2 comments/ 41604 views/ 1 favorites The Chemistry of Control Ch. 01 By: Karyn Gardenia Brandon Malek was uncomfortable. Something about the bouncy blonde hanging on his shoulder, giggling into his ear like a child, rubbed him the wrong way for the first time in almost a month. He wondered if perhaps he had simply been zoning it out until now, favoring instead her visual qualities. Things like tits and a toothy smile generally ran their course in a week or so, and having a personality that could go from strong in the open to submissive behind closed doors was something that could maybe land you an extra two weeks. So where had the last week gone? Why was she still here? He realized he had been slacking off on his girling duties. The classwork had distracted him. He didn't fancy himself the kind of guy who went to college just for the tits and the beer, and then somehow scraped by on the bare minimum of anything else. He was serious about his performance. It was the tits and beer that filled out the empty spaces while he was waiting for the lesser intellects of the world to catch up. Sometimes there was really nothing else to do. Besides, it was just one more way for him to prove his silent, modest superiority. He could outdrink just about anyone and walk away in a straight line. So while Ellen absently rubbed her left breast against his ribs, her left arm around his back and her right clutching at his shoulder, he thought his way out of it. They were only a hundred yards or so from the place where they normally parted ways for the afternoon. He would walk down the hill to Organic Chemistry, and she would go... well, he didn't know where. They didn't talk about her classes. He had almost asked once, then realized what that would actually mean, and the kinds of things she might say if invited into conversation. Instead, he had reached around and unsnapped her bra with two fingers, and they had gone about the next fifteen minutes in a different kind of exchange. It would have to be now, before something like that happened again. "Ellen," he said, as if he were stating his license plate number or birthdate. He had interrupted her. She had actually been talking about some other girl, but he wasn't sure who. "I don't think this is going to work out anymore." She looked at him with her Barbie-doll eyes; they were big and blank and hopeless. She blinked twice, then let her shoulders sag. "Are you serious?" "Quite serious," he responded. "I think we both knew this was coming. We're just kidding ourselves. You might as well go back to that heart you broke over in the computer science department. Looks aren't everything, you know." He meant it. She had dumped a slightly nerdy freshman with a heart of gold so that she could spend a wild night eating candy necklaces off Brandon's cock at a party. It was sad, but in a way, he knew that Ellen had liked the guy, and had only walked away because of her low self-image. Try as he might, he couldn't stop attracting that kind of girl. "Brandon, you're an asshole," was all she said before stomping off towards whatever class she had neglected to mention with his help. He allowed himself a frown, promising that one of these days, he was going to hear that accusation and actually feel bad about it. Organic Chemistry was spent in strict academic focus. The only moment he waivered from the prize was caused by the intrusive beeping of a cell phone directly to his right, where a friend of Ellen's called "A.J." was punching buttons, probably reading a message. The next moment we waivered was caused by her disgusted stare. He stared back, content to neutrality. The professor, Doctor Ester, was making an announcement about the Society of Young Scientists that would be meeting starting this very evening. Brandon had already written down the information from a flyer. When class was over, she finally locked her keys and dropped her cell phone back into her shoulder bag. She glared at him once more, mouthed the word asshole to him, and then strutted out the door. He admired her. Most girls would have taken the immediate opportunity to place themselves in his lap upon hearing that he was a free man. Then again, he suspected A.J. was a closet lesbian. No great victory there. "Brandon Malek," the professor coughed out, catching him at the door, "Congratulations on a job well done. I saw your term paper in the O.C. Journal this last week. How on Earth do you college students find the time for such genius?" "Time isn't the problem," he remarked wittedly, smiling back with shaded pride, "Sometimes we just lack inspiration." "I hope you plan to present your work to the society. It should be a neat clan if we can keep it going this year." "I'm sure we will," he assured his teacher. Even if no one else went, Brandon planned to go every single week. His face must have registered this desire. If it had been anyone else, he probably would have heard quiet mockery from some other students, maybe comments about someone being an overacheiver. There wasn't a peep. Everyone was moving on into their afternoons and their fleeting freedom. The inspiration he had been genuinely waiting for presented itself later that evening when he walked into the SYS meeting. This particular inspiration was