You know those sex advice articles you see advertised on the cover of Cosmopolitan and other women’s magazines? They have titles like “What Your Man Really Wants in Bed!” and “Be His Every Fantasy!”

You know they’re bullshit, but imagine for a moment that they worked. Think about it. Would you really want to know what your partner really wants? Would you truly want to be his or her every fantasy?

If you’re one of the rare few in the “yes” camp, let me ask you this: Would you still want the ability of Empathic Sexual Perception if it didn’t just apply to your partner, but to everyone you met? Would you still want the power if you couldn’t turn it off?

I’m guessing no.

Control makes all the difference. Without it, any power becomes a weakness.

Think about it. What good would Superman’s super strength be if he couldn’t tone it down? He would crush every citizen he tried to save. He would burn everyone he looked at with his laser eyes. He would be useless, dangerous. Any villain with an ounce of smarts would be able to use his so-called power against him.

Control is the key.

Control is the difference between weakness and strength, between destruction and salvation. I learned that lesson the hard way when a lab experiment accidentally endowed me with the psychic ability to perceive, embody, and enthusiastically enjoy men’s secret sexual desires. I learned that lesson hard, sweaty, orgasmic way when I became…

Fantasy Girl

{Issue 02}

“This is your last meal, V.” My roommate, Cameron Choi, dropped the lukewarm Styrofoam container in my lap. “From now on, you can go to the dining hall and get your own food.”

“But I’m sick!” Cammy knew I’d been a paid subject in a medical experiment conducted by the nearby Center for the Understanding of Neurological Transcendence, but I hadn’t told her that the experiment left me cursed to crave the sexual fantasies of any man I met.

Not only was a story like that unbelievable, it was also kind of awkward. What girl wants to confess to being a Super Slut? I mean, Cammy was my friend and all, but girls can be so judgmental. I didn’t want to risk it. I’d told her the experiment gave me a migraine and that I had to stay inside until my follow-up appointment at the Center next week.

That was my plan: hide and hope. Hide in my room and hope the Center would be able to cure me. Not the best, as plans go, but what else could I do?

“You’re sick, huh?” Cammy put her hands on her slim hips and tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “I’m having a hard time believing that. People with migraines don’t listen to music, watch TV, or play videogames—all of which you’ve been doing. People with migraines look like crap, but you look fucking amazing. What did those scientists do over at the Center, anyway—splice you with the DNA of a young Angelina Jolie?”

“Angelina Jolie?” I smoothed my hair and blushed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me you agoraphobic bitch, just get the hell out of this room so I can spend some quality time with my boy-toy.”

Cammy was engaged to her highschool sweetheart, Danny DeLuca. You would think a couple of college seniors who’d been dating since they were fifteen would act like an old married couple, but you’d be wrong. Cammy and Danny boffed like bunnies, and my housebound ways were cramping their style.

“Sorry, C,” I said.

“Don’t apologize, either!” Cammy said. “You’ve been hiding in here for three days. It’s time to get your pert little ass out of this room and back to class before your professors flunk you.”

“Pert?” I stood and twisted around to look at my ass. “Do you really think it’s pert?”

“As a fucking Pilates instructor’s—but that’s not the point. The point is that you are going to FAIL if you don’t get back to class.” She picked up my tablet and book bag. “Barbie Math starts soon. Get going”

I yanked the tablet and bag out of her hands and huffed, “Mathematics for Humanities Majors starts in ten minutes.”

“Yeah, Barbie Math. If you want my respect, sign up for Calculus.”

Cammy was a math major. She looked down on all of us non-math types.

“I don’t have to take this.” I protested as she pushed me toward the door.

“Of course you don’t,” she said. “All you have to do is leave.”

I started to refuse, but she slammed the door in my face.

In a panic, I whirled to check the hall for men. Fortunately for me, the only other person in the hall was female. Unfortunately for me, that female was a pampered, privileged, blonde überbitch named Khloe Kane. She gave me a rude once-over, flashed me one of those sugar-coated sneers sorority-types use instead of smiles, and said, “Nice sweatpants, Vickers. Still single?”

I flipped her off. “Nice bitchface, Kane…Still…uh…bitchy?”

Her sneer/smile got meaner. “Ooh, burn. I feel positively chastened by your stinging wit.” Deliberately, she turned her back to me and knocked on the door of the quad across the hall.

