Focustunes Ch 02

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

To all who left a comment and a review: I appreciate your kindness.

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I lived about a half-hour's drive from campus, which was a good length for podcasts. Also a good length for major freakouts, I discovered. I strangled the steering wheel as I drove, tapping 15, 20 mph over the speed limit in my mindlessness. The highway was pretty empty and a straight shot to the suburbs, so autopilot wasn't too hard.

After learning I had somehow called Miranda, and

had still been on the phone with Miranda

, I had hung up and sprinted to my car, as if fleeing the scene would somehow help. Through my drive, I'd been building a timeline of events to understand when I had called her, and what that call had potentially done. As best as I could tell, I called her before I entered the bathroom -- maybe when I was fumbling with my phone in my pocket, or opening it to access the spank bank -- and I had never noticed the line was hot in my raging horniness.

I wasn't a very responsible public masturbator. Sue me. (Please don't.)

Miranda had clearly picked up and heard...enough. I tend to mutter to myself as I jack off -- dialogue helps me get over the edge, okay? -- and it's not like I had a reason to worry about eavesdroppers. She had known what I was doing in the bathroom.

But her knowledge didn't explain her participation, and it definitely didn't explain her enthusiasm. Why didn't she just hang up and bury that unfortunate blunder deep, deep down, where her memory would never find it again? She wanted to suck my cock -- she told me like six times -- and she had taken my compromising position as an opportunity to do it.

That was fucking weird!

I considered the likelihood that Miranda had a raging oral fetish she exercised on all of the men in her life as I finished the drive, judging it as "extremely unlikely but not impossible" as I pulled into my driveway. My house was dark, empty -- always was in the evenings. My dad was an overnight orderly at a healthcare facility in the city seven nights a week, and worked day shifts for a couple of landscaping contractors whenever he could get them. His love language was not so much quality time as it was making sure there was food in our fridge, and that was fine by me.

It was just us two back then. I didn't remember Mom and Dad didn't want to. We sometimes talked about her when one or both of us was drunk; I was pissed at her, but he got why she left, though he never really elaborated on why. We'd usually start yelling at each other, drink some more, and fall asleep -- that was okay, too. He ran one dogged sprint back and forth between paycheck and bill; I bent underneath the crushing weight of expectation, ever fearful that one misstep would yank my scholarship and sink both of our brighter futures. Sometimes we just needed to drink and blame somebody else with our outside voices.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped it as I made a sandwich for a late dinner. Dad knew I drank and didn't really care so long as I didn't drive, and with the money we had both invested in that fucking car -- a hatchback 2007 Focus, rusting along the bottom and obstinately veering to the left no matter our best efforts -- I wasn't going to make that mistake. I deposited my tutoring money into our giant turtle dish on the kitchen table, holding a $20 for myself for gas and food. The turtle's careful stewardship of our funds kept the lights on and A/C running; Dad's heart insured and the internet functional, if a bit lethargic -- he was a turtle after all. His derpy face kinda looked like post-Watergate Richard Nixon, so we called him Slick Rick.

That night, I wondered how you were supposed to ask someone

why

they suddenly wanted to sprint to third base after consistently denying you an at-bat. That was really the question here. That -- and if Miranda really

was

down for similar soirees in the future, as she had intimated earlier. I wasn't comfortable with answering the second question until I knew the answer to the first. I didn't want to look a gift dicksucker in the mouth, as it were, but I bet blowjobs felt even better when you understood why you were getting them.

Still felt pretty good the first way, I guess. I fell asleep that night with thoughts of Miranda's cum-streaked face, her fingers between her smile as she sucked them clean.

-----

...and I woke up with a massive hard-on. Surprise, surprise. After dealing with it the best way I knew how -- once again without needing any visual aids -- I started my morning. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I stopped and chuckled to myself, perplexed that I was so externally consistent despite my inner change.

I'm realizing now I never did the whole fucking "just your average guy" thing that they do in these stories. Here goes.

I'm Ben. Last name? Probably not the best idea to give you that. Shorter than average, thinner than average, so I guess the average thing doesn't hold up. Previous romantic partners have said my glasses are cute and my jokes are funny, so I lean into that. I don't exactly know what I'm doing with my hair on any given day, but it's brown and shaggy. Can't grow a beard yet and not sure I would if I could -- I have a round, babyish face. My smile has been described as "arrogant" and my body as "wiry." My dick has never been described, and I'm not planning on starting that here. It's just a dick.

My dad was K.O.'ed and I had a mission, so I grabbed breakfast to go and called Miranda from the car. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hey Ben!" She huffed a hello -- I'm sure she was on the treadmill, wrapped only in a sports bra and matching leggings, shining with exertion. "What's up?"

"I want to talk to you about yesterday. There's things I don't understand that I feel like we need to get cleared up before anyone's feelings get hurt." I had decided on this line last night, when it had sounded

way less

like a 14-year-old's creation. "Are you free today?"

"Oh." She sounded legitimately concerned. "Well, if it's serious, you can come over now. I'm finishing my workout, then I was gonna eat and clean before heading out with some of the girls."

