every drop, I swear.”
Nancy had never experienced my cock at its new default size. I cast the memory spell on her to dim the problematic memories, but as hot hands dug into the waistband of my pants, I saw that she had months and months of memories I’d need to fuzz or wipe away, far too many to work with on the fly.
I pulled her hands away and stepped back, raising the bar on her attraction magic as I said, “I really don’t think we should do this. It isn’t safe for you.”
“I’m not a crazy person! I just want your cock!” she almost roared, her neck and face flushed red. She had gotten two fingertips in contact with my cock-head before I’d pulled her away, and her clitoris was burning.
Since I held all the cards, I bargained hard with my old flame, all the while subverting my own arguments by buzzing her clit every few seconds. I told her I didn’t see the point of revisiting old patterns, even ones where she’d further developed these impressive skills, because we’d seen how it could be emotionally dangerous for her, and we knew we had no long-term future together. Her parents distrusted or outright hated me, and maybe she hadn’t had sex with anyone else but I had. I was fucking a girl named Mary pretty regularly, and I wasn’t in love with her but I loved her body, and she was fucking great at giving head, too.
As I argued against fucking again, I kept raising the intensity of her desire, watching the space between her eyebrows furrow, and smelling the familiar scent of Nancy’s cunt in heat. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, an engine throttling inside that kept being given gas.
When I opened my mouth again, she stamped a booted heel hard on the floor with a sharp, “Shut up! Just… Just give me a second to think!”
There had been times, and that appeared unchanged, when it seemed that Nancy’s very existence rested upon the wish to never lose an argument. And so she was very much herself when she responded: “You’ve never fucked me in the ass; that wouldn’t be an old pattern.”
Lawyers—they’re usually the ones fucking you in the ass, and I figured it would be downright sinful to pass up such an opportunity.
“Only if you’re blindfolded,” I countered, stoking the energy in her clit so much that her knees gave way. She slowly sat-collapsed to the floor with an arm outstretched to steady herself. Nodding an exaggerated “yes”, she removed her glasses, and held them out to me like they were a form of payment, sealing our deal.
I was wearing a black t-shirt and that served just fine as the blindfold, and the blindfold served as a means of avoiding all that memory work about the size of my cock. I liked, too, that it put a headstrong girl like Nancy into a place of having to trust me to guide our lovemaking, which of course I was doing at every step, only invisibly.
She looked nervous but so fucking horny as I guided her to my oversized couch, where I slowly stripped her naked. I didn’t have to wonder why I’d always been so attracted to this woman—she really did have a splendid body, with those strong soccer legs and the sort of waist-to-hip ratio that goes straight inside the hole of a man’s cock, flipping the on-switch in his balls. The insides of her thighs were already shining with lust, and I thought her breasts were looking more full than ever, smooth and pale tear-drops with straining nipples, the little excitement-bumps on her areoles rising as I flicked at her nipples with my tongue.
I got her going really good just with the tit-play, giving corresponding clitoris-nudges that had her arms groping in the air to find my dick. “You want this?” I asked, placing her hands into a side-by-side cupping gesture, a landing spot to rest a hot, hard cock onto. Nancy moaned and her mouth opened into the most intoxicatingly complex smile. Without being able to see her eyes, it was that wet mouth and the greedy fingers that expressed all the desire and the love for what she held in her hands. I hadn’t made her forget anything about my cock, but it was like she was appreciation-drunk with rediscovering it as she squeezed and pulled and twisted. She kept making little “Oh, oh!” sounds, then bent with her head lowered to bring her lips to my meat, lightly kissing and then her mouth opening, the impulse there to take me inside.
“After,” I said, swiftly lifting her chin away. I grabbed a bottle of lubrication—I had them positioned all over the place for easy access—and by guiding her once again to cup her hands, she was the one to get me all greased. Once slathered to the point of dripping, I forcibly repositioned her on all fours, her torso low with her rear aimed high, almost like an anti-prayer where it was Nancy’s firm round ass that was raised in supplication.
A greased index finger had the honor of being the first to penetrated this virgin ass, with a strong enough jolt to her clitoris that she cried out, “Oh Gawd!”, in a tone of voice where the unspoken words, “Why didn’t we ever do this before?” should be tacked on. Slipping in, and gliding part-way out, she moaned encouraging sounds and then thrust back to make my finger drive in deeper. I kept working her clitoris in unison with the finger-strokes, and that was enough to have her begging for my cock to take the finger’s place.
