The blowjob was terribly exciting. Just knowing that William might be listening to every slurp and pop had her coming even before Charles shot his spunk into her mouth. Her fiancé’s cum lacked the glorious flavor of William’s or Giuseppe’s, but it was cum, nonetheless. Charles wasn’t prepared for her enthusiasm and energy, and she had to scale things back to keep him from getting scared. In the end she got what she wanted — his hot load on her lips and tongue — and Charles got what he had been wanting and more. His screams when he came must have reverberated throughout the house.

She barely had to lift a finger to prepare for the cocktail party, as Charles had made all of the arrangements. She understood her duties well — look great and charm the daylights out of the guests as her husband-to-be worked the rooms trolling for campaign contributions. She slipped her body into the same little black dress that had so mesmerized Charles the year before, but she didn’t feel the same in it, not at all. Well, she hadn’t owned a bra this flattering back then. And down below, she now had on her sexy nylons without panties. Definitely no panties tonight, no no no. Her clitoris was constantly pulsing, and felt for all the world like it must be the size of an orange. She lifted her skirt and bent over to check, and just had to shake her head at the discrepancy. How could something so tiny feel so huge? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t have panties rubbing at her “giant” clit all night long, not without going insane. Plus, she couldn’t stand the thought of having underwear impeding access to her hungry box, just in case.

In case of what? She leaned close to her dressing table mirror, peering deeply into her own eyes. Everything looked right, she was still gorgeous Catherine. But she really didn’t know who the hell was in there any more. Someone whose body felt like it had become an overly-tuned, semi-delusional instrument of sex. Someone who didn’t mind sucking her fiancé’s cock while hoping that another lover could listen in, perhaps even masturbating to the sounds. Someone who felt as though she would do anything, irrespective of any rules, until the day that her pulsing pussy felt completely filled.

She managed to play her hostess hole… role, with relative conviction for the first ten or fifteen minutes of the party, until nearly having a total meltdown when a waiter arrived with a tray of wine glasses. Something about seeing the glasses only partially filled sent shockwaves throughout her system, and she gave instructions that all glasses were to be filled and refilled to brimming all night long. She never quite recovered from that initial shock. She greeted the guests to their little cocktail party with far too much attention to the cocks and tails, unable to keep herself from imagining what so many of the guests might taste like.

She silently chanted her calming pussy/cock/fuck/suck mantra in her mind in an effort to focus and be her normal charming self, but sexual thoughts kept intruding, like when she fell into a conversation with Ruben Hizzoner, a curator at The Philadelphia Museum of Art. At least twice, while chatting about her efforts in the drawing class, she flubbed the word “critique”, her tongue substituting an “l” for the “r”. Clitique. God, she needed a fucking detailed clitique. There had to be somebody at this event who knew every nuance of the fine art of pussy-devouring, someone who wouldn’t mind scrutinizing the symmetrical form and beautiful wet highlights of her painfully pulsing pussy.

Although who needed an expert at cunt-licking when her fucking clitoris felt huge enough to be given its own name and social security number? Her legs trembling, her heart pounding, Catherine studied the stuffy arts administrator as he talked. She recognized that look on his face, that adoring, beauty-struck fawning that nerdy guys sometimes slipped into when they talked to her. Ruben wasn’t her type at all, too short and round with thick-rimmed eyeglasses, but his shiny bald head made her think of cocks. Would Ruben’s dick fit with the rest of his body, would it be short and plump? Fat enough, perhaps, to spread her cunt-lips wider than ever before, some new places inside of her pussy finally being touched?

“You should see some of the submissions we’re getting to this year’s juried painting show,” Ruben was going on. “Quite a few excellent new artists this year, and it looks like the figure is coming back into fashion.”

Catherine’s head began to spin, the words “artist” and “submission” somehow coming together in a wholly new way inside of her head, a way that created a trail of wetness from her molten snatch to the tops of her stockings. Oh fuck, she’d just bet that her figure would be in fashion. A body like hers was always in fashion.

She managed to ask Ruben whether he was familiar with Pierce West’s paintings without fingering herself, but it was so hard. Hard, hardness…

“Pierce West? No, I don’t know his work. What gallery does he show at?”

