Charlotte was a pretty girl who lived in Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan is flat and featureless. She lived in an austere and religious community that was home to the Sammish.

The Sammish look like the Amish, live like the Amish, are as reserved and humble as the Amish, but are not in any other way at all like the Amish. To their women, they stress humility and virtue above all, and Charlotte was so exemplary a paragon of that image that she was betrothed to the most prestigious suitor in the community before she had even come of age. She had accepted her father’s wishes, out of filial piety, but I suspected there was a hint of reservation.

She was a faithful girl just out of the starting gate of maturity. She was the most beautiful seventeen-and-a-half year old I’d ever seen, and one day I spotted her looking at me among the stars. I am certain she could not see me, but she was looking in the right place, and that’s what counts isn’t it?

Imagine a girl whose life is only beginning to blossom, who has only just recently been betrothed, and who has placed her faith and her destiny in an all-knowing god. Imagine how she’s adapted to the simple prairie life that she’s been offered, or rather, been born into. She’s never been more than seven kilometres from her house, for that is the distance to her nearest neighbour.

She is going to marry her neighbour’s son, as per her father’s orders, when she turns eighteen. The name of her husband-to-be is David, a strong biblical name, and he is seventeen years older than she. Charlotte has never met him in her life. David has seen pictures of Charlotte and jacked off to them many times, though he’s told no one about that. I’ve seen him, I know.

Charlotte was looking pretty and looking into the sky long after her family had gone to bed. There was something about her face that carried the impression of worry. From her dry lips I caught the word ‘why?’ escaping into the sky.

Imagine what would happen if I were to swoop down and appear to this girl as a creature from another plane. Why, she’d probably assume I was god. I’m not, but she doesn’t need to know that. My father has been to Earth before, and he was worshipped, and it got old for him. I prefer more intimate worship, with only one person, in secret.

Father says “hormones” when I tell him that, but I claim it’s more manageable. There are also fewer impersonators that way, which was, and still is, a problem for my father.

On the day I caught her looking up at me, or at least in my general direction, I saw the most beautiful face in the world. Her beauty was emphasized ten-fold by the fact that no other part of her body was visible underneath her Sammish dress and apron. Her face was thus the only place to get lost in. Her skin was solid ivory and her hair was the colour of orange autumn. I imagined the rest of her, and I though up a body with rather big breasts.

Her eyes were pale green, icy almost in their complexion, with speckles of grey here and there. The eyes are very good conduits for control, for they are the only bits of brain that can be seen without breaking someone’s skull. I tend to stray from that sort of thing, you see.

The best way to bring someone under your control is to shock them with a sight so fantastic and awe inspiring that they become ‘flabbergasted’. Viola! Then just grab the reins. After that, one can use any of the senses they like. Touching, smell, sound, more touching and more touching. Pleasure is wonderful for everybody, though I tend to concentrate on myself, as I deserve it. But I like to think that I am gracious, so I do share.

On that night when she looked up at me, or in my general direction, I shined brightly for her. I drifted out of the sky and came to rest on the ground in her father’s farm field; right in front of her surprised and astonished and perfect face. I opened the car door and stepped out in my candy purple jacket and studded pants, and walked through a fog billowing from my car door. The rolling smoke was not so much a product of space travel as it was a product of the joint in the ashtray.

I said to her; “Do you like my car?” with a grin. Little sparkly stars lit up the lenses of my aviators, to stylish effect, and my gold-toothed grin always charmed the ladies. With a disarming smile I approached her. I shook my leg and she gasped. How suggestive; my father taught me that one. Her gasp never faded, her mouth stayed slack and open, and her eyes were as wide and unfocused as any I’d ever seen. I grabbed the reins; I took her hands in mine and she trembled.

“Do you want to feel on top of the universe? I have love for your soul, and pleasure for your hole. I’m man and god in one Bay-bee. Come take a ride with me.”

“Okay.” she assented. She was almost eager. I was surprised by how quickly she seemed to fall for me. Shock and awe, baby! You are now one step closer to God.

She climbed aboard my GTO; a sky-blue candy-glossed flying machine. It was the hottest thing on Firestones since the Flaming Concord. She was a bit shaky when we took off for a locale more entertaining than her farm-girl home. She looked out the window at the swirling clouds and Earthly lights far below with a sense of incredulity. I put a steady hand on her inner thigh to guide her.

“Women are like horses.” my Father used to tell me. I think he meant to say that a steady hand conveys confidence. My passenger stopped her shivering when she felt my hand.

“There’s something to be said for lesbians who like horses.” Father also used to say, which was meant to assure me that no woman was beyond my reach.

