It was almost dark by the time she turned the key to her apartment door. Mystic, her overweight Persian kitty, rushed to greet her, mewing his happy mew and rubbing back and forth against her legs.

Before even acknowledging him, she turned off the air conditioning and opened windows all around. It was hot, it was August, and in the hazy distance beyond the rooftops and water towers of the East Village, lofty cumulus clouds sat heavy and motionless to the west, the scent of much needed rain present in the thick air.

She removed her heels, drew her dress over her head and let it fall to the floor, then picked up her cat and squeezed his purring softness into her bosom.

Mystic's sandpapery tongue briefly lapped at the sweat between her collarbones. Sweet lucky kitty, she thought, knowing how many would die to be right where this creature was. Cute cuddly kitty pressed against sultry, shapely, sweaty Cindy.

Take a shower, or even a relaxing bath? Later, after she checked what was up at MCStories, her secret addiction.

She fed the cat and poured herself a full glass of chilled Chardonnay before powering up her desktop in the northwest corner of her loft, the small area that she had come to think of as "the computer room".

She had a great loft, a sinful loft. Ten stories up, which gave her cooling breezes and distant views above most of the buildings in the neighborhood. Polished hardwood floors and tall windows on three sides, a spacious bathroom with oversized tub/shower, solid teak cabinets and real marble flooring in the modern kitchen. But the best part was this big open great-room, the heart of the loft. She got air, she got light, she got the sounds and the scents and even the pulse of the city in the summer months.

Her first two years at NYU had been so different. She'd started in a dorm like so many others, and a good percentage of her classmates were still trapped in noisy roommate situations or crammed into apartments the size of closets. But those days were over for her. Her parents back in Kansas City were paying her tuition while she was in school, but her real coup had come when she convinced a rich uncle to foot her extravagant rent for two years, just by giving him one quick blow-job at a Fourth of July party.

Was she naughty, was she spoiled? Shit, yeah, if you were white and great-looking in America, the world opened wide for you, everybody knew that. She was the only child of an upper middle-class family and a hot-bodied, angel-faced number to boot — the quintessential corn-fed busty blonde bombshell — and she got all of the benefits. She landed a lucrative lingerie modeling gig her very first week in New York, and did semi-nude modeling every now and then for a Tribecca photographer who contributed material to a Website called HardBods. It was such easy work, just a little flexing or stretching in leotards or a bikini, and it paid great.

She had real career plans, real goals, but wasn't it great to know that if her plans didn't work out or she ever found herself truly hurting for money, she could make huge bucks modeling nude, it would be so easy, so automatic. Somebody ought to shoot her for her luck, they really should. Until they did, though, she would revel in her soft lifestyle and her big enviable pad, no apologies.

Earthlink kicked-in on the computer screen and she had seven messages, six of which turned out to be junk. The one real e-mail was a short "How're you doin'?" from Michael.

Michael. She sighed. What to do about Michael? They weren't exactly a tight couple in her mind, but he thought otherwise. They'd met in the spring semester in her History of Western Philosophy class, and they hung out a lot, ending up in bed half a dozen times thus far.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. It was so easy for her to attract guys that it didn't make much sense to settle on anyone short of fantabulous, and Michael was not fantabulous. Nice, yes, articulate and talented, yes, always desperate for sex, yes. But fantabulous? No, not even close. So — dump him? Keep him? Keep him dangling somewhere in-between as a lust-driven friend and emergency fuck? He was probably in love with her, or at least addicted to her body. She would need to be the one who made the decision.

She pictured Michael on a densely forested mountain trail with his camping buddies. She had met the news of his Oregon summer vacation with relief, glad to have a few weeks to herself... But wait — how had he... She laughed inside. Michael might be just as addicted to his computer as he was to her body. He had without doubt packed his laptop into his backpack on a one-hundred mile hike, eager to maintain internet access anytime the group came near a small town. Oh, Michael, you crazy, crazy idiot.

Crazy, or just an internet junkie like herself? And crazy enough for her to love him? Hmmn. He was an engineering major and great with computers — he would make good money some day, which was important. And she could make him do just about anything, just by dangling the opportunity of sex in front of him. She remembered how he went apeshit the first time he saw her naked. She was like a fantasy come to life for him, the embodiment of all his slim-n'-stacked wet dreams. Convenient. But worthy of her loyalty, of commitment? Hardly.