She didn’t know, and realized that she had to know. The question burned inside of her, it burned like her dripping cunt and her giant clit were burning under her skirt, creating an even deeper sense of emptiness that had to be filled.

She took an impassioned masturbation break in hopes of defusing the energy between her legs, but all hope faded when she developed a terrible crush on one of the evening’s bartenders, a slender, leggy redhead who stared back at her with unconcealed interest. Catherine instantly knew that she’d found her clitic for the night.

For the next hour she careened from one near-miss to another, definitely troubled but somehow managing to navigate through the party without raping or pillaging anyone in plain sight. Still, she was bad, very bad. Several of Charles’ friends had been hitting on her for months, suggesting certain oral quid pro quos for their campaign dollars and political influence. She had never confessed to Charles that many of his most trusted associates were secretly propositioning her. She would normally deflect or ignore their treasonous advances, keeping things cool and calm, but this night she found occasions to brush some part of their bodies with her pointy tits, or even fondle the crotches of their pants with stealthy hands. She even got the state’s Lieutenant Governor alone in an alcove, giving him a quick and effective handjob that left milky graffiti on the wallpaper. Halfway through the party she had raised a ton of cash for Charles’ campaign, the donors’ stiff dicks and tuxedos combining to make them look like horny penguins, waddling from room to room in search of heat.

She might have made it through the party without actually fucking somebody if she hadn’t found the bartender with the fiery tresses all alone, taking a cigarette break out on the veranda. Within ten minutes she had the girl flat on her back on top of the basement pool table, legs spread wide with her heels planted in the two side pockets. The sight of that fine red hair against a sea of blue-green felt had Catherine panting like a wounded animal even before drinking the help’s juices down. Both women left dark, fragrant spots on the pristine surface before rejoining their duties upstairs.

She was tormented by myriad dreams that night. In the first, she found herself seated on a church pew, listening to her minister drone on and on about God’s grace. She really wanted to be a good Christian, but her mind kept wandering towards blasphemous thoughts of how huge God’s cock might be, and whether His cum might taste like manna from heaven. The next thing she knew, she was climbing a mountain, hoping to find Him there, omnipotently erect, waiting for her upon the summit. She climbed and climbed, instead finding an angel awaiting her heated arrival, a fucking gorgeous angel whose wings quivered in anticipation. Catherine conducted a slow, artful strip-tease in front of those divine eyes, and by the time she was down to nothing but her ruby red heels, the angel’s inner thighs were glowing bright orange from her blonde, burning bush.

And then, suddenly, she was in the canoe once more, holding on for dear life as the fragile boat was tossed and bullied by the raging current. Massive rocks were all around, and up ahead… Oh God. An ominous void, with clouds of spray dancing high in the air.

Waterfalls. Fucking giant waterfalls, and she was going to go over the edge, there was no stopping it! She screamed for help as the canoe was pulled forward, being sucked towards the brink. Oh God she was going to fall, she was going to go over the edge into oblivion, and there was nothing…

She heard someone calling her name over the roar. The voice pierced right through her, making her entire body come alive. And then, just as she was about to tumble over the frothy precipice, something long and solid appeared above her, and she leaped, and grabbed hold. She was saved! But how? She looked up at the object of her salvation. She was hanging from Pierce West’s hard dick! It didn’t make sense, his cock had to be longer than a telephone pole, but it had saved her. And as she climbed hand over hand along his gargantuan tool, inching towards the rest of his body on the shore, her pussy gushed with the realization that here, finally, was a cock that could totally stuff her voracious cunt, and more.

The dreams became a jumble then, with searing heat everywhere, and the promise of orgasms that could last for hours, her body burning without combusting, the sense of sexual fulfillment overwhelming. And then she was in bed with him, with Pierce, sucking his cock, feeling it grow in her mouth. It became harder, so hard, and she waited, waited for it to swell until it spread her lips wide apart, her jaw opening as far as it could open, the size of him sending shockwaves all through her body…

Only it never grew that huge. She heard him groaning her name as she waited for his cock to become monstrously huge. She wanted it to be monstrously huge, and so she sucked harder, and harder…

“Oh my God! Catherine! Yes, yes…”

She awakened, Charles’ dick in her mouth, his legs thrashing in pre-orgasmic ecstasy. She nearly spit him out, she was so disappointed. But then he was spurting, and she was swallowing. Moments later he drifted back to sleep, leaving her alone, alone with her haunted thoughts and the unfathomably intense emptiness between her legs.

