Focustunes Ch 01

Author's Note: All characters are over the age of 18. Story will include soft themes of mind control (fucking duh, mate).

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"

here

" I typed out and sent.

I'd been in this library hundreds of times, and still I appreciated just how fucking ugly it was. Monochromatic, cubic, unimaginative. Just a hulking tessellation of granite and plaster, with taupe walls and taupe librarians. But hey -- I respected a hustle, and the architect who designed and erected the thing surely had grandiose artistic statements to justify the multi-million dollar "investment." Here's hoping he's on a beach with a cigar somewhere.

I'm not going to tell you exactly which library or which city or whatever, by the way. You'll know why later.

This library is on my high school campus, which is, like the library, sprawling and unattractive. It's a private school, meant to model college life, so they do the whole library/studying thing hard. I live where a lot of rich people live, and this is the school they all want to get their kids into -- the widest avenues to top universities and whatnot. I'm here because I tested in, which is, incidentally, also why I'm at the library: because the kids who paid to get in need help from the kids who tested in to pass their classes.

I sound bitter. Maybe I am, I dunno. I don't feel bitter. I was tutoring Miranda Plover today, and I really didn't feel any resentment towards her. Her folks were both doctors, so they paid well, and her dad has taken me to a Giants game each of the last two seasons as an extra bonus. It wasn't weird, either: Miranda and I were friends, despite her allegiance to New York teams. She was bubbly in a non-irritating way, spirited about learning even if it doesn't come easily for her. Her educational goal is a doctorate in occupational therapy, and I was the first betting on her to reach it.

She was also pretty hot, which didn't hurt. Didn't hurt her aspirations in a male-dominant field, and didn't hurt my enjoyment of her company. Shorter and curvier, with long brown hair and dimples behind a big smile, I knew the shape was one she worked for as much as she lucked into. She liked sweaters in the chilly library A/C; I liked them because they were tight over her tits, which were...ample. That's a non-gross way of saying it.

It was a black turtleneck today, tucked into maroon pants that gripped her waist and flared with her hips. She waved as she approached; I remembered to pick my eyes up.

"88 on the last test, bitches!" She cursed when she was happy.

"That B average is well and alive coming into finals," I said without mirth -- that B was hardfought. "What tripped you up?"

"There was a multi-part word problem where I got the first part wrong and I was screwed the rest of the way." She riffled through the papers in her hand. "And then there was a volume of revolution where I tried to do slices but I think I was supposed to do shells."

"Well, most calculus isn't going to pop back up in your life again, but choosing the right way to attack a problem will. Especially when we get to the final. You don't want to be wasting your time on the first strategy you think of when you could have just planned your approach. Brute forcing things can take time."

"Yeah, next time I'll go real subtle on the word problem, keep him guessing. He'll never know just where I'll strike."

"I just mean--"

"Head on a swivel, integration!"

I leered at her. She grinned at me. She had a nice smile.

We took a desk on the third level, which was usually quiet after dinner, and dug in on the next topic: multi-variable functions. It was predictably frustrating, slow-going. She unpacked a prepackaged vegetable motley with a branded super water while I raided the vending machine for Cheetos; we took over an abandoned study room so I could draw horribly disproportionate diagrams on a smudged whiteboard. After 90 minutes, we both wanted to die.

"...technically, it's ellipses all up the

z

-axis. Just, in this case when the coefficients of

x

and

y

are equal, it's circles." I was describing elliptic paraboloids to my captive audience, to little avail.

Miranda stretched in her chair, and my eyes traced the outline of her bra over her chest. She wore some heavy-duty stuff, and rightfully so. With a final lurch back in her chair, her boobs bounced once, and I gulped, re-crossing my legs in my seat.

"I think I understand most of it. If there's more to it, though, I'm not going to be able to get to it tonight." She tapped her temple with her pen. "I'm stuffed."

It wasn't really innuendo, but in my current headspace, it felt like it.

"I feel that." I checked the clock. "If you want to just keep chugging away at your assignment, I'll hang around for the final 30 minutes, be around for any questions."

"You don't have to do that!" She shot me a winning smile. "You've got better things to do with your Friday night."

"I assure you, I don't." I was swinging for a 'would rather spend time with you' angle, but didn't realize the actual implication until the admonition was hanging between us. Miranda, to her credit, waved it off with a laugh.