There were a lot of reasons to hate Khloe Kane, but my main inspiration was Javier Jimenez. Not that Javier (pronounced Ha-vee-air) was hate-worthy—far from it. Imagine, if you will, six-feet-two-inches of dark-haired, hot-eyed, meticulously muscled, male Argentine perfection. He played soccer in the fall and rugby in the spring. He spoke with the sexiest hint of a Spanish accent—like Antonio Banderas, but just a bit softer, smoother.

Javier and two of his teammates shared the suite across the hall from me and Cammy. Every morning, I got to watch him walk to the showers wearing nothing but flip-flops, a towel, and a smile. I’d tried to talk to him a few times, but my brain seemed to go into emergency meltdown mode whenever he was around. The best I’d ever managed was a stuttered “Good morning.”

But Khloe, she did more than just talk to Javier; she fucked him. She showed up at his door once or twice a week, and left an hour later with rumpled clothes, messy hair, and a dreamy smile. As much as I hated to admit it, I was jealous. Khloe Kane had money, looks, and the man I craved. It was so unfair!

My sole comfort was that Khloe wasn’t Javier’s only girl—not by a long shot. It seemed like he had a new girl every night. Cammy called him “the Manwhore Next Door,” and I supposed she was right. The man did get around. But I’d never been able to make myself stop wanting Javier. My mind knew that guys like Javier were bad news, but my body didn’t care how many girls he fucked, it just wanted to be one of them.

He opened the door to his suite. Khloe gave me one last mean sneer before wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him into a deep kiss. I told myself I should leave, but I couldn’t look away. Javier angled his head so he was looking over Khloe’s shoulder. Our eyes met.

I saw myself—me, but not me. I still wore a messy ponytail, an old t-shirt, and sweatpants, but now it seemed sexy. Now I noticed the way my nipples were ever-so faintly outlined by my t-shirt. Now I noticed the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, the length of my legs.

My lips were pink and full, and when I licked them, it made him imagine all the ways he could use them—how soft they’d feel against his own lips; how they would cushion and caress his cock. I wanted it. He could tell I wanted it. He’d seen the way I watched him when he was on his way to the showers. He recognized the way my eyes went wide and unfocused when he passed. The way my full, pink lips parted to exhale a slow, sensuous breath. He knew what I wanted, because he wanted it, too.

{Quiero.} The word was in Spanish, but somehow I understood. I want.

His desire roared through me like a flash flood, overwhelming, intense, and unlike anything I’d experienced before. His lust was magnificent and monstrous, dark and devouring. An abyss of appetite. A hunger without end.

{No.} He quashed it with a herculean exertion of will. {Not her. She’s sweet, she’s good. She wouldn’t understand. She would blame herself. You would make her cry.


I want.}

Without warning, the lurking leviathan of his lust opened its vast maw and swallowed us whole.

I saw myself watching wide-eyed as he stalked across the hall and used his body to trap mine against the wall. His lips captured mine—not a kiss, but a confiscation, a domination. My body was not mine anymore, it was his. He wanted me. He would take me. He would have me.

His hands did not caress my breasts, they grabbed and squeezed and pinched before moving down to my hips. He yanked my sweatpants and underwear down before opening his own clothes. His hands lifted me, his fingers delved and found the center of me wet and waiting for him.

The strange logic of dreams and fantasy made us both naked. My legs wrapped around his hips as he guided his cock into my pussy. We joined. We fucked. Time became endless, surreal. We came, we fucked, we came. I was his equal and his opposite—a house of mirrors reflecting his desire until we were lost in it. Magnifying his lust with my own until it burned us alive.


He broke the loop. I didn’t have the strength or the desire to do it on my own. He looked away and then broke his kiss with Khloe long enough to pull her into his room. Just before the door shut, her voice drifted out. “You’re so fucking hard. You want me bad, don’t you?”

I shivered back into the here and now. I checked the time on my tablet. I had eight minutes to get to class. Though the moment I’d shared with Javier had seemed to last forever, it hadn’t been much more than a minute. But that hot minute left me hornier than I’d ever been in my life.

The dorm had an elevator, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk getting trapped in there with some random male. I took of for the stairs at a dead run. Two flights down, the door from the hall opened and a guy backed into the stairwell as he called back to someone in the hall, “Yeah, that’s what she said.” He blindly stepped right into my path. I hit him, and we tumbled into the cinderblock wall.