Pierce. She fucking wanted Pierce. She didn’t know much of anything about the subconscious mind and its secret messages, but any fool could understand the tone and the direction of this last dream. She was at a point where all of her past ideas about morality and faith were useless. What she wanted, what she needed, was Pierce. She wanted his voice, his… advice. No, fuck that, why keep denying it? She wanted his cock. She felt like she might die if she didn’t get hold of his cock and the nourishing liquid inside.

She eased off the bed and stood in the dark room, looking down on Charles. She didn’t love him. She probably never had. All they had gone through together, and all of the projections of their future life… It was no more real than her jumbled dreams. And face it, his cum didn’t taste right. She scrunched her face from the lingering flavor. Charles’ cum was kind of vinegary, like a bottle of wine that’s turned from being improperly corked. She simply didn’t want him. She wanted… Well, many others. Other, more delicious lovers. William and Giuseppe and Joel and Holly and Katia. And Clarisse, tonight’s bartender. And Pierce, especially Pierce. She fucking wanted to fuck all of their fucking brains out, over and over.

And she especially needed Pierce. Desperately. But how to find him? This was the short break in the class schedule, the next session didn’t take place until Tuesday. Five days. She would have to wait five days. Fuck that, she couldn’t wait that long, she’d die. But she didn’t know where he lived.

The internet! She tiptoed out of the bedroom, then rushed down the hallway to the computer study. All she had to do was look him up in the white pages, or google Pierce West and some other word like “painter”.

She found him, sort of. No listing for his address or home phone, but she found his gallery in Chelsea, and went to their website. The gallery’s site frustrated her; it was elegantly designed, yet so lacking in specifics. The M.C. Fuller Gallery, open by appointment only, representing the finest specialty painters and sculptors to satisfy the unique needs of their discriminating clients. There was Pierce West’s’ name at the end of the short alphabetical listing of gallery artists, but no link to examples of his paintings. There were no examples of anyone’s paintings or sculptures.

She drummed her fingertips on the mouse. Open by appointment only, with art to satisfy the unique needs of their discriminating clients. This was no ordinary New York gallery. They only represented ten artists, and the format of the site spoke of secrecy. This was a private in-club. Much of Catherine’s life had been informed by her membership to various special clubs, she knew the territory. And she knew that more was being said than she could read — a form of code was staring her right in the face, only she couldn’t decipher it.

She googled M.C. Fuller in combination with “gallery owner” and “art dealer”, but got nowhere. It didn’t help that she didn’t know whether the gallery owner was male or female.

She needed to get in. She needed to find Pierce, and she needed to see his paintings. She could feel her mind and body burning in unison, every cell desperately needing to see his fucking paintings. It was almost as though she needed that as much as she needed to fuck him.

Her hands were flipping through Charles’ rolodex before she was even aware of the idea. She needed an in-source, somebody who could do some detective work for her in the New York art world. And she knew exactly whom to call. He worked for an art museum and she had almost fondled his short, plump dick tonight.

“Catherine?” he answered groggily. “What time is it? Is something wrong?”

She tried to explain it without explaining it, and after a few minutes he promised to look into The M.C. Fuller Gallery first thing, and get back to her. She gave Ruben her cell number and tried to impress upon him how desperate she was to hear from him as quickly as possible.

She didn’t pack much for the return to New York. In the end, all she really wanted were a few pair of heels and her new lingerie. A brief note explained her need to get back to the city to continue packing — that would keep Charles placated until she formally broke off their relationship. His pain would give her no pleasure, but his feelings were irrelevant now. She wasn’t his. She couldn’t be his, because her pussy wasn’t his, it belonged to many others. Maybe he would be angry, or maybe he would wonder what he had done wrong, but it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help it that his cum just didn’t taste right.

