She felt full, filled. Fulfilled? Cindy heard shouting, galloping feet, hooves clomping on pavement. She came to, her body intertwined with the limbs of a naked man and a naked woman. She blinked her eyes, felt the flooring rock beneath her as a gust of hot wind blew across her sweaty body.

Part of her remembered...

She was lying on a bed of cardboard in the back of a van. Her farmer man and his lovely wife were both sprawled in awkward, cunt-stained positions on the brown flooring, sleeping peacefully yet looking more destroyed than unconscious.

She raised her ass and shifted her left leg to extricate herself from the woman's head and hair. A "clunk" sound accompanied some difference in the way her ass felt, and she watched, uncomprehending, as a cucumber rolled along the cardboard and out the open back doors of the van.

A man with no pants ran past the opening. Shouts followed, then something that sounded like the neighing of a horse. What the hell was going on outside?

She saw her crumpled tank-top near the van's seats and slipped it over her breasts. Her shoes were nowhere to be found and so, barefoot, she hopped out the back of the van, unraveling her short skirt and shutting the doors behind her. Glancing down, she saw the cucumber that had rolled out of the van, bent down and picked it up. And remembered more.

"Ohmygod!", she whispered.

Turning her head, she got her first real glimpse of the chaos around her. Half a block away, at least a dozen half-naked or even totally naked men and women were being herded into police vans. Many of the market's stalls were damaged, awnings collapsed, wares spilled onto the pavement. Discarded clothing lay everywhere. She saw a young woman in nothing but bra and panties riding the back of another woman, completely naked, as though playing some sort of horse and rider sex game. A policeman on the back of a real horse was working to round up a fleeing man, the man she had seen a moment ago with his pants missing, his erect penis flopping up and down as he ran through the park.

A strong gust of wind blew grit into her eyes. She looked up, saw the air changing color, and then the bright sunlight was swallowed by dark clouds.

Thunderstorms, coming.

"Oh fuck!", she cried out, remembering everything.

Magic thunder. MagicThunder!

"No!", she cried out. "This can't be happening!"

But she knew she had to get home, she had to get off the streets and away from the market, fast. Before she forgot again. Before some new hidden meaning in MagicThunder's rhyming words reached out and plucked the memory and the inhibitions right out of her.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening!," she repeated, running south, out of the park and onto Broadway. But it was happening, the sex-crazed scene behind her and the fact that pedestrians on the street could see her pussy and her bare ass as she ran were striking evidence that it was happening.

"Hurry, hurry!", she prodded herself, cradling her braless breasts with her right arm as she picked up the pace the rest of the way home.

Panting inside her building's elevator, she leaned against a wall and tried to remember the lines of the two poems, but she was forgetting important parts. In the first one, lightning, thunder, fucking hunger, sense of wonder, aching pair, heat, predator on the street, and rain running down windows. Like in the car last night...

Then her sexiest skirt, no panties, a wild market ride, and filling her holes.

She felt herself getting a little turned-on as she remembered the sex in the van, sucking that farmer's cock while his cute wife ate her pussy. And the cucumber... Good god, two firsts at the same time, her first woman and the first time her ass had ever been penetrated... And ohgod, the orgasms had been so incredible...

But she couldn't lose herself to her lustful memories, because she would never have done that, she wouldn't have done any of that! And how could anyone predict so many events, including the weather? And the way that the whole crowd had gone crazy, like they'd become infected by the same kind of heat she'd been lost to... Impossible, it was impossible.

Still, she had to re-read the last poem, find a way to re-read or completely remember the poem that she'd thrown away by closing out her MCForum account. Could she contact a forum administrator and retrieve it somehow?

The elevator doors opened on her floor and Alana, who lived two doors down the hall, was standing there. Alana was one of those Hispanic and whatever else mixed-race beauties, about twenty-five, fine dark hair, petite and almost cuddly-cute. She was only about five feet tall, well-proportioned and fit as get-all, with perky tits that immediately drew the eye.

"Cindy! Whoa! You look like... Hey, are you okay?"

"Yes... No! It's just... I'm in a rush!"

And true to her word, she rushed past her neighbor, entering her space and locking the door behind. She breezed right past Mystic, heading straight for the computer. She would re-read the latest poem, then contact the MCForum people, tell them that she hadn't really meant to close out her membership and that she was anxious to retrieve her last few private messages. Maybe they saved them inside of some computer somewhere, maybe she'd be able to re-read that poem word for word.

And see for herself, irrefutably, how much of her behavior had been programmed by the words she'd read.

"This can't really be happening," she whispered to herself.

Clicking open Earthlink, she heard the familiar, "Mail Truck!" greeting. Four new messages.

Her heart pounded in her chest. What if there was another message, another MagicThunder poem? It had happened before, it had happened earlier in the day, she could remember that now. How MagicThunder even came to know her Earthlink e-mail address... She'd never given MagicThunder her Earthlink address, the Hotmail address only. But MagicThunder had found her, and she had stupidly read the new poem, unaware of the extent of the danger.

She felt the danger now, even though the very idea seemed preposterous. Maybe MagicThunder thought s/he could control her mind through these crazy poems, but it couldn't really be true, could it?

But it had been like that last night. The thunderstorm, feeling so hot and horny, her breasts achingly alive, preying on Lance without any scruples or any sense of remorse, dancing wildly in a bar, essentially being "naughty"...

She'd barely been aware of what she was doing, like she'd been afflicted with tunnel vision. Like she hadn't been herself. Like she had been controlled. As though the strange poem of the night before reached right into her mind and made her do things.

She wouldn't have done all of that, she wouldn't have dressed that way, wouldn't have been such a slutty super-tease out on the street or in that bar. She was proud of her body, she dressed sexy sometimes and might be vain about her looks, but she would never have been such an exhibitionist out in public, she would never act like such a seductress.

And she definitely would not have seduced Lance. If she had irretrievably screwed-up her relationship with Michael, she could live with that — but last night had been sloppy, and she didn't live a sloppy life. She could admit to herself that she used people every now and then, but she didn't stab friends in the back, didn't sleep around without cleaning up the messes behind her, no no no.