Maybe she'd feel differently if she actually loved him, or if she could think of sex as something other than a tool to get what she wanted. Sex was a good thing, she could use it to get around all sorts of difficulties, but she couldn't understand what the fuss was all about. She got the hots sometimes, it wasn't like her hormones were defective or she was frigid or whatever — but really, why would guys do anyfuckingthing she asked them to do, just for the dim hope that they could play with her tits, or that she might let them join her in bed for a night? And her uncle — hell, that blowjob cost him fifty thousand dollars! If he'd been able to control himself or even beat himself off instead, he could have gone out and bought a fucking great car! She didn't love giving head, but for a killer New York apartment? She'd swallowed, greedily.

Okay, so her uncle was not only rich but crazy. The thing was, nearly all guys were crazy to some degree when it came to sex. But then, maybe she was crazy when it came to sex, too, just in a different way. She felt like she was missing out on some kind of special excitement in the bedroom, but the problem was not quite knowing what that meant. She had all of the tools, sure, but that was the physical Cindy, the great body, the dynamite looks. Inside it was a different story. Too many times during sex she felt more like a nottie than a hottie, and she ended up holding back, feeling aloof just at the times when her lover hoped she might cut loose.

Maybe she needed a sense of psychological intensity or risk mixed with her sex, some element to cut through her natural inhibitions. Or maybe that was just an easy rationalization for a psych student, a convenient way to evade her own inadequacies, her own lack of creativity or engagement. Was it a problem with her body or a problem with her mind, or both? She sometimes wished that a new lover would show up and sweep her off her feet in a different way, a way that would sweep her hormones into a frenzy, too. She even wished a twisted little wish every now and then — that she could be made to be a better lover.

Which almost certainly explained her current obsession: Mind-control stories. What would her psychology professors think if they knew that she couldn't stop reading mind-control stories? What would Michael think?

Knowing Michael, he would be jealous. It would burn him up that she sometimes masturbated in front of her computer monitor or in her bed late at night, visualizing particular seduction scenes from some of the juicier stories she'd read on-line. It would burn him up that she was "dissipating" her passions by her own hand when she didn't have a deep well of passion to begin with. Michael wanted to fuck more, a lot more. He wanted more oral sex, more experimentation, wanted her to be the one who initiated sex more often. Maybe she would do it all if it seemed worth it, but, sad to say, many of these MC stories filled her with a quality of excitement that she never felt when screwing her boyfriend.

Which couldn't be normal. She should probably see a sex therapist, a shrink. Hell, every person who wrote or read mind-control stories should probably see a shrink, it just had to be a psychological red flag. Maybe that was even why she wanted to become a shrink — so she could analyze herself.

But really — for whatever reasons, something about those stories made her feel hot. At times she identified with the controller, reveling in that sense of power over another. It was territory that she was familiar with, in a way — she'd been gorgeous even in grade school, and from an early age had been able to make kids, especially the boys, do all sorts of things to gain her favor. It wasn't exactly mind-control, but it might as well have been. Once she grew a grade-A rack and the other kids' hormones went ballistic, it probably was a form of mind-control, because big tits could almost completely hypnotize guys, they really could.

But even without sex or flaunting her assets she could make people do things that they might not do for others, just by smiling in a certain way, or making her eyes big or fluttering her eyelids or whatever. Her theory, borne of experience, was that no one from any background was immune to the power of beauty, even if they believed or pretended otherwise. Maybe it was as elemental as beauty representing good while ugliness was equated with evil; whatever the reasons, beauty disarmed people, made them more compliant, more trusting. Altered their behavior.

And her beauty was not quiet, was not subtle. Some people were like that, they were really good-looking but quietly so, it wasn't the first thing you thought about when you met them. By contrast, she had exclamation-point looks, her beauty was obvious and forceful and filled with sex-appeal. She had that over-the-top kind of face, too, that wide-eyed good-girl type of face that opened doors a little bit wider. Her friends, her professors, Italian waiters, Thai waitresses, some Pakistani cabby ogling her in his rear-view mirror — she got special favors and extra attention everywhere, even if they were just small things.

So she could be a controller to some degree and identified with that — but more often than not she felt herself slipping towards an orgasm as she put herself in the place of some particular hero or heroine in one of the mind-control stories, the character being controlled. There were lots of stories focusing on women somewhat like herself, on some female snob with super model looks who routinely takes advantage of others. She wasn't really a snob — she liked all sorts of people and even her current boy-toy, Michael, had some nerdy qualities — but she could see that she did take a lot of things for granted, and she used her looks too often as a weapon.

Did that make her a "bad" person at heart? Maybe, although she really didn't think so. Every person alive uses what they have for their own self-interest, it's part of the instinct for survival, intrinsic to human nature. People might balance that basic truth with acts of generosity or kindness — the super-rich, plunderers all, might even choose to set up foundations or find some other ways to give back some of what they had stolen — but they still used their backgrounds, their intelligence, their looks, whatever they had, to take. She was no saint, no Mother Theresa, she had sinned plenty in her lifetime, but she figured that she was no worse than some and better than many, just like most others.