Back in New York, it was so hard to conduct business when the needs of her body kept distracting her mind. She fought her way through it, though, canceling the termination of her lease. She liked this apartment far too much to leave. Its location was ideal, and her bedroom was already absorbing the scents of several lovers — she’d have to be crazy to walk away when her personal environment was finally coming together.

And she couldn’t wait to tell Giuseppe that she was staying. She’d already decided that she wanted to bring Jacques, his fellow doorman, into the fun and games, too. They could take turns with her, or maybe they’d even agree to do her together. She couldn’t even imagine how exciting it would be to suck on one dick while another was hammering deep inside of her molten tunnel.

Thinking about handling two cocks at once got to her. She called William at his office and home, but couldn’t reach him. So she lay down on her bed, stroking her clit with the phone positioned mere centimeters from her furious finger action, groaning William’s name, the sounds recorded on his answering machine. He’d enjoy coming home to a message like that, it would brighten his day.

She wondered whether she should leave messages like that for all of her lovers. And she wondered how it could feel as though her tiny little pleasure center was bigger than the fingers stroking it.

The phone rang. She pounced on it with her other hand, hoping that William had already heard her moans on his phone, that he was ready to play with her, and let her drink his savory cum again.

“William? Oh, Ruben! Ohh… Have you… found out anything yet?”

He was laughing. “Your artist friend is a specialist, Catherine. As is the entire gallery in question.”

“A special… specialist… Ohhh… What do you mmmmooohhh, Goddd… W… what do you mean?”

“Catherine? Are you okay?”

“Yesss… Just... go on.” It was hard, so very hard, but she slowed down the wiggling, wriggling action of her fingers, so she could stay with the conversation.

“Okay, it’s like this: The entire art market has become more and more fragmented over the years. There were always divisions in expertise — galleries for contemporary art, galleries for old master paintings, galleries for conceptual art, galleries for feminist works, gall…”

“Ruben!”

“Okay, okay. All I’m trying to say is that the economic model has changed to the point that new kinds of niche galleries are popping up, catering to very narrow or specific tastes. Your M.C. Fuller Gallery is one of them.”

Tastes. She was into specific tastes. She wished that Giuseppe or Jacques would knock on her door to help her with her finger action. She wanted to taste their cum and compare their flavors.

“Catherine? Are you there?”

“Y…yes. Tastes. You were talking about special tastes. Oh God, what tastes… does the M.C. Fuller Gallery fill?”

“It’s all in the name, Catherine. You wondered who M.C. Fuller is?”

“Yes!” Whoever they were, she hoped they were gorgeous, and that she could blow them or eat them.

“There is no M.C. Fuller, Catherine. The M.C. stands for mind-control. It’s a play on words.”

Fuck. No Miles Carpenter Fuller to blow. No Melinda Charisma Fuller to tongue.

“Catherine? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard. Mind-control. Mind-control? You mean… What do you mean? What does mind-control have to do with art?”

“Beats me. Perhaps they sell paintings of Freud or Franz Mesmer dangling watches in front of little prepubescent girls. My guess is that they have a small stable of artists who take requests from clients with a taste for hypnotism. It’s a fetish gallery, Catherine. An upscale gallery with a prurient edge. Think of it as the intersection between hypnotism, fine art and sex.”

“Ohhh! Oh fuck! Oh my God…”

“Catherine? What’s the matter?”

They were crashing together, her pussy’s needs and the need to think straight. She felt so close to having an exquisite orgasm, and yet something else was happening, something that she needed to pay attention to. Hypnotism, art and sex. Mind-control. Mind-control. Holy fuck, holy fucking shit! Mind-control!

“Ruben… Oh God, Ruben!”

“What? What?”

“Ruben, none of that could be… real, could it?”

“Hypnotism, you mean? I don’t know, I’m an art curator, not a therapist. Why?”

It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be true! But the wheels were turning, wheels that had been stuck in a sex-obsessed mode ever since… Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Ever since she’d begun the drawing class. Led by a teacher who sold works at a mind-control gallery, a teacher with an unusually compelling voice. Led by a painter who painted… What? What were his paintings like? Holly and Katia posed for some of them, but what were they like? She fucking had to know!

