My Unexpected Guest
mc; Mg; Mdom; anal
With a sigh I stand and leave the card table. Mind reading is of little advantage when all your company shares your talent; it counts for nothing at all if you are dealt only nines and below. Charles slides in to take my place, there being seven men in my parlor to rotate in and out of the game. One of the two teenaged women serving us tonight sees my resignation and brings me a newly poured brandy. Maryjoseph is the epitome of a buxom Irish lass and would be a terrible heartbreaker with her red hair done up in curls nearly as tight as her pubic bush below were it not that she is kept under control by my former student, the same who just assumed my place at the game. It is a peculiarity of our talent that the best way to study the control of others' minds is to feel the domination of another of our kind, and so the system of masters and apprentices has continued unabated to the present. For the evening, though, it seems he has loosened her reins somewhat, and I cannot fault him between the festive atmosphere of the New Year's evening and her progress in learning our craft. The would-be temptress crosses her arms behind her back, completely of her own volition as I can sense, the better to entice me to ignore the snifter in my hand.
She asks me outright if I will fuck her soundly tonight, with a throaty emphasis that makes "tonight" bear the meaning of "now." She wishes to know if I am so well endowed as my former pupil has recounted, she claims, and when I reply that she ought to have the measure of me well enough after our many years of meetings she coquettishly responds that those do not count because lately she has been "practicing." My wife, Eleanora, laughs at my discomfort at being outplayed by the copper-haired siren; Eleanora and I are sharing each other's thoughts across the house while she entertains the ladies in the drawing room. I know that the sexual games with the two young males there have progressed to greater degree there than here where the slap of cards and money has divided the attention of the men, yet I cannot help but feel it is still too early to indulge in any orgiastic entertainments. I am discontent, without a clear understanding of cause, and suddenly I am sick of the wafting fumes of cigars and I make excuses to get away from my duties as host. Maryjoseph pouts sexily while drawing her fingers across my naked chest, but her mood is undimmed as she turns to serve or service someone else.
I do not even stop to find my shirt and tie; I simply shrug into my overcoat before stepping out my front door into the half darkness of the street. New Year's night is well advanced, but so many houses here are as brightly lit as mine and the new snow reflects their glow so well that I have no difficulty seeing. The lane is empty, all traffic in my respectable neighborhood has long since found its destination and few will be out again until well after the clocks have struck the coming year. The fancy grabs hold of my brain that the loudest sound is from the few flakes still drifting on the wind, and I have trouble shaking it despite clearly hearing sounds of music and revelry from my party and from other homes along the way. Although I am often in a poetic mood of late, such romanticism fails to calm my unease. The midwinter's chill is bracing after the heat of my crowded parlor and yet I cannot blink away my malaise. Disgusted that I am displaying so little control of my thoughts in front of my gathered guests, I spin on the ball of my foot to return inside.
Did I say that the reflected light of all these homes has made the street visible? It is an illusion, for the glow only masks the pockets of shadow, and when I turn my face I suddenly perceive an unexpected shape crouched in the lee corner where two houses adjoin opposite mine. In a flash I send out my probe to discover who has been sharing my moment of ill-fated reflection: to my astonishment I find the telltale spark of an untrained mentalist!
All is clear at once: we mind controllers find ourselves drawn to one another; I must have sensed this girl without comprehending the import while ensconced amidst all my guests. Very likely the small figure was pulled as a filing to a magnet by our concentrated powers tonight. I hurry to her side. Her coat and dress are tattered, her stockings soaked and chill from stepping through the snow banks. Her huddled frame is thin and lean. Although I can find no trace of ill health beyond the numbing cold which threatens her feet and fingers, my alternate sense also suggests that she has not eaten well enough to grow out to meet her years as a woman-child ought. She has been lost in a trance of self-pity; likely she is the source of the unease that has plagued my merrymaking tonight. At my approach she leaps up, startled, and holds out a small box of wares.
"Matches, good sir," she squeaks out. "Penny a packet, good matches, sir, and I've kept them dry."
So that is her business, though she has wandered far from the commercial districts and public houses where she might find a tiny profit. I am pierced with horror to think I might have missed the signs of this fellow intelligence so near to my stoop and yet so far below me in station that were it not for her talent I should have ignored her totally. Perhaps in doing so I would have condemned her to death, seeing how frightfully exposed to the weather she is.
