Telekinesis Ch. 01

Chapter 1

The club was at least as nice as I'd expected it to be, with maybe better taste and definitely more money spent on it. Edgy modern art on the walls, exotic wood all over the bar, monitors all over catering to the very high end tech crowd. I nursed a decently built martini at the bar and surveyed the terrain, totally out of habit.

Slim pickings: a group of women with their heads together in a booth sharing a pitcher of something red; two or three couples, the female halves of which didn't look appetizing; a mixed group way at the end of the place around a pool table. The contact I was looking for, Kayla had assured me, would show up. To "hold court" was the way she'd put it. But, she'd told me, there was always the possibility of a crash in Asian markets or a filing in the EU that needed attention. Or maybe it was just too early in the evening. My contact had the reputation of being a workaholic.

A blonde squeezed in next to me, the usual well-coiffed and expensively outfitted type here, trying to get the bartender's attention. Membership in this club was very difficult, very costly (except for me, of course), sort of an urban country club but you didn't have to pretend to like golf. So she was at least upper management somewhere. Marketing, I thought, by her style.

More out of boredom than any special sexiness she displayed, I did my thing a little bit on her, dilated her, as I call it, or sometimes pinning. I watched her, not impolitely, just aware, and waited for her to put eyes on me. She did and it was easy.

She stared at me, longer than any halfway attractive blonde should let herself with a strange man. And I'm no movie star, FYI. Still, she couldn't take her eyes off me.

"You're very beautiful," I lied.

As expected, she gave a little startled reaction. She straightened her posture, making her breasts more prominent, finger-combed her straight hair back, smiled, especially with her eyes. "Thank you. You're, um—" The club was its own small world and networking was how you mined the buried gold. Just for evil fun I cranked my thing up a bit. "What, what's your name?" She could hardly get the words out.

I mumbled something.

"Oh, nice. We— my business partner and I— we were just talking and . . ."

I'm so cruel sometimes. I started doing my thing to her down there and she had to cross her legs and hold onto the bar to stay upright, while still trying as hard as she could to keep her eyes on me. Difficult given the spikes of pleasure I was shooting up her spine from her pudenda.

Her drinks arrived. I released her so her trembling fingers could get out her credit card. Anyway, I'd had my fun. She tried to get me to come back to sit with her and her friend but I begged off, saying I was waiting for someone. True on a certain level, though not the romantic one she no doubt imagined.

I have a special ability, without equal in my experience and research. I am telekinetic. That is, I can move matter with my mind. Only tiny, tiny amounts of matter, so small the effect is easy to miss and difficult to measure. But that's okay.

I'm a scientist, or used to be. Not a great scientist, not even really a very good one. But I know how to collect data, run an experiment, test hypotheses. I was working late in the lab one evening in grad school, trying to purify a neurochemical my advisor (who was also the lab's boss) needed. Successful preparation of the substance was, into the bargain, the goal of my dissertation for the Phd I'd deluded myself into believing I had to have.

Things weren't going well. Whatever methods I used to remove contaminants seemed to also remove the fraction I wanted to keep. So there I was, tired and hungry, carefully placing a postage stamp-sized piece of blotting paper in the analytical balance, willing it to show me the tiny increase in weight that would tell me I'd done it.

And it did! The weight increased. I was so happy I did a fist pump. But then the weight dropped down. I growled. There are so many small effects that can produce a false reading when you're looking for micrograms— temperature, water evaporation, and so on.

I stared hard at that damned blotter paper again. And the weight went back up! That was crazy. I pursed my lips and thought. Decrease. Huh? Stared. Increase.

I tossed the blotter paper in the trash and tried just moving the balance. That didn't work, but another damp bit of blotting paper did. I spent the evening making the weight measurement go up and down. I tried everything I could think of to make the balance do what it was doing by non-insane means, moving the lab furniture, turning equipment on and off, adjusting the air conditioning. It's the first thing you need to do in an experiment when you see something that's too good to be true. Finally I sat back and had to reach the insane conclusion: I could move things with my mind. Not much, only a few hundred micrograms. But I could do it.

