Black Opal Magic

"Do it, Papi. Cover me. I wanna drown in your cum. Do it. Papi."

He was thrusting with abandon now, grinding down hard into me. I felt an orgasm I hadn't expected building, twitching deep in my abdomen and curling my toes. With one last hard thrust, he reared back, pulled out and crashed his thighs into my thighs.

His cock fairly exploded. Huge long ropes of cum shooting out and coating my face, my neck, and my stomach. Four, five, six long jets of thick jizz landing hot and sticky all over my body. As each spurt landed, I jerked and moaned in another orgasm, shaking and shuddering, crying out in true pleasure.

He knelt back, still between my legs, thrusting his hips, as an impossibly large amount of cum continued to shoot from him. Shots landed between my breasts, on my pussy, on one thigh, and somehow, more on my face. I smeared the cum all over my skin, rubbing it into my tits, coating my hands and fingering myself. I licked my lips, and scooted back on the bed, propping myself up on the pillows. I dragged my hands all through the sticky mess, and made a show of licking my fingers.

"Ooh, Papi. You taste so good. Better than icing. Better than ice cream."

A clot had landed in my hair, and I sucked it off the ends while staring at him.

He couldn't have been prouder of himself if he'd single handedly won the Super Bowl. I'd just handed him a Porn Olympics All Around Gold medal. I'd just handed him a fantasy come true.

I didn't bother to clean up. Once he caught his breath, he pulled a blanket over both of us and we curled up as if to go to sleep. Soon enough, I heard him snoring.

I was way too wired to sleep. I was restless and edgy, and sweaty, and none of the two or three real orgasms I'd had served to calm me. I rolled on my side, waiting, and when I knew that he was truly asleep, I slipped out of the bed.

As I was getting dressed in the living room, I realized that there was no trace of cum on me. Just the usual heavy wet leakage, and maybe a drop or two on my lower stomach. Completely gone was any trace of a facial, pearl necklace, or any of the other euphemisms there are for cumming on someone.

I left him my underwear and bra, so he'd know it was real.

When I got back to the rental house, I wrote another version of the story and sent it to my editor. I noticed several emails from him, but didn't care enough to open any of them.

And like before, writing it down finally took the edge off. I took a long hot shower, scrubbing myself red and washing my hair twice. Then I went to one of the other bedrooms, sliding into clean cool sheets, and slept for over twelve hours.

When I woke up, I thought about everything I'd done the night before, and I couldn't believe it. I found the outfit in a pile in the corner of the bedroom with the yoga pants I'd worn a few days in a row. I held them up and I couldn't imagine having put them on. I had such clear memories. But it also seemed impossible.

All day I stewed about it. How could I have done that? How could I have acted that way? How on earth did I know what he wanted as soon as he formed the thought? Had he really not said out loud all those things I responded to?

Confused, and a little disgusted with myself, I went back to the bar that Saturday night.

I wore a normal casual outfit for me, jeans, a t-shirt and sweater, all the appropriate undergarments. My head buzed and hurt the entire drive to the bar. My stomach flopped and flipped and each minute I got closer, the noise in my head got louder.

I had just assumed that Raphael would be there again; it seemed like his regular hangout. When I walked in, sure enough, he was right there at the same spot at the bar, nursing the same kind of beer.

I walked over. No one in the bar looked at me. He didn't look up.

I sat next to him, and leaned toward him.

"Hey there, how're you?"

When he looked at me, there was absolutely no recognition in his eyes. He'd never seen me before. He wasn't going to talk, I was the opposite of the type of woman he might even remotely be attracted to. He didn't know me, and he didn't want to know me.

He glanced at me, smiled a brief tight smile, and got up. He walked over to one of the tables where he was greeted by a couple of guys, and sat to watch the TV.

When the bartender came over for my order, I shook my head and left. His cold laughter followed me out the door, but he hadn't recognized me either.

I drove home furious and in tears. I was disbelieving and humiliated. The pendant and the bracelets thrummed against my skin, and the closer I got to the house the better I felt. I realized I never should have gone back to the bar. I should have let the fantasy live in his head.

I would know better next time.

Then I thought, "next time?"

