For the second morning in a row, Cindy awakened with her body awkwardly sprawled on top of a comatose Lance. This time, however, a woman's fragrant cunt lay just inches from her face, and large soft breasts were spread across her lower abdomen. Cindy was instantly aware of her situation, including the fact that all she had to wear home were the torn, pornographic teddy and the sandals with the ridiculous heels. It was a mean thing to do but she didn't hesitate, freeing herself from her two unconscious lovers, climbing into the front and slipping her rear into Lance's oversized jeans and donning his shirt. He could keep her lingerie and the sexy shoes as souvenirs of their special night if he wanted, or Emma could wear them home. What either of them covered themselves with or how they reacted to each other when they awakened was their problem.

The sun was up high and very bright, and a cool refreshing wind whipped through her hair the moment she stepped out of the car. Barefoot, walking tenderly, her pussy sore, she made her way to her apartment building as she had the morning before. This morning was different, though, totally different. Not only was the air clear, the oppressive heat and humidity of the past few days swept clean by last night's rains — she felt that she was clear again, too. No longer hazy and dizzy, no longer forgetful or driven, no longer absurdly horny. No longer occupied.

Free? Free of MagicThunder's overpowering grip? It was too much to hope for, but it felt that way. The magic power of the poems had fled with the heat. It felt like she was herself again, swept clean, no longer haunted from the inside.

Mystic greeted her at her door, rubbing at her ankles with his soft head, mewing a steady stream of adamant, hungry mews. She fixed a bowl of food for him and then spent at least forty-five minutes in the shower, the soap and the steam washing the sex and the sweat and all of yesterday's insanity away. Staring at the drain, it felt as though any impulse to think in rhymes was slipping down the drain, too.

Toweling off, she examined herself in the mirror. A few shallow bruises here and there, and the skin between her thighs was flushed red. All in all, she felt like she should be thankful that it hadn't been much worse. She was Cindy again, and it could have ended differently. MagicThunder obviously had the power to subject her to any of the outcomes that appeared with some frequency in the mind-control universe, and some of them were quite nasty. Why, then, did she still have her mind, her intelligence, her will? Even her runaway actions had led her to unimaginable pleasures, not real pain.

She felt exhausted but not sleepy, and dressed herself in jeans and a loose white pull-over blouse and sneakers, deliberately going the anti-seductive route. She started to make coffee but stopped halfway through, somehow disinterested in the simple action. Wandering aimlessly around her apartment, she realized that she wasn't sure what to do with herself.

On the desk near the smashed computer, her answering machine light was blinking red and she felt a stab of fear. No, no more fear, fuck the fear. She was free, she could tell that she was free, that the crazy ride was over. She pushed the button and heard Alana's voice, dreamy, softly desperate.

"Cindy? Ohhhhh Cindy, where are you? That was... That was so... Ohhhhh God, I'm back in my apartment now. Please come here and be with me the second you get home. Please, please, knock on my door... I need that again, I have to have that again, I'm not the same anymore. I need you..."

Cindy stood in the middle of her great room as the message ended, feeling small. She couldn't rinse the events of the past two days away like she had rinsed her body. There were repercussions, even if she was free. Alana, Lance and Sara, probably Natalia... Hell, maybe even the cops.

She stared at the glass and broken bits of plastic all over her floor, the remains of her computer monitor. She should bend down, begin to pick up the pieces. There were all kinds of pieces to pick up now, but she couldn't face them, not yet. She needed to get out of here, go outside, deal with all of the complications later.

She left, quietly, invisibly. On the elevator ride down, she realized how hungry she was. And how empty. She felt mostly relaxed and relieved, unburdened as though having finally awakened from a recurring nightmare. But so damned empty.

By habit, she went left and turned onto Eighth Street, intending to head for the Starbucks at Lafayette Square, but then she remembered. She didn't want to go there, in fact she shouldn't go there — what if she saw naked bodies still humping each other, guys and women wriggling on the pavement, their expressions lost, their minds orgasmically, narcotically lost?