She wiggled her ass on her desk chair, her pussy alive and damp. Fuck, she was scared almost shitless, but the fear didn't seem to be reaching the sexual part of her brain. Just remembering the sex with Lance had her dripping between her legs, her nipples as hard as rocks and her clitoris buzzing. The memories of her naughty activities horrified her, but they also got her hot, there was no way to deny that.

Like today — she'd fucked two complete strangers right in Union Square Park and stuffed the end of a cucumber up her ass!

"Ohhhh...", she sighed.

No, not "ohhhh", it should be "Oh NO!" What was wrong with her, why was she feeling worked-up about sexual acts that she'd never agreed to, that she only could have done in a state of temporary insanity? She had been influenced by today's crazy poem, led to the park and told to fill all of her holes! The poem had controlled her, it made her feel certain things and do certain things. Which was incredible, it would mean...

It would mean real-life mind-control. Not a fantasy, not the bizarre ideas of some twisted imagination.

Another line from yesterday's poem floated to the surface. All-knowing tongue... Ohmygod, no! Her tongue, the astounding blow-job she'd given Lance, the clairvoyant aspects of the blow-job she'd performed on that stranger in the van... Her pussy flared again, ripples of excitement sending shivers all over her body.

Ohgod, ohgod, ohno, No! This stuff just wasn't possible! No one could make her tongue feel omniscient like that, not by just writing a poem about it! It couldn't happen!

"This can't be happening!", she cried again to no one, her heart pounding, her wet renegade pussy pulsing.

But the lines from both day's poems were too synchronized with events as they had unfolded. Rain-splashed windows, all-knowing tongue... The scene from last night replayed in her mind, the scene of the incredible sex in the car. It had been just like that, her tongue somehow reading Lance's cock in an astounding way, rain pouring down the windows, a huge splash from a bus or something just as she came.

Ohgod, those orgasms, booming inside of her...

But no, no one could know all of that. No one could predict details like the weather and the car and the colored drops of rain on the windows, no one could make it storm and bestow heightened intelligence into her tongue.

But it had happened somehow. And the second poem... She couldn't remember it as well, but she did remember the bit about a sexy skirt without panties, about a wild market ride and filling her holes. Not long after, she ended up in Union Square at the green market, wearing a club-hopping skirt without panties. And she fucked two complete strangers in the midst of some sort of sex riot, her mouth, cunt and ass all plugged.

"Ooooohhhhh!", she sighed, licking her lips, her vagina pulsing, her ass tightening. A wild ride, all right, a wild ride on her wild side, an ass-plugging, cum-chugging....

Ohgod, ohgod, but no, no, stop! Fuck, what was the matter with her? Her pussy shouldn't be salivating — she was in danger, dammit! Fuck, how could her nipples be so hard when she was in danger? Her breasts ached, her pussy was so wet, so... hungry, distracting her at a time when she needed to be clear. Fucking hunger — it was still here, even when she was lucid!

But she couldn't just give in, she could not afford to play the role of the helpless blonde victim no matter how horny she was. How many mind-control stories had she read where the pretty girl fails to believe or resist what is happening to her until it's too late? Classic MC with the victim trapped by their own disbelief or caught by the fire between their legs, not understanding that thoughts and body responses really could be hijacked until it was far too late.

MagicThunder would know those rules, probably followed those rules, because MagicThunder had written about situations just like that in several of h/er/is stories.

Cindy believed. It seemed impossible — it should be impossible — but she believed, because she was living it, living a real life mind-control nightmare. She had read MagicThunder's poems last night and today, and she'd either dismissed them or forgotten them, hadn't taken them seriously enough, might have even been prevented from taking them seriously enough.

So she had to believe, she had to overcome the heightened lust screaming at her body and accept that the dangers were real and act accordingly. Which meant that she needed a plan of action.

She bolted from her computer table and ran to her bedroom, stripped out of her mini-skirt and the tank top, deliberately slipping on matching panties and a bra, her jaw set with determination. She would go against MagicThunder's wishes however and whenever she could.

"You don't want me wearing panties? Then take this, you bitch-turd!"

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Fuck, she was so gorgeous, the black bra and bikini panties setting off her buff, voluptuous body just as she often appeared on the internet. No wonder so many Net surfers paid their money to masturbate over her. Her body was practically perfect, streamlined for sex, designed for sex, ideal distribution everywhere...

She really should model completely nude, the whole world should see all of this, see what every inch of her body looked like in a state of heightened arousal. She brought a hand up her thigh, dragged a finger along the crotch of her panties, stroking her clitoris through the fine silk, getting the material damp, fragrant, then tapping, tap tap tapping...

Ohgod, ohgod... Ohhhhh... Ohhhnoo... Oh No! They were still here, the earlier suggestions. No! She couldn't do this, not now! This was exactly what MagicThunder wanted her to do, wanted her to be — all hot and horny with her will sucked down in a spiral of lust!

"I will not comply, do you hear me?"

Back to the computer again, her heart beating fast. Okay, okay, do not pay any attention to that pulsing pussy behind the silk curtain, no no no. Think. Think!

All right, okay, calm down, you can do it... Maybe last night's poem was gone forever, but she could revisit the poem from earlier in the day. It should be right there in her mail program, available to study. She needed to see what she was up against, what suggestions had been placed into her that she couldn't even recall. But she would need to be careful, so careful. Because there could be a new poem, lurking there in her mail.

Could she go to her inbox without accepting any new e-mails, without ever opening a new message? Maybe, but didn't the new message titles automatically show up on the computer screen? Yes, but she didn't have to open them. If a new poem from MagicThunder was hiding there with her junk-mail, she would see it but she didn't have to open it. She could just put it in the trash, never see it, never read it. Delete the poem, send it into the void unread, the danger averted.

She hoped.

Her hand shaking, she clicked to open her mail...

And there it was, mixed with three spam messages, a new MagicThunder e-mail titled, "Read Me!"

"Well, fuck you, you bitch-turd!", she yelled. "Bitch bitch bitch, bastard bastard bastard! Do you think I'm stupid? I'm not one of your fictional bimbos!"