Sometimes pauses can have as much power as actions, and I took my time between removing my finger and positioning my cock at the back door. I could feel her clitoris vibrating all on its own, the anticipation its own form of stimulation. I let my cock-head just brush against her opening, giving her clit another magical nudge, and just a few of those had Nancy begging for me to shove my way inside.
I did exactly as she wanted, and actually ungrew my cock for the first minute or so, letting her get used to the pressure. Then, with every slow thrust, I gradually increased my size back to my new normal, all the while making her clitoris adore every second.
She felt amazing, an entirely different level of glove-like envelopment. I grasped her hips and we found a rhythm, both of us contributing, and she got really vocal, groaning and telling me how much she loved my cock, telling me she’d do anything to feel this turned-on again.
Joined as we were, Nancy’s head thrown back as she grunted and moaned, I could lean in and speak right into her ear. I told her I wanted her and the lovely Mary here together, taking turns sucking me off, and when I asked if she’d do that for me she couldn’t get “Yes!” out fast enough. I told her I wanted Mary riding her back like she was a horse, but backwards so I could eat my other lover’s pussy while I fucked her in the ass again, and after inflaming Nancy and getting a heated, “Anything!” in response, I told her I wanted her to gather three or four of her most attractive law school friends some day, all of us finding out the oh-so hard way just how deep human lust could reach inside every one of us, the communal need so great that in all the fucking one another we would be plumbing right into our our souls. All of that with Nancy yelling, “Yes! Yes! I promise! I promise!”, belted out with such conviction that I firmly believed she would arrange that situation someday.
“Earth to John?”
It was Rock, bringing me back to Florida again, with stars winking over our heads and a light ocean breeze rattling the fronds of the palm trees. My cock was as hard as the marble all around us, and with the tabletop being glass, I gave thanks for the cloth napkin in my lap, obscuring my state.
“I’m sorry, my mind was back in Michigan.”
“Put that iceberg behind you!” Rhonda scolded.
Sally spoke up. “I asked you whether it’s really true what Rock said, that you talked our benefactor into forking over two tickets to next year’s Super Bowl.”
“It’s true. But I think you should have my ticket, so you and Rock can go together.”
Sally looked stunned, and then wary, wondering if I was joking. She saw in my face that I wasn’t, and she drew in a breath before saying, “You’d do that for me?”
I shrugged, because what could I say? There was a whole lot I wanted to do to Sally that I never would—she really was a looker, and there were times, especially when she smiled or pouted, that the fullness of her lips drove me wild. But it really did look like there was love between the two of them, so she had become one of my Must Not Ever’s. And sure, I’d love to go to a Super Bowl, but I was learning that a downside to being a minion was that any fixed-date future plans could have to be canceled at the last minute. Perhaps, when I’d familiarized and cataloged thousands of safe places for spell-a-port landing, it wouldn’t be a big deal if I needed to be thousands of miles from where I also needed to be, but for now…
“You know, the painting in my room looks sort of like genitalia,” Stacy said out of nowhere, like her mind was on a time-delay, back to the conversation from at least ten minutes ago.
Rock looked at me and I gave a little shrug. He knew there was something otherworldly going on between me and Stacy, and he definitely knew I’d caused her to be here without Mountain Mike. He had asked me, twice now, whether Stacy had ever gulped down any attraction potion, and I’d said, honestly, that I’d been tempted but had never gone there. He knew I was doing something, though, and I could see his brain picking away at what he saw, trying to puzzle it out.
“The painting in your room is a Robert Motherwell,” Billy responded to Stacy’s comment, always the fountain of knowledge on art. “I think he called it ‘automism’, making big bold strokes without any real forethought, letting his subconscious choose what came out. And yeah, lots of people think his most famous works look like he had testicles and erections on his mind.”
I didn’t think Rock or anyone else knew just how perfect it was that Stacy had been placed in a room with a painting like that. She fell silent again, but for me, almost in hi-def when I chose to reach in and see, there burned Stacy’s memory of that voyeuristic moment back in February. What she had witnessed of the size of my cock was pretty much branded onto her optic nerves, and there’s a big difference between a “Yes, it’s alive” memory that’s like a pretty flower in sunlight, and an “It’s alive!” one that’s more like the Frankenstein monster catching thunderbolts in the night.