seated front and center with her lightly shadowed eyes downcast into a book- an antisocial gesture he always admired in a woman. He didn't think he had ever seen her before, which was a good sign. It meant she wasn't a cheerleader, a sorority leader, or a Resident Assistant. Positions like these would have put her in the spotlight, and probably in his lap at some party or another. She glanced up briefly at the clock, and back down again. He was taken. He allowed himself a moment or two to stay at the doorway, surveying the room and letting it fill up. When he had the slightest inkling that John Feldman the guitar-playing ecologist was making his way to the open seat on her right, he used six long strides to put a casual distance on the competition. He pretended not to notice her for several more moments as John narrowed his eyes and sat by the door. When he did look at her, she was staring savagely into his eyes, meeting his gaze head on. He wondered if his surprised jolt was visible. She looked unconcerned. "You're sitting on my dress," she stated, a tiny hint of a smile curving one side of her mouth. It was both incredibly seductive and a total accident. "Aha," he proclaimed, rising to his feet and noticing the delicate fold of her skirt that had been pinched between his ass and the hard, wooden seat. He reached down to move it, to restore it to its place covering the honey-colored knee that had been exposed, but didn't get to it before she did. When it was back in it's place, so were her eyes- reading and scanning and taking metric tons of information into the mysterious cave of wonders behind them. He could not, for the life of him, get her damn attention. He also could not stop thinking about her beautiful knee. "My dear friends," Professor Ester announced as he made his entrance- too dramatic in contrast with his partner, Dr. Oliver, who had entered on mouse-like feet and taken a seat in a corner near the overhead. "I'm so glad to see a full house." It was a surprise. The year before, the attempt at gathering a society of college students truly interested in breaking science failed miserably, leaving the professors and two other students to shorten the meeting time to fifteen minutes and only once a month. "My colleague, James Oliver, and I welcome you to the Society of Young Scientists... and that means you. You are the future of academic journals, collegiate science departments, and truly ground-breaking world-saving research." John Feldman grinned like an idiot. He about got off at the mere mention of saving the world. Brandon knew what most truly wise people know when push really comes to shove: Science is a man-made tool, and the world isn't. How can one even claim to have guardianship over the other? The lovely creature next to him shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs and re-crossing them in reverse. She had let her book fall closed on her thumb and was watching Dr. Oliver rummaging in his fold-out file bag, one ear on Professor Ester and the other on whatever beautiful thoughts must be singing in the dark. Her attention was EVERYWHERE but on him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and leaned back into the inevitable whisper. It was a girl named Kristy...or Kristen, or Kirsten...something like that. He had judged her the winner of a wet t-shirt contest the year before, hands-down. Not only had it been the obvious choice, but being a complete and utter slut, he was well rewarded. The girl had stepped into the back bedroom, where she knew he would arrive to join her. Minutes later he had her face down on the bed, her soaked t-shirt pulled up to release her oversized tits and her naked rear high in the air. He hadn't played around. The contest had made him so hard that he, without a care for romance, clubbed into her like a freight train. He had fucked her so hard that she had stayed on the bed, totally spent, for nearly a half hour after he had dressed and left the room. Someone named Jim or Joe or something had walked in to see her laying there with her suffocating tits exposed for all the world and her freshly loosened pussy gleaming in the lamplight. He had told the story endlessly since. "Brandon," she whispered, "Sorry about Ellen." Kristen/Kirsten wasn't the kind of girl to hold a grudge. She was the kind that needed an experience like that to make her feel good about herself- to make her feel worthwhile. Brandon considered what he had done to be charity. He nodded, smiling in solemnity, barely even looking at her. He knew that somehow word had been distorted to say that Ellen had broken up with him, but he knew that for most people, that would be an obvious absurdity. It didn't concern him. What did concern him was the interruption Kristen/Kirsten had caused in his focus on the girl to his right. It was Dr. Oliver who gave him a shove in the right direction. "I think we should all get to know each other," he said quietly, like a first grade teacher. It seemed he and Dr. Ester didn't quite have their notes prepared and needed a little bit more time. "Please turn to the person next to you and introduce yourself and your field." There were some annoyed groans from the masses, probably because most people were sitting next to someone they