In the meantime I had a breeze of Apollo’s doses wafting in through the vents. As my primitive and naïve companion drifted off to sleep and into psychedelic dreams, I talked to her.

“Loosen up babe. Let’s have some fun.”

I woke her up when we got to the strip bar. Imagine what would happen to a Sammish girl, whose lifestyle stressed humility and reservation above all else, if she walked into a strip bar.

She danced. Though, I had asked her to do it. “Okay.’ she said to me, “I should loosen up and have some fun.”

She enjoyed herself immensely. The crowd went wild when she climbed up onto the stage. The club owner at first didn’t know what to make of her, and even contemplated throwing her out. But the crowd would not be denied. Most people never see a Sammish woman strip in their lives; no one I think, except for Sammish husbands. Even they never see it done with as much erotic grace and skill as I saw that night.

There she was one moment with a dress covering her hair to her shins, the next, with her wet pussy sliding up and down the stripper poll. You should have seen the look on her face; eyes closed and lips curled, hissing through tight teeth at the cold steel rod that pleasured her. It was impossible to know if her body was shaking from the temperature of the pole or the orgasmic quaking of her virgin pussy. Impossible for anyone but me mind you, as I could see what she felt, but to reveal the answer would destroy the dream. Use your imagination.

She was stroking her thighs and feeling her own breasts, which by the way, were every bit a huge as I imagined, and she did it in a way that was gentle but looked rough, as though she were ravishing herself to the fullest. With such a heavy dress concealing that body before, it was hard to remember if her big boobs had been my doing or simply hidden. Her dress was something of a minimizer, you see, which added to the surprise.

Her socialized reservation and introversion really paid off here. Guys love to see the shy girl take it off. The boys were treated to an hour-long striptease and a ten-minute pole dance, after which she came back to me tired and smiling and happy as a bimbo rolling in, well, you know. Seeing a woman who was so meek and pious take it all off for the sins of the flesh was pretty hot.

“You aren’t looking forward to being married are you?”

“I’ve never met the man.” she told me. One needed only to hear that one sentence to know she was an outsider, at least in her own mind, and that she didn’t wholeheartedly put herself into the lifestyle she lived. Despite tradition, she just didn’t believe in arranged marriage. Everyone wants choice don’t they?

“No.” she told me when I asked her that. “This is new. I like your guiding hand.” I remember she hurried off to the washroom after saying that. At the door to the men’s she peaked back at me and flashed a wicked smile. I was rather amused; I hadn’t done that.

“Women are like horses.” Father used to say. So when she finally returned with a glint in her eye and something wet on her hands I continued to lead her on.

I took her to a park after the strip bar. I had her dress in hot shades of pink; a little pink tennis skirt with white stockings and a pink crop top not big enough for her curves. She clopped along the path in a pair of pink platform sneakers. Little pink ribbons dangled from her pigtails and from the tops of her stockings. A delightful little white collar had “Fuck Me Silly” written on it and crystal studs. Pink plastic hoops swung from her ears.

Wielding a dose of omnipotent pizzazz, I splashed hot pink shadow around her pale eyes, thickened her lashes, and finished the look with some glaze on her lips. I kept her ivory skin, and her autumn-orange hair in pigtails, and her green eyes, because those were the best bits. Her hair matched the hot colours of her motif.

She was as beautiful as ever, only ever more appetizing below the neck. I changed whatever I wanted and made her what I wanted her to be. I gave or took a few pounds here, a few inches there, until she was the perfect chesty cock-goddess, my pet word for ‘dream’.

‘Dream’ meant gigantic tits with perfect lift, firm projection and the illustrious silicone profile, a tiny waist, and a streamlined but pert ass. I ensured that she had long, toned and flexible, legs to go with those stockings. A finishing touch was to give her a pair of ankles worthy of those ears. “I like my new ass.” she told me. Of course she did, I sculpted it!

My thoughts were so wrapped up around her mind by this point that my influence was absolute. My earlier command had obviously carried a lot of resonance with her. What she did next even surprised me; I wasn’t accustomed to having one of my playmates take the initiative. “I need to loosen up.” she told me. And with that she pulled to the side of our cobble-stoned path and bent over a bench.

It was the first time a mortal had ever told me what she was going to do, or what she needed, before I’d told her so. Did it matter? I wanted her nonetheless.

Now I had not blessed her with panties, or even a thong, for practical reasons. She needed somewhere to drain all that horniness, and the insides of her thighs were as fine a place as any since panties would have just soaked up her oily flow.