It was almost like I got to watch a short video from the vantage point of that bedroom doorway, her eyes like a camera lens replaying a living film, of me fucking Mary on all fours, our bodies silhouetted by the table lamp behind us. I had grown myself pretty dammed huge that night, and I’d been on an out-thrust when the door opened. I’d come all the way out for another pussy-lip-parting in-thrust, and to Stacy it had looked like my cock, slathered with half a bottle of lubricant to make deep penetration possible, had been dripping viscous fluid like slime-saliva hanging from the jaws of one of those “Aliens” monsters. When my cock spread my date’s pussy insanely wide, Mary’s thin voice had gone all “OhhhGaaahhh!” with her head thrown back, one hand flat on the mattress with the other clawing at her hair, like she needed to physically keep her brains in her skull as a tidal wave of an orgasm pushed forward.
I guess something like that would have lingered in the mind of just about anyone, but for Stacy, with her particular fetish, it was in the territory of being a life-altering experience. The idea of seducing a great-looking babe through no means other than memory magic was intriguing to me—she had a special thing for huge cocks? Then just bring yourself on, honey, and we’ll discover how much is too much even for you.
It was always at school where I saw her—I’d only been showing up for classes on a sporadic basis, just enough to know what the most important assignments were, or when a test would take place. I’d allowed my guidance counselor to hit me with two suspensions—that made a lot of sense, that if you don’t come to school, they punish you by keeping you out of school. He warned that I wasn’t going to have the greatest GPA or teacher comments come June, but that was no threat when I’d concluded that studying foreign languages and world history, on my own, was what I’d need the most for the future I envisioned for myself.
Anyway, I didn’t need magic to sense the change in the way Stacy started to behave around me, or her behavior in general. For a while, passing her in the hallways, I felt like saying that age-old line that stacked women get to use—“Hey, my eyes are up here.” Her head would dip, gazing below the belt, and I can’t read minds but there were times when I thought I knew the words flitting through her brain, and they went like this: “That had to be some sort of momentary hallucination, or he was wearing a prosthetic. It couldn’t have been real, and I need to stop thinking about it!” Or, if I went in and made the memory burn hotter: “Oh God, what if that was real? Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, stop…”
The days at school where she flaunted her curves became far more numerous—it seemed like most of days when I showed up, Stacy’s legs were bare up to there, and her rack’s conspicuous presence was like having a new student in the classroom, the exotic one that everybody keeps stealing glances at. I made sure that she saw me appreciating her body, and I never let her pass by me without tweaking the intensity of those memories in her brain, just eating it up when I could see her nipples harden, or her lips begin to quiver, all without one ounce of impulse magic.
Somewhere along the line she must have said something to Mountain Mike, because just like that he went from not noticing me at all to regarding me suspiciously. He took notice of the way his girlfriend’s demeanor changed when I approached, and one day, out of nowhere and with Stacy not even around, he lifted me off the ground and slammed my back against the lockers, just holding me there and saying nothing at all, beaming pure hatred into my face.
I thought it might be a good time to make him shit himself—a quick uttering of the impulse spell showed his sphincter tight with holding in a mighty load—but when he had an impulse to just put me down and walk away, I made him choose that. He had some kind of verbal parting shot that he intended to throw at me, but I torpedoed his voice and watched as his wall of a back silently disappeared down the corridor.
Rock had seen the whole thing, and he called me that night, asking what I was going to do. “I don’t know what you did to Stacy to rile him up, but your Alfred advises that you lay low. The guy could have snapped your neck before you even had a chance to think about magic. You have no invulnerability-like superpowers, remember.”
“I’ll figure something out. Nothing terrible… It would be like harming a hippo. Mike’s huge and maybe dangerous, but not evil or anything. He’s protecting his territory, that’s all.”
The next day, when I saw Mountain Mike in that same hallway, I solved the problem by going in and draining his awareness of who I was almost entirely. I guess Stacy became aware of that memory-hole; it marked the beginning of what just about everyone now referred to as Mountain Mike’s short-term memory issues. I didn’t mess with him drastically or anything; until recently, it was mostly about keeping myself as a blind-spot in his general awareness. But as the Florida getaway got closer and closer—I’d used a little magic to get Mike and Stacy to sign on for it—I pulled out a few other tricks, making him forget to charge his phone, or that he even had a phone, or causing him to forget Stacy’s name, that kind of thing. Mountain Mike’s mind became like a sieve about anything having to do with this getaway vacation, so it was no wonder that he drove off for a fishing trip when he was supposed to be on a plane with his girlfriend.
