Telekinesis Ch. 01

She shuddered head to toe, the cart shook violently, books fell onto the floor. I can still see clearly in my mind the look she gave me when she was finally able to open her eyes, a mixture of shock and anger that she was being— well, yes, technically I guess I was assaulting her— invaded, let's say, but also showing me, her invader— she couldn't help it— the utter rapture I was giving her. I slipped away before she could regain any semblance of self-control to demand what the fuck I'd done to her. Not that I could ever imagine her using the F-word.

The next day I showed up at her desk. Her meekness disintegrated into embarrassment. I asked her to show me where the Roman histories were kept. She was scared, I could see, but I was dilating her. She weakly pointed in the right direction.

"Which one? I'm not sure," I countered. "What did you say?" Her naturally low voice had cracked.

At last she got up and led me. When we got to the spot where I'd done her yesterday she knew something was going on, but I kept up a patter. "I'm especially interested in ancient Roman sexuality. Can you help me out there?"

She couldn't. She wouldn't have been able to even if she'd been the world's leading expert on ancient Roman sexuality because I was giving her hidden pussy as much as I could. The woman in her wanted more than anything to yell out her desire; the good-girl librarian in her clamped down on her voice box, barely.

When I touched her down there she came immediately. I got to enjoy her very beautiful face as the big O forced her mouth into a big "Oh!" and her big eyes expanded even bigger and rounder. She half collapsed against me and gasped and puffed as the orgasm raced through her. It had been a quickie to end all quickies.

I kissed her on her forehead, made sure she wouldn't fall over, released her, and left again, making sure I was off the floor and then out of the building before she could return to her senses and find me. Or maybe call the cops.

I did her a few more times in the following weeks. I think I'd become a guilty pleasure for her. She actually changed her style to a short skirt over yoga pants and when I showed up I would just nod to her and head over to the Roman stacks, as I thought of the spot. She would show up a few minutes later. Her willingness plus the improved access to her honeypot let me take a bit more time turning her on and helping her to really enjoy what I was doing to her.

She would kiss me lightly on the cheek, then eventually on the lips, as a thank you. But all my fantasies of fully enjoying her beauty in every way were dashed. She wouldn't give me her phone number or any other way to contact her. Not even her name. All I had were those moments with her in the stacks.

That was disappointing but I got over it. Other women helped, naturally. But the real breakthrough came with Samantha.

Samantha was my ex-roommate's ex-girlfriend. I'd never liked him (he couldn't seem to remember when it was his turn to do a chore) and I'd always lusted after her. She was my type, when I still had a type, a small brunette with perky tits. Plus she had the dirtiest mouth when I heard them going at it through the thin wall between our bedrooms. I heard slapping too, sometimes, after which her curses got even louder. She was wild.

I happened to notice her on the street one day and followed her into a clothing store. She wasn't overjoyed to see me at first. Maybe it was just association with the memory of her ex. But of course she found me unexpectedly interesting. I mentioned that her ex still owed me money and did she have a new phone number for him? It was just something to keep the conversation going.

"That fucker? He owes me money too and a lot more. I hope he's dead from eating all that rat shit!" He was a biologist. Lab full of rats. As I mentioned, she had a potty-mouth.

Having found common ground we re-established our friendship over coffee. At first she said she could only give me a few minutes. She had a lot of work to do. Graphic design. A big project was due, meeting soon. Blah blah. But she stayed. She was, I recognized, a different kind of woman. When I barely tingled the general area between her legs she jumped. Okay, she was super-sensitive down there. Cool, NP. While I pretended to listen, all ears, to the story of her life since the breakup with my roommate I stimulated her in other parts not usually considered erotic.

"So the fucking BOFIs don't want me to change a pixel on their fucked up logo," she lamented, "And after all that fucking w—" Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, her mouth, a very pretty mouth, opened. I was playing up and down her sides and around her ribcage. Her eyes were drawn back to mine. "Am I— um, ah, boring you?"

"Not at all. BOFI?"

"Bunch of fucking . . . idiots." With a sudden exhalation.

She barely got it out. I'd just tried a small tweak to a nipple. Bulls-eye. That last word, I'm sure, had never been spoken in a sexier tone. I tried to think of some reason for her to agree to come to my apartment, rejected several stupid excuses, and finally just told the truth:

"Samantha, I've been wanting to fuck you for a long time."

That frank statement got punctuated with a new effort to please her pussy. Which caused another jump. This time I didn't stop, just kept doing my favorite thing to her favorite nerve endings. I thought she might, right there in the coffee shop, have a moment like that actress in the old comedy and yell out. She pressed her butt into the edge of her chair, leaned over the table and took my hands in hers, staring at the table top. "Fuck," she said, "Fuck."

I couldn't agree more. We walked/ran to my apartment, where she attacked me like a starving siren. Her knees and my pants were on the floor before the front door fully latched. Did I mention she had a pretty mouth? Which was also pretty cock hungry. "Fuckin' suck this thing to death," she choked out when she came up for air. Then back down on me while she fumbled her pants off. "Do me, fuck me!" she yelled and got on all fours right there in the entry hall.

I'd brought a few women back and done some things in the place but I hadn't yet fucked in the hall, paved in hard tile. "Come on, come on," she insisted. I got behind and into her as quickly as I could. "More! More, you stupid fucking bull, I said more! Kill my pussy!"