**~~** 4 **~~**

I spent the next week doing everything but working on my book. I'd sleep well into the afternoon, having more vivid dreams and waking up horny. I wrote stories based on every dream. And then I acted them out. Each of the outrageously sexy outfits got its own use, as well as several more that had arrived in another forgotten order.

The first few days, I tried to resist what increasingly felt like a need. I'd pace around the house. I'd try masturbating. I went around naked, and took the largest remote control vibrator out to the back deck and had it run inside of me until my clit and my vagina simply couldn't take the sensation any more. I fondled myself and squeezed my tits, and had weak orgasms that just made me feel worse.

Each day, I eventually gave up, and gave in to the thoughts that were so vivid in my brain.

I went three towns over and fucked I guy in a bathroom stall of a real dive bar. Then an hour later, I fucked another guy in the alley behind, bent over a trash can while he rutted wildly.

I cried on the way back to the house, sure that I was going insane. Sure that the relief from the stress had broken something fundamental in my usual moral compass. And then lambasting myself for being such a prude.

The next day, I didn't resist. As soon as I woke up, I picked through the pile of clothes I'd dumped in a spare bedroom, and selected an outfit. I put the lace dress and drove to a strip club. I got mistaken for one of the dancers. I even snuck a guy into one of the back rooms and did a passable enough lap dance that I left with some money, just ahead of getting jumped by the bouncer and two pissed off strippers. I masturbated in the car as I was driving back to the house.

It was only then that it occurred to me that I hadn't planned any of the routes to any of the towns, and hadn't even been paying attention. But somehow, I found the right bars, and had found this strip club that was hidden on the outskirts of some small college town and didn't even have a sign outside.

By the time I got back to the house, I was confused, but giddy. It had been such a relief to just let the feeling wash over me and go do the thing, whatever thing, I'd dreamt about. That night, or early morning, I guess, when I pulled out the vibrator and used it, my orgasms were titanic and I slept peacefully.

I prowled more bars, in more distant towns, never going to the same place twice, fucking whoever looked interesting and returned my advances. One guy assumed I was a hooker, and offered me money; I took it. Another one assumed the same and I negotiated a price with him; after we fucked, I told him it was the best sex I'd ever had and gave his money back. One guy left bruises on my ass. One guy called me the most horrible names, and I cried for him. One guy thought he was comforting me after a break up, and I cried in gratitude for him.

By the end of the week, I no longer hated what I was doing. I craved it. I craved the variety, and the danger, and the sense of being all these different women at once. I was loving the fact that I'd had more sex with more different men in just over a week than I'd had in the past five years, if not longer. I started feeling powerful, like a goddess. The orgasms happened more and more easily. They were deeper and more satisfying.

I realized that I was acting however the man with me wanted his ideal woman to act. Whichever fantasy was foremost in his mind when I approached him formed the core of how I behaved with him and responded to him. The closer I was able to get to being the woman he wanted, the more I enjoyed myself.

Sometimes that meant I moved differently that I thought I could. Suddenly, I was a good and sexy dancer. Suddenly deep throating during a blow job was easy. Suddenly walking in heels was second nature. Every dick was the perfect size. If he wanted it to fill me up, and be almost uncomfortable, then I'd feel it growing until it did. I took poundings and had slow make out sessions. I was innocent and naïve one moment, and then the perfect wanton vixen as soon as he kissed me.

The few moments that I stopped to think about it, my head spun. But I decided I was having too much fun to consider it. I refused to wonder about why I was wanting to do all these things that I'd never wanted to do before.

One evening, as I was preparing to shower, I looked at myself in the full length mirror in the bathroom. I looked thinner, and taller. Most of my paunchy stomach was gone, and my breasts looked larger. I decided that all had to be a trick of the lights in the room.

Then I looked at the opal in the pendant. For a split second, the streaks in the dark stone seemed to form a face. A ghostly, electric grin and two bright eyes that appeared and then vanished as soon as I registered them. I reached for the stone, to twist it around and look more closely. But as soon as I touched it, a pain shot through my heart. I let go and examined the bracelets. I saw no phantom faces, but the stones seemed to have shifted slightly, the circle around the larger one now no longer completely round. It all seemed impossible.

I decided not to think about it.

