Authors note--You have met them. A person whose personality was so strong you could not refuse their every wish, a person who could stand under a tree and the singing birds would descend to perch on their hands and shoulders, a person so gifted that they find the solution to severe disorders. Napoleon was an example; an entire nation would follow him in battle. The great religious leaders had this gift and are revered thousands of years after their demise; Christ, Buddha, Confucius, Mohamed, etc.
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Our story deals with an incandescent figure, a geek of humanity. Let the story begin:
I was aware of my power early on. Men never stood a chance with me. At maturity, my ability to control others manifested and my ability went far beyond. Some people are computer geeks, medical geeks, or robot geeks. There are music geeks who, after the first few notes, can identify the song's title or the performer's.
I'm a geek of humanity. Specifically, I am an expert on men and their erotic behavior, fantasies, and innermost thoughts at their most intimate moments. I control them. Once in my presence, they are so mesmerized they must obey me; they cannot resist.
When I was eighteen, my mother, became aware of my powers and sent me to Madame Rochet Finishing School in Paris, France, a secret school for people like me. What did they teach me? My counselors taught me special techniques that bolstered my sensual powers, channeling my gifts for sexual interplay. I learned if one can control men's sexual energy, the possibilities are endless. Sex is the path to wealth and power, and I am only starting.
In municipal libraries, I studied every sex manual I could find, every filthy novel, and every psychology book that dealt with sexual aberrations. I had access to the locked cabinets where secret knowledge was stored. From men of all ages, who were strangely attracted to me, my probing questions would elicit their personal intimate experiences.
At first, my extraordinary beauty attracted them; my perfectly formed breasts, large nipples, and curvaceous derriere. Once they were close to me, my potent pheromones mesmerized them; they became weak in their knees and timid in my confrontation, pliant to reveal their secret desires and bizarre sexual experiences.
I am a quarter an inch less than six feet tall, my hair is the color of oxblood with a slight curl when wet, my legs are long and graceful, and my ass is full and seductive, my eyes are green, my lips full and rose-colored, my breasts are large enough to attract attention and yet not gargantuan, my ears are of medium size and lie back pressed to the side of my head, my voice is of mid range but decidedly feminine, my hands are strong and able to find the most exciting pressure points or chakra on a man's body, should I wish to cause exquisite pleasure or intense pain. With my magical grip and a firm squeeze of the scrotum, I can cause a man to ejaculate within fifteen seconds, sparing me the need for further sexual intimacy.
After my academic education, I attended a secretarial school, thinking this was an accessible entry into man's world. I was trained to be a competent secretary. I learned to type sixty words a minute, to take dictation in shorthand, and was proficient in court steno. I had no intention of holding only a pen or pencil. Instead, I wanted to grip penises of every size, from the enormous to the minute and every variant in between. The hairy, the bald, the long, and the short, and their intricate association with the testicles that hang evenly below the staff or, as usually the case, one ball hangs lower than the other, ripe for the plucking.
I was applying for a secretarial job when I passed Blind Jeremie's Pub near the Senate chambers in Washington, DC. I saw a sign in the window,
'Bar Maid wanted, standard wages will train.'
I paused momentarily, realizing that the social and political world infused with alcohol might provide an easy entry into the political and social milieu.
How difficult could a barmaid's job be? I walked through the swinging door, much like the saloon doors you see in old Western movies, and although I saw no one, I could hear someone moving around in the back room. The bar appeared closed. Was I too early?
"Hello, is anyone here," I shouted.
An old man shouted back, "Don't get your panties in an up-draught."
I sat on a bar stool, waiting, took out my lipstick, applied it, and looked in the curved bar mirror. My eyes wandered around the large room. The large U-shaped bar was divided into three sections. On the left was a sign, 'Mixed Drinks,' where there were hundreds of colored liquor bottles to serve the bartender. In the center was 'Shot Alley,' where single shots were served in frozen glasses. On the right was 'Beer Culture' where a wall of beer taps was visible, probably close to fifty, some with names I'd never heard of.
On the far left was the men's bathroom; the white door had a blue jockstrap nailed to the men's room door, and on the opposite side was the woman's bathroom, where a frilly red bra was nailed to the door. No doubt someone's idea of humor. I was to learn very few women frequented Jeremy's Bar.
A worker's entry from the back room interrupted my study of this modern 'bar-tap room.' He was rolling a sizable gray metal beer keg on a dolly toward the bar.
"And what the fuck do you want, dolly?" said the man.
"Thanks for 'the what the fuck.' You have a sign in the window that says, 'Barmaid Wanted'?"
"Yeah, so you're fucking applying?"
"Yes, if you don't mind."
"Any experience?"
"None, but how difficult is it to serve a pint?"
"Well, if you want the job, you'll have to show me your tits, and I can see you've got a good rack."
"My tits? Are you kidding me?"
"No, dear, that is the first requirement for working here."
I could see this line of questioning was exciting the man; his pants were swelling up in anticipation of viewing my nude tits. I reached out as quickly as a flash and grabbed him just below the imprint of his cock's on his pants, by the balls, squeezing as hard as I could until he dropped to his knees.
"No, sir, you will show me," I laughed.
He nodded his head like a puppet, uttering,
"Please, ma'am, you are hurting me; please let go of my balls."
I released his genitals, and I could see my unexpected reaction had calmed him down.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I had no intention...."
"Shut up. Now take out your cock and show it to me."
He slowly unbuttoned his pants and hoisted a long slender penis out of its hiding place. It looked more like a tuber than a cock. I took a photo of his organ with my iPhone."
"So when do I start working?"
He knelt there shaking,
"You'll have to speak to Henry; he's the boss."
"And you, who are you?"
"I'm nobody, just a poor worker at your service Ma'am; call me Jacob, ma'am."
"You can put away your that nasty dick Jacob; the next time you 'fuck up,' I think that is your expression; your discipline will be more severe."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for taking up time with me. I enjoyed our encounter. No offense intended."
"Though some were taken."
"Please, Miss, have a seat. Henry will arrive momentarily."
I sat down at the nearest table and lit a Swann cigarette, a woman's cigarette with a red tip designed to hide lipstick stains. I used to buy them at Sherman's Tobacco Store on 5th Avenue in New York, but I order online since Nat's closed. I miss the old townhouse where the sales clerk would put two packs in a bag and charge me for only one.
The bar air was stale with last night's spilled beer, Jacob's mop, and a yellow-wheeled bucket of cleaning detergents with a strong disinfectant smell. The morning sun had found its way into the dark room from high windows. The room was warming up, and I undid the top button of my blouse.
I had hardly finished half my Swann when Mr. Henry walked in. He was a man of medium height wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Jeremy's Bar, a soaring eagle holding a leprechaun in his beak. He had muscular arms and a beer belly. Henry quickly looked around the room, and when his gaze fell on me, he scrunched up his upper lip and snarled,
"And who are you? We ain't opened yet, girlie."