I like to see the stuff of wetness dripping down a woman’s leg. I see that sinful wetness as a sign; a hot pussy telling me ‘I’m done and I’m ready to eat’. I just like the impression it gives my women, which was the same I could say about anything I liked about my women, about what I’d done to Charlotte.

I enjoy watching breasts grow, the way a conditioned girl puts her hand to her mouth and gasps, arches her back to the feeling, then exhales a deep sigh of relief when the shirt breaks at the seams. A ripping shirt makes a wonderful sound and looks wobbly-delicious with giant knockers pressing onward from the inside. I’m a whimsical man, simply put. I do it because I can; it just jostles my rocks.

She bent over and spread her legs, and her short skirt pulled up high enough for me to catch sight of her cozy box drooling with slick eagerness. She was an enthusiastic submissive, my favourite kind. Doggy style was my thing.

There was no one to bother us at this time of night. The park seemed dark and deserted after a quick glance. I sensed someone in the bushes, but they were no threat. They were far too busy jacking off.

No time for Romance, baybee, this chick was already too hot to warm up. She purred when my hand touched the small of her back, when I leaned in to her with my pants around my ankles. They were good pants, crystalline silk; the real deal. You can’t get pants like these anywhere but Vega.

So I fucked her, because I wanted to, because it was fun, and because she was in the right position. Her skirt rode high in the back. The open curtain policy there just screamed ‘bend me over and fuck me silly’ to any who looked and had imagination.

I had imagination; and as long as she offered…I whipped almighty God out of my pants.

I plugged myself into her socket and feasted on stuffed pussy. She was very tight and I feared that I hurt her at first. She squealed like a stuck pig, but her sounds gradually became throatier and rang true with enjoyment. I was not above such frivolous empathy, for one wants to know they did a good job after all, and I had a reputation as a good lay to maintain.

I change people, but I don’t like to hurt them. I make a habit of putting them back to normal at the end of each night. I have my fun and then get out.

“Never leave a footprint.” Father used to tell me. “I learned that the hard way outside Nancy’s window when I was a teen in the heartland.”

So enthused was Charlotte for sex and corruption that I took it upon myself to give her the talk for the walk. “Fuck me daddy!” she screamed. “Fuck my cunt.” “Who’s your slut?!” “Spank my bitch-ass.” “Fuck me harder Daddy!” So on, so forth.

It got nastier. The whole episode degenerated into a series of grunts and animal growls, rising and falling to the beat of our slapping hips as I drilled my way to her core. The session ended when I finally came and sent her to the moon; in an orgasmic sense. She shook and trembled. “OooOOoOhhhh.” she moaned, as I filled her with my spunk. She wasn’t the retaining type. A lot of it oozed down her thighs and over her stockings.

She insisted on tasting and licking my cock clean afterward. I provided a small reward for her enthusiasm, and with the wave of a finger, I gave her lips to match the task. They bloomed into fat poppy-pedal cocksucker lips, something worthy of oral legend, with a small gap in between them to give that inviting ‘always open’ impression.

She pecked and sipped lovingly at the oily juice and cum that covered my cock, which was mostly her own. She took me into her mouth and pressed those fat lips against my shaft. She used her tongue in the most wonderful ways, her lips formed an impeccable seal, and the suction was nothing short of perfect.

I’m not sure what it is, but the wonderfully nasty girls like to taste their own cum, and young ‘innocent’ Charlotte was getting nastier by the second. I was a hair’s distance away from changing her name to “Eureka” or “Hoover”. I couldn’t decide which, for one was feminine and one the other was familiar. I didn’t have the inclination then to decide, for her mouth felt too exquisite and I was unable to hold a clear thought.

“It’s nice to eat meat that doesn’t taste like chicken.” she remarked, licking her chops; for chicken, rather than sausage, is a staple of Sammish cuisine.

When she finished up I savoured the relaxed moment. She took away her own breath with a pair of nimble fingers. I wasn’t much in the mood for tasting Haddock, so I let her work for her own pleasure. She rubbed and licked her own nipples to add to the experience, and took herself to heaven.

I decided it was time to take her home when she came all over her hand and splattered a good bucket-load of her cum on the park bench. I’d had my fun and she’d had hers, she’d found and made intimate contact with God, and her skirt and stockings were now stained and dripping. I always found this part to be the hardest part of the night. It was time to cover up the evidence. What was the point of showing girls a good time if they never remembered it?

“Never leave a footprint.” Father used to say.

So I dropped her back at her place, early in the morning, just before her father woke up with the sun and the rooster. She got out of my car and left a spunky memory or two on the leather seat. I released my control or her and prepared my magic fingers.