“What are you going to do with your third of the money, John?”
Once again, hearing my name brought me back to present company and circumstances. I was a bit like Stacy, preoccupied with memories. “Hmm? What money?”
Peaches laughed. “A hundred-thousand dollars is ‘what money’?”
“Oh, that,” I laughed with her and others. Rock had finished his narrative about our Hollywood trip, flipping the percentages we’d agreed upon—in reality it was two-thirds to me, and a third for him. He felt pretty great about getting paid a hundred-grand for coming up with that treatise on how I could use my spells, which included the Hollywood scheme that had gone so well. He was actually working on the proposed script—a deal was a deal—and for all we knew, he might be able to make really good money through purely legitimate means. Anyway, I hadn’t been listening closely, but I had little doubt that he’d omitted to the others that the producer would never be able to remember why he’d been so generous with his bank account, or this villa.
“Please John, not you, too, with the memory issues,” Stacy commented from the other side of the table.
A hiccup of silence—most everyone here knew that Stacy had been stood-up on this vacation because of Mountain Mike’s problems. Sally steered towards cheerier waters by saying: “I think memory must be a trickier thing than we imagine. I’m only here because my mother and I picked-up John when he was hitchhiking after a winter storm, but when Rock brought him to the house that first time, my mother swore she’d never seen John in her life.”
“I was pretty bundled up that hitchhiking day,” I said, aware of Rock holding in laughter. “She might not have gotten a good look at me.” I’d been there with Sally and Rock to work the mother’s memories and impulses so Sally could be here with us on this vacation, and it wouldn’t have been helpful for the wicked hitchhiking guy to be the boyfriend’s best friend.
“But it wasn’t just you she’d forgotten; she insisted she’d never picked up a hitchhiker in her life! I know she did; I was there, but there was no convincing her.”
“Hey, I can top that!” Chad spoke up, all excited. “I guess no one has been keeping up with the news since we got here, right?” Blank stares. “Okay, it’s been the big story on CNN all day. This Republican, running for a U.S. Senate seat in Connecticut, was at a campaign rally this morning, giving a speech. And he goes: ‘And God willing, I will be the next senator of the great state of…’ And his mouth just hung open, and he got this obvious deer-in-headlights look, and you could see him looking around, like maybe he’d find a sign somewhere that would tell him where the hell he was.”
Two people asked, simultaneously: “He forgot what state he was from?”
“Totally! News commentators were all over him afterwards; I mean, they have tape where you can hear and lip-read his wife leaning in and saying, ‘You live in Connecticut, Tom! Connecticut!’ And he looks at her and whispers, ‘Con-nec-ti-cut?’, annunciating every syllable like he’s a four year-old who’s never even said the word before. Maybe it was a mini-stroke or something; that’s what some talking-heads are speculating. But the optics…The guy’s toast!”
“Game over,” Rock agreed, giving me a look.
I nodded while breathing out a “Wow”, like I’d never conceived of such a thing.
So far, the special dreams had given me instructions that a five year-old could follow, often with close-ups of my “victim’s” face, and their name, and where they would be and when. That first one, where I’d saved some suit from being splatted by a van, had been the only one so far where I could believe it had been good-Samaritan work, as the all others had been more in the direction of visiting a plague upon the target’s house, bestowing error or disgrace throughout the land.
I’d learned that this latest one, Tom Worthington, was a former federal prosecutor pushing a homophobic and anti-immigrant agenda, and his epic memory-lapse had been right there in the dream, and easy for me to accomplish. It wasn’t always a politician, and until this morning, impulse magic had always been the tool of choice. I couldn’t detect an overarching political or world-conquering book-agenda yet, but I sometimes wondered if I might be making the world a better place, by doing nothing more than publicly humiliating one dickwad at a time.
The others were still incredulous about the most recent dickwad, and it made me uncomfortable how three or four instances of memory loss, all my doing, had come up in conversation. I tried to simultaneously deflect and broaden the discussion by pointing out how none of us could remember our infancies. “It’s like we’re designed to forget a whole bunch of events in our lives,” I concluded.
“I just saw a PBS science program where they focused on memory,” Chad said. “These researchers were shocked at how easy it was to implant false-memories into their test subjects, getting them to believe a concocted story of their own teen-age behavior by using just a couple of true facts, like a person they’d actually been with at a particular place, but all the rest made up. And there was something about making lab mice tune-out their feelings about an uncomfortable environment, by making them remember a happier environment through pulses of laser light to their brain. It was like flipping a switch—the mice completely lost track of where they actually were, because their brains were so focused on a memory of somewhere else.”