It was torture, but she ground her finger-assault to a dead halt, panting for breath, trying to unearth the sane part of herself. It was there, it was still there. Her pussy ached, screaming for her to continue the stroking, but her thoughts were there, too. It might not be too late.

Armed with Ruben’s insights, she called the gallery as soon as she thought she could speak without hyperventilating. A woman’s voice on the line, French or French-Canadian accent, welcoming yet also giving nothing away. Catherine asked whether they had any Pierce West paintings for her to view, and she was met with a series of questions: How did she learn of his work? Had she ever seen his paintings before? Did she know Pierce personally? Was she aware that it could be several years before she might have the chance to buy one?

She was being fucking interviewed, to see whether she was worthy of a peek at his paintings! She stayed cool, though, and must have given the right answers, because the woman, Tasha, said she would arrange a viewing for Catherine at three in the afternoon.

She picked at a ham and Brie crepe a block from the gallery, waiting, every nerve in her body screaming with anticipation. She was a wreck, second-guessing every thought, every impulse, almost every breath. She could look back at everything she had done or felt since first meeting Pierce, and see how he might have influenced her behavior. He had made her feel these things with his compelling voice, his special voice. The heightened impulses of her body, her sexual whims, her uncontrollable desires and sudden attraction to women… God, even these sexy clothes, even her buzzing clitoris, feeling so massive and alive down there, blissfully torturing her…

She closed her eyes and told herself that the buzzing was not real, that her clitoris was normal-sized and felt normal-sized. She told herself that this persistent, never-achieved wish to be completely filled was artificial, but no amount of concentration or determination could wipe the sensations away. My God, how powerful was a man like Pierce West? Where had he learned to do these things, and how deeply had he gotten inside of her? Was she still in control of anything, anything at all?

The book in her hand, “Hypnotism, Fact and Fiction”, claimed that she could not be made to do anything unless the core of her being wanted her to do it. She should feel reassured, but thinking that she might have wanted all of this to happen made her nervous. Did she really have a completely hedonistic side to herself? Had some part of her always wanted be a cum-slurping machine, and bi-sexual?

She should probably have a lawyer accompany her to the gallery, or have called the police to investigate the entire operation the moment she knew. Why was she going there alone, without somehow protecting herself? Because she was afraid that if she interfered, she might not get to study the paintings She had to see those paintings, she just had to. But why? How could she know that Pierce wasn’t making her want to see his paintings this badly? How could she know that he hadn’t given her the idea to look into the gallery in the first place? How could she hope to tell the difference between her own thoughts and desires, and the ones he must have placed into her somehow?

Oh God, even her decision to ditch Charles! Because Charles’ fucking cum didn’t taste right. Could there even be a more artificial reason to break off an engagement? But fuck it, she didn’t love Charles, she just didn’t. And she really was determined to call off the relationship, she’d rather die than spend the rest of her life with that man. These were her feelings, her wishes… Unless it was all Pierce, working through her, fucking with her, manipulating her. Wouldn’t she be able to tell that something as basic as love or lack of love was her own? She groaned, feeling… caught, and squeezed between hopes that these were her choices and desires, and the fear that all of this was Pierce, and the things he wanted her to desire.

Could anyone help her? Controlling minds to such a degree was far-fetched, so far-fetched that the police would never believe her story if she went to them. And what was his motive, they would ask. Did he take your money, or force himself upon your person? Why do this to her, other than to rob her or seduce her? She would have to answer that no, her money was intact, and no, she hadn’t fucked him, even though she was dying to.

She was still dying to fuck Pierce, even now. But she would have fucked him days ago if that had been his intention. She would have blown his dick for hours, or opened her anxious pussy to him countless times. Force himself upon her person? He had tortured her by not forcing himself upon her, and inside of her!

His paintings, she needed to see his paintings. She could easily imagine what Ruben had mentioned, Norman Rockwell-ish paintings of psychiatrists with gold watches or pinwheels, seducing little girls with pigtails and wide-eyes. She could see pin-up paintings with some kind of hypnotic twist, some sexy girl — Holly, perhaps —her huge tits visible in a sheer negligee, staring blankly at a spiral pattern.