She almost felt ridiculous, cursing at her computer monitor, believing that MagicThunder's words could harm her, could alter her mind. But she had to believe, she had to stay strong. She would not open this message if her life depended on it. She would delete it, then change her e-mail address, as much of a pain as that would be. Or call Earthlink, complain or even report MagicThunder. There had to be laws against this kind of thing, laws against internet sex stalking.

Carefully, deliberately, she moved the pointer with her mouse. One click to highlight it, then hit the "Delete this message" icon. Do not double-click, just one click and then...

She clicked once to highlight, but then, against her wishes, her index finger twitched, double-clicking and opening the message. Wait! No!

"Ohmygod!", she cried. "You know my name!"

Her breathing went crazy and she found herself gulping for air. How? How could MagicThunder know her name? Impossible, unless...

"It's someone I know!"

That was the answer, there could be no doubt any more.

"You bitch-turd! Fuck you and your insane poems!"

She was beyond getting the creeps. This was true stalker material, and it didn't feel limited to the internet now. If they knew her, knew her name, knew where she lived...

And they were insane. She re-read this new poem, absorbing its import. Hunter and haunted, wildly oversexed, merging wills... And even worse than the implications of the particular words — the tone, the absolute certainty that they had her already, that it was already too late for her.

Could it be true? If the poem wanted her to be oversexed and pressured, told her that she couldn't fight, hinted that she would have a magical cunt (whatever that meant) and would merge wills with MagicThunder — did she have a choice, or was it already foreordained?

Other parts of the poem were so out-there that she couldn't hope to understand what MagicThunder was getting at — the ending for instance. What "others", and what would be chosen? Was MagicThunder a group of people, taking turns fucking with her mind? Was that why she couldn't ever tell whether MagicThunder was a man or a woman? And what on earth did they mean by saying that she had given them the power? It was an insane idea, absolutely insane!

Who was doing this? Somebody or some group of somebodies who wanted sex with her, somebody who knew her well, somebody who knew about her mind-control fetish.

But no one knew about her mind-control fetish, she hadn't told a single soul. Her mind raced. Lance? No, that was silly. Michael? No, he was off in the woods.

Or was he? He e-mailed her yesterday, and how did she know he was where he said he was? But that was crazy — why would Michael need to stalk her?

A joke. Michael had discovered her mind-control fetish, maybe went through her computer and found out that she'd written a mind-control story. Then he became MagicThunder, began writing to her, beginning a secret second relationship with her, told her to write some more...

No, that couldn't be right, MagicThunder had written a bunch of fetish stories before Cindy even discovered the MCStories site. And Michael writing this stuff? He was an engineering student with unremarkable writing skills. He was well-spoken but she had to edit his schoolwork for him because he had a hard time organizing written sentences. He couldn't write a cohesive story or a poem if his life depended on it.

So who else did she know who might... One of her professors? Some geek or cluster of geeks in one of her classes?

"Oh, no...", she breathed. MagicThunder didn't begin writing these twisted poems until after Cindy's second story appeared on the Web, the story where the main character became enslaved by one of her psychology professors. Until then, MagicThunder had been intense and probing, but not scary.

She thought back to her story, "Some Like Id Hot". The main character, Amelia, was so much like her. Blonde, athletic, great boobs... And Christ, she'd placed the story in Manhattan, the school never mentioned by name but obviously NYU to anyone who knew the city at all. Too many details that mirrored her own life, plenty of clues for anybody interested enough to follow them. Fuck, had she played right into the hands of one of her teachers? Which one, and were they male or female?

She drew her legs up and began to shiver, to shake. Not possible, not possible, things that happened in stories did not suddenly leap out and grab you in real life, it just didn't happen. There were no real mind-controllers, it was just a fantasy, a fetish, a group of sex-crazed writers and readers with a hunger for humiliation...

But if there really were people who could control others, who could do amazing things with the power of their mind — wouldn't it be natural for them to be attracted to the MC site, to read stories about people like themselves, to steal ideas, to gain inspiration?

MagicThunder's advice on writing came back to her in a flash: "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."

What if MagicThunder's aim had been to transfer mind-control thoughts into mind-control written words, to extend h/er/is powers into poems?

"But your poetry sucks!", she cried out. "Its rhythm is awful, and worse — it's unlawful!"

Her words reverberated in her ears. "Oh, shit!," she exclaimed. She was thinking in rhymes!

Oh no, oh no. "You gave me these powers..." Oh shit — the power of rhyme?

She had written about that very thing in "Some Like Id Hot"! The mind-control device in her second story had been a bizarre one — a devious psychology professor ended up controlling his most attractive student, Amelia, by introducing magically-charged, sexually suggestive rhymes into his grading comments on Amelia's essays and final term paper. It was a preposterous mind-control conceit — without realizing that it was happening, Amelia's subconscious desires became infected by the sexual rhymes, and the rhymes rearranged her thought patterns, eventually placing her under the complete control of the evil professor.

Cindy knew that the concept of mind-controlling poetry was silly as she wrote the story, but it fit well with the light-hearted attitude she had chosen for her tale while exploring one of the most intriguing ideas in her psychology studies — that what we normally take as our thinking "selves", our consciousness, is really nothing more than a fragment of all that we truly are. Underneath, normally hidden from our conscious awareness, lie unexplored and unacknowledged desires which contain a great amount of psychic energy. The fun of "Some Like Id Hot" was that it explored some of these subterranean chambers while opening doors for all kinds of clever psychological puns.

What if MagicThunder had taken her idea about the magical rhymes, had stolen it and found a way to expand the concept, to amplify the power of the written words themselves... Fuck, then it would be true — she had given them the power. And there would be no escape from MagicThunder's mind-control text, just like the new poem said.

"Damn my imagination!", she cried out.

Had she knotted, in a sense, her own mind-control noose? By writing that second story (at MagicThunder's insistence!), had she somehow given her tormentor the very device they'd been seeking to control others from afar? But how? How could a far-fetched MC idea become reality? Being controlled by rhymes was a completely preposterous idea, one of the craziest mind-control methods anybody had ever come up with. And how could MagicThunder actually make it work? People couldn't just read fantasy stories and then absorb the powers described in them!

And even worse — why hadn't she thought of this before, why hadn't she immediately connected MagicThunder's sudden shift to psycho-poetry with the rhyming elements of her second story? Shouldn't it have been obvious?