Or what if somebody recognized her? Many of the people she had "attacked" last night were surely NYU students like herself. They would remember her, she was too good-looking to forget. In fact, could she even attend school this fall? Should she move to another part of the city, to another part of the country?

She turned around and headed uptown. The streets were far from empty and people stared at her. They stared at her angelic face and the way her jeans conformed to her beautiful ass, and they especially stared at her big tits, even in this simple blouse. But these were everyday stares, the kind of ogling that she was used to. No bizarre meltdowns, no infectious psycho-sexual states. Things were back to normal.

Six blocks up at Union Square, she saw yellow crime scene tape and at least a dozen official-looking men in the area of yesterday's green market. Oh fuck, not good, not good at all. Where could she just sit down and have a cup of coffee, without reminders of all that she had been through?

She was about to duck down into the subway when she spied the cover of the Daily News at a corner newsstand, with the full page headline: "Sin City? Lower Manhattan Goes Wild!" The New York Post next to it read: "Soho and Gomorra?", with a carefully cropped photo of what looked like lesbian group sex on top of a bed of watermelons.

Well holy shit, she thought, buying the Daily News and folding it under her arm. She caught a 6 train uptown, getting off at 59th Street, far away from the wake of sexual chaos she had sewn. Not until she was tucked into a narrow booth in a dark internet cafe did she open the paper and read how bad it was.

Bad, very bad. The story was national news, with The Centers for Disease Control, the EPA and Homeland Security already on the scene, looking for some kind of explanation. Along with the two major incidents, a number of possibly related smaller disturbances were being investigated, centering in the East Village. One hundred and eleven detained (including seventeen police officers and three paramedics) on charges of public nudity, indecent acts, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. The mayor was busy reassuring the city that there were no reasons for widespread panic, no evidence of air or water contamination. The Police Commissioner had already opened an investigation into the conduct and training of the NYPD. A prominent cultural psychologist (whatever that was), compared the flare-ups to the kind of mass hysteria that sometimes led to human stampedes.

There were shocking photos of both the Union Square and Lafayette Square "sexcapades", as the paper called them, some of them with black bars hiding the sensitive parts of the naked, fornicating participants.

No photos of her, thank God. And really — was there any reason to believe that they could trace the events to her? Even if a thousand eye-witnesses could identify her face or body from last night or the market, she could claim to have been afflicted by the same symptoms as the rest of the rioters. Even the two cops in her building wouldn't be able to accuse her of causing their lustful condition. She could confess and tell the authorities the entire story, but no one would believe her. What had she done that anyone or anything could detect?

She ordered an apricot scone and coffee, and read a more intelligent version of events in the New York Times. The nightmare was over and she really was safe, it seemed. She was herself again. Why, then, did she feel so empty?

The Sunday blues, perhaps, with a hollowed-out feeling not unlike the day after some huge all-night party. But these blues undoubtedly had more to do with the days and weeks to come. It sounded like Alana was in love with her, that she might have sworn men off altogether after the extreme sex of last night. Lance might as well be her puppy dog or worshipping sex-slave. She wondered whether he really would not be able to shoot his load without her, ever. She wondered how he and Emma had reacted to each other when they awakened in the car. She wondered whether he had already called it quits with Sara yet, and how he would tell her.

And what would she do with Michael when he returned? Michael was on his way out, she knew that — and the thought of even a moment of uninspired lame-duck sex after the excitement of the past couple of days was just too depressing.

Normal sex again. It sounded so... normal. Lackluster, too, as it had always been for her. And was she supposed to just go swimming this evening like usual, and start school next week as though none of this had ever happened? The craziness that MagicThunder had put her through had come at such a high price, but it sure had been a thrill. Until a couple of nights ago, she had fantasized about so many things, but had never done any of them. Hell, until a couple of nights ago, it felt like she hadn't even known what an orgasm could be.

She looked up at a wall clock — almost three in the afternoon, later than she would have thought. Three o'clock on a Sunday and she didn't want to go home. And after two days of paranormal sex, what did one do?

One saw whether the new mind-control stories were up at the EMCSA, that's what. The new stories were almost always up on the site by this time on Sunday.