“Watch where you’re going, jackass.” I said as I picked up my bag.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you stupid bitch?”

I glared. This guy was the kind of student I hated: Backwards baseball cap, brand name clothes. The car keys clipped to his backpack had the BMW logo on them. His parents probably bought him every damned thing he wanted. If there was any justice in the world, he would have been ugly, but he wasn’t. He was tall, tanned and fit—like he spent a lot of time outside playing lacrosse or rowing crew, or some other equally elitist sport. His teeth were so white and straight they practically screamed Money!

“Because you’re the one who ran into me, dickface.” I started to push past him.

He grabbed his crotch and said, “Suck it, cunt.”

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the desire to do just that.

I met his gaze, and saw myself on my knees begging him to let me suck his cock.

{She wants me. They all do. All those prissy bitches and angry cunts. They can’t stand the way they crave my cock.}

I tried my damndest to resist, but found myself sinking to my knees, anyway. I tried to stop myself from reaching for his fly, but my hands seemed to move on their own. And when he realized what I was doing—when he realized his fantasy was about to come true—my will to resist drowned in the tidal wave of his pleasure.

“Please,” I didn’t want to beg, but begging felt so good that I couldn’t make myself stop. I had no pride or self-control, just raw, naked need. “Please let me suck your cock. It’s what I really want. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“Well aren’t you the horny little freak?” I would have expected him to be suspicious at my sudden change of attitude, but he wasn’t. Men rarely doubt my sincerity—maybe because I always know exactly what to say to make them believe. Or maybe because the pleasures I promise make them forget about thinking altogether.

He pushed down his boxers and jeans with a mean laugh. “You can blow me, skank, but you gotta swallow my cum.”

“Yesss.” I breathed the word as a sigh before licking my lips. “Thank you.”

His dick was semi-erect. It was a little on the small side, but I didn’t care. His nerves worked just fine, and the rush of his pleasure that surged through me when I wrapped my lips around his shaft was as good as anything I’d ever felt. In addition to the physical pleasure, I felt his psychological pleasure—the thrill of being desired, the hot wash of victory that came of finally having one of the stupid, snotty bitches at this school get down on her knees and beg for him, and the rich, warm pride of witnessing my desperate self-debasement.

I hated him with all my heart, but his pleasure was so intense that I couldn’t force myself to stop. As awful as it was to know I had no control over my own actions, the truly horrific thing was that I enjoyed what was happening to me. I enjoyed what I was doing, and what he was feeling. I even enjoyed the disgust I felt at my enjoyment.

I heard myself making little desperate whimpers as I sucked him. The sounds amped his enjoyment, and therefore mine. I wanted to scream and rail and cry, but when tears finally did run down my face, I experienced his sick satisfaction at the sight of them.

“Quit sniveling,” he said. “You know this is what you want. This is what you need. You can’t help yourself.”

I nodded in answer to his demand, and again felt his rush of satisfaction. It was true. It was all true. There was no way to escape this but to give him what he wanted. I was trapped, I couldn’t stop myself.

{So why stop yourself?} There was more than one way to skin a cat. Or to suck a dick. What was the old saying? “Kill ‘em with kindness.” Yeah, that was it.

I took a deep mental breath and surrendered to his fantasy. I dove deep into the murky depths of his mind searching for the heart of it. Not just what he wanted, but what he craved.

{There.} There was a memory.

Francine Fink—an ugly name for an ugly girl. She had dyed black hair, pallid skin, and dull brown eyes. She thought she was some kind of hipster or Goth or something. Thought she was better than him because she read books that weren’t assigned in school and watched movies that had subtitles. But she was a chubster and she didn’t even have big tits to make up for it.

She wouldn’t have made any of his friends envious, but he couldn’t stay away. He liked the way she laughed, but hated the way she seemed to look straight through him when their eyes met. He wanted to fuck her in the worst way—so bad he’d taken her out to dinner and a stupid foreign movie, and paid for both. So bad he’d spouted some made-up bullshit about how she was special and he’d never met anyone like her. After he said it, he’d been horrified to realize it was true.

She’d smiled gently at him—not the way you do when someone has just made your day, but the way you smile at a little kid who brings you a Valentine made out of construction paper, white glue, and macaroni. The thing is ugly as hell, but you don’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings so you say something nice like, “You’re so sweet.” Which was exactly what she’d said to him.