Yet she needs my aid more than my pity so I cannot stop to muse upon her misfortunes. "I have no need of matches, little one," I say, squatting low to look into her dark blue eyes, and her countenance sinks so far that I think she will begin sobbing in front of me. Her fear is plain to read: she has sold too little, and her ignorant father will surely beat her as punishment. She escaped him yester-evening, a trick I ascribe to her unsuspected mind ability, but in her current state she is far too morose to turn him aside again. She expects double tonight, not knowing my resolve to aid her in every possible way. For it is the rule among us that whosoever discovers a new talent shall have the keeping and training of that one; it is a grave responsibility, and rare enough that I had not expected the chance even though my first apprentice has nearly finished training his own acolyte. I sense behind me how my party has hushed: the guests have rushed to the windows to view the unfolding drama; I am grateful that my Eleanora has taken charge and organized to share my link to her with all concerned so that I do not have a dozen mental fingers poking at my brain and the child's.
"I have no need of matches, but you surely do," I begin again. I scrabble in my pockets for change. I have no pennies but I find a couple larger coins, which I pass to the astonished waif. She tries to hand me my money's worth all at once, her small hands full; I take only one packet, pulling free a match and striking it immediately. I urge her in words and mental pushes to cup her hands around the tiny fire. To forge a full link I must overcome her native resistance, and kindness will surely be the fastest means in this bitter weather. Of course the heat of one match can barely be discerned under the heavy clouds, but it serves also as my path: my near-foundling stares directly into the heart of the flame and my mind follows her gaze back into her consciousness.
I learn that she is called Betty, that she lives in an impoverished district across the river, and that what she most desires at the moment is to be warm and dry. Using my powers I augment the flame in her vision until it appears as a roaring hearth fire with logs crackling in joyous excess. The strength of my suggestion, my command really, is strong enough that her cheeks actually flush from the imaginary heat. The poor girl possesses few reserves of strength from which to supply true warmth but I hope to work quickly. The first match burns down and I drop it into the wet snow with a hiss.
A second match is quickly lit; now that she believes herself sheltered from the weather I can sense the dull ache of one who has only enough in her belly to continue until the next meal. So I conjure in her mind's eye the very dinner my esteemed guests and I recently devoured: a feast of ham and fresh rolls and beans and oranges transported thousands of miles from tropical climes. For the climax I produce a fantastic spiced pudding larger than her whole head. By now her eyes shine with unreleased tears of joy. I do not believe she has ever truly dreamed of such bounty that I take for granted.
The light of a third match reveals to me that Betty's deeper desire is for peace in her family, especially for her father prone to abusive rages. Her simple wishes sadden me. I know that this dream I cannot fulfill, except in fantasy, though I do long to take her for my daughter. But because of her talent the two of us will share a different sort of relationship; I cannot shelter her and dote on her as I would have done for a child of my body were Eleanora and I capable of conceiving. Still I will give her this illusion: a great Christmas tree standing in the middle of her family's little house, bedecked in red and gold ribbons, and sparkling in the light of dozens of clear beeswax candles. She opens a gift, in her vision, revealing a new white dress decorated with a touch of lace on the collar and cuffs and a few scrolls of beadwork across the bodice. I sense from her disbelieving reaction that she has never had brand new clothes in her life.
That matchstick quickly burns low and I am ready with yet another. Now I begin to show her my dreams, wrapping her up in her future as my pupil and my slave. I continue the vision of the new Christmas dress, showing a picture in her mind's eye wherein she discards her old clothes to try on the new. Her real body reacts accordingly, so that she pulls off her ragged outfit with the slow, jerky motions of the imperfectly entranced. Very quickly she stands totally naked and I dare not allow her to linger so exposed to the bitter elements. I open my overcoat and invite her inside, turning her gently to lean her frigid back against my nude torso. The chill of her flesh is so strong that it dims my incipient erection. She is nearer to death than I first realized: her acclimation to her struggles fooled my initial forays into her mind. She is lucky that I found her tonight, lucky to have me as a patron even if the price will be to surrender a decade of her life to my lusts.