Still, in the fictional mind-control universe, a great-looking woman like herself would probably get transformed into an obedient sex-obsessed slut by some socially awkward genius bent on domination or revenge. It was the classic karma/stroke intersection, the hot babe getting what she deserves as revenge for being so hot, with the reader along for the torrid, humiliating descent. A woman as gorgeous as herself would become a lesbian against her will, or lose the ability to say anything more intelligent than "Like, wow!". A woman like her would be forced to join a harem, or her already voluminous breasts would be made to magically grow larger, or — well, whatever the particulars, she would surely suffer some terrible or demeaning fate. She would inevitably lose control of her body, her mind, her will.

Just thinking about it was getting her a bit revved, which was the reason she should probably go see a therapist. Instead, she closed her mail program and headed straight to MCStories, hoping to discover a new tasty tale to make her pussy drip. Scrolling through the Recent Additions page, she was disappointed to find that she'd already read the new stories that might appeal to her. So she clicked on the MCForum section and hit the login button, then typed her handle, Mysticat, and her password.

And saw right off that she had another private message from MagicThunder.

The feelings of budding excitement in her body changed into a different kind of rapid heartbeat, more of a fight or flight response. Fuck. She had been hoping that MagicThunder would play fair and do the right thing. I don't have to open this message, she thought. She could even delete it, unread. Her fingers tapped around her mouse, her mind darting this way and that.

The last message from MagicThunder had disturbed her, enough that Cindy told her to stop sending private messages. If, that is, MagicThunder really was a her, a she. There needed to be a new word for that, didn't there — the situation of unknowable internet gender? People usually identified themselves as male or female in their member profiles, but you never really knew. Maybe there should be new pronouns for the Web Age, something like "s/he" and "h/er/im" and "h/er/is". The new terms weren't like "it", they wouldn't signify a lack of sex, just unknown sex. Untrustworthy sex.

She had trusted MagicThunder at the beginning. It all started in May, when Cindy finally bit the bullet by working up her own mind-control story, her very first effort at fiction. She wasn't a natural writer and she struggled, but she was determined to enter the mix, to become a part of the fetish that she was enjoying so much from afar. After almost a month of writing and editing, she submitted the text of "Grind and Polish" to MCStories, then crossed her fingers.

And was pleasantly surprised to see that her story received some positive feedback from members of the forum. She knew that her story wasn't great literature or anything, even by the standards of an online fetish community — hell, she was a third year psychology major at NYU, not a real writer. And she felt like a faker, because she knew little or nothing of the exaggerated passions that she placed into the body of her fictional heroine. Still, she had fun composing her little story — even got kind of hot while composing parts of her story — and she welcomed the smattering of readers' comments in the update thread, especially those of MagicThunder.

She remembered how shocked she had been at MagicThunder's feedback. Cindy was studying Martin Heidegger in her philosophy course when she began to write her mind-control story, and she couldn't resist throwing in a few obscure allusions here and there — and MagicThunder had recognized them! A reader actually recognized her references to some of Martin Heidegger's ideas about language!

Her story, all in all, wasn't terribly creative or even original — it just rehashed a few elements from other mind-control stories that had stirred some heat between her legs — but she loved that at least one reader had tuned-in to her unique wavelength. MagicThunder seemed to see through her narrative, enough that s/he caught a glimpse of the "real" Cindy, the mind and interests behind the words.

Cindy did what anyone would do under the circumstances — she went straight to the site's list of authors and found MagicThunder's stories and read them. Eleven stories. Eleven heated stories that often made her fingers do the walking and her pussy do the talking as she read them.

She was impressed with MagicThunder's eclectic nature. Some tales focused on male/female sex, others were female/female, and two were all over the place, ending up in orgies. Usually the controlling character was female, but not always. And in one story, a particularly fierce and steamy piece called "Open Wide And Succumb", you never really knew the gender of the controller.

The "controlling device", as she thought of it, was never specified in MagicThunder's stories — no magic stone or phallus, no genetically-altered pheromones or whiz-kid mind-scrambling gizmo — and Cindy liked it that way, liked the flavor of mystery and the foreboding sense that MagicThunder's controlling characters could do any damned thing they wanted to do, just because they could.

She looked at a number of MagicThunder's old forum posts next, getting an idea of h/er/is interests and feelings about stories that Cindy had enjoyed. Good taste, good mind, witty comments, sexy outlook. MagicThunder started a thread a while back about whether a mind-control story could seem "too real", and another asking how the other MCForum members would react if they discovered that they were actually being controlled, or conversely, to contemplate what they would be willing to do if they found that they really did have the power to control others' thoughts or bodies.