Then she went down on her knees. He didn’t want that. He wanted to see her eyes, feel her breath, but what kind of an idiot turns down a blowie? And once she got her mouth on him, nothing else mattered because nothing else had ever felt so good in his life. She’d sucked him into a stupor that left him so insensible he hadn’t even thought to protest when she slid a slick finger up his ass to massage his prostate.

He came like a fucking volcano.

Afterwards, he’d been embarrassed. That finger-up-the-ass thing was kind of gay. He prayed she wouldn’t tell anyone. It was better to be safe than sorry. He’d play nice and go on a few more dates with her. At the end of the night, he thanked her and said he would call her.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I don’t think you’re my type.”

Not her type.

Fucking bitch. Who the hell did that fat cow think she was? He was the best she’d ever get. She should have begged him for a second date. They should all beg him.

His cock swelled in my mouth at the memory of Francine. He tightened his grip on my head and began to fuck my face again. I reached under my pants and underwear to lubricate my fingers in my pussy before reaching up between his legs. At first he clenched like he didn’t want me to do it. I concentrated on his memory of Francine. Of the way his thoughts always turned to her when he jerked off. He wanted her again. Longed for another taste of the pleasure she’d given him.

He relaxed and I found the spot. It felt weird, wrong, good. Very good. Almost as good as the feeling of my throat spasming around his cock. Almost as good as—I adjusted the pressure—Oh, God! Better. It was better. It was fucking incredible. It was—

His whole body shook. His knees went weak. He shot his load down my throat, but pulled away as he came so the last little bit of semen dribbled between my parted lips. His body was still high from orgasm, and I had his cum on my lips.

{That is the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen in real life.} He thought.

I licked my lips clean.

{No, that is.}

His knees wobbled, and he leaned back against the door behind him for support. His eyes were wide and blank. His breathing was erratic. His body was so thoroughly satisfied that my body still buzzed with the afterimage of his orgasm and my compulsion to fuck him had vanished entirely.

“That was incredible.” His voice sounded shaky and shell-shocked.

“I’m glad you think so,” I said as I got to my feet.

“My name’s Dean.”

“That’s nice.” I picked up my bag and started downstairs.

“Wait!” he called after me. I didn’t listen. I stopped in the bathroom on the second floor to wash up, and then reluctantly headed for class.


The walk across campus was tricky. Fortunately, on the walk home from the Center, I’d discovered that the pull of male desire waned with distance. If I kept my head down and my legs moving, I could make it across campus without embarrassing myself.

But it wasn’t easy. I felt men all around me. Though the pull wasn’t quite as bad as it had been on the way home from the Center three days earlier, their desires and fantasies still grasped at me like a thousand hungry hands. If I lingered, the pull became more difficult to resist, but the further away I got, the better. It faded completely at about fifty feet.

Too bad the classroom I’d be sitting in for the next two hours was only thirty feet long. I was lucky all the students were female—education and English majors mostly. The professor, Dr. Rutledge, was male, but he was middle-aged and happily married with kids older than me. He was balding and pudgy, and had never shown the slightest hint of sexual interest in any of his students. I hoped that would be enough.

Class started well enough. We reviewed some concepts from the previous class, and discussed the homework. Well, Dr. Rutledge discussed the homework. Most of the students were only in the class because they needed it to graduate. None of us had any interest in it. Dr Rutledge would ask questions and wait for someone to volunteer an answer. Usually he answered his own questions because when he called on random students, their answers were usually wrong.

But that day, I felt the strangest urge to raise my hand.

Dr. Rutledge pointed to me. “Yes, Ms…?”

“Vickers, sir.” I said. “Virginia Vickers.”

“Your question, Ms Vickers?”

“I was wondering if you could review your discussion of conic sections.” My heart was beating fast, and my voice was breathy. “It seems like the relevant concepts have so many exciting possibilities in real-world applications. I really, really want to know more.”

For the record, I have no idea what that meant, but I got such a rush of pleasure from saying it that I asked several more questions over the course of Dr. Rutledge’s lecture. I found myself nodding when he made decisive points, and smiling at his limp attempts at wit as though he was the second coming of Moliere. Looking back, I don’t think anything he said was all that interesting or all that funny, but at the time, I was truly riveted and excited by Dr. Rutledge.

June 2018
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