The poems themselves, were they so efficient in their power that she hadn't been able to think straight? That's exactly how her "Some Like Id Hot" story had progressed — the victim, Amelia, couldn't even detect her rhyming thoughts or the changes in her behavior, and certainly couldn't see the connections to the magical rhymes on her school papers.

But she, Cindy, was able to think straight, to see. For now, at least, she was aware. And even last night, and earlier today... There had been a couple of moments when she started to snap out of it, when she began to question how and why she came to be where she was, dressed as she was. She became lucid, knew that something was wrong and could even trace the problems back to the psycho-poems. There were cracks in MagicThunder's power, but she hadn't seized them. After becoming temporarily aware of her situation, she fell back into something like a sex-trance — why?

The thunder. Magic thunder! Oh fuck, she remembered! Several times she had been herself out on the street last night, even intending to call out for help one time. She was temporarily free of the poem's spell — and then a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, and she was lost again. Magic thunder...

But no one could control the heavens, no one could create or manipulate the weather, no one had that kind of power, that kind of omnipotence. But the thunder — it had been used, it became a trigger because MagicThunder wrote about it and she'd read it. And in this new poem: "My hot magic thunder is just what you wanted..."

"No it isn't you bitch-turd!"

She bolted from her chair and rushed to her closed windows and looked out. Lofty dark clouds and the wind kicking up, but the rain wasn't here yet. For the moment she might be free.

And as long as she was aware, she could fight back somehow. Today she was aware.... No, not correct, because she'd fallen under the spell earlier in the day, flaunting her body and fucking total strangers in the park... But how? There had been no thunder, had there? Maybe she had heard thunder or maybe not — and if so, it was distant, still far away.

No answer, but right now, at this very moment, she was herself and on-guard and determined. And she had tools — unlike the bimbos who populated mind-control stories, she had a good intellect and knew the MC universe, was familiar with the territory. She had already dissected part of MagicThunder's methodology, and knowledge was power, right?

Unless those clouds grew, unless the area was blanketed with more thunderstorms. She returned to the computer and opened the weather forecast for New York City. Eighty-percent chance of late afternoon and evening showers. Crap!

She might not have much time. Should she rent a car and try to escape? But bad weather happened everywhere, how could that help?

Was it the sound of the thunder that triggered the change, or the presence of rain, or the change in the barometer? If she rode the subways for the next week and never heard or even smelled a summer storm, would she remain herself?

No answer, still not enough information. She got up, looked at the tall clouds again and began to shake. She was scared. She paced back and forth, trying to think of something to do. She needed a plan, but it was hard to think when she was so upset...

Emotion, emotion, need some more lotion...

Oh crap! She looked over at her desk beside the computer, and yes, there it was, the cucumber. And she had completely forgotten to complete her experiment, to see how much of the cucumber she could stuff inside of her pussy! And worse — she had forgotten to bring home the massage lotion she'd bought!

Feeling so hot, need a cuke in my twat... Wait. Was that what she was pacing about? Was that really what she was upset about?

Her phone rang and she jumped. The professor! That was what she was upset about, the crazy mind-control professor, and s/he was calling her now!

She picked up the phone and barked, "I know who you are!"

A moment of silence, then, "C...Cindy?"

"Oh, Lance."

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! I need more lotion!"

"What? Lotion? What kind of lotion?"

He was so dense, so slow. But his cock tasted great and she'd come so many times on top of him, come like she'd never come before. She'd fuck him again for hours if she could.

"Cindy? I, uh, listen, we need to talk. Last night... My God, it was so amazing, but... Listen, I..."

The word "but" was alarming. Was Sara there, exerting her will on Lance, trying to keep him away from her clairvoyant mouth, her magical pussy? She needed him here, in range of her molten body where he couldn't resist her heat.

"Let's talk right here, Lance. Stop at the health food store and pick up a big bottle of some kind of fragrant body lotion and come right over! I've got plans for you that will have you coming for hours!"

"But..."

She rang off and picked up her cucumber and surveyed its size. Hmmmn. Hot and wet as she was, she'd bet a thousand bucks she could fit the entire cucumber inside of herself, and maybe even deep-throat the whole thing, too.

She licked her lips, imagining the taste of her cunt juices on the waxy surface. Thank God she'd remembered to bring the cucumber home with her. With all of that stuff happening in the park, it would have been so easy to leave it behind, to forget it. If it makes me this wet I must never forget...

Wait. There was something else she was forgetting, something important. She looked around the room, confused, trying to remember what it was that she needed to remember.

She noticed that she'd left her computer on. Before switching it off, she read MagicThunder's latest writing effort. Poetry, how inventive, but why was it on her computer? Had MagicThunder sent it to her for proof-reading?

She studied the poem critically. She couldn't find any spelling mistakes, although the meter wasn't quite perfect. It was a scorcher, though, no doubt about that. She especially liked the way her own name had been inserted into the poem — why couldn't all of the MC writers do that? It made the text a thousand times hotter to see her own name there, like she was the one who was oversexed, ready to come for hours.

And poetry — it was good to know that at least one mind-control writer could branch out and explore new territory, condensing sexual heat into a different writing form. But, as with many poems, the words were obscure, their meaning so abstract. Was it a fault in the writing, or was it her problem, a problem of her own comprehension and focus?

If she chose to write a review of this poem in the MCForum, she would have to criticize its density, its opaqueness, because she wanted mind-control stories to take the shortest road straight into her body, she didn't want to have to think too much. At the same time, she would have to give MagicThunder tons of compliments on the poem's heat. And that other poem, the one with short skirts and no panties and a sex rodeo — Whoa! Why hadn't she written a review of that one? Short as it was, that poem had gotten her pussy going more than any story in the archive!

A sex rodeo... Leather and chaps and mind-control traps, police and horses, irresistible forces...

Wait. Wait... She held her head in her hands, closed her eyes and tried to think.

Mind-control traps, irresistible forces... Oh no, oh no, oh no!

She literally slapped her own face, desperate to snap out of it, to wake herself up.

"Ohgod, ohgod...", she panted.

Without even knowing it, she had slipped into that other state again, that state where all she wanted to do was fuck something, where every thought was about sex! But how? How was it happening? There had been no thunder, no storm. How could she be herself one minute and lose her mind the next?