Daring, Cindy thought. Willing to challenge the fantasy aspect of the fetish and get people to look deeply into their own psyches, explore their own motivations and limits. How would they feel if they were in a victimized position much like that of their own fictional characters? How far would they actually go if they had the powers they so casually wrote about? MagicThunder's voice was intense, maybe too intense sometimes, but also... well, more probing. More illuminating. Like a person willing to shine a bright light into the nooks and crannies of the other forum members' heads. Like someone just as interested in depth psychology as shallow sex. As a student of psychology herself, Cindy was intrigued. So far so good.

Next came an inspection of MagicThunder's member profile. Female, twenty-seven years old, located in Great Britain, member of the site for two years. Sounded good. Sounded safe. Or at least safe-ish.

If any of it was true.

Cindy's own profile was only partially true. She dutifully identified herself as female, but withheld her age. When given a choice to add a signature, some clever phrase, she chose "Willing to do anything... once", although that probably wasn't true. And for some reason she decided to lie about her location, substituting Los Angeles for New York City. She'd never even been to L.A., so why did she do that?

Protection, maybe. Paranoia? No, too harsh. It was just that her mind-control fetish was her secret, and she needed it to stay that way. She was studying to be a therapist some day, with thoughts of becoming a shrink to movie stars or sports figures, people with tons of money and extremely fucked-up egos. Hell, she might even end up working with celebrities' children some day, and what would her potential clients think if they knew that she got off on mind-control sex stories? Might as well paint a scarlet letter on her office door, "P" for perv.

So, feeling nervous but properly anonymous, she sent a private message to MagicThunder, complimenting h/er/im for being such an attentive reader, for "getting" the Heidegger references, for seeing something of the "real" Cindy right through the story's smoke screen.

MagicThunder responded in less than an hour. And slowly, gradually, they began to communicate in this way for a number of weeks, sharing ideas about language and psychology, discussing ideas for future stories, getting more intimate in what they were each willing to say over time, revealing some things but not most things, and nothing that crossed a certain line, that "This is who I really am" line.

Cindy set up a Hotmail account for the purposes of reader feedback, and she and MagicThunder, writing each other frequently, switched to e-mailing each other through this avenue. They never took the next step to instant messaging, which was correct. An open door, but with the security chain still latched, that described the relationship. Cindy found it exciting, letting a total stranger inside of herself in an anonymous way, letting an unknown visitor rummage around in some of her deepest psychological recesses, but all without getting found or caught, kind of like playing an adult game of hide and seek.

MagicThunder was always psychologically nimble in these written conversations, going a bit too far, pulling back, sounding decidedly female in h/er/is outlook, then suddenly male, always keeping things right at the edge, keeping Cindy guessing. S/he was particularly passionate about the power of the written word, about having and maintaining an intense focus when writing. "Writing should not be approached as a form of entertainment," MagicThunder would say. "To do so demeans its power, its potential. The goal of effective writing should always be revelation, not confirmation. Challenge the reader, use their desires against them, draw them in and lead them down the rabbit hole with you. Set an ambitious aim and make your words serve that aim, only then is true power yours."

It all sounded good, although to be honest she didn't have a clue what MagicThunder was talking about. Maybe that — whatever it was — was the difference between where she stood and being a "real" writer. She tried to describe this — her limited creative ambitions — in an e-mail and was surprised by the response. MagicThunder encouraged Cindy to write another story, almost demanded it, kept hammering away about Cindy having a special talent for eroticism that needed to be set free and shared with the world. "It's painfully obvious that you have sexual energies that have never been explored or released," MagicThunder kept saying.

More true than Cindy even wanted to admit. And she took MagicThunder's advice, attempting to channel some of her unleashed sexual energy into a second MC story, a sex-farce titled "Some Like Id Hot". Unlike her first effort, this one almost seemed to write itself, taking just three days to emerge. She couldn't say that she had any real aim or special focus, but she poured herself and her interests into the tale, hoping that would do the trick. It appeared at MCStories last Sunday afternoon.

No comments on it in the forum this time, as though everyone was intentionally ignoring it. She had been surprised to receive feedback the first time, but now she expected it and found herself craving it. After seeing that the new stories were up, including hers, she read some of the other offerings and kept checking the update thread every twenty minutes or so, almost neurotically hoping that somebody would say something, anything, about her new story.