already knew quite well. Brandon turned to meet his partner with a bold charisma, but faltered when she moved her book from her lap onto the floor and sat up straight to commence the conversation. She had unintentionally emphasized the curve of her body, which started at her thighs, ran up the length of her stomach, and settled in under her round, perfectly medium-sized breasts. She wore a fitted sweater that buttoned up the front, and had neglected to button the last two buttons. It was only a suggestion of cleavage that mocked him from below a tear-drop necklace that seemed to be the same shade of light green as her fearless eyes. "Well, I'm Maren," she said, sighing as if she had given up on rebelling against "Get to know you" activities. "I'm in botany." "Brandon Malek," he replied, automatically holding out his hand to her. She shook it with another half-smile and paused, expecting him to go on. He almost forgot to. "Organic Chemistry." "Ah," she responded, once again with only polite interest. "The Inner-Lives of the 3rd Kind?" He knew he must be grinning moronically. She had just recited the title of his term paper and then immediately turned her attention to something else- an acknowledgment that he had, in fact, written a published paper, but she didn't necessarily have a lot invested in it. "That's right," he said, unable to stop looking at the pout of her slightly shimmery lower lip. "Aliens," she said sleepily, and pulled a stapled stack of paper from her bag. As she bent to get it, the side of her sweater climbed up her waist ever so slightly, and Brandon was favored with a brief glance at more of this girl's honey-colored body. She pulled the sweater back down into place immediately and flopped the paper into his lap. Her blithe was like Everclear. "My argument," she stated simply- that seductive, twisted smile barely showing itself. It wasn't until now that he realized she was making fun of him. Though she had read his paper, she was turned off of his proposal to the structure of alien life enough to write what seemed to be a very complete rebutal. "I made this copy for you. I was going to ask Dr. Oliver which one you were later." He couldn't resist smiling. She was a rocket, this one. Dr. Ester cut the exchange short, directing the attention of the students back to the projector, which was now showing a list of students who had published work in academic journals. There were surprisingly few for a college of this size and prestige, but that was all the greater compliment to those listed. John Feldman was listed, and Maren Starbor, who must have been the delicious presence to his right. The rest were names of upperclassmen, he guessed, who were too focused to go to parties. "Congratulations," he whispered through the corner of his mouth to Maren, who exhaled but never looked at him again for the remainder of the meeting. -------------- The night before, as the meeting had come to an end, she had picked up her bag and stepped briskly to the door, where she and John Feldman had shared a pleasant smile and then both disappeared in opposite directions. Brandon had been trying to keep up with her, to say something more to her, when Dr. Ester had stepped into his path and patted him on the back with respect. "Sorry we didn't get to you, tonight, son. We'll have to do the rest of you next week." "It's alright," he said, wishing they could just do all of the meetings in one sitting. If they sat there for four straight days, he figured Maren might look at him for twenty minutes, at best. That seemed to be the ratio so far. He was sitting on a couch in the crowded science lounge, finishing up the reading of a certain rebutal she had written to his published work- something he was shocked and belittled by. Every argument she was making was sound and solid, and it made him feel like a fool. Though his work was just as solid and simply showed a different idea of possibility, her work seemed to rail his into the ground. He imagined the statements in her voice- that unyielding but polite voice of hers- and almost couldn't take what it was doing to him. He was in a fluster of desire and frustration. He wanted her to be saying these things to his face. He wanted her to taunt him. My god, he almost reeled with the mental picture of her standing over him in her summer dress, her hair in soft curls, her cruel lips in control of the room. "Brandon," said a child-like voice behind him. Ellen had sat down on the armrest of the couch, and was clutching some Espanol textbooks to her chest. "Can we talk, please?" What could he say to such a civil request? No, go away, I'm reading pages upon pages of insults that are making me weak with the need to go into that bathroom right over there and jerk off? This girl who is completely and utterly ignoring my charm and obvious interest has me totally enamored? "Yes, let's talk," he managed, instead. She slipped down onto the couch next to him, smiling with a hope that he knew he would have to crush again. It was the usual talk. She wanted him to tell her why he broke up with her, what she had done wrong, what she could change, etc. He did his best to give her the general excuses without sounding cliche. He just didn't think they belonged together, he felt he