"If you just asked out Rachel, you would have something to do with your Friday night, you know." Rachel was another test-in at our esteemed institution -- mousy, sweet, motherly. She didn't have soft, round cheeks for the light to bounce off of; pink lips to receive a careful reapplication of gloss in a compact mirror.

"I would have something else, yes. But again -- wouldn't be better than this." Got the message across this time, but now it just felt hackneyed. Miranda beamed at me anyway.

"You're sweet."

"Nah, it's mostly cause you're paying me. This ass ain't free."

"And magic's gone." She sighed dramatically, reaching into her bag and fishing out her AirPods. "I'm taking you up on your offer though. 28 minutes of homework with my own personal WolframAlpha? Too good to pass up."

"Fair's fair." I gestured to her AirPods. "Since when do you have study jams?" Miranda, like me, always enjoyed studying to the white noise of the library -- though at this time of night, there weren't many studiers to generate that ambiance.

"It's something my mom worked on for a study, actually." She turned her phone around to show me the app: FocusTunes. "There's a developing field called 'brainwave entrainment' -- it's like training your brain to activate to certain sounds when you want it to do certain things. So this app has these songs you can listen to" -- she scrolled through a list of mp3s, faster than I could read the names -- "that are supposed to increase your brain's sensory response, make it easier to capture new information, get memory neurons activated before a test, calm down after a test. That sort of thing."

I sent her a sideways glance. Dr. Plover was a smart lady -- and pretty hot in her own right -- but she tended to get too excited about emerging trends in her field of neuroscience. One friendly dinner at the Plover residence ended in an unnecessarily detailed conversation about new pheromone regulatory drugs in post-pubescent males. Miranda had been wearing a pretty low-cut dress that day, too.

"Shut up." She rolled her eyes, plugging her earbuds in and selecting a track. "I've only just started trying them out, but if they help me get through this and the fucking transcendental movement in Scharping's class, I'll buy the premium version."

"Whatever floats your boat." I shrugged, reaching for my latest sci-fi novel. "If you have a question, just let me know."

I couldn't get through a paragraph without glancing back up to Miranda. I knew she brought up Rachel as a deterrent to me asking her out -- something I had only once tried and failed to do, after tutoring her for a few months. What better way to discourage a potential suitor than constantly pointing him in other directions? And frankly, I didn't so much want to date anybody as much as I wanted to fuck somebody -- you just had to go through one to get to the other. I don't mean to be crude, but I was a high school senior with two sexual experiences lasting a total of four minutes, with the intermittent "fuck!...sorry..." and "...are you okay?" comprising the dirty talk and blind groping in the darkness the totality of my memorable visuals. Those were both a while ago, before I was emphatically branded as a low rung on the social ladder. In some way, I suppose my Friday nights were spent with Miranda, or another from a glut of other malleable and eager fabrications of a lonely imagination, the darkness of my own bedroom, and a Kleenex.

I glanced up again. Miranda had her pencil eraser between her lips in concentration, her tongue occasionally darting out from behind it and wetting her glossed lips. That was enough for me.

"Bathroom," I said as I rose, making my way out of the study room while fumbling for my phone in my pocket -- had to give her a reason for the bulge in my pants. They were all gender-neutral single bathrooms for this modern school, so I picked the one furthest down the hall and slid in quickly. I had my phone out before the door closes behind me, but before I can even get to Reddit or Google or the folder buried in my apps titled "Catan Strategies" -- listen, it works, okay -- I realized I probably didn't need it. I'm rock hard as it is, and there's only one girl on my mind.

I tossed my phone onto the sink and ripped my pants down to my knees -- fuck, I don't know how she does it to me. She knows she's sexy, but if she were just overtly teasing me, I'd be as pissed as I am horny. It's how casually she throws it around with me now, how comfortable she is with me ogling her when she bends or stretches or walks or fucking anythings. It's how comfortable she is knowing I'm wrapped around her little finger.

"Fuck, Miranda..." I mutter as I stroke.