But what were they, really? She had to fucking know, and it was time. She left money on her table and exited the café, every step bringing her closer, closer to… What? The truth. She needed the truth, desperately, and the truth was in his paintings, somehow she knew that.

The sun touched the horizon on the Jersey side of the Hudson River. Catherine leaned against the park railing, hugging her coat tight to her body. It mattered, the fact that the river flowed both ways here, affected by tides and a multitude of unseen currents.

She could go either way, too. Towards Pierce, and all that might entail, or away from Pierce. Her body was still in overdrive — he must have seen to that — but her mind felt more clear than it had in days. Had Pierce allowed her this respite, this time of mental freedom, so that she could make her own choice? After seeing his artwork, it was so easy to believe that he could make a woman feel anything that he wanted her to feel.

Oh God, those paintings, and the look in his models’ eyes… She hadn’t been prepared for that. And yet… that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Pierce had prepared her to be something like that. If she chose it. If she could even choose to choose.

The paintings had not been of her, she did not have to suffer that shock. Still, their impact was overwhelming. His paintings made the art in the gallery office look like children’s crayon drawings by comparison. The same with the pin-up paintings she’d been looking at recently. His craftsmanship was exquisite — dancing strokes of color that somehow gelled like pixels on a screen, completely becoming the form he was describing. But the real mastery was elsewhere. In the haunting, communicating eyes. In the lips, which seemed to tremble, even as she looked at them. In the degree of lust and fulfillment simultaneously displayed on every face, each woman’s sexual state oozing right off the canvases, filling the room.

Holly and Katia had been together in one painting, clutching at each other’s bodies as though holding on for dear life. The other models, all gorgeous as hell and painted solo, were unknown to her. But it didn’t matter whether she knew the women or not. It was clear that Pierce went for a certain look, and Catherine had that look — the right face, the right body. He had probably known from the moment he set eyes on her that he wished to paint her.

But that was merely her physical form. On the inside… In the paintings. it was as though you could look right through the flesh of the models to the minds inside, witnessing their pleasure centers caught in a state of… of… She didn’t even know what to call it. Suspended metagasms. Timeless cumsplosions. Everlasting clititude. Perpetual hornbliss.

She grasped the railing to steady herself. Just recalling the paintings in her mind made her entire body shake. Whatever Pierce had captured in the women, whatever it could be like to actually feel something like that — the sight of it reached right into her in the gallery room, ripping an orgasm for the record books out of her charged cunt. Good God, no wonder you had to sign a waiver to see the paintings. Just looking at them was like having nuclear isotopes injected into every cell that participated in sexual release.

She had to dim the lights to near-zero to give herself a chance to recover from the paintings’ power. Later, out in the office, she tried to get some information from Tasha about Pierce West's techniques. Had Tasha understood that what she was asking about had nothing to do with painting skill? Yes, of course. And Catherine learned a little, but not enough. It was one of those conversations where words had double or triple meanings, where references to the artist’s “mastery” of his craft could have all or nothing to do with the physical act of painting. Pierce was a gifted artist — perhaps even a great artist — and yet the paintings themselves were merely the tip of the iceberg. The people who collected this artwork were interested in an entirely different kind of mastery. Perhaps Pierce had gained his astounding hypnotic powers by studying some ancient technique in India, or Tibet. He had minored in mind-control at Yale, for all she knew.

One particular question kept nagging at Catherine’s mind. She wanted to know — no, needed to know — whether Pierce painted from photographs, or strictly from life. What had been captured in paint would last forever now, the women’s super-orgasms always cascading out from the canvases. But how had the effect been achieved? It would be one thing to bring his women to a momentary state of unimaginable bliss, and to freeze that look through the use of a camera. But what if Pierce painted from life, the process taking hours at a time? If he needed that look to remain on his models’ faces, unchanged, perhaps for hours on end… Ohhh fuuuuucccckkkk…

A trail of wetness flowed from between her thighs, her pussy so alive that she could imagine her lubricating moisture raising the water level of the river in front of her. Catherine knew the game now, knew how her pussy could feel so out of control. It was Pierce, all Pierce. He wanted to paint her, but a woman — even an exquisitely beautiful woman like her — could only be useful to Pierce if she had been properly… enhanced. A gorgeous model could give you the look in those pin-up paintings, nothing more. Pierce needed qualities that went beyond physical beauty and a come-hither look. He needed his models to project a level of lust and need that was almost mythological in scale, and he had found a way to achieve it.