"Okay. I appreciate you making the time."

"Of course!" There was a moment of silence, broken only by steady treadmill whining and light footfalls. "...okay, so I'll see you in a bit."

"Wait!" I said, before she could hang up the call. "...are you home alone?" I asked suddenly.

"I am." Miranda said coolly, her voice betraying nothing. "My parents are in New York all week at conferences." And then, with her voice clearly betraying something: "Is that a problem?"

"YES!"

my brain shouted.

"No," I said quickly.

-----

I made it to Miranda's house about five minutes faster than usual. She lived on a decisively different side of town than I did: at the crest of a long cul-de-sac, on a lush yard hidden behind rows of towering, trimmed shrubbery. The driveway pulled up to the front door like it was a legit manor, but I knew to wrap around to the garage in the back and knock on the patio doors there, so as to preserve the pristine integrity of the foyer for more important guests. The architecture was Gothic, the granite imported from Italy, the koi pond bubbling cheerily in the backyard garden. There wasn't a wall on the exterior of the house I would feel comfortable leaning a hand against, for fear of scratching the veneer of wealth with my chipped fingernails.

I had a long enough wait after knocking to repeat "no blowjobs no blowjobs no blowjobs" fifty times before Miranda opened the door. She looked and smelled fresh and ripe: her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower, her wet hair heavy on a loose T-shirt, the scent of her ocean fruit shampoo climbing out of the tangle. She had no makeup on, and I was struck by the still piercing greenness of her eyes, how naturally pink her lips wer -- hey! No blowjobs no blowjobs no blowjobs.

"Come in." She turned away, grabbing a chunk of hair and raking a brush through it. Loose shorts flickered around the contour of her shapely ass as she sauntered into the den. "

You fucking idiot. You're fucked

," my brain told me as I followed her in.

Miranda made her way to the wet bar, where an art history textbook sat open beside smoothie supplies. She went right back to work as I gathered my wits, searching for that one slick, suave opening line to break the thick layers of ice surrounding the impending conversation.

"Good workout?" was my best guess. Still without looking up at me, Miranda snickered, shaking her head.

"For a fast talker, you haven't been so smooth these last couple days." She deposited a cutting board's worth of strawberries into the blender. "Seem a bit...off-balance." She looked at me now, coy as ever. It made me mad.

"Okay, I get it." I snapped. "You're enjoying how far out of my depth I am here. Glad my sexual inexperience is so easy for you to exploit." I regretted it after I said it, but the die was cast. Miranda's face darkened.

"I am not exploiting you!"

"Yes you are!" In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose. "You can't act like you didn't know I was into you -- literally

everybody

is into you -- but you drastically changed the nature of our relationship by going down on me, and now you're acting like I'm the unreasonable one for A) being confused and B) wanting an explanation!"

"It doesn't have to mean--"

"Yes it does, Miranda!" Woah. Was I actually pissed about what happened yesterday? "I didn't sign up for casual fuckbuddies. If that's something you want, we can talk about that" -- okay, that's

fucking

ambitious chief, slow down -- "but our friendship and/or relationship is a two-way street. You don't get to make it whatever you want without involving me."

That got a moment of silence out of her. She glared daggers at me, but I held her gaze defiantly. Eventually she turned back to her cutting board, hacking into a whole pineapple with deadly vigor. At the sight of the knife she was using for the job, I began rethinking my approach.

"You're right," she said. "I wasn't trying to like, lead you on or fuck with your head, but I see how that happened. But like...shit! Fuck. Okay, can we not do this?" She looked up at me, exasperated. "I can't talk to you about this right now."

"What?" I was definitely pissed about this. "What did you think I was coming over to talk about? What is difficult about this for

you

?"

"Ben," she sighed, dropping the knife (good) and walking around the island bar, closer to me (bad, danger, flee). "I haven't stopped thinking about sucking your cock

since I stopped sucking your cock

." (BAD DANGER FLEE NO BLOWJOBS NO BLOWJOBS NO BLOWJOBS.) "So what's difficult about this for me is standing here in front of you, listening to you bitch and moan about how I blew you the first time, when all I want to do is suck it again!" The moment her tirade ended, her hand leapt to her mouth and her eyes bulged, stunned at her own barefaced honesty.

I was also stunned. And I was hard. Of course I was hard. Just hearing her say the word "suck" four times was enough to start my primed engine.

It felt weirdly okay to be hard around Miranda now. She had already seen me with the most compromising erection conceivable, so the privacy of her basement felt pleasantly normal. With that pleasant normalcy came some undeserved confidence: I reached over my pants and overtly shifted my erection to a more comfortable position. Miranda watched the exchange with bated breath, and I noticed her legs squeeze together, her shorts ending a few inches above mid-thigh. Her skin was a creamy white, soft on the eyes and likely softer to touch.

"No," I said suddenly, even though I didn't mean it. "I was

just

pissed at you a second ago, and I'm not going to let you...not going to do anything with you until I understand why we're doing it." Miranda squirmed at that ultimatum, her eyes darting from my crotch to my eyes, which were hopefully conveying my adamantine will. I recognized the need in her face from yesterday, but I was quickly crumbling. She caved first.