She's such a good fantasy because she's so effortlessly sexy. Erotic power oozes off of her curves, sinking its tenderhooks into the unfortunate males who watch her bounce her tits across their gazes, only to wag her ass in her wake. But in my fantasy, that easy sexuality is bridled, funneled, captured and stored and oriented and beamed towards me. All that she exudes passively, and everything she can muster actively, she dedicates to me and to my pleasure.

"You want to suck my cock, Miranda?..."

I see her on her knees now, in my mind's eye, nodding earnestly with her soft tongue extended. She leans her weight forward onto her hands so I can see her ass swaying with the rhythm of her head as she wraps her lips around my cock and sucks me down. Her green eyes never leave mine, locked in on my face, seeing my pleasure and smiling with success as she continues to suck.

"Fucking beg for my cum..."

I'm jacking off hard and tight and fast now, approaching the edge. I don't want to be in here much longer or she'll get suspicious, and she's currently on her knees below me, cupping her naked tits and extending her tongue even further, making puppy dog eyes as some expelled saliva from her blowjob drips down onto her nipples. She nods her head at me again, eyes wide and eager now. "Please cum for me, baby." She says in my mind. "I want you to cum for me, please."

As I start to spurt, I hear the door click open.

Your mind goes impossibly fast in moments of crisis -- especially so when you've just shut off all of its major faculties, save for the ones that operate your right arm and imagine naked women. A dam bursts somewhere outside of that lizard brain, and a torrent of information you desperately need comes rushing through. For example, you might remember: that you didn't lock the door on your way in, because you were so desperate to beat it, you little shitstain. That people have been caught masturbating before, and so long as it's not like, a kid or a Mormon, this will be life-ending only in an embarrassing sense, not in a criminal sense. That, contrary to what you believed for the storied duration of your masturbating lifetime, there are indeed things that can just

immediately

make you stop cumming.

It was fabrication-Miranda that made me start cumming. As I looked to the doorway in terror, it was real-Miranda that made me stop cumming.

We stood there for a second, my ruby-red dick twitching in agony between us, the first thick shot of jism plopped onto the tile floor. The neurochemicals in my body had no fucking clue what to do or where to go. Like hornets out of a nest struck by a toddler, fight and flight and fuck hormones zipped from the tips of my toes to the top of my brain. I stared directly at Miranda's face, her mouth agape, her eyes unable to wrench themselves away from my very hard, very naked dick.

"Uhh..." I generated a sound. Fucking 'Uhh,' but it was a sound, which proved that my body does have some capacity to act, to accomplish basic tasks, to begin to repair this irreparable situation. I suddenly became widely aware of the world, like a secondary dam burst as an aftershock to the first: Miranda is still halfway in the door, which means people in the hallway

could fucking see me if they walked by

; she has her phone in her hand, which

will make it easier to snap a picture of me and blackmail me into lifelong servitude

; she has not stopped looking at my dick.

"Uhh..." Okay, that's all I have right now, apparently.

I don't know if Miranda reads my mind, but she slinks the rest of the way into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. Good: Fire 28 of 458303 has been extinguished. Progress. Now I just have a way-too-real manifestation of my jerk-off muse in the bathroom with me, and my pants around my ankles.

Okay, that'll be the next problem. Pants. I grab my waistband and start to cover up. The only chance we have of a baseline conversation about this exists exclusively if I'm fully clothed. Not that we're going to have a conversation about this anyway -- there is no way to talk this out -- but it's at least a nice thought.

"Don't."

I freeze in place as she speaks, my pants just below my balls, who are considering halting sperm production altogether and holding a walkout strike after the shit I just pulled. I stare at her in total bewilderment. She finally pulls her eyes up to mine, and they're wide with desperation, just as they looked a few minutes ago when it was just my creation of her in the bathroom with me.

"Please don't." She said again, her voice breathy, her speech rapid.

"...please don't...what?" I said, which is an unbelievably fucking stupid thing to say, because she's obviously saying 'Please don't masturbate in unlocked public bathrooms, you fucking creep.' I start pulling my pants up again in recognition of that truth.

She leaps forward, her hand catching my waistband right between my legs. I can feel her fingernails on my balls and my shaft is resting over her wrist. This is the closest a female hand has been to my dick in a long time -- just as long as it's been since I've felt hot breath like this on my neck, smelled soft perfume like this tucked under my chin. Miranda's eyes leap to mine again, and I can see them shaking with earnest.