A line from one of the poems surfaced in her brain. "Like Jeckle and Hyde you come and you go..."

Ohmygod, that was it! MagicThunder was manipulating her state of mind, creating a "Ms. Hyde" part, perhaps even splitting her personality in two and setting the sex-crazed part free! No need for thunder, it might make things worse but thunder wasn't absolutely necessary, it was yesterday's trick. Today, even before the storms, Cindy was alternating between two versions of herself and while it was happening she couldn't tell the difference!

Which meant... Fuck, this was horrible! How could she resist, how could she fight back if she kept slipping into that other state and everything seemed fine? If she couldn't trust herself to be herself, if she was working to save herself one minute and just wanted to fuck something or someone the next...

She should reread that earlier poem, study its contents to prepare herself... But wait — maybe it was dangerous to see the words again, maybe they would just take her mind, send her back to the park again in a skirt without panties...

She needed to stay away from the poems. And she had to act right away before her mind went out to lunch again. First, definitely shut down her computer, sever any chance of further influence. Yes, yes, do it before it's too late! She acted quickly, afraid that something would make her hand seize up.

Good! Now... The police, the cavalry, desperate times called for desperate measures and she needed to get help while she was lucid. Plus, no one ever called the police in a mind-control story, so it was a tactic that MagicThunder would never anticipate.

911 or 311? Fuck, this was an emergency. She dialed 911.

"Emergency services," a woman answered.

"I'm... I'm being stalked! They're making me do things! I need help!"

"Ma'am, could you be more specific? Are you in immediate danger? Who is threatening you?"

"I don't know! It's... It's the internet, it's somebody on the internet! They're controlling me, making me do things!"

"The internet? So you aren't in immediate danger?"

"No... Yes! They're threatening me! They're taking my mind!"

"Do you know the person doing this? Are they male or female?"

"I don't know! I don't know what sex they are and I don't know if I know them! It's through the internet, didn't you hear me?"

"Please remain calm. Now... How are you specifically being threatened?"

"With poetry! Evil poetry!"

Silence. Oh fuck, she could imagine what this must sound like. She reached out and turned on her computer. Wait, why had she done that? Oh no...

"They're controlling me, right now, making me turn on my computer! Ohgod, I'm going to read another e-mail! I need help!"

"Ma'am, is there anybody else with you that I could talk to? Do you have a guardian?"

They thought she was crazy, that maybe she'd skipped her meds or something. Her hand opened up her internet connection and she heard the familiar "Mail Truck!".

"I won't read you!", she cried out, but her hand clicked her mouse anyway, opening the new message. She strained to move her eyes away from the screen, perspiration forming on her brow. Her whole body shook but she was losing, her eyes were cheating towards the words. Dammit, why couldn't she look away?

Because she could not fight against MagicThunder's mind-control text, just like the poem had said.

"No! No more poems!", she screamed. "You don't own me! I'll resist your writing, I'll keep on fighting!"

Oh fuck, her words were coming out in rhymes again! She tried to fight even harder but it was useless. She just could not keep herself from reading MagicThunder's newest poem.

The effect was instantaneous. She screamed and dropped the phone as every sexual fiber in her body vibrated and detonated. And detonated again, and again.

"Ohgod, yes! Ohgod YES, YES, YESSSSS, OOOHHHHYEESSS MAKE ME COME!"

Explode and scream, juices and cream, feels like a dream...

She writhed on the floor, bucked and spun around and around, screaming, "YES, YES, YESSS!", louder and louder and ohgod, ohgod, the intensity, the sheer power of it all, her body alight, feeling so right, pussy on fire, so much desire...

She tore at her bra, squeezed her breasts and wished that a thousand hands were stroking her body, stimulating everything on the outside the way she was coming on the inside. Something crashed to the floor but she couldn't care, it was outside of her body and all that mattered was the incredible pleasure within.

The orgasms rolled through her one after another, exploding, crackling, then slowly diminishing in intensity, becoming more like echoes. Not enough, more! She wanted even more, couldn't get enough of it, needed this so badly...

She lay on her back, panting. How? How had MagicThunder known that she was calling for help? It was just like MagicThunder's stories, there seemed to be no limits, nothing beyond h/er/is powers.

And the horrible thing was that Cindy wanted more, more overwhelming climaxes, more heat. Her wishes or MagicThunder's command? Her own wishes or maybe both, she was lucid, she knew that MagicThunder was her enemy. Yet every cell in her body seemed to want more orgasms like that, wanted to experience that feeling, that power. The orgasms were beyond delicious — they were addictive, soul-wrenching.

Magic thunder — there had been no actual thunder, no external thunder. The thunder had been on the inside, the orgasms were exactly like a sudden clap of thunder, so strong, vibrating everything and then echoing, growing fainter, the sound waves getting fainter, stretching out and eventually flat-lining.

No need for real thunderstorms to control her... No escape? Even now, knowing about being controlled, knowing that she didn't want to be controlled, her body felt empty, her body wanted to be filled with more reverberations. Again she remembered MagicThunder's words: "Challenge the reader, use their desires against them, draw them in and lead them down the rabbit hole with you." She'd already been drawn down the rabbit hole by her desires, and how could she ever resist MagicThunder's commands when her own body wished to feast on that indescribable excitement?

But she did have to resist, she did have to fight somehow. What if MagicThunder wrote a poem about jumping out the window — would she be compelled to do it? Would she even know that it was dangerous, that she couldn't fly?

Despite the desires of her body, this was a nightmare, not a wet-dream. She had to fight and win, or else she'd be lost. Bimbo-ized, harem-ized, robot-ized, something terrible-ized.

It was the way things went in MagicThunder's stories. She couldn't remember a single one having a happy ending.

She heard that annoying beeping noise on the phone, telling her that she'd been disconnected from 911. They hadn't believed her, probably heard her orgasms and thought she was some kind of sex sickie. And if she couldn't find some way out of this mess, maybe that's what she would become, a debased sex addict always forgetting everything except for an overwhelming desire for sex, with no moments of lucidity, no thoughts of her own.

But how to escape? She was beginning to think that MagicThunder wasn't even human. S/he seemed to know everything, to see everything...