And so he created these… feelings, these capacities. And oh God, she felt like she would sell her soul to the devil to experience what his models must experience, the satisfying of these mega-urges. She could know that Pierce had made her feel this way, but that didn’t stop her clitoris and nipples from feeling huge and throbbing, or stop her pussy or entire being from aching to be filled. It was Pierce, but it was her, too. The supercharged desires were there inside of her body now, and she didn’t know how to escape them.

Should she hate him for doing this to her? Should she rebel? Could she rebel? His studio was right over there, in that narrow building with the blue door— Tasha had given her the address. The lights were on, and she had this feeling that Pierce was there, waiting for her.

Maybe she should knock on his door and chew him out, the fucker. What an actor, coming across as being so helpful, and so concerned for her well-being. All that time he had been undermining her values, manipulating her mind and body while stirring her core, molding her into a vessel that could be of use to him.

Damn it all, she had a life — it might not be the life she had a week ago, but she was nobody’s sex slave, nobody’s pussy puppet! Her body was her own, her cunt was her own. Her cunt had made new friends recently, and she wouldn’t give them up. Hell, she might even want to marry William some day, just because his cum tasted so good. Pierce did not own her. She could choose for herself whom to tease, and whom to fuck, and where, and how often.

It would serve Pierce right if she called the cops on him. Maybe nothing could be proven, but even if she couldn’t prosecute him, she could still make his life uncomfortable for a while. She had friends in high places, lawyers and judges and politicians, and friends like hers could make people squirm if they set their minds to it.

On shaking legs, she turned away from the water. It would be so satisfying to go over there and confront Pierce, but she couldn’t take the risk. His voice was too compelling, and her needs were too intense. If he could make her clitoris feel all gigantic like this, fooling her mind into believing that it had been growing new pleasure cells for days…

But knowledge was power. She had been raised on that premise, and given the best education money could buy so that she could make correct choices. Well, she had knowledge now. She would never model for Pierce, even if it was the most exciting thing in the world. Maybe his hypnotic spells would fade over time. If not, she would get William and Joel and Giuseppe to fuck her as many times as needed to chase the demons away.

Perhaps Pierce had made it so that her raging needs could never be totally met by any other lover, but how could it hurt to fuck William fifty times this weekend? She would go to him and tell him everything, the whole story, and they could work as a team with her on top, brainstorming while she reamed her problem pussy with his tasty dick. And if he couldn’t satisfy her, if her desires hung on, her gaping hole unfilled… Well then, she’d just have to fuck twice as hard and twice as often, going from lover to lover, doing what she could, trying her best.

She drew alongside the building with the blue door, but on the opposite sidewalk. The door across the street almost seemed to glow, the blue color becoming more intense. Another mind game, it was another fucking mind game. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking in overdrive down below. Keep walking up the block, keep walking, don’t look back…

She almost fell over as her left leg suddenly headed in a direction counter to the rest of her body. What the fuck… She took another step forward with the right leg and tried to get the left to follow, but again it took a step in another direction, in the direction of the blue door. No! No!

Another step had her doing a full split on the sidewalk, the heel of her right shoe breaking off. Oh God, he wasn’t going to let her go! With her ass grazing the cold concrete, she used her arms in an effort to gather her limbs towards the single purpose of getting away, but now both of her legs insisted on pointing in the direction of the blue door.

Her clitoris and nipples suddenly seemed to go through an electrifying growth spurt, and she found herself crawling in the direction of the door, not even able to scream for help. The beige grit of the sidewalk changed to black asphalt, and then at the opposite curb, back to beige.

