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Marvel would never make a movie about it, but damn if it isn't exciting in its own way. See—I'm one of the first X-Men. A real one, I mean. And my ability doesn't heal me or make me fly or give me explosive eyesight, but it's one I don't think any red-blooded guy or gal would pass up if given the chance: a mastery over the sexual arousal of others. It started when I hit puberty, and it made the perpetual boner of my teen years that much worse. It didn't take that much concentration as a high school sophomore—just a little thought to a dimple-cheeked, blossoming classmate of mine—to plant her seed of arousal, build on it, inflame it, and before long be enjoying her flushed face out of the corner of my vision, her sharp breaths, the two of us alone knowing that her horniness was building to a fever-pitch, her nipples hardening, her panties and skirt soaking through... And the teachers—fuck, that was almost hotter. Getting gorgeous Algebra teacher Mrs. Willets so aroused and flustered that she'd forget what she was saying mid-sentence, letting it burn slow for the entire period, getting her in fucking heat the entire lecture with no release, and being the only one who knew what was happening... I'm surprised I didn't tear a hole through my jeans. At last, one day near winter break, she put on a video and turned off the lights after being pushed to the limit, then sat down at her desk and pretended to grade papers as her right hand slipped down toward her lap. I couldn't see her hand moving beneath her skirt—though I've since imagined it hundreds of times—but I did see her legs stretch and shudder at the floor with her mounting pleasure, and the exquisite looks on her face were sheer porn to my imagination. As she neared her goal, she got so distracted that she took off her glasses and put her forehead in her other hand as if dealing with a headache as she picked up the pace, abandoning even the pretense of grading the student's paper in front of her as she rubbed herself behind her desk. Rock-hard myself under my desk, I pushed it further than I ever had before, hitting her with wave after wave of lust, as pure and undefiled as my hormonal teenage brain could offer. She was biting her lip, her nostrils were flaring, her arm was moving faster and faster... At last, she came, with an opening of her lips and a sharp intake of breath. And as she did, I immediately came as well, right in my jeans in class, the image too incredible and new for me to take—no touching required. It almost felt like I'd lost my virginity with her. I began pushing things farther and farther, sometimes to questionable levels. I even got detention after school on purpose one time, pretended to be asleep at my desk while watching tensions boil high in Mr. Demontague's office next to me, inflaming him and the chesty little student teacher he had in there from the college, bit by bit, by degrees, until they could concentrate on her training no longer, until he at long last bent her over his desk, lifted up her skirt and pulled her panties down without hesitation, and then held her breasts with each hand as he fucked her like an animal, her struggling to keep her voice down, cumming again and again and emitting moan after moan as I amped her arousal up to mindnumbing levels, until he at last spent himself inside her. As I got better, I could plant specific ideas—direct the fantasy. "With great power..." blah blah blah, I know. But admit it: if you knew at that age that you could liven up any dull lecture at will with a private show of some classmate's arousal, inserting yourself into her daydreams, knowing what she was imagining you doing to her, you'd have gone for it. Or, God forbid, enter the mind of that gorgeous cheer team beauty from Social Studies—the one you somehow talked into taking a nighttime canyon drive with you because you had your license and she only had her learner's permit—and fill her mind with no other thought than how good it would feel to slide your driver's seat back, to work her way in there between your legs and go to town on your cock, and how much she wanted to swallow every drop, but not before she caught your eye so that you could see her do it... Or to have her hungrily riding you in the driver's seat on your last night as avirgin, topless with the shoulder straps and bust of her uniform folded down, maybe even going through her cheers, syllable by syllable with every thrust at your request, cumming and cumming as your impossible powers gave her the first orgasms of her life as you dialed back your arousal to edge your way through it as her vice-tight pussy clenched with impossible pleasure over and over until you finally allow it to milk you dry in an explosion of pleasure... well, let's not get greedy. But yes—fuck yes. And that's to say nothing of the midnight invitation you'd receive weeks later to an in-process sleepover with two of her cheer team friends, one which would leave your cock chafed for days and make you a legend with their friends in turn, making sex less a yes/no proposition than Hmm... do I feel like a nice Italian brunette tonight, or maybe that shy Chinese exchange student?, before you pick up your phone to call your girl of choice and place the order. As I entered college I found more creative uses for this skill. My fucktard housemate—the macho, posturing frat bro who bragged about his success with the ladies—had permanent erectile dysfunction the whole six months he lived in the next room, courtesy of yours truly. On the increasingly rare occasion that he'd get a girl home, I made sure from my room that he had no hope of getting the deed done, then amped down his date's arousal accordingly until she left in disgust. He'd brought a girl over once, and was for some reason making the three of us housemates watch one of the Transformers movies, which he insisted were "just to a totally new level." So I made sure he got a raging boner everytime Shia LaBoeuf was on screen. I feel bad in retrospect—even if it was a really entertaining way to pass the time. Besides, I tried to be fair: I made sure that his girl got wet for Megan Fox. Not to say that I always used my abilities for evil. The guy upstairs and his girlfriend always used to fight, but when I heard one boiling over, I knew I could get the springs squeaking through the ceiling soon enough as they channeled that energy into a spirited hatefuck. It was fun to listen to their argument continue and then fizzle out: "I shouldn't have to deal with this. You know what?—fuck it, take off your panties—I'm at least getting something out of this." "Fuck you!" she'd say of course, though somehow filled with an urge to do just as he'd asked. "Just put them on the floor... no, don't try to kiss me. If I want your lips involved anywhere I'll turn you around and fuck your throat. Spread your legs." A quieter question from her I couldn't hear. "Well, the lube's in my dresser, and I'm not getting it. No, I don't care if you're ready. You're on my bed, in my room, and your job right now is to get fucked." "Okay, but this finger's going right up your ass, no lube either—" And immediately her rhythmic cry to the sound of the squeaking bedsprings. "Ow!... Ow!... Ow!... Ow!" Then: "Ow! Ow, fuck! Ow, ow, mmmh! Mmh! Oh, fuck! MMMMH! Ok, fine, punish me, whatever you fucking want—nggh!—but I'm not... Well maybe if you... mmhmm... mmhm... oh fuck, just like that, baby..." A few minutes of furious pounding later, and they'd forgotten what they were mad about as they teased and flirted in post-orgasmic bliss, as he ate her out, as they went for a gentler round two about a half hour later. They worked through it, went to therapy—the works. Saw them a couple of weeks ago and they were all smiles. I didn't ask them to thank me. [Part 2 coming soon if desired; it's a single prolonged sexual hookup] CCCMMMM [1 comment]