That Saturday, I had a strange outing. I'd gone to a bar about a hundred miles from the house, and hadn't been able to find anyone worth playing with. No one seemed interesting, or interested in me. I was wearing what had become a fairly typical outfit, a micro mini skirt, barely there thong, tight knit shirt and too small bra. I'd looked around and flirted, but every line I said seemed wrong and landed badly. There was a growing frustration and a growing unease in my belly.

I left to drive back. Not ten miles down the road, my rental car suddenly quit. The engine sputtered and died, and I drifted to the side of the road just outside the town limits. I cranked the engine a couple of times, and no response. The dashboard indicators showed I had gas, and it didn't seem to be overheating.

I relaxed back in the driver's seat, and reflexively rubbed my pussy. The realization hit me that I wasn't even frustrated by this.

"Ah," I mused out loud. "This was supposed to happen."

I've never been someone who thought that things happened for unknown reasons or were part of some larger plan we just have to go along with. But like so many other things that had changed in my attitude in the past couple of weeks, I didn't question my complacency.

I just got out my phone, searched for tow trucks, and dialed the third one that came up.

The voice that answered was gruff, and his tone was abrupt.

"Ya?"

"Hi, my car just stalled out on the side of the road, and I can't get it to start again."

"What, you want gas or sumthin?"

"Um, no, sir. I've got almost a full tank. It won't even turn over. Is there any way you can come check it out?"

"We can tow ya. Bring ya to the shop. No guarantees. Seventy-five minimum."

"Um," I was pretending to hesitate, but the warmth in my pussy told me I was doing the right thing. "Ok. I guess. I guess I'll have to."

I gave him as many details about my location as I could. He said he'd be there in thirty minutes. I waited in the car, antsy and aroused. My mind raced, imagining getting fucked in a dirty tow truck, or bent over the desk in a chaotically disorganized back office.

The truck arrived and he pulled on the shoulder in front of me. I got out of the car, and when he stepped out of the cab, he didn't even try to hide his leer. He stood closer to me than necessary.

He looked to be about 60, thick through the middle in jeans and a polo shirt that were at least ten years old and a size too small. Both covered in the kind of old stains that you give up on trying to wash out. He had on a trucker hat with the logo of the company, with a clear smudge on the brim from so many years of his greasy hands shifting it around. His hair and beard were more salt than pepper, and both on the verge of unkempt. He smelled like cigarettes and fast food.

"A'ight, getcha hooked up."

He looked down at my chest, then longer at my bare legs. Then slowly back up until he found my eyes.

"If'n yer cold, go on in the cab. A'ight? Shouldn't take long."

I nodded, and felt him watching me as I walked around to the passenger side of his truck and clambered in. My skirt rose up high enough that he saw most of my ass. The cab was warm, which was nice, and littered with papers, fast food bags, and an ashtray full of butts. The clanging and mechanical noises behind me didn't last long, and soon enough he was climbing into the driver's side.

He looked over at me.

"A'ight. Seventy-five for the tow back to the shop. Figure I'll do the diagnostic free. But no tellin' what it'll take to fix it."

"Ok."

"That a rental?"

"Yeah, I'm up here on a long business trip."

He laughed, looking at the spot where my skirt ended and my thighs were visible.

"That so? Business."

He turned, checked his mirrors and pulled out onto the road. The drive to his shop took about fifteen minutes, and he spent as much of it staring at me as he did watching the road. He maneuvered the truck into the garage bay and I climbed out of the cab while he unloaded the car.

It looked like any other mechanic's garage, anywhere in the country. Almost a cliché of one, actually, with the obligatory calendar of bikini models, grease stained concrete, and odor of burning coffee. I glanced through a large window, and saw the messy office adorned with posters featuring barely clad women draped over shiny sports cars and motorcycles. My pussy throbbed, and the pendant warmed against my cleavage.

I perched on a rolling stool in the bay itself while the driver slid into my rental. I was completely unsurprised when the car started without any problem. He turned it off and tried again. He glanced at me, confused, and I shrugged.

"Said it wouldn't start?"

"It didn't," I insisted. "I was driving back, and it just died on the road. I was barely able to get it to coast to the shoulder. I tried a bunch of times, and it wouldn't even crank."

"Well, seems fine now."

"I don't know what to say. It was dead."