I still need one more burst of sulfur-tinged flame before I can call her my plaything. Betty shivers in my embrace and through some intuition she senses my carnal intent. Her memories spill out, of the slapping and grunting overheard by night, colored by a truly childlike fear of violence, real or imaginary. Her body, though, is aged enough to receive my advances. I force her eyes to open to the flaming match in front of her and project my tableau through her struggles against me. I build her father out of her recollections, overlarge and dreadful, and she squirms in my grasp when she believes he has caught her. I do not relent, gradually transforming the man's features into my own. All the while the dream man is groping at her barely budded breasts and her lightly downed pussy. I fear the process is too slow, but entangled so deeply in the mind of another I have little means to keep track of time.
Distantly I feel my cock respond to the eroticism of my visions as the father-master figure continues to molest his daughter-slave. I try to feed my concupiscence through the link to my pupil but she fights my intrusion now. I grapple mind to mind, I nearly lose myself to the waves of her resistance. Then I feel a sharp tug in the rear of my awareness: all of a sudden Eleanora rides my thoughts. She rescues me from my mistakes, she reminds me of the nature of love beyond the physical, and wordlessly she supplies one of her memories to supplant my failed creation. It is the first time she and I consummated our passions, while we were each still enslaved to separate teachers. My wife's vision of me is tender, thoughtful, unlike the clumsy, trembling adolescent I remember from the same episode. I desired her and was afraid of acting poorly; seemingly for the first time I discover just how deeply she loved me in return and encouraged all my faltering attempts in our first forays without the strict domination of our teachers. It is thirty and some years since we married, two mind readers, and still I feel honored and amazed to know her thoughts.
Eleanora giggles and shoves my attention back toward Betty, who still shivers under my coat. I take her suggestion and use my wife's precious memory to charm the match-girl: no longer do I force my penile, male needs upon her but instead I fill her with a woman's longing to touch and to hold the one she loves. Now like the sunrise Betty's mind opens to receive me; her dream self stops resisting mine and kisses him instead. Seemingly in an instant they make love. The real child cries out in my grasp, and I know that she has come to orgasm while bundled with me in the street; it is the last opening that I need to finish taking control over her body. As a test I force the girl to turn in my arms and kiss me, her icy lips and nose reminding me of our precarious situation. "Thank you, papa," she says, out of her own feelings and not my will.
I pick her up bodily and carry her inside my home. In the interim since I left my house the dining table has been restocked to nourish our frozen foundling. I would have simply bid her to eat, but my darling wife has other plans. All the food is placed to one side while at the other rests a goose down pillow and a flask of whale oil. Eleanora sits, naked and perfect in my eyes whatever her age, spreading her legs on either side of the pillow, where now I place my little puppet. Then Eleanora grasps Betty's thighs and lifts them up so that her nether holes are exposed to the lascivious gaze of my guests. At my urging the waif begins to dine while Maryjoseph undoes my trousers and anoints both our loins. I wait longingly, for even with my power to relax her muscle it is some minutes, or perhaps more clearly measured as three slices of ham, until the buxom older slave has fully stretched our youngest companion's asshole.
I slide my cock in slowly, since it is her first time and nearly as rare a treat for me as well; she smiles as my pleasure is reflected back to me through her mind. After my night of self-restraint I do not endure quite so long as my years entitle me, but I am far too excited to feel any shame. My wife prompts my little toy to thank me, which she does around a mouthful of buttered bread. Swallowing, she comments that she can feel my seed trickling out and asks whether she might wash up. Eleanora replies that it would be little use, since our guests will have their use of her bottom as well. I know that not all of them will avail themselves of the opportunity, but it will certainly be a good start for our revels.
I trust all my guests, even the other apprentices, are skilled enough manipulators to be sure Betty orgasms many times. I do ask them to reserve her pussy for me and my wife at a more intimate date. Although by custom Betty is mine alone to control and command, I could hardly fail to share everything with my beloved after the aid she has given to me tonight and for the greater part of my life. Sometimes, as now, I marvel that she has never been jealous of my roving cock: yet she has always been better at looking over my metaphorical shoulder than I hers and I know for a fact that she is a dedicated voyeur. Possibly just the act of holding the waif in position while watching Charles jump in like an eager puppy to take my place is fulfillment enough. But in case it is not, I have an earlier request from a well endowed redhead that I no longer wish to decline. The clock chimes an hour still left before midnight, and I decide that a few good romps will be a fine way to send off the old year and inaugurate the new.