Okay, Sam, whatever you want, I thought, and realized I hadn't used any special TK tricks on her here. The insane horniness was all her. (Okay, I got her started in the cafe, but still . . . ) I hit that crazy pussy of hers hard, both with my cock and with my TK. She screamed. Wow, did she scream. And bucked and shook and kicked. "Yes, yes! Kill me! Fuck I'm coming! I'm gonna come until I die!" And on and on. Besides the potty-mouth she apparently had some kind of death obsession.

My pounding plus the continuous orgasms reduced her to a sprawling mess like a squashed bug on the tile floor of my hallway, her juices making a big puddle under her ass.

"Oh, God, God." She lifted her head up, exposing another, smaller puddle of drool underneath. She crept around and rose a bit to look up at my still glistening erection. "I wish I'd been fucking you all that time instead of him." She began squeegeeing my rod and I was about to come. "You are the fucker's fucker, you fucking fucker." Licking down my length to my balls. But no orgasm for me yet. "More, more, yes, do me again." She put her forehead back down on the tile and her ass back up in the air.

I did her again. I really wanted to slap her cute ass, a new desire for me. I suspected she would like it. Is it okay to spank on a first date? This wasn't even a date, so I played it safe. I entered her slowly with more control but making sure I pushed to her full depth. She began coming again almost at once. "Ohh, fuck me, deeper, more," she pleaded and tried to buck her ass into me. I resisted, continuing to torment her. "Come on, you fucking asshole! Fuck me, fuck me to death!"

"Promise me a blow job," I demanded, still keeping the same slow torturous rhythm. Something about Samantha made me want to control and torment her. She didn't quite get what I'd said, lost in her erotic daze. I repeated my demand.

"Yes, fine, Jesus fucking Christ just fuck me!"

"No, ten blow jobs."

"Yes, anything! Please!" Into the tile floor she pleaded. "Please."

"Too bad. I'm just going to keep fucking you."

I sped up a tiny bit, but I also reached around to press a single finger on her clit. That alone made her whimper and flutter. I increased the rhythm a tiny bit more. Her whole butt and twat and thigh area vibrated as if my cock were a giant motorized dildo. "Fu— fu— shit, fu-mmph," was about all the obscenity her nervous system was capable of.

I zapped her hard, concentrating all my TK through my finger onto her clit. I can't say she exactly screamed. It was more a drawn out keening ululation, and for a second I thought I might actually be killing her. Is it possible to die from an orgasm? That was not an experiment I'd planned to try. I backed the TK off a bit, grabbed her hair to pull myself as far as possible into her, and just kept her on a steady orgasmic cycle of peak after shuddering peak until she went limp and collapsed again.

I pulled out and sat back against the wall. I was huffing from the exertion and my knees were killing me from the hard tile floor. She looked like a drowned sailor washed up on a beach, blacked out or close to it, but at least she was still breathing. Only several minutes later did she stir. The first word out of her was, of course, "Fuck!"

And that was the last for a while. She crawled over to me and silently sucked my half-hard and soaked cock until it was clean and stiff again and then just sucked and sucked and sucked. I didn't resist. I didn't want to and there was no point in trying. I didn't ejaculate so much as just relax and let myself respond to her hunger by releasing a stream of semen that she gobbled as if it were sweet cream.

It turned out she hadn't lied. She really did need to get back to work for an upcoming meeting. She cleaned herself up in the bathroom as well as she could while I recovered. As I staggered to my feet she reappeared, gave me a peck on the cheek, and said, "I'm sorry I made you do that to me." Then she literally ran out the door.

I told her our next time together that she hadn't made me do anything I didn't want to and I'd just been teasing her regarding the blow jobs I'd made her promise.

"You're such a nice guy," she responded. To which I had no reply because "nice" was not a word I would ever have used to describe the way I'd fucked her. "I'm just so fucking messed up sometimes." She put her hands on my chest.

"You mean you're sexy?" We were at my place again. She'd just arrived and we were standing in my living room. Still with our clothes on, FYI.

She ignored my attempt to turn the conversation to something positive. "I know I shouldn't. But I get so . . . horny. Especially around you." I realized I was letting a little TK leak out. "So fucking horny."

"Isn't fucking horny the best kind of horny?"

"I don't know. Usually I'm a good girl and I can resist."

"Why do you think you have to resist?" Psychology wasn't my strong suit but I wanted to help her if I could.

"Of course I have to resist. I know I'm bad." Her hands slid down to my belt."But you are the sexiest fucking bastard ever and sometimes I just . . ." The rest of her followed her hands down. She undid my pants and that was the end of the counseling session.

I was quickly finding out that she loved giving head. All our sessions together were blow jobs, at least as a dramatic arc. Of course, each time typically included an entr'acte fuck that left her a blob of satisfied feminine protoplasm. Fellation first, always, then coitus, more fellating, more hide-the-sausage, rinse/repeat, and then at last a well-earned ejaculation in a throat hoarse from orgasmic yells. And truthfully, making Samantha come was at least as satisfying as my own orgasm afterwards.

So the personal side of my developing neuroscience career was going well. The professional part? Not so much.