I contemplated my new ability and what it meant while I had a burger at the only place in the university district open that late, a low-end diner. I could move some of the tiniest crumbs across my plate when I really concentrated. I could maybe make a drop of condensation on my beer glass go up the side. Maybe. It was starting to look like my amazing ability was amazingly useless.

The waitress came by for a last call. Even this place was closing. Her name, I read from her badge, was Donna.

That was my lucky break. Belladonna! I knew about it from a previous lab I'd worked in where we were studying atropine and other active chemicals in plants. It's poisonous but it used to be used as a cosmetic to make a woman's pupils bigger and thus more interesting. I concentrated on Donna's eyes, trying the same thing as with the balance. She immediately lost interest in me and walked away.

Oops. I realized my mistake: I'd made her pupils contract, not dilate. I walked over to the the cash register with my check and this time when she came to do the transaction I concentrated again, but with a little twisty feeling. I didn't know why, I was just trying something.

And it worked! Her mouth opened, her eyes widened (and dilated, of course). She was transfixed. Nervous systems work that way: emotions cause physiological responses; and conversely if you can induce a physiological action, it can trigger the emotion that normally causes it.

I took her hand. I'm not— or at least I wasn't then— a ladies man. But that look of rapt attention emboldened me. I pulled her to me and, in that empty diner, made my first conquest.

A small one. We necked and French kissed. I lost concentration and we both returned to our senses. She was actually quite good looking, I belatedly saw. Typical guy, I'd been misled by the drab green uniform and how she had to pull her hair back.

"I'm sorry," she confessed, "I don't know what came over me."

"I felt something too," I answered, though I didn't tell her what: a sense of power over the whole world.

Another group entered the club's bar, a couple of men with their trendy sideswiped haircuts, the women in clothes nominally meant for work but wearing blouses of sheer fabric, short pencil skirts, and pumps that would make it difficult for any non-deceased, non-gay male in the company to concentrate on a meeting they attended. Her posse. Kayla had mentioned that this woman was a switch hitter. Even among the gaggle of HR-incident bait she stood out.

She wasn't physically striking or gorgeous, but she was clearly the alpha in the group, even for the men. And beyond that was a special charisma, like a gravitational field, that turned the eyes of everyone, man or woman, in the room. Even I felt it a little. The bartender shook his head, no doubt familiar with the effect she had on people.

I tried to catch her eye but there was just too much going on. Her group merged with the one at the back. After things settled down a bit I wandered back there. I did catch her eye and did a bit of my thing, but I couldn't get close enough to do real damage. She definitely noticed me. I returned to my spot at the bar and ordered another martini.

I'm not a monster. I'm not some weird mutant from X-Men. But I do have this ability that others don't. If a shark has teeth, isn't it perfectly natural to use them to bite a delectable angel fish? If a giraffe has a long . . . neck . . . why shouldn't he use it to reach the most delectable flowers touching the sky?

I spent the first few weeks after my discovery experimenting with my new power. Hey, I am— or I was— a scientist. I discovered that I could aim the force, more or less. I tried it on a cute new biochemist I worked with. She found me suddenly and inexplicably fascinating. That was great. But then my eyes wandered to her crotch and she suddenly had to excuse herself to the ladies room. Oops.

My first real success was almost by accident. My new ability was taking up more time and energy than I should have let it, with a drop in productivity that showed. I had to work late again to catch up.

You guessed it. It was with Donna, the waitress.

By then I'd figured out a few things, at least the basics. When she was at my table I dilated her, but I was also able to gently stimulate her where it would do the most good. The clit is so sensitive and so dense with nerves whose only job is to send high fives up to her pleasure center. And I think the constant exercise of my ability had strengthened it a little, or maybe taught me to focus it better. My water glass got filled way more than necessary.

"I . . . ah . . . remember you from last time," she said, standing at my booth after the only other customer had left. She no longer made a pretense of serving me in any way. I of course, a very horny grad student, couldn't stop thinking of all the ways I wanted her to serve me. Her honeypot was hidden behind the ugly uniform, only inches from my head. My strength then was only a small fraction of what it is now, but she was so close. As we made smalltalk her side of the conversation soon faded. She seemed to be having trouble concentrating.