didn't have enough time to devote to her, he thought they were too different, and so on. She listened, but didn't seem to particularly believe him. Her eyes were welled up with highly controlled tears, and it was only a matter of two or three more words and they were going to come spilling out. He leaned over to plant a comforting kiss on her cheek- something that would either make her feel better or set her off into hysterical crying- and spotted Maren out of the corner of his eye. She was about to sit at the other end of the long couch with some homework, completely oblivious and unconcerned with him. He stopped his kiss before it started and froze, watching her settle into the couch, crossing her legs. Another summer dress, this one pale blue with a feminine empire waist. She was wearing no jewelry, and barely any makeup. She was a goddess. "Brandon," Ellen whispered sternly through her tears, seeing what had taken his attention. "You really are an asshole." She was gone before her statement actually registered in his mind. He was lost in thought. Maren turned and laughed softly- the sarcastic smile that drove him into tremors beaming at him across the couch. "Seems to be the mass concensus," she remarked, and glanced briefly at her paper in his lap, opened to the last page. "A little light reading?" "This is really good," he said, unsure of a better way to phrase it. "And I'm not really an asshole, you know." This last part had come out unplanned. She laughed again, providing a firm indication that she knew no such thing. --- He didn't see her again until the next week at the SYS meeting. She had taken the same seat, but this time she was flanked on one side by John Feldman. The seat Brandon had occupied the week before was still open, so he took it, pulling out his notes for his presentation to refresh himself. Maren was reading. John glanced over at Brandon across the top of her book, nodding his head in a greeting. Brandon nodded back, pretending that he didn't think the guy was a complete tool. It was a struggle to stay on top of his presentation when the time came. Though his speech was unbroken, and to the lot, it appeared he was delivering the whole thing effortlessly, his eyes kept catching on Maren. From his standing place at the front of the meeting, he could see her head on- he also knew that the slightest shift in her position would render him a perfect view up her skirt. He feared the repercussions if that did happen. Next, Maren herself presented. Brandon had taken the time the night before to study up on her published work so that hearing her present it would simply be a repeat of what he already knew- that she was a brilliant scientist and that he wanted to have her. As she showed some slides on the overhead, John moved over into the seat she had occupied so that she could move the projector back in front of his vacant seat. Brandon was watching the gentle curve of her ass fill out her skirt as she bent to retrieve a fallen slide when John leaned over and whispered into his ear- so low that he, himself, could barely hear it. "Lay off of Maren." Brandon glanced over at John's very serious face. "What business is it of yours?" he whispered back, immediately returning his attention to Maren as to cut off any reply from John. What was this guy's problem? Did he sense the competition was too great? Was his happy-go-lucky, nature-loving, guitar-playing persona not enough for a girl like Maren when there were better fish in the sea? He could hear John's angry breathing for the remainder of her speech, and was only spared when the overhead was removed and John returned to his own seat. If it had been me, Brandon thought, I would have stayed where I was and let Maren sit in my old seat. It would have kept her away from the competition that way. This guy really had a lot to learn. --- This sort of thing went on for a few more weeks. Though he predicted that no good was to come of his competitive relationship with John Feldman, he never would have imagined what was to come. It was like meeting the guy again for the first time. The Chemistry of Control Ch. 01 It was after a particularly interesting meeting late one Thursday night: the three of them were seated in their usual order, but on this night, Brandon had a surprising control over Maren's attention. For some reason, they were able to connect intellectually in a way she hadn't allowed before. It was possible she was just finally getting comfortable with him, and just beginning to trust him, but he didn't think a girl like Maren was ever terribly shy. Whatever was going on was something very deliberate, and it took him to almost the end of the meeting to figure out her motive. "It's really a shame there aren't more serious scientists here," she had said to him, practically right into his ear, in a husky whisper. Had he imagined feeling her slick lower lip brushing against his earlobe? He must have. If she had been that close, he would have known it. It must be wishful thinking. He bristled a bit when he saw her perform a similar maneuver on John, who had the decency to see it coming. He basked in the glory of it, all the while it was happening, and cast Brandon a mask of disinterest while she whispered something to