Whoops, she shouldn't do that. Her fascination with mind-control had set her up for all of these problems in the first place, and she had to stay away from her e-mail, make sure that... But wait a minute — if she logged onto the Net from here, she wouldn't have to go anywhere near her e-mail program. There would be no danger.

She turned the idea around in her head, trying to find some crack in her thinking, some way that MagicThunder could grab her. The only danger would come from reading a message from MagicThunder posted somewhere on the MCForum. But that would mean that everyone could read the message — it couldn't be targeted specifically at her.

She waited for a computer to open up in a corner, a place where others wouldn't be able to look over her shoulder. She paid for two hours of time and without hesitation typed in mcstories.com, then clicked on the Recent Additions link. Yep, there they were. Two new stories by an f/f writer that she especially liked, and...

"Fuck!", she cried out, momentarily forgetting where she was.

A brand new story by MagicThunder! Her heartbeat and breathing quickened when she read the teaser beneath the title: "Cindy writes two mind-control stories and falls prey to a fellow MCForum member."

Holy shit! Her hands shook so badly that she nearly spilled her coffee all over the table. What the hell was MagicThunder's game now?

She was curious, oh so curious... But she shouldn't read the story and she didn't have to. And it was true — she didn't have to read the story, her hand didn't move against her will. She was free. She had choice.

But fuck, she really wanted to see what was going on with MagicThunder's new story. It was about her and what she had just been through, she knew it was.

Deliberately clicking — choosing to click — she went straight to it and began reading:

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.

Ohmygod! It was her, her actions from two nights ago, down to the smallest detail! She read further, carefully at first but then skimming, stunned, unbelieving. Everything was there, even her private thoughts, just as they had happened! This was impossible!

She skipped ahead, past fucking Lance that first time, past the market meltdown, all the way to last night. It was all there, everything, her powers and her struggles and all that she had done, all that she had been made to do. Every fucking thing, every fucking word, every fucking thought!

To write it like this, ahead of time, MagicThunder must have programmed absolutely everything, even her littlest thoughts, even the slightest movements of her body. Or maybe their connection, their merging, had been even stronger than she had known, beginning earlier than she had suspected. Or... Ohgod — maybe MagicThunder really was all-powerful. Maybe MagicThunder could know almost everything, could do absolutely anything to her anytime s/he wanted. Maybe the poems had been nothing more than a smoke screen, an MCGuffin, temporarily masking the true and total hopelessness of her situation.

Chapter Five of MagicThunder's tale ended as last night had ended, with her fucking Lance and Emma senseless and then losing consciousness in the car — but there was more to the story, an Epilogue. And her future was there, whether or not she would have free-will was there, she could feel it. But she didn't have to go on, she didn't have to learn her fate, she could stop reading. Right here, right now, she could choose.

Her right hand trembling, she clicked.

The Epilogue was today, it was this very morning, again completely accurate. Not possible, not possible! She skimmed, found the narrative following her here to this very coffee shop, to being in this corner, in front of this computer... Holy shit, how close to this moment did the narrative go? Unable to stop herself, she read to the end.

Chapter Five of MagicThunder's tale ended as last night had ended, with her fucking Lance and Emma senseless and then losing consciousness in the car — but there was more to the story, an Epilogue. And her future was there, whether or not she would have free-will was there, she could feel it. But she didn't have to go on, she didn't have to learn her fate, she could stop reading. Right here, right now, she could choose.

Her right hand trembling, she clicked.

THE END

AUTHOR'S POSTSCRIPT:

Dear reader,

I know you don't believe that I can do with Cindy as I wish. Take this, then, as an abstract challenge from a curious writer — what to do with Cindy? I will post a simple poll in the MCForum with that same heading (What To Do With Cindy?) and allow you to vote on her fate. Your five choices are:

1. MagicThunder leaves Cindy alone now and moves on to other pursuits. Cindy is free.
2. MagicThunder permanently bestows Cindy with many of the sexual gifts described in this story. Cindy can use them or abuse them as she wishes. Cindy is free?
3. MagicThunder reappears in Cindy's mind and life whenever s/he wants, heightening Cindy's desires and sexual abilities and taking control whenever that feels too delicious to resist. Who said anything about freedom?
4. Fuck freedom. MagicThunder takes control of Cindy just as soon as the poll results are in. A programmed life of unimaginably hot sex and sopping wet love for Cindy.
5. Cindy is brought to meet MagicThunder face to face. Anything can happen then — anything.