“I’m going to have to see this program,” I said, wondering if there were a bunch of uses for the memory magic that I hadn’t even thought of yet.
Stacy spoke up. “I was wondering… What about memories that, you know… You really did experience them, and they sort of haunt you. Like you’ve seen something and you just can’t get it out of your mind?”
“You mean vivid memories from your youth?” Rhonda asked, leaning forward like she was trying to pour her words right into the warm canyon of Stacy’s cleavage. Or perhaps it was about positioning her head so there wasn’t any glare on the glass tabletop, giving her a view of the camel-toe shorts that might be darkening as we spoke.
“No, even something… What I was thinking about was fairly recent.”
I cast a fresh impulse spell on Stacy and found that her clitoris was very much a part of this conversation. Talking about it had her seeing it, and that was heating her up.
“Do you mean like witnessing a traumatic event?” Rhonda followed up. “Or think of people with PTSD, or—”
“Or even something like the ‘Psycho’ shower scene?” Peaches contributed. “I remember being afraid to get into the shower for a week.”
The conversation was passing right by Stacy, because she had the memory in question playing in her head, rather than listening. Working with the opportunity right in front of me, I lit up Stacy’s memory of my super-sized cock; it was already there but now it was like I’d taken hold of a few seconds of video on a phone, and suddenly thrust it onto a giant screen with the volume way up. Her shoulders pulled back and her tits pushed forward as her clit flared, reminiscent of someone experiencing increased G-force while seated. Other than a soft, “Ahh,”, Stacy went silent, staring at her empty plate and then draining her wineglass.
“Speaking of memory, I almost forgot I need to make an important call,” I announced. “Be back in a little bit.”
I carried my plate and napkin in such a way that the others had little chance of seeing how I was aching with a hard-on. Even so, a glance back showed Stacy’s eyes glued to my groin, until I was up the steps and under the grand archway, then through sliding glass doors to disappear inside.
I went straight to my downstairs bedroom and shut and locked the door, then punched Nell’s number on my phone. We’d been chatting just once to twice a week at the beginning, but it was becoming more frequent now, all a part of the plan.
She picked up on the second ring and said, “Hi, John. I was just thinking about you.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yes, trying to study. I have a test tomorrow afternoon and another one the next day.”
“Hey listen, let me call you right back, okay? Rock needs help with something… I’ll ring you again in just a couple of minutes.”
“Sounds good.”
After ending the call I stood at the door, just fixing this new space in my mind. The room’s big dresser looked like it had been hand-carved in the sixteenth century, and it had a mirror rising above that could reflect the whole of a small car at close range. The Dalî painting was to the left of the door, and you could just tell it was something you’d normally only see in a museum. The bed, a romantic four-poster, looked perfectly designed for handcuff games—funny how I had no real appetite for toys when there were so many mind games I could play.
I fixed this bedroom in my brain, then closed my eyes. I could still see it, well enough to return here, but for good measure I went to the door and lifted my phone high, snapping a photo and taking the time to label it. Then I scrolled to another photo, which was the living room of the apartment I’d rented one floor above Nell’s place in Colorado. I stared at the photo a few seconds, then fixed the image in my mind’s eye, and exhaled the spell-a-porting magic. When I opened my eyes, I was there in the living room.
It was late afternoon sun out here, with a brisk wind blowing outside the windows. Because I was rarely in this apartment for more than an hour or two, I kept the thermostat low, and so I grabbed a jacket from the little clothing rack that served as my closet, and slipped a pair of sweatpants over my summer shorts.
I parted the heavy curtains and looked down at the street, and saw a coating of light snow on the sidewalks. Even in the chilly weather the boob-watchers were out on their stoop, three young guys smoking and hoping. Nell had spoken to me about them before—she was completely aware of their purpose for being out there so often, like their day wouldn’t be complete if they didn’t get to watch the beautiful neighbor across the way, the one with the gigantical boobs, chest-bouncing her way down the front steps of her building, giving their imaginations a thrill as she bestowed them with a little “I see you” wave.
I was here to connect with the gigantical boob girl, too, but unlike those anatomy-smitten guys across the street, it was only a matter of a few days before I would succeed at getting my hands and mouth and cock all over those magic-touched knockers, all over again.
Because Nell was sooo mine, even if she didn’t quite know that. Yet.