What had MagicThunder said in that very first poem? "Underneath I sense a zest for MagicThunder's full control of all your needs, perhaps your soul". Her soul... Could MagicThunder be some sort of spirit, a demon, a ghost?

"I am the hunter, you are the haunted..." Haunted, by a ghost? But wait... That didn't make any sense, even if she were to believe in spirits. Why would a ghost write and submit mind-control stories and interact in a very human way on an internet forum?

Fuck, who or what was MagicThunder? They wouldn't have to be someone she knew if they could somehow know or do almost anything. All bets were off — MagicThunder could be anybody, anywhere, human or not.

She needed to take desperate measures to save herself. Unplugging her computer from the internet — yes, a means of escape. No internet meant no e-mail, and that would mean no new poems. But fuck, she had just switched on her computer without meaning to, MagicThunder would just make her forget again.

Her eyes scanned the room and she saw that she had upset a ceramic vase while writhing and squirming on the floor. It had fallen from her coffee table, scattering broken shards all over the floor. Her heart raced as a new idea struck her. Broken shards... Broken glass... Yes, yes, but she would have to act immediately, violently, before MagicThunder did something to stop her, before s/he anticipated the move.

Trying not to telegraph her intentions (could they see her, could they read her mind?), she scanned the room again, looking for a serviceable object, and found it over there on the coffee table, a touristy Navajo paperweight that she had bought on a childhood vacation in Arizona. It was essentially a heavy painted rock, heavy enough to do the job.

Crawling slowly, doing nothing to tip her hand, she suddenly reached up and grabbed the paperweight, then stood just far enough from her computer and hurled the thing with all of her might.

Bull's-eye! Her computer monitor exploded, blue sparks flying for an instant.

"Free!" she screamed in triumph. She had no spare computer, no laptop, which meant she had severed the possibility of any new poems! "Take that, you bitch-turd!"

Okay, okay, not completely free, there were surely terrible repercussions to live through tonight from the most recent poem. But that would be it, just get through these storms and survive the night. Even if she became forgetful again, the poems' magic couldn't last forever, could it? MagicThunder would have to resort to snail-mail or the phone or knocking on her door to slip her any new poems, and she could protect herself more easily from those sources.

She jumped as her buzzer sounded. Holyfuckingshit, MagicThunder already? She went over to the intercom, but hesitated before pressing to ask who it was.

Maybe it was Lance, already. But how could he have gotten the lotion so quickly? Maybe it was the professor, her mind-control poet, her invisible word demon. Steamin' demon, got me screamin', come up here and give me some semen...

Wait, wait, it was happening again, the rhyming thoughts, the instantaneous lust for more sex. She'd caught it this time, though, hadn't completely lost herself. Which meant that she had a choice — she could press the button to see who was downstairs, or she could hole up in her loft, forever, afraid to leave, afraid to read her mail or pick up the phone, afraid that her mind would desert her, that she would become nothing more than the sex-addicted Ms. Hyde part of herself that MagicThunder had created or awakened.

That was no way to live, and she couldn't imagine that MagicThunder would suddenly show up at her door. Her hand trembled as she pressed the intercom button. "Y...yes?"

"New York City Police Department. You called 911?"

"Yes!" she screamed into the intercom, buzzing them in. "Come up, please! Tenth floor! Hurry!" OhThankGod, they'd believed her! The dispatcher sent the police to her apartment despite how crazy she must have sounded!

Cindy opened her door and rushed out into the hallway. Standing in front of the pale green elevator door, she looked above and watched each floor number light up.

Two... Thank you! Thank you!

Three... Maybe they can set me free.

She heard a low clap of thunder outside. So they were here, the storms.

Four... Feel so wet just like a whore.

Five... Ohgod, feel like I'm burning up alive.

Six... Time for licks and flicks and mind-control tricks.

Wait, wait, it was happening again! That clap of thunder from a moment ago — her thoughts were rhyming, she was in danger of losing herself, abusing herself...

Sev... Missed it. Eight... It looks like help has come too late.

Nine... Hope these cops are looking fine.

Ten! Look out men, you're stepping into my lion's den...

"Bing!" signaled their arrival on her floor. She saw two grave faces through the round portal window, one of them female.

"Holy moley!" expelled a stout man in uniform as the door opened. Officer Morales, according to a tag on his chest. Puerto Rican, and kind of cute. His wide eyes quickly scanned up her body from her toes to her nose, settling back onto her tits.

Oh, right, she was standing there in nothing but a black bra and a pair of matching bikini panties, smelling like a woman whose vagina couldn't stop salivating, smelling like a woman who fucked strangers in vans. The cop's partner, Officer Hunt, a beefy read-headed woman who looked like she lifted weights in most of her off-duty hours, reprovingly elbowed Morales in the side, instantly wiping the drool out of his expression.

"You're the one who called? You have an emergency situation?" the woman asked.

Officer Hunt was cool and professional on the surface, but Cindy detected undercurrents, little wisps of lust, or jealousy, or repressed little somethings.

Another rumble of thunder vibrated the air outside, and she could feel everything... shift. The sound waves penetrated her body, stirring the heated brew inside, creating... something. A difference in her point of view, a heightening of her senses. Every detail of her surroundings seemed to come into sharper focus, as did her awareness of her own breathing, the blood flowing to her nipples, to her clitoris, making things pulse, vibrate.

She had felt something like this last night and at the park, some sort of nameless change in herself and in the air, but she hadn't been able to observe it in this way, she hadn't been able to remain herself while seeing that somehow she wasn't quite herself.

She felt strangely divided, like a part of her could remain calm while another part, which included her body, was boiling, her lust bubbling and spitting out little lusty droplets everywhere. Whatever was happening, it definitely wasn't normal, it was some other effect from the MagicThunder poems.

"Ma'am?" Hunt repeated. "Is there an emergency?"

"Yes! I..." She meant to tell the officers that she was in danger, that her mind and body were being hijacked, that she needed their help — but instead her mouth cooed, "I'm sooooo incredibly horny!"

Fuck! How did that come out?