Happy voting. Happy Cindy? Your choice. MagicThunder will do whatever you tell me to do.

Cindy sat there trembling, her heart in her throat. A poll? Her life, the fate of her mind, body and soul, would be determined by a fucking poll?

She couldn't hide her distress and some of the other customers were staring at her. Can't worry about that, she had to see, she had to know...

And there it was, as promised, in the MC Writing/Stories Discussion section of the forum: What To Do With Cindy?

"No!", she bellowed, clicking the thread open. The choices were spelled out as "Fate A", "Fate B", only, meaning that MagicThunder didn't want to give the game away for those who hadn't read h/er/is latest handiwork and all that Cindy had been put through. The instructions said: You know exactly what you're voting on if you've read the story. Wish Cindy luck!

No! MagicThunder was insane! This was.. It was... Fuck, it was exactly what the last poem had promised! "Consult the stories, the others will choose." And even before that, some months ago, MagicThunder had asked the forum members in a thread: What would you do if you really could control others? How far would you go?

MagicThunder would get h/er/is answer. The forum members were being put to the test, even though they would never believe it. And Cindy had no doubt whatsoever that MagicThunder could deliver on the readers' decision. There was no bluffing here, and no point in going to the police. No one would believe her and no one could help her, because MagicThunder could do anything.

She knew that some polls in the forum never engendered much participation. There could be fifty responses, or five. Meaning that every vote could carry tremendous weight. And ohgod, it was even possible that some of MagicThunder's readers had voted by now.

There was no way for her to know how it was going without rejoining the forum. And casting a vote herself, perhaps the one vote that would determine the structure of the rest of her life.

She quickly set up a Yahoo e-mail address and chose a new handle, then sent the application in to the forum administrators. While waiting for her information to be processed, she skimmed the two stories she'd written for the archive. Amateurish, and it was shocking how little she had really known about what sex could be like. Like all of the writers at the site, she had been an MC virgin, trying to imagine situations and irresistible powers without the benefit of relative experience in her real life.

But wait, not all of the writers had been MC virgins. She clicked her way to MagicThunder's stories and quickly re-read a couple of the shorter ones. Fuck, with the way things ended for MagicThunder's characters, she should count her blessings for having her fate placed into a readers' poll. At least this way she had a chance.

The trouble was, she couldn't imagine the readers ever voting to have MagicThunder just leave her alone. Maybe if they believed their votes would affect a real woman's life, but for what they regarded as a fictional character? No way. Navigating back to the end of the new story, she contemplated the remaining four choices. To varying degrees, she was being set-up to either become a sexual predator or sexual prey, or some freaky combination of both.

She read the options over and over, her fingers drumming on the table. She thought of Lance, of Alana and Natalia and Emma, of all the strangers whose sex lives had been irrevocably altered from just two days of her wild sex ride. What happened next would not only affect herself, there were so many other fates hanging in the balance...

And then, a funny thing happened. Contrary to anything she would have expected in her situation, with all of the fear and the uncertainty and the danger, her pussy began to grow moist. As her eyes regarded her possible futures, her nipples stiffened and her lustful scent blended in the air with the aroma of fresh coffee.

She glanced at the others in the cafe, so complacent in their lives, having no idea that this gorgeous young woman sitting amongst them was also a walking and breathing stick of sexual dynamite, her fuse likely to be lit at any time. Cindy felt a flush of greater excitement flood through her pussy, and she let out a soft moan, attracting new stares. MagicThunder was not doing any of this to her, she could feel that, she could feel the difference. This excitement was hers, all hers.

She didn't need to agonize over her decision when her forum status was reactivated. What the others would choose was anybody's guess, but to her the choice was obvious.

Her nipples ached deliciously as she highlighted the letter that she hoped would come true. On the edge of coming right then and there in her chair, her right hand trembling, she clicked.