him. Unfortunately for John, that was the only attention he got from her on this night. When the meeting had concluded, Brandon walked Maren as far as the back doors of the building, where they finished a short discussion about a teacher they'd both had and she disappeared out in the dark of the night. Brandon leaned back against the wall in the empty hallway, replaying her physical movements in his mind. The girl had something that he'd never encountered before, but it beat the hell out of him what that was. He wished he could have her on tape, so he could watch it over and over. "Okay, man," John's voice sudenly broke open the silence Brandon was spending in fantasy. "We need to talk about this." Brandon smiled and didn't budge from his place against the wall. "Alright. Let's talk." John came out the dark and leaned against the opposite wall, contemplating his verbal move. How could he ask something like this with any kind of finesse? "I really like her." "Aha," Brandon reacted immediately, seeing that this was as good as a white flag. John saw he had been beaten, and was grasping at the last possible weapon. "No," John interrupted before Brandon could state the obvious. "Listen to me for a second." Brandon listened. "Last week, she walked to this door with me. She even squeezed my arm before she went out, and said "Goodnight, John. I'll see you tomorrow," because..well.. sometimes we study together if there is time." John took a deep breath, seemingly afraid that Brandon would punch him right then and there. This was surprising news, though Brandon had no intention of punching anyone. He hadn't realized that his treatment tonight wasn't putting him ahead, but simply letting him catch up. She had been slowly building up the both of them. What the hell was she doing, anyway? And then it came to him. "You're right," he told John, smiling a genuine, satisfied smile. "It isn't right of me to take her away from you. I'll back off." ------------------------- Brandon's phone rang while he was getting dressed. He stopped in front of his full-length mirror to admire himself in full nude, pulling his towel from his body and hanging it on its designated hook. He answered the phone with one hand, and took his damp, freshly-groomed thunder in his other hand, feeling himself harden up a little bit. "Brandon?" a soft, dimid voice asked through the line. "Yeah." He lifted his damp cock against his abdomen and scratched his sack. "It's Naomi. I need you." Naomi was a particularly troublesome face from his past- one he couldn't seem to get rid of. This might have been due to the fact that he visited her dorm room from time to time to fuck her senseless when she needed some male attention. The girl was one of the biggest social rejects he had ever known, and yet there was something very ordinary and unthreatening about her. He liked the way she depended on him and basked in the glory of being plugged by someone so much higher on the food chain. He even cuddled with her afterwards if he had nowhere to be. She didn't ask for anything more. "Naomi," he replied with affection. "I can't come over tonight, doll." He cringed at his Bogart deliverance, but he could hear her giggle through her disappointment. "Why not?" she asked, pouting. His mind's eye could see her thin lips doing just that, and then he was again lost in the image of another woman's pout. "Because I'm saving myself for marriage and you're just so damn persistent," he responded, fighting a smile. Her confused silence seemed like a good enough opportunity to hang up. ----------------------- They walked up to her door from opposite directions, a feat both entirely coincidental and brimming with irony. Both were clad in jeans and pressed button-down shirts- the iconic apparel of the college male. She took her sweet time answering Brandon's knock, and showed up at the door in a white dress that neither had seen before just as John strolled up. She had a look on her face that stopped them both in their formerly confident tracks. She looked downright disappointed. "You two," she started, sighing in frustration. "You've joined forces. That takes the fun right out of it." John laughed, but Brandon couldn't. He could only raise an eyebrow. "And what if we have?" he replied, hearing John suck in a breath beside him. It had been weeks since John admitted his affections for Maren, which had of course come as no surprise to Brandon. She resolved to inviting them in, the disappointed look never really leaving her face for very long. They sat just as she would've wanted them to, at opposite ends of a medium-sized couch, with a space just big enough for her to squeeze in between them. She sat in a nearby chair instead, folding her legs up under her, and took a drink of the glass of ice water she had sitting on the table nearby. The water glistened on her lips and made them both immediately thirsty. It was nearly thirty seconds before anyone got up the nerve to speak, and it was John. "Did you invite him too?" he asked with genuine interest, as if he were asking what the space weather was like on the day of his rocket launch. "Who, him?" she asked, indicating Brandon and taking another drink. A drop of water from the outer surface of the glass dripped visibly down onto