The emptiness in her pussy felt like it was becoming a mile wide and even deeper, as though a black hole was being born in her wet depths. “Uuuuuoooohhhh!” she cried, somehow managing to stand again. She would not go crawling to his door, she would not!

She hobbled forward on one heel, and cried out again as a wave of excitement rushed through her body. Her right arm stretched forward by itself, her index finger pushing the buzzer. Catherine’s pussy prayed that he was there, but she wouldn’t just acquiesce, or fall to her knees again and beg him to fill her.

The door opened, and he stood there, backlit by warm light.

“I… I know what you’ve been doing to me!” she cried.

He made no reply, merely gesturing with his hand for her to enter. She stepped inside, immediately shrugging her coat to the floor as he closed the door.

“You don’t own me!” she yelled at him. “I have… others, that I need to fuck! I won’t give them up!”

A raised eyebrow, and the hint of an amused smile.

Oh God, he was withholding his voice! It wasn’t fair! She was here, wasn’t she? Why torture her by not speaking? Her trembling hands unzipped her skirt, and she stepped out of it, knowing how glorious her legs would look on one of his canvases.

“I won’t model for you unless you answer certain questions,” she bluffed, kicking off her shoes. “I’ll want my own life outside of this studio. I’ll want to make my own decisions. You won’t own me, I won’t let you!”

She couldn’t read his expression. He just looked at her, his eyes twinkling.

“Fiddle-faddle,” he whispered.

“Ohhhh! OOHHH!” Her knees gave way from the force of the earthquake inside, Oh God, his voice, his voice! She gasped as she felt his words enter her being, ringing her huge clitoris like a great bell. Her nipples seemed to leap up and out, reaching for him. The fucker, the fucker! He knew full well that she was dying for his probing, echoing voice, its tones reaching into and down her unimaginably cavernous depths.

“Trail mix,” he said, and she screamed, writhing and shaking on the floor.

Oh God, he could say anything, any bit of nothing, and her body was no longer her own.

“Gorp!” he declared, and she felt it rushing up, an orgasm surging towards the surface from miles below, rushing up with hot blue flame, ready to fill all of her depths with raging liquid heat.

“This way,” he said, and the flames came to a halt inside. She couldn’t move, the blue orgasm somehow halted in mid-flight. She was exploding without exploding, being blown apart while feeling whole for the first time in her life.

She had awareness of her blouse being pulled over her head. He unclasped her bra, setting her gorgeous breasts free, and her nipples were as erect as nipples could ever be, feeling more like cannons than flesh. Oh God, what he could make her feel…

He played with them as he led her into a large room with a bed in the middle, lights strategically placed to show off her svelte form to perfect effect. Stark naked, placed at the edge of the bed, he made subtle adjustments with her arms and legs, then tilted her head slightly down and to the left. She could watch Pierce as he retreated to his easel, a large canvas poised there. He studied her position and returned to make further adjustments. She was there and not there, her body flushed from the suspended blue orgasm that seemed to have come from the depths of the earth as much as the depths of her tunnel.

Finally satisfied with the pose, Pierce removed his pants, and the blue heat began to move inside her black hole, inching forward. Oh God, oh fucking God… His cock was hard, and gorgeous, and so fucking huge, and oh God, it was still growing, growing and growing, traversing the ten paces between their bodies, growing as fat and as long as the cock in her dreams, the cock she’d clung to for dear life. It couldn’t be real, none of it could be real, and yet she felt the lips of her pussy being parted, the tip of this mindfuck mega-cock spreading her walls as wide as her entire body, his massive monster purple cockhead pushing in to meet liquid blue flame.

“Try not to move,” he said as he picked up a brush, and maybe it was a joke, because the blue met the purple and the colors mixed, becoming something entirely new. Her screams would have been heard around the world if she could scream. The filling orgasm was out of time, out of anything known, suffusing every cell of her body even though her body seemed to be as wide as the horizon, as tall as the sky. She was everywhere, her hungry hole enveloping everything, and yet his impossible cock was filling her, extending her bliss to the heavens.

Move? She would never move again unless he told her to. She was nothing but a blue-purple Big Bang cumflash, occupying everything and lasting forever. How could she move when she wasn’t even there?