"I want to suck it," she says, twisting her wrist to catch my dick in the palm of her hand, squeezing it gently with cool fingers. "Please don't take it away. Please let me suck your cock."

"whatthefuck"

"I want to suck your cock," she repeats, smiling slightly now as her second hand wriggles below the first, finding my balls and giving them a firmer squeeze. Her first hand rubs over the head of my cock, collecting the pre-cum from before to slick her grip and begin stroking me slowly. "I want to suck your cock, Ben."

Fuck. My name is Ben. Did I mention that yet? Anyway.

I'm tall enough that Miranda has to get on her tiptoes to kiss me, and that's what she does. Her lips taste like bubblegum and her kiss is sloppy, tongue-heavy -- it wants, more than anything, to prove that the mouth behind it is wet and hot and willing. The kiss more than the words convince me that this is real, or at least, that the hallucination is really fucking good. I've been kissed by girls before, but none of them wanted to suck my dick, and none of them kissed me like that.

I don't think I nod or smile or move or fucking breathe, but Miranda knows something has clicked in my brain. She giggles and grins as she lets herself down onto her heels, then melts to her knees, dragging her tits along my chest and thighs as she falls. She never relinquishes her slow stroke on my dick until her mouth gets to cock level, when she flips her grip, grabs me by the base, and slides half of my length into her mouth on the first go.

I moan loudly; it's drowned out by her moan. Pornographic in its volume and fervor, it still seems somehow genuine, as her eyelids shut and body swells with pride as she bobs up and down slowly. The combined volume of our moans reminds me of that which I've forgotten so many times in the last five minutes -- that this is a

public place

-- and I reach over and snap the lock on the bathroom door shut. Thank goodness I forgot to do that earlier.

My dick has five bajillion nerve endings in it as a result of recent events, which makes my first blowjob even more magical than first blowjobs usually are. I can feel the modulating pressure of Miranda's tongue on the underside of my cock as she finds the base of my head and wiggles against it; my shaft thrums at the frequency of her low hum as she moans in bliss every time my dick prods the back of her throat. After one particularly adventurous bob, I make forcible contact on the back of her throat, and she releases me with a loud

gluck!

I look down -- why hadn't I been looking down?! Her pink mouth is in a little round "O", hovering not an inch from my cockhead, still connected with strings of saliva. I don't know what expression is on my face when I catch her eye -- what is stupefied mixed with blazing arousal? -- but whatever it is, it makes her giggle again.

"You want to put it down my throat, don't you?" she asks knowingly, in the singsong, teasing voice she uses when a calc problem stumbles even me up.

I gulp. I nod. Mouth dry. Words how?

"Well, you can do that one of two ways." She strokes my cock, long and slow, spreading her spit down to the base. "You can ask me to do it, and I'll do it." She swirls her tongue around my head once, her eyes smiling. "Or you can grab my hair and make me do it. Without asking."

For the first time, I become aware of my serious risk for cardiac arrest. My heart is flying in my chest, pummeling my rib cage, pulling blood from every vein and dedicating all of it to the dick artery. Miranda is so calm, so impossibly calm, smiling innocently at me as she continues dancing that tongue around my cockhead. In that moment, she's exuding her effortless sexuality again -- all too easily being far more attractive than any one person has the right to be. I make my decision.

I reach down and tangle my fingers in her hair -- it's silky smooth. Miranda breaks into a full, shit-eating grin now, barely nodding as she starts spreading more spit on my dick.

"Mmhm," she murmurs encouragingly.

I find the base of her head and tighten my grip, feeling the control I have over her head, her lips now bumping against my slit.

"Mmhm," she murmurs a little louder now, sounding almost impatient.

I push her mouth onto my cock. Guess I'm impatient too.

It isn't as easy as it looks in porn. Probably because her throat hasn't warmed up or something, I don't fucking know. At first I bump into her throat to another

gluck

and stop there, and immediately start panicking -- I'm doing it wrong, she'll find out I'm making this up as I fucking go, she'll get up and leave and never look at me again. But after a moment of...well, of brute forcing the problem, as it were, my cock slides past the invisible barrier and she bottoms out. Her nose dives into my pubes, her eyes clamp shut against my stomach, and my hand continues cradling her head.