her chest, sliding down between her breasts. Brandon had to hold himself down for fear he might leap forward and lap it up with his tongue. "Yes, him," was all he said. The man lacked the bold demeanor necessary for a woman like this. She continued to look back and forth between them, waiting for a more detailed explanation from someone claiming to be a scientist. "No." Brandon took the initiative to take care of this nonsense once and for all. Never before had he spent months of his life living on every tiny half-second of attention from a girl and feeling like a piece of insignificant consciousness. Never again would he. "I just happened to stop by." She sat up and blessed them with the smile they were both deeply enamored with- the one that seemed to say Your Life is An Enormous Joke. When she didn't reply, John stammered onto course. "Well, she invited me." Her smile faltered, and for a moment she gripped the arm rests as if to stand, but then she relaxed again. "This isn't a competition, guys." "Yeah, man. Why can't we all just hang out together?" Brandon asked innocently. "Unless there was something you didn't want me to see." "Anyway," she interrupted, neautralizing the conversation. For the first time since she answered the door, Brandon was beginning to notice the way her white dress reminded him of a bedsheet. He thought she must be beautiful in the morning, naked, tangled in a sheet from her night of heated dreams. He planned to see it eventually. "Well," John began, and Brandon cut him off. Now wasn't the time for second-guessing. "I think I'm going to go," he said, standing. John looked as if he had just seen his own mother masturbating. "Alright then," she spoke, considering his beltline before standing to meet him face to face. "I guess we'll see you around." He walked out, temporarily in denial that John had been invited over and he hadn't. -------------------------- Brandon stepped forward immediately, bluntly sliding a hand behind her neck and pulling her forward into a rough kiss. He had planned to make it a slower, more dramatic, but his enthusiasm got the best of him. The apology had taken much longer than he had anticipated. He was making up for lost time. She was nearly crying with relief. "Oh, thank god," Ellen moaned softly against his lips. She could now be assured- falsely, of course- that it was her that he wanted and couldn't live without. He had given her a harsh kick to the pavement and been overcome with guilt. She was too euphoric to think that maybe he had just been horny and looking for a familliar bang. "Baby," he said, pulling her back far enough to stare deeply in her eyes. They were sparkling with a volcano of tears. This was all the indication he needed to go on. "Baby, you're so beautiful. The other day, when I saw you in that new black dress of yours, I knew I couldn't lie to myself anymore. You are a goddess." Her smile was big and toothy. He had to close his eyes for a moment to concentrate. She separated her lips to speak, and he cut her off in what he hoped would look like ardor. "Put on that dress, honey," he suggested, looking towards her closet. "I want to make love to you in it." She was on her way to the closet before he could squeeze his eyes closed again. ------------------------ Even though it wasn't Maren's round ass he was filling up with his pulsing erection, for a moment he almost heard her husky laugh. He closed his eyes and focused all of his mental energy on feeling her muscles tightening around him as he moved in and out of her in rough rhythm. The black dress pushed up around her waist was darker than any that Maren would likely wear, but she WOULD laugh at him. He could be giving her the pounding of her young life and she would still laugh at him as if he were trying to please her with a rubber duckie. Ellen wasn't laughing. She was actually crying. She had never had a dick in her ass before, and apparently it hurt. He would never be able to hurt Maren like this. What he was doing was anything but making love to her. He was taking out his frustration on her while simultaneously feeding his denial. So what if Maren was fucking John? So what if she wasn't? He had gotten around obstacles like this before. "Brandon," Ellen sobbed, trying her very hardest to make it sound like pleasure. "I can't kiss you in this position." "I know, Baby," he replied with no inflection whatsoever. "I don't deserve your kisses right now. I've treated you bad." With that, he increased his bad treatment to a quicker pace, feeling her ass growing hot with the friction of his invasion. He let his hands wander over her narrow waist and grip ahold of her, pulling her back onto his thrusting. She was stifling a scream that could have been murder. He let his hands climb forward to grip a wad of the black fabric at her waist. In his mind it was salmon-colored, like the dress Maren had been wearing when he had seen her earlier, stepping daintily over a puddle. He concentrated on the sound of wooden beads clapping together around her neck while he took her from behind, her hair falling in front of her face and shading her almond-shaped eyes, which would either be open wide or clapsed tightly closed. Next, he fought to feel the crackle of paper under his knees