"What time do you get off?" I tried. I didn't know a better opening.

She looked around, not moving from her spot. "I, uh, have to clean up and, uh, go down, I mean, close down."

I released her and let her get back to the counter, following her a leisurely minute later. Alone together at the sales terminal we necked again, but we didn't stop there. She wanted to kiss and kiss. During a pause in our osculation I put my fingers to her cheek. Another thing I'd learned was that I could use my fingers to concentrate the ability on whatever I touched. That might not have been much, since I still couldn't affect more than a few milligrams, but I had also learned how to vibrate this force. I could just do a little hum in my mind and whatever, or whoever, I touched got a tingle.

Which drove her crazy when I ran a finger over her lips. And then her tongue. I put her hand to the stiff bulge in my pants. She gave me a sly look. She sensed something strange was going on. I could see in her eyes that she was shocked at herself, that she never did this with some random customer, no matter how unbelievably and inexplicably attractive he might be. And yet here she was. That sense of power I'd felt during our first meeting returned, much stronger, a powerful aphrodisiac. I tried touching her breasts through the uniform and found that my ability worked on nipples also. She locked up and led me back through the kitchen to a storeroom.

She knelt immediately, got my pants down, and put my cockhead into her mouth like a ripe plum that she expected to be the sweetest fruit of the season.

I didn't disappoint her. It took only a moment's epiphany, like Rosalind Franklin's discovery that DNA had to be a helix, to grasp that the force, or vibration really, that I could direct with my fingers I could also direct with the body part between her lips.

Up to this point I was not very experienced sexually. This waitress was performing far and away the best fellatio I had ever received, and instantly so. I might have exploded in her mouth immediately except the pure ego-trip ecstasy of being the most delicious hot dog ever eaten had me totally paralyzed.

That worked out to my benefit. Eventually she undevoured me, stood up, turned around, bent over, pulled her uniform up and her underpants down, looked back at me, and smiled the most inviting Please Fuck Me smile it was possible to give.

Needless to say, I obliged. She was also my introduction to multi-orgasmic women. After the second one her legs couldn't support her and she sank to her knees. I followed. The third one hit her as she was half on a stack of cartons. More out of mercy than fatigue I pulled out and stood while she tried to curl up into fetal position on the cardboard.

In a minute she slid back down to kneeling. She took hold of me by the balls and pulled me to her. "Seriously," she said, echoing what I'd seen in her before, "I don't know what's come over me. I never do this. Never. With a customer? On premises? This could get me fired." And with that she sucked me back between her lips and steadily gave my cock more pleasure than I could take. I held out for a while, but there was really no hope, after all I'd been through, to resist this woman's desire for more than a very short time.

When I gave up and launched a stream of semen onto her tongue her sucking, already beyond anything I'd ever fantasized, intensified by a factor beyond my ability to name or even comprehend. And it went on and on while she made sure that every drop of my come ended up in her stomach like the diner's signature banana cream pie.

It was my turn to sink to my knees. She kissed me lightly. We straightened up after a moment of afterglow and she shooed me out the back door, refusing my offer to help her straighten up, pleading cameras in the front. I understood that I was evidence she needed to get rid of.

After that we met quite often, her place or mine, for sex. We didn't really have that much in common, but the sex was great. Especially, by her own admission, for her. Her body was my lab, her orgasms statistically significant results proving my power, her thank-you blow jobs afterwards better than a Nobel prize.

My personal research project into the advantages of TK didn't stop with Donna the waitress. No woman in the college district was safe from my ability.

There was the undergraduate at the university gym, barely 19, a sophomore I think, who thought it was super cool to actually meet a real neuroscientist. She was easy. With my growing self-confidence I might have been able to seduce her even without my ability. She couldn't get enough of rubbing my cock all over her very fit body. I forget her name.