"A'ight. Well, let's see."

He pulled out a cart with a couple of long cables with the clamps you use to jump a battery, as well as other cords with various plugs and attachments. He opened the hood of the car, and attached something to something, pressed a couple of buttons on the cart, and waited. Lights flashed, there was a bit of a hum, and a screen lit up. Numbers and letters scrolled across the screen, and finally settled.

"Huh." He grunted, reached around and tapped the connections. Reset something to something else, and started the process over again. When the lights quit flashing, he disconnected everything.

"No errors. Nuthing poppin' up. Can't say for sure, but this says everything should be fine."

He looked genuinely perplexed.

Until he looked at me. I'd relaxed on the stool some, and let my knees fall open, not really thinking about how little skirt there was to cover anything.

The look of confusion rapidly morphed to something more predatory, and my heart fluttered.

I sat up, shrugged again.

"Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but I really couldn't get it to start."

He shrugged. "Ah. Cars these days. More fickle'n an ex-wife."

He laughed at his joke as he walked to me.

"Just the seventy five for the tow then."

I pulled a credit card out of my purse, and he wandered to the back to make the charge. He'd left the keys in the ignition, and so I sat in the driver's seat, with the door open, one foot on the floor and the other on the edge of the door's opening. I leaned against the seat, and I knew exactly how much I was exposing myself.

"Hey, miss," the driver said, coming out of the office with a scowl on his face. "Card's declined."

There was no reason for the card to be declined, but that's what his fantasy needed.

I looked up, watching the expression on his face change as he came around the open door and saw me.

"Oh, no," I said, my voice now soft and breathy. "I'm so sorry."

I leaned up, spreading my knees more, and bit my lower lip. I looked up at him, through my eyelashes.

"I don't know what to do. I don't have any other cards, and I've only got ten bucks on me."

The driver stood about five feet from me, breathing harder than the short walk from his office should have caused. His mouth opened slightly, and the hand holding my card shook.

I leaned forward and put my hands on my knees, pressing them open even more. A cold draft made the edge of the skirt flutter. I reached up for my credit card as the driver stared at me.

With my card in both our hands, I whispered. "Can I make you a trade?"

The driver gulped hard.

"What'd you have in mind?"

I slid the card out of his hand and leaned back, letting the skirt shift more and the edge of my top ride up.

"No," I said. "The question is, what do you have in mind?"

"Stay right there," he said. "Don't move."

I nodded.

He practically sprinted back to his office, and came back into the bay with a cheap digital camera.

"I don't want to touch you. I don't mess with sluts."

I let that slide, and just nodded again.

"Seventy five is a lot of money for me to lose."

"Ok."

He held up the camera. "You pose how I want. I take pictures."

"Where?"

"Here, now."

"I wear this?"

"And less. And nothing."

"Nothing? Like completely naked?" I bit my lip again and shook my head slightly. "Mister, I don't know."

"Well, find seventy five bucks. Or I take the pictures. Or."

I scooted to the edge of the seat, reaching to put my hands on his thighs, but he stepped back. He set the camera on the stool, and reached for his phone.

"I don't touch you. You don't touch me. I ain't lettin' you cry rape after."

I gasped as if horribly offended. "I would never. I just thought, maybe a blow job? Pictures, that's asking a lot. You could. You know. You could use those against me later."

He laughed. "Yeah, I could. But I ain't gonna."

"How do I know?"

He shrugged, and grunted another laugh. "You don't. But I could always call the cops and tell them how you're trying to cheat me out of payment for my services."

I sighed heavily, blinked fast, as though I was holding back tears. I made a show of being conflicted, while all the while I could feel the heat and the arousal blooming from deep inside me. This was exactly what both of us wanted.

"Ok. I'll do it. You take your pictures. But at least close the garage door, will ya?"

"No. My rules, or I call the cops and tell them you're stealing from me. They know me, too."

"How many pictures?"

"Dollar a shot for a slut like you. Seventy five."

"Oh, come on. You'll blow your wad before you take that many. Ten pictures."

He shook his head, but I knew he was enjoying the negotiation. "Twenty. Or I call."

"Ok. I get to see them after."

"Nope."

I shrugged. "Whatever."

He picked up the camera and squatted down, aiming the camera up.