“Don’t change me.” she begged.

“Don’t you want to be cleaned up?”

“No?” she grinned. She dripped on the grass. She licked one of her fingers and sucked on it like a pacifier. “I’m a dirty girl, a sloppy girl; not a daddy’s girl.”

“What about your mind?”

“Leave it. I’m going to call myself Harley. That’s sounds like something one might ride. I very much enjoyed your control.” she smiled. She batted at one of her pigtails with a sticky hand. “Do you like my pigtails? I think I might start calling them handlebars.”

“That’s just your new mindset talking.”

“Nobody said humans were immutable. I’ve spent my life being controlled by tradition, be it faith or family or marriage. I’m a weaver and a woman in a patriarchy; I know that better than most. What’s the difference from your hand to most? I like what I like. My feelings are as real now as they’ve ever been. Regardless of how they came to be, how you made them; they simply are.”

“But what about your virtue? Or your humility? Isn’t that important to you?”

“If I don’t remember what happened, does that change the fact that you took my virtue away? Humility is hard with tits as big as these. Everyone’s eyes will be on me now.” She bit her lip and clamped her thighs thinking about that thought.

I wondered how someone of Sammish ancestry got her mind’s paws on existential ideas. I hadn’t thought to examine her behaviour very deeply.

“I’m sorry if you’re mad. I’m not used to consequences; no one need be the wiser, is what I meant to say. Now let me change you back.” I could change her if I wanted, but it would defeat the whole point of making things right. I like to have fun, but I also like to think I have integrity.

Curse my love of hearing girls say “What the Hel-“. Normally my girls stand around looking stupid when I release their minds before their bodies, just before setting things right. It’s usually very funny, a garnish on my special night, and an amusing theatre of female confusion. In spite of their attractive bodies, women are rather dumb animals.

This one was quicker on the trigger however; she was different, an outsider. I found myself stricken with an unwelcome glimmer of respect. That can be a problem; the whole dance becomes unsteady when you get attached to your playmate. To personify is to tempt the conscience and the oppression of a wet towel.

And then…

“I’m not mad at you, at all, I’m so pleased with what you’ve done to my body. You are the greatest man to have ever come into my life. In this house my father controls me, as does my faith and the virtues that are said to uphold my worth. I’m through with them. I don’t really want to get married, and now you’ve given me the crassness and sense of infidelity I need to break free.”

“Teenage rebellion.” I smirked. Admittedly she had boosted my ego with that youthful tirade. I climbed my way out from the pit of internal conflict; the fun could go on. My father always said I would be the King someday, just like him. It felt good to hear her give me credit. She’s right; I really am as good as she claims. I give credit where it’s due. Would I lie?

If she’d been stupid like all the others I’d ever had, I never would have had the foresight, the generosity, or the balls to do what I did next. I let her go. I even laughed. I promised myself I’d keep tabs on her little private war.

“Fair enough Harley, I’ll leave you as you are. You’ll find a wardrobe in your closet for that body, and the lack of restraint to use it. But before I leave, I have a few questions. Can you actually stay here now, in that form? What will you do? Why this decision?” I wanted to hear the last word from her mouth, for the full story, for the grand touché, for the answer to ‘why?’.

“I just wanted to know that there was something other than fate controlling my destiny and my actions. I’ve pondered that question many times while looking at the heavens. Your descent from the stars has brought me an answer. There are many powers that be in this world, not just one god, and not just one dogma. There is no such thing as being subject solely to fate. People are in control. Every person, every ‘man and god in one’, every father, has an influence. As a person, and not a subject, I’m going to feel as good, and do as much, as I damn well can.”

“Thank you, thank you very much.” I said to her, quoting a phrase of my Father’s. It’s good to be as good as me. It’s good to be the King. It’s not as if anyone can punish me for this; and since she’s insisting, it’s all just omnipotent fun.

She blew me a kiss from those huge frosted lips. She smiled wildly as ‘Fuck Me Silly’ was cast aglow by the moonlight. She winked at me, and the sight propelled a rather elaborate burn through my loins.

“You’re welcome handsome sir, but I must get to bed now. I’m horny and very attracted to my fingers; I’d like to go fuck myself. And tomorrow is Sunday and I must be up early for church. Tomorrow I will climb the steps to the top of the bell tower and come down only when it suits me. I will spread my legs and show the world what I think of Daddy’s rules. I will laugh into the sky and I will bite my thumb at the great machine, the cosmos, the big kahuna…and grin.”