There was Billy, the manager of a local brew pub. She was skinny, covered in tattoos and piercings, bi but mostly into other girls. Not my type at all so an interesting test. I learned from her that if I found a naturally talkative woman— she was also the bartender and liked to engage with the customers— just a bit of dilation therapy could get her talking endlessly, in this case about the virtues of certain lambic beers she was concocting. Later after making her come I let her taste an amuse bouche of my strong brew and made sure she enjoyed the unique gourmet adventure.

There was Archana, a newly tenured professor in one of the medical departments, that I met at an intramural conference. I saw her give her presentation, understood nothing of it, but went up later and asked a dumb question. She was interesting for multiple reasons, not least because she was able to resist me for a while. We went for coffee and, like Billy, she talked and talked. And although I did my best (at the TK level I'd reached at this time) to stimulate her both high and low, I had to actually set up a date with her.

That was great in its own way. We met for dinner, during which I tingled her alternately with dilating her. I enjoyed how flustered I could make her while she tried to explain her specialty, which was hormones and the blood-brain barrier. Re our own hormones, we skipped dessert and went straight back to my place, where she was all over me. Not only did I discover the joys of Indian pussy; afterwards in bed the verbal intercourse we'd shared before the sexual kind got me thinking. I turned to her as she lay exhausted next to me (I was learning quickly how to make a woman come over and over) and visualized areas inside her skull. I thought I knew neural anatomy quite well, in theory. I tried to vibrate her pleasure center, just to give her a bit more of what she liked.

Big mistake. Maybe I was off target. She immediately sat up, holding her head, and actually cried out. Oops. Instant migraine. She got up and dressed, begging forgiveness, but she had to get home right away for some medicine.

After that I experimented in a more controlled fashion. I studied the latest brain maps, then armed with my knowledge I performed some (gentle) manipulations of random women. Libraries were ideal because everyone there was quiet and sitting still. Targeting was simple and reactions were easy to read. Headaches were all too easy; but I could cause other effects: blurred vision, auditory hallucinations of some kind that made people look around, startled. I even made one unfortunate subject sneeze.

I especially remember Hanna. That's the name I gave her. I never learned her real name, but she could have been Rihanna's younger sister, clear caramel complexion, sexy shoulders, big beautiful eyes, the works. Hanna worked in the university's main library. If there was a single word to describe Hanna it would have to be "meek", the opposite of her famous lookalike. Sitting at her desk near the elevators she radiated shyness. I watched her help students and faculty, always with her eyes downcast, always talking in a low voice, even for a library, that forced the listeners to lean over the desk to make out her words. An irresistible urge grew in me to light a fire under the delightful, bouncing ass she showed when she walked into the stacks pushing a cart of books, to help her truly understand what a gorgeous woman she was and to be proud of her beauty. Or at least get into her panties.

I stayed close when she was in the stacks and alone, close enough to reach out and stimulate her, but out of sight. From around the end of the shelves I could watch the effect I had on her. At the time I could turn a woman on at a distance but I had to touch to cause an orgasm. I could see her lean against the stack for balance, one hand on her crotch, as I did her. Her expression, viewed in profile, was a mixture of confusion and pleasure. But I couldn't push her over the edge.

Over several library visits, while I was improving my skills on other visitors, I made sure I did her in the stacks. It must have been extremely frustrating for her and I felt bad. At last, one time just before closing when no one else was around, I went to her. She was shocked and embarrassed, of course, because I'd just given her a particularly intense and long jolt that she was still struggling to recover from. She couldn't know I was the cause of her erotic difficulty. She tried to say something in her diffident way, her vision bouncing everywhere but me, probably that she was sorry. I put a finger to her lips to shush her. And my hand on her crotch.

The Administration must have had a dress code, because none of the help wore jeans, which at the time was a thick barrier to my emerging power. Her pants were a soft cotton, modest of course, but did not offer her any protection from me. She jerked and made gurgling sounds, doing her best not to yell. We were in a library, after all. Her hands happened to be on the book cart or she might have fallen over. Her eyes squeezed shut, her thighs squeezed my fingers, she rose up on her toes, and, standing between histories of Rome and analyses of the Cold War, with a nearly voiceless expulsion of all the air in her lungs, she came.