But her words, the tone in her voice — they bathed the hallway air and her panties alike with a fresh coat of wetness. She shivered inside and watched Hunt and Morales exchange glances. They thought they had a loony-tuner on their hands, although a quick glance of her own revealed that Morales was growing an additional night stick in his pants.

She could literally smell his lust. He didn't want it to be there right now, but it was there, her looks and her scent and her demeanor were turning him on. Hunt, too. Her desires were different, more complex and repressed — the female cop probably didn't even know she had them — but they were there.

They liked sex, Hunt and Morales. They were about the same age as each other, late twenties or thirty, and they liked each other, trusted each other. Maybe it would be a good thing to have them like each other a lot, especially when the entire hallway was feeling so combustible.

Stick your stick in Hunt's cunt quick, strike a match, watch it catch...

No, wait! What was she thinking? She heard the rhyming of her thoughts, tried to shut down the rhyming impulse that she could feel tickling at her brain... But her brain felt strangely remote, like an outpost in her thought processes, not the center. Her leaking pussy, her vibrating clitoris and aching nipples — they seemed to be doing most of the thinking, like a sex-choir directed by... by... Fuck, by MagicThunder h/er/im/self?

Poke her, stroke her, hug him, tug him...

She was somehow not surprised when the two police officers' eyes went strange and they exchanged glances again, longer glances that lit a spark between their bodies, a spark that ignited into groping hands and dancing tongues. Morales pushed Hunt back into the elevator and they toppled to the floor together, seeking out each others' flesh beneath the dark uniforms.

Cindy smiled despite herself, her internal sex-choir singing a hymn of wetness. She reached into the elevator and pushed the button for the first floor, and stood there with her ear to the closed doors for a few extra seconds, listening to the grunts and moans and cries of the two police officers as they descended. They were definitely going down, and probably on each other by now.

Part of her was horrified by what had just happened, and another part felt ready to explode, her whole body quivering with heated excitement. And yet another part, a third part, feeling foreign yet somehow true to herself, was extremely satisfied, even exalted.

She could make people do things. She could make people do things!

"Ohmygod!" the somewhat removed part of her mind gasped. It was mind-control, coming from her or through her, and she, the "normal" and familiar Cindy, was caught in the middle, was both the predator and the prey!

The implications struck her like another clap of thunder. That sex riot in the park — she had definitely caused it, her otherworldly lust had spread out and hit the others, had infected them! And in some way, she had felt it happening and had gotten turned-on by it, just like seeing the two cops succumbing to her thoughts had turned her on. Did the satisfaction belong to her Ms. Hyde, a part of her psyche inside? Or MagicThunder, working through her? Fuck, was MagicThunder turning her into a tool, a remote-controlled mind-control tool?

Shaking, burning, she noticed that the elevator light for the first floor was lit and was staying lit. They would either lie there groping each other in the elevator, or leave the building and go fuck somewhere, maybe in their patrol car. No help to her, an opportunity lost. Could she rush down the stairs and catch them before they left, and if she did, could she be lucid and reverse what had happened?

The light above the elevator door blinked out, and then the light for the second floor lit up. They were coming back?

She stood there, filled with fear and lust and a sense that none of this could be real, coupled with the certainty that it was all too real. The floor numbers lit up in turn, coming her way. Then, at ten, through the little round window...

It wasn't the cops again. It was Alana, her neighbor.

"Cindy! You wouldn't believe... Wow! Look at you! Um... what's going on?"

Alana's eyes took in her state of undress, or perhaps the entirety of her sexophrenic condition.

She felt that odd combination of calmness and rising heat again, and softly asked her adorable neighbor what it was that she wouldn't believe.

"There were two cops on the floor of the lobby, a man and a woman, on top of each other and going at it like something from a porn movie!"

Cindy didn't know her neighbor very well, other than to know that Alana had at least two or three boyfriends who took turns sleeping over. She was one of those physical beings, a woman who always looked like she had fresh batteries running in her system. In fact, Cindy had secretly envied Alana from a distance — although they'd never even come close to discussing their love lives, the other woman seemed so bubbly and sexually healthy and satisfied.

And limber. You could see that in her structure, see it in the way she moved, in the way she filled out her clothes.

Petite, cuddly cute, healthy libido and in terrific shape. She was probably a great fuck.

Part of Cindy could see where this was going, wanted to scream for help or even tell Alana to save herself, to run for her apartment and lock the door behind her... But she could already smell something in the air, some kind of invisible female mixing. Some sort of energy was leaking out of herself and mixing with Alana, probing inside, heating and stirring.

"I get this feeling that there's something you want to ask me," Cindy purred, dimly horrified by the seductive tone in her own voice.

"You're right. I'm trying to gather some people together for yoga classes in my loft. Probably once a week in the evening, although I haven't set which day yet. I'm a great teacher. Would you..." Her voice tailed off and her eyes left Cindy's own, traveling down her nearly naked body.

Yes, ohhh yes, take in the sight, imagine the delight, tonight is the night when the mindbugs bite...

When Alana's eyes returned, peering into her own, there was a subtle difference in their glow. "So, Cindy... Would you be interested?"

Cindy leaned back against the hallway wall, feeling the pressure of the drywall on her back and ass cheeks, feeling the pressure of her conflicting wishes and desires throbbing at her temples and in her nipples, feeling her body vibrate, her pussy afire, blowing a hot wet wind through any hope of restraint.

Yoga. Yoga was good, yoga was probably a great thing and just look at what it had done for this gorgeous woman's body. Alana was wearing a simple short sundress that clung just right and Good Gawd was she looking fine. Look at those sprightly breasts, at the narrow waist and those toned legs. Look at the way her lips glistened, at those wide dark eyes.

She felt a more intense wave of lust rising inside, felt her hard nipples growing harder, her damp pussy calling out Alana's name.

"I'm definitely interested," Cindy finally replied. "I'd... I'd love to study you... study with you. Yoga sure has given you a great body, Alana. I'll bet... I'll bet you're incredibly limber."

Alana looked momentarily taken aback, but then she smiled. "Yeah, I can do all sorts of pretzel yoga, but that really isn't the goal. Hatha yoga is more..."

Cindy tuned her out. She was focused on the obvious physical benefits that Alana had derived from her yoga practice, not the theory or any self-help inner spirit bullshit. She could so easily envision the two of them together, their legs spread so wide that they could touch heels and grind their wet pussies together, completely open...