Nothing that Sunday. Nothing on Monday. Nothing Tuesday, Wednesday... Fuck, was it that bad? She had thought of her story as being hot and funny all at the same time, filled with some tasty psychological puns while describing a female psychology student falling under the spell of one of her male instructors. Not enough sex? The sex was there in spades if the reader just hung in. Maybe it was the humor. Maybe the puns went right over the readers' heads, but this was a pretty savvy group, so that didn't sound right. Maybe her puns were more like bad jokes, the kind of jokes that would draw icy stares at a funeral, jokes to be received with uncomfortable silence rather than the hoped for laughter.

And worse — why should she care whether her story garnered praise or ridicule (or indifference, for that matter) from a group of faceless mind-control freakoids? Maybe she should have her head examined for even worrying about...

But she compulsively checked the forum over and over, hoping, almost praying for some smidgen of feedback. On Thursday, yesterday, there were still no mentions of her new story in the update thread, but when she logged in she finally saw those wonderful words at the top of her screen, saying, "Hey Mysticat, you have one new message". She clicked, saw that the message was from MagicThunder h/er/imself, with the heading "About Your New Story". Well, finally! She would have preferred to receive comments in public, in the forum for others to see, but hell — feedback, at last! She opened it, read it.

And got creeped out.

Well holy shit. Psycho-poetry.

She could treat this as a joke, as MagicThunder having a little fun, but... But how could MagicThunder know her eye color, the fact that she ritually painted her toes bright red, the fact that she had gone crazy two months ago and had her lovely nipples pierced? She had never written or even hinted at those things, had she?

No. But... she must have. But she hadn't. Had she?

No. She was sure of it.

Which meant... what?

She didn't know what. She had never discussed her looks when writing to MagicThunder. Could the knowledge have come from her stories? The main character in "Some Like Id Hot" was a young blonde babe like herself, but blonde babes ran rampant in mind-control stories and you knew that no author typing away at a keyboard ever looked like that, no matter what they claimed. Besides, she never wrote anything about her toenails and nipple rings, so how on earth could MagicThunder guess so accurately?

It was impossible. Which, again, meant what? Could MagicThunder be somebody that she knew? No, the chances of such a thing were millions or maybe even billions to one, and she had hidden her trail well, had never said one thing that could link her real self to her virtual self, to Mysticat. Which left her with... She didn't know what.

She knew one thing though — this internet "relationship" had suddenly become too strange. There had been an increasing level of flirtation in MagicThunder's messages, which she had liked and even encouraged for a time. But now... Well, there was a difference between anonymous teasing and outright creepiness.

Without hesitation, Cindy composed a final message to MagicThunder, telling h/er/im that their communications were over, that a line had been crossed that could not be uncrossed, thanks for the good times but no more messages, leave me alone now and have a good real or virtual life, good-bye.

She sent that message late last night. And now on her monitor...

Maybe it was only a farewell message. Or an apology, something along the lines of, "I'm so sorry Magicat, I was just having some fun and didn't realize that I'd gone too far, try to forgive me but whether you can or can't I'll leave you alone now as you requested".

Hoping that reality would meet her wishes, she finally clicked her mouse and opened it up.

And instead found:

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!

She read the weird poem again and felt even worse. Predator, blindness, trap...

She turned off the computer and rushed to the back of her loft, checked the locks on her door. In addition to a deadbolt, she had a fireman's lock, one of those giant bars that traversed the width of her metal door, the kind of lock that you'd need a tank to get past. She was safe.

But really... She was being silly. Most of the poem had been gibberish. The predator thing, the part about a trap — that was the stuff that had frightened her. Which was probably exactly what MagicThunder wanted.

"You bitch!", she cried up at the ceiling. Or... "Bastard!" Or better yet, "You bitch-turd!"

She started to laugh. There, that felt better. Yes, MagicThunder, whoever that really was, had managed to get a rise out of her. But that was no reason to go loony or anything.

She went into the kitchen, put a pot of water on to boil. Pesto over linguini tonight, with sliced summer tomatoes on top, and definitely more Chardonnay.

And the end of Mysticat.

While the pasta was boiling, she fired up the computer again and went straight to MCStories, logged in and re-read the disturbing message. Hell, it wasn't even good poetry, some of the rhymes were forced and the meter wasn't very sophisticated. All in all, it was actually more bizarre than frightening. Still, she quickly closed her forum membership. Moving on to Hotmail, she closed that account, too, ending all of the lines of communication available to MagicThunder.

R.I.P. Mysticat, thanks for your paltry contribution to the art form, and thanks for the hot memories. Her two stories would remain in the MCStories archive, which was fine, but she no longer existed, not virtually. From now on she was just Cindy Hutton, and that would have to be enough.