"Okay, okay, I promise I will answer any question you want, no matter how fucking weird or impossible -- I just really want to suck your cock first." Miranda rushed through her words, cutting off my protestation. "And I know you want to know why and I don't really know why but I know that just talking about it is making it worse than it already is and I don't think I can focus unless you cum for me so can I please just blow you really quick and then we'll talk." She breathed. "I promise."

It seemed reasonable. I mean, it was fucking insane, but for the context under which we were both operating, it seemed reasonable. I didn't see how two inexplicable blowjobs was any worse than one, so long as two was the hard cap. I also didn't see a good way to gracefully accept the unprecedented offer from the beauty squirming in silence just an arm's length away. I ended up shrugging.

"Uh, sure."

Miranda was on me like a wildfire. She yanked a pubic hair out in her haste to unbutton my pants; if she heard me yelp in her heat, she made no sign of it. My pants and boxers were bunched around my ankles in one fell swoop. There was no silky sexiness or alluring theatrics of yesterday. There was just frenzied need.

Well, at least no intentional theatrics. After Miranda plunged to her knees and grasped my dick once again, she buried her nose into the underside of my dick and inhaled, submerging herself in the sweaty, sticky smell of my crotch. I can't imagine it was a good smell, but I remember the tension draining from her shoulders, the phantom of a smile dancing over her face.

After that indulgent moment, it was all business. I wasn't slick like the first time, so Miranda spent a diligent few minutes bobbing up and down over just the crown of my dick, pausing every so often to deposit and spread more spittle with her hands. Her eyes, when not closed in bliss, darted to mine in quiet confirmation that I was enjoying her ministrations. I was.

While some quiet voice in the depths of my conscience, that interminable fucker, still protested the unexplained situation, the promise of a discussion made this blowjob a less stressful experience, and I paid careful attention to capture mental snapshots should I never have this opportunity again. I wanted a crystalline vision of my whole dick down her throat, so I once again reined her in by the hair and guided her nose to my pelvis -- at my grip, she hummed in pleasure, as she had before. But I was disappointed by the result. The angle was bad; I could only really see the top of her head and the tip of her nose.

I held her breathless against my stomach, considering the situation briefly. I didn't know how to manipulate her so I could see those watering eyes, those lips pressed tight around the base of my dick. After a moment, I remembered her wise words of deepthroat etiquette from yesterday, and decided what to do.

"Look at me," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice firm but casual. At my word, Miranda leaned forward onto her hands, sliding off my cock slightly to lower her head and adjust to the new angle. Then she buried me back into her throat. Now her face was naturally turned up toward me, her green eyes bold and gleaming with adoration. Her eagerness to please turned my dick into steel.

I stared at her as she suffocated on my cock, capturing the image for future uses. She trembled and hacked a little at the lack of breath, so I eased her back, letting air fill the vacuum my dick left behind. She took one gulp and went right back to work, still conscientious to keep her eyes glued to mine.

"Use your cheek," I said as I thought it, my brain/mouth filter all but evaporated in this position of control. Miranda turned her head to acquiesce, my cock poking comically against her cheek. I thrusted a couple of times; I had seen this in porn and wondered how it felt. The answer was pretty bad, to be honest. But the visual was hot, and I took another mental screenshot. I put my dick back in her mouth and let her suck for a moment as my gears turned.

"Lick my balls," I instructed again, impervious to propriety now. Miranda hastened to respond, lifting my cock with one hand to access more of my balls before sucking one into her mouth. Still with her eyes on me, she found my cockhead and began stroking gently.

That was the combination of visual and tactile stimulation I was hunting. My cock and balls covered half of her face, but I could still see her tongue dancing over my sack every so often, her one eye glued every microexpression on my face as she discovered and recorded pleasure points with studious care. The steady stroking and ball tongue-bathing quickly pushed me to the edge, and Miranda felt the tightening in my scrotum.

"I'm such a needy little slut." On cue, she began rambling, as if I needed the extra motivation to come. "Inviting you over knowing I'm just gonna end up on my knees sucking you dry. I'm so fucking desperate for your cum I'd do anything for it. I'll suck you awake every morning. I'll crawl under the cafeteria table at school and take nothing but your cum for lunch. I'd wear your cum like a badge of honor to class if you asked me too, so long as it meant I--"

Again, even with two ejaculations catalogued over the last 14 hours, I thought I lasted a long fucking time under the circumstances. Miranda already knew my body better and caught the first jet in her mouth just as she sealed her lips around my cock, moaning with pleasure as spurt after spurt splashed against her throat.

I finished cumming with a sigh, content to leave my cock in its warm, wet home forever. Miranda made no move to expel me, her usually round cheeks made slightly rounder by the volume of fluid she had captured in her mouth. I figured she was getting uncomfortable, so took pity on her and slid out. But post-nut clarity reminded me to maximize the opportunity before it was gone forever.

"Wait," I said hastily. "Show me."

Proudly, Miranda