Tit to tit and clit to clit, slipping and sliding and bucking and riding... Cindy imagined the two of them tentatively reaching out, touching each other's cheeks, touching each other's breasts...

You're dying to fuck me, she thought. You have to touch me, you need to touch me... Pussy leaking, passions peaking...

Alana stopped speaking and her expression shifted, her enthusiasm for talking about yoga melting away, sliding into a softer, more sultry look, her eyes growing more liquid. They deliberately roamed over Cindy's body, starting down low, then moving up, admiring the shapely legs, the perfect hips, the firm, smooth thighs... Alana's visual appreciation stopped at the damp triangle of Cindy's black panties as though drawn and held by a magnet. She stared, her mouth opening, her eyes dawdling. She began to chew on her lower lip, the nervous gesture as erotic as anything Cindy had ever seen.

Cindy licked her own lips and felt the electricity congealing in the air as though she could catch it and taste it on the tip of her tongue. Just like in the park earlier, she could sense sexiness particles oozing out from her pores, magnetizing the atmosphere.

Particles and dust, charged with lust, come over here and squeeze my bust...

Alana gulped and shifted her weight from leg to leg, like she had an itch between them that had to be scratched. Her brow furrowed and her whole body trembled sharply, an obvious tremor of excitement rushing through her. Her breath caught and then seemed to come in shallow rapid gulps. She was struggling with herself, and losing.

"Cindy... Didn't... didn't you tell me one time that you used to be a gymnast?" Alana whispered, her eyes hungry.

"Yes."

"It... really shows."

"I know."

"But... those..." Alana breathed, staring at Cindy's full breasts.

Yes, these, so high and full and firm. Squeeze them, tease them...

Alana moved forward, shyly, cat-like, fire and wonder in her eyes. She reached out, tentatively, the inside of her right arm brushed the outer curve of Cindy's left breast as her hand sought out the tangle of long blonde hair, running her fingers through it.

Jumps and splits and big aching tits... Cindy was breathing hard and her pussy was becoming an unprotected wetlands area, a fragrant humid bog. Just that brief touch against her breast made her shake, shiver, so ready to come, so easy to come, just a few brushes, just a few touches...

"So... beautiful..." Alana whispered, stepping in even closer. Both hands ran through Cindy's golden mane, Alana's lips just inches from her tits. The back of a hand very deliberately brushed Cindy's left cheek, then came tumbling down her neck. The hand turned over as it descended, Alana's palm and fingers taking a very slow journey to the summit of one of Cindy's bra-clad mountains.

"Ohhhhhyessss," Cindy hissed, a part of herself struggling, another part lost, hopelessly lost to the drenching fire in her loins. And yet another part smiling, grinning with triumph.

Alana's other fingertips came to her right breast, both hands trembling, nervously reaching under the bra's cups, seeking and digging and finding her rock-hard nipples and their heated rings.

"OOoommmm," Alana moaned or chanted, her whole body shaking, her lips wet and full. “C...Cindy!" she gasped, expelling hot breath. "Ohgod, I can't believe... But I... I'm not... I shouldn't, we shouldn't! I'm not like this! We shouldn't..."

Oh, but you are and you should and you will. You're dying to suck on my nipples, you live to go down on me and to feel my tongue stroking your slit. Fire and desire climbing higher and higher...

Cindy could hear the train of her thoughts and she wanted to fight them, she knew she should fight them — and yet she was being dragged along by tides of lust for Alana's body and an even greater lust for power. Too much of herself wanted Alana to feel desire like she'd never felt it before, wanted her to feel the same wild heat that she felt, wanted both of them to lose themselves in this boiling bubbling cauldron of unquenchable vaginal thirst.

And she could make Alana feel that, she knew she could. Her gorgeous body was acting like a conduit for a previously unknown force, the pull of her raw, naked, mind-altering lust leaching out, spreading out, filling the air, filling Alana's mind and electrifying her body.

She could probably make her neighbor do anything, anyfuckingthing at all.

Cindy's hands reached down, clutching at Alana's strong thighs. She ran her hands up, drawing the dress hem high with her arms, uncovering Alana's panties. Thrusting her hips forward while bending her knees slightly, she brought their salivating pussies into alignment and then began grinding, rotating, fire licking at fire through two damp membranes of cloth.

"Oh Cindy! No, no, no nnnnohhhGod, ohyes, ohmyGod!" Alana cried.

Cindy closed her eyes and felt the other woman's trembling, grinding hips, felt their breasts squeezing together, felt hands grasping at her ass, fingernails digging into her flesh. They pressed closer, ever closer, close enough to melt. Rubbing together, liquid friction creating sparks, waves of animal lust running hot, creating a wildfire between them.

"OhhhYESSS!" they screamed together, collapsing to the hallway floor, grasping, gasping, bras unclasping.

Alana's breathy voice contained shock, fear, unrecognizable lust and rampant need as she tore at Cindy's bra and panties. Within seconds, fingers were slipping inside of her, a slippery tongue exploring her folds, drinking her in, flicking and licking, whirling and twirling...

Cindy cried out, surging tides building inside. They kept rising, force added to force, her lust shattering all known barriers, her entire body convulsing with the need for release.

The two women configured their bodies into a groping gasping sixty-nine position on the hallway floor, lips to clits, breasts to abdomens, mind to mind. Cindy’s clairvoyant tongue probed and darted, feeling the flow of Alana’s lust, understanding and manipulating it, driving her to new heights and holding her there. Alana’s own tongue became disoriented as her heat blazed, her attention shattered, her mind lost. The sensations on Cindy’s pussy went crazy, spastic, Alana’s tongue wiggling and wriggling spastically, but at a speed that should be impossible, would be impossible.

Thunder crackled outside as Alana's drenched tongue wildly invaded her tunnel, sending her over the precipice, her screams so loud and sharp that her voice must be joining, merging with the thunder's low, deep waves, shaking the building and echoing on every floor. And there in the rolling tones of her ecstatic screams: a chorus of conflicting tones, those of the victor and the victim, the temptress and the tempted, the hunter and the haunted.

And the night was still so young...