After eating, she lit scented candles in the bathroom, drew hot water into the tub and filled it with cleansing herbal essences. In the flickering candlelight, she slipped off her panties, removed her bra.

A low rumble of thunder signaled the approach of the big clouds she'd seen earlier. She peered out of the little bathroom window and felt, more than saw, the pregnant clouds outside. She shut the window as she had done with the others. Let it rain, let the storm come, she didn't care.

A bright flash of bluish lightning momentarily illuminated the room, throwing a blue reflection of her naked self into the full length mirror that hung on the door. Rich, deep thunder almost immediately followed, indicating the storm's proximity. She stared at her reflection, now bathed in the flickering warm light of the candles, as the building vibrated, the thunder rumbling on.

I have such a great body, she thought. Eight years of dedicated gymnastics training in her youth and now she was an everyday swimmer, and everything about her body was streamlined just right, hard and taut and strong. Except for her breasts. Curvy, curvy girl, the kind of girl who could make all of the dicks in a classroom go hard just by stretching her arms and yawning. And the stares she drew at the university's pool — that made her feel so wicked, knowing how the one-two punch of her gorgeous face and her big-boobed workout body excited the guys, especially with her nipple rings adding two exclamation points upon the fullness there at the front of her swim suit...

Imagining the excitement others felt in relation to her physique gave her an idea. Closing her eyes, she bent at the waist and reached down, wrapped her hands around her ankles. Then slowly, trying to absorb every detail as though visiting her own body for the very first time, she drew her hands up, letting them take in the smoothness of her skin, the taut definition of her calf muscles, the dimples behind her knees, the firmness of her well-developed thighs. All those years of exercise, sculpting her legs, making them shapely and strong.

And tonight — a swimmer's pussy, all wet, even before hitting the water. She let her hands remain there between her legs, her fingers lightly stroking, the heat of her hands adding to the heat radiating from the inside.

She opened her eyes, looked down and saw the wetness on her fingertips shining in the flickering candlelight. God, she was feeling horny tonight. A very, very horny girl, that's what she was. Maybe she missed Michael more than she'd realized. Maybe she needed sex more than she'd realized.

A crack of thunder rode piggy-back on another flash of lightning, the bright cool light etching an image onto her retinas, an image of the downward view between her breasts. Remarkably, even when the blue light had faded, she could still take in more details of what she had seen in that flashing instant — her busy hands framed inside the two high curves of her breasts, goosebumps on her arms and nipples, her golden nipple rings sparkling with blue light...

How was it that she had never realized just how sexy she was? Oh, she knew her body was special, or thought she'd known it, but... But damn! She was svelte and stacked, a busty blonde babe, hot hot hot, as hot as they came.

Came, come, cum. For some reason she was so wired, so... awake. Her pussy, especially, felt like it was a fire-breathing dragon tonight. She wanted to continue the exploration of her body with her hands but she couldn't leave herself alone down there, not for a second. So she inserted one, now two fingers from her right hand into her fiery tunnel, hissing through her mouth as though needing to hear the sound of steam escaping from herself.

Her other hand, the left, drifted up her side, the back of the hand tracing along her firm, muscular abdomen, up, up until her forearm and wrist made first contact with her left breast. Great breasts, magnificent breasts, again somebody ought to shoot her because she had so much. High and firm despite their size, all of her years of concentrated exercise helping them to stand out so proudly...

She turned her hand over, felt the weight of her left breast in her palm. Heavy, substantial, much more than a handful, enough to overwhelm even Michael's' big hands. She lifted her breast, bounced it, her left hand moving up and down as the fingers of her right hand slipped inside of herself, then out...

And now for the right breast, the twin, her dynamic duo, her pair of gorgeous curving mountains with their matching ringed peaks. Back and forth she lifted, bounced, a ripple of sensual movement shifting from one breast to the other like a fleshy tit-slinky. The feeling inside of her breasts was incredible, as though they were more sensitive, more there, more demanding than she could ever remember.

With her right hand still busy down below, she focused on the left, curled her fingers and let the tip of her pinkie slip inside of the left nipple ring, and gently, oh-so gently, she pulled, relaxed, pulled again...

"Ohhhmmmyyyy..."

Her mind slipped back to the afternoon when she had gotten her nipples pierced by a statuesque black woman named Thola. Cindy had been nervous in the piercing salon, afraid of pain, afraid that she would regret her impulse to add two small gold hoops to her imposing tits. Thola was so professional, though, and so empathetic. She was a knock-out in an odd way, tall and artfully slender, with the smooth dark skin and the calm bearing of some Nubian goddess. She was also smart enough to embody her craft by wearing a satin print dress through which you could easily see that her own braless breasts were capped by eye-catching nipple rings. Though no more than twenty-eight she seemed so wise, so reassuring — until, that is, the tall exotic beauty, undoubtedly bisexual, got her first look at Cindy's naked breasts. She would never forget the look on Thola's face as she stripped out of her blouse and bra, that look of utter surprise and raw, naked lust. The scent of female arousal immediately entered the room and Thola seemed to go into a state of reverie.

The piercing specialist stared at her for a long time before speaking. "I have never said this to anyone before — anyone — but are you sure you want me messin' around with the bounty that mother nature has designed for you? I will do a great job, I am a master at my craft, but... You don't need a thing, not a damned thing. You already got it all, just the way it ought to be."

Cindy went through with it. Thola was visibly excited throughout the entire procedure and it was clear that she would like Cindy to bring her freshly pierced breasts back to the salon for unofficial fun and games. Cindy wasn't really interested — she'd toyed with the idea of doing it with a woman several times but always held back — but she played the situation like she could be interested, reflexively pressing her advantage. It worked like a charm, too, because Thola only charged half of the advertised price for the piercing. A down-payment on the hoped-for future sex? Or something like an anti-tip, a special discount just because Thola found the whole affair so exciting, perhaps even felt privileged to handle such spectacular breasts? It didn't matter. Once again, Cindy's beauty had won the day.

She had been so sensitive for the first few weeks after the piercing, the littlest friction of a blouse bringing on a sensation poised mid-point between pain and pleasure. It was exquisite, but like all things, the newness wore off, and they were just nipples again.

But now... They ached with pleasure. Positively ached with pleasure, as though her nipples had suddenly learned to speak in a new way. Like her nipples had just learned to shout for deliverance.

"Ohhgoddd...", she hissed, her left hand needing to leave her shouting nipples so that she could reach out to the wall to steady herself. She knew the signs of an auto-fuck session coming on, and this one felt like it was going to be a record-breaker.

She was going weak in the knees from the intensity of her desire. She either had to get in the tub or in her bed, fast, and the tub was closer.

The bath was hot but she was hotter, so hot that she was surprised that no bubbling steam erupted in the tub when her foot penetrated the water's calm surface. Easing all of her body into the scented pool, she couldn't believe how sensitive she was. She tingled with life in her pussy, in her nipples, inside and out as though all of her pores were craving sex, craving stimulation, craving teasing and pleasing, churning and burning...

She could feel herself lubricating, her fluids mixing with the bath water. Cindy-scented water, quick-dissolving pussy-brand bath beads, she could box this as Eau de Vagineau and sell it and make a fortune and ohgod she'd never felt so alive down there...

She lay back in the tub, her blonde hair floating lazily, only her eyes and nose above the waterline. Closing her eyes and slipping her fingers inside her tunnel, the water-assisted lubrication was different. With her ears under water she could hear herself masturbating as though from the inside. Squeak in, squeak out, rub-a-dub-dub my cunt in a tub, oil and water, feeling much hotter, water and juice, feeling so loose, cooking my goose...

Goose, a bird. Like a cock. Peck peck pecker. She needed a cock in the house, a pecker in her cunt. Oh Michael, you stupid unlucky idiot! Of all the times to disappear into the woods, missing what you always dreamed of, your super sexy Cindy growing alive, growing a drive, feeling intense, feeling incensed, probing faster, serving a master, probing and tweaking and thrusting with these fingers when it could be your dick inside of me, or a woman's lips, or a magical hot liquid tongue thrusting and pulling and jabbing and...

"Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!", she breathed through clenched teeth.

How could she have never felt this before, how could her breasts have been so big but never quite alive, how could her pussy have been there all along and never screamed its real needs to her before? She should have a dildo, a whole cabinet filled with sex toys, but she'd never been motivated to get any because she'd never felt this kind of need, this kind of churning insistence and burning aliveness...

She rocked her body sideways in the water, back and forth, continuing her finger assault on her aching boiling pussy. Her mountainous boobs rocked side to side, sloshing the pussy-scented water, creating a froth of bubbles that swirled around her nipples, slid through the gold hoops of her nipple rings. Her nipples were on fire, they felt like they were heating the thin metal rings and the rings were reciprocating, conducting the heat and re-heating her nipples.

Ohgod, ohfuck, ohmyfuckinggod, the heat, the fire everywhere...

"Ohhh... OOhhhhh... OOOHHHHH!"

An orgasm surged inside of her, emerging from somewhere so deep within like a little bubble that grew, a thin membraned bubble that precipitously expanded, growing thicker and harder, glowing hot and hotter, a molten hot lava-bubble of an orgasm pushing at the walls of her pussy and searing her nerve-endings with its heat...

"OOOOOHHHHHFFFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!"

The hot bubble burst, throwing fiery explosiveness everywhere. Her body quaked in the tub, her body thrashed, pussy water sloshing everywhere, into her ears, up her nose...

She coughed and came, coughed and came and then just came. Again. Again. Again. The waves just kept coming, searing her senses, so hot that some sort of fusion must be happening inside. Her aching nipples and her vibrating clitoris and her deep, insistent tunnel were all scalding hot, melting together, turning into one connected climax-mass, her entire body participating, fueling the heat with more heat...

Oh holyfuckingshit, this was incredible!!!

She rode the waves, awed by what she was feeling, totally overcome. This was incredible, this was amazing, ohgod why hadn't she ever known that she could feel this way before?

Minutes later she pulled the plug in the tub but had to just lie there as the water slowly drained away. She felt exactly like that, like she had been so full of excitement, all frothy and filled with liquid heat, and now that it had ebbed away she felt empty and drained. She had to use the rim of the tub to help pull herself up, and her legs felt so wobbly that she staggered more than walked to her bedroom, using the walls along the way to keep herself upright.

She collapsed into bed and Mystic instantly joined her, rubbing his head against her bare legs. What a pussy!, she thought, meaning her own. She hadn't known that she had it in her, she'd never had a clue that an orgasm could be like that.

"The best sex of my life!", she sighed to her cat, and his purring intensified as though he approved.

Cindy shut her eyes and her thoughts floated. She felt light-headed, sort of scattered. The wine? She hadn't drunk enough to affect her this much. The orgasms, the astounding orgasms her body had been wracked with in the tub, that must be it. It was weird, though, the way she had gotten so excited in there, essentially getting turned-on over herself, over her own body and how sexy it was. But why? It seemed odd that her libido would suddenly change like that, suddenly leapfrog so far past anything she had ever experienced before.

Things like that happened all the time in mind-control stories, but... Hmmn. Something seemed... disquieting about that. Maybe she was just being paranoid, letting her imagination go too far, but...

Through closed eyelids she saw a bright dagger of light. Moments later the low rumble of thunder shook the building, seemed to shake right inside of her...

A sudden thought came to her with the force of a revelation. No wonder she felt uneasy about her orgasms there in the bathroom. They had been incredible — so much more than she had ever felt before — but they were incomplete. Her body was a treasure, yes, but she wasn't sharing it. She needed a partner. She needed to fuck something. She needed a man's cock inside of her, a woman's tongue flicking at her clit, something, anything...

A partner to double her pleasure. This body's a treasure, must double my pleasure, only then is there heat without measure...

She found herself standing in her walk-in closet, caressing her hard nipples. She must have gotten out of bed and walked over here but she couldn't remember doing it. She heard a soft sound and looked back, saw Mystic, still on her bed, staring at her inquisitively.

"I don't know what I'm doing here either," she remarked to her kitty.

Her hands felt delicious on her tits, but they were trembling. Why were they shaking like that, was she nervous, was she afraid of something?

"Oh, right," she addressed to her kitty. Her pussy-cat. Sweet pussy, hot purring vibrating pussy.

That's what it was — her pussy, aching to be filled, making her body all antsy, insisting that she move. Her pussy was so fucking hot, scorching hot, itching and screaming for a cuddly mouse to play with.

Incomplete, incomplete, get your fine ass on the street, find yourself some throbbing meat...

She pulled out her tiniest pair of shorts from a drawer, a neon tangerine pair that couldn't be any brighter or any shorter, and shimmied her curvy ass into them. A push-up bra, the overkill one that took her considerable cleavage and amplified it to an almost ridiculous level. A silky pale yellow wisp of a stretch-top that left her toned middle bare, and then the red half-length soft leather boots with the pointed toes and heels, the pair that showcased her legs just right.

She stepped to the side, surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, and whistled. Fuck! What a piece of fiery female ass! With the red boots below, shifting upwards to orange and then yellow with her golden hair up top, she looked like she was on fire, or like fire itself. Hot female fire, her flames ready to dance, to lick. Combust and lick, lust for a dick...

Her body felt so alive, like her breasts were pulsing, her nipples so hard and erect that they almost hurt. They wanted to be played with, they were dying to be played with. They wanted to be sucked, tweaked, a tongue savoring the taste of her flesh and the gold of her nipple rings all at the same time.

She needed to get out there on the street and find a mouse to toy with. She needed a preyma... playmate. Solo sex could be hot and tonight it had been incredible, but without a playmate she was incomplete, like a mastur without a bate, like an org without an asm, like lightning without thunder.