where he would no doubt have strewn his term paper about, stuffing her face into it as he went to town on her perfect little butt. "Brandon, stop," Ellen moaned, the power gone from her voice. "You're tearing me apart." The latter was meant as gentle comedy, but it was surely quite accurate. He was quite confident that a cock like his would stretch even the most experienced fuck-hole. He slowly pulled his rod from her reddening asshole, holding it in his hand for a moment while the cool air of the room surrounded it again. She collapsed forward, burying her face in the floor and breathing heavily. He realized that he could have fucked her like that for hours and never would have been able to cum. He was a cursed man. "I'm so sorry, Ellen," he said genuinely, apologizing not for hurting her, but for her inability to properly imitate Maren Starbor. He had used this trick before, on other women. She had accused him of hurting her, and so he would pull up his pants, fake a guilty quiver, and exit quickly. She would then think that whatever had gone wrong was her fault. This served two purposes.. he could escape and still look like an okay guy. Before he could do anything, Ellen's door swung open and a pair of excitedly talking girls stumbled in. He froze, watching Ellen's friend A.J. scanning his engorged cock in his hand and Ellen's ass up in the air. The other girl- a freshman, he suspected- was much drunker and still hadn't quite caught on. She had a look of overdramatic uh-oh that under normal curcumstances would have been comical. A.J. looked furious. Brandon took to his feet, feeling the life flood back into them as he stood. With one hand, he hauled up his pants, locking eyes with A.J. "Your friends are here," he said to Ellen, who had now turned over at the sound of the door. He knew she would transfer her emotional breakdown to anger at her friends and their inability to knock. She would blame them for making Brandon leave. He was several hundred yards away from her building before he let his mind register the events of the evening. He had turned down the sexual favor of one plain-Jane, gone out on a limb for a moment of courteous attention from the nymph of his very dreams, and ended up fucking the ass of a girl he was maniupating like a marionette. Her friends were probably trying to cut through her anger and console her. A.J. was no doubt reminding Ellen what an asshole he was. He hoped so. It would only make Ellen more pissed at A.J. He was really starting to dislike that dyke. If A.J. wanted so badly to protect Ellen, why didn't she just admit she was in love with her and get it over with? At least then he would have both of them off his back. He thought about heading over to Naomi's after all. If nothing else, he could turn off the lights and fuck her mouth, keeping her silent and one step closer to Maren's quiet domination. Then he looked down the hill at Maren's building and saw that her light was still on. If John was having his way with her, he would have full, illuminated view of her silky body. Still, he might still be acting his tool of a self and sitting shyly at the other end of the couch, sipping at a glass of water or talking to her about grad school. Then again, there was always the possibility that he was drizzling that glass of water drop by drop onto her hard nipples with his fingertips while he tongued her belly-button. "Damn," he said outloud, setting off down the sidewalk towards home. "This is too much." That night, he released his anguish into the spray of the shower while he pictured John Feldman being forced to watch while Brandon slid every inch of his eager cock into Maren's tight little asshole. He would fill her up that way, he knew, while his fingers played in and out of her pussy that would be just melting with need. Then he would turn to John and say "There's one more hole, buddy... do you want it?" It wasn't until that instant, as he was shooting his hot load into empty, steaming space, that he had the idea that could potantially solve every little one of his pesky problems. The Chemistry of Control Ch. 02 "You want total control," he told her two and a half weeks later, hardly waiting for her to fully open the door. Her face registered nothing but pleasant attentiveness. Her eyebrows came up for a moment, but her lips never parted. He knew she would stay that way forever if he didn't indulge her. "You like playing John and I off of each other the way a kid likes to control BOTH Rockem'-Sockem' robots, am I right? I just want to hear you say it." The corner of her mouth curved up in slow motion, her dimples finally coming out. Her smile was, as usual, patronizing and completely self-satisfied. Her dress was the one she had worn the first day he saw her, but she had on knee-high boots and a lace-edged denim jacket that gave her a slightly more rugged look. It did nothing to decrease her femininity. "Would you be uncomfortable coming in?" she asked with a flash of her green eyes, knowing full well that it was the last thing that would make me uncomfortable. She stepped back and opened the door fully, putting plenty of professional, platonic space between them. She knew that HE knew that she had done it completely on purpose. It was incredible what this girl would do to drive him crazy. Brandon stepped in to the very room he had shared with Maren and John a few weeks before as the triangle of tension had quivered a bitter note in the air. If not for the fact that she asked him to come in, he would have let himself immediately regret using the lame Robots reference. When she had closed the door and was standing within three agonizing feet of him, she gestured for him to go ahead and sit. He chose the couch, assuming she would take a chair, which she did. At least it was the closest chair, and he could still read her eyes- the only thing that really betrayed her in most situations. "You've come over to try to figure me out, is that is?" she asked him when they were both seated. "You think that I've got you and John in a fight that I'm controlling, and that I already have a winner in mind? Am I a child, Brandon?" Even though he knew she was feigning offense, and that she knew he was absolutely right, he couldn't help but smile internally at the sound of his name on her lips. He wondered if he could get it to come out louder, or maybe softer and out-of-breath. He wanted to have both, repeatedly, for days on end. "You're no child, Maren," he stated back, combining a patronizing tone with one of some admiration. "In fact, you're a very crafty, very manipulative woman, and unfortunately I've fallen victim." She shook her head in mock sadness, getting up to pour herself a glass of water. And remove her jacket. He thought she must have a terribly good immune system considering all the water she was ingesting on a daily basis. After a long drink, she left the glass on the counter and came back to him. Instead of sitting, she remained standing, towering over him. "Would you mind telling me what you've been a victim of?" "You know what you do to a man, Maren." She seemed surprised by this answer, as if it were bolder than she expected. Of COURSE she knew what she was doing. How could she not? She bent her knees and seated herself on the edge of the coffee table, directly facing him. For a moment, one of her knees slid in between his and rested there. It was the first time they had physically touched outside of a handshake, yet she had been touching him cruelly, mentally, for weeks. Her eyes were glued on his, and there was a fiery center to each of them that the water had not hindered. She pointed to a copy of the Organic Chemistry journal that rested on the bottom shelf of the table. "In your term paper, you described an extra terrestrial being that cannot think in the abstract... a being that can only understand an experience by actually experiencing it, am I right?" Of course she was right. She didn't wait for validation. "I'm starting to think you're the thing you wrote about." When he didn't answer, she slid both of her hands up over his kneecaps and forward to his thighs. She gripped them dangerously close to his lap as she made her point, "All you've ever done is demean women and torture their thoughts. You've made them crazy wanting to please you even for a second. I didn't have to talk to very many people to find that out about you." "You talked to Ellen," he guessed. Though, it could have been anyone. "Ellen wouldn't speak to me. She seemed to blame me for your lack of consideration for her." Her hands didn't budge. "But I've enjoyed teaching you a lesson." Her sly smile had crept back and there seemed to be some intention behind it now. "What lesson?" he asked, concentrating on suppressing the erection that he knew he could not think away. He had spent these few weeks trying to take control of his need, thinking that was the only weapon against her. He was totally losing it all over again. "I was teaching you what it feels like to be demeaned," she answered quickly. Everything was speeding up. She was close now. He could smell her hair and taste her skin from two feet away. Her lips were still moving, and she was telling him things... painting vivid pictures in his head that he had spent days on end erasing. Her fingers started dancing playfully over the swollen craving in his lap, and she had almost touched him when she pulled away and stood again. He wondered if his whimper was aloud. "Let me see it," she demanded, the edge of her lips slanting in that sexy, maddening way of hers. "Stand up." He followed her orders. At this point he didn't know what else to do. He tried to think about what she had said about demeaning women, and his paper, and none of it made sense. His head was so full of her smell and her closeness. He stood, unzipping his pants and pushing them down to his knees, where they fell to his ankles. His full erection held up the hem of his shirt, but she seemed to not even glance down. Her eyes were still glued on his. "I want you," she said, "but not nearly as much as you want me." She laughed an intoxicating little laugh as if it were a great piece of wit, then let her eyes fall to the hardest part of his body. Taking it carefully in her hand, she took one step closer and brushed her lips softly against his while she gripped him ever so softly, letting the pads of her fingers drag lightly across his sensitive skin. "Tell me what you've been thinking about," she encouraged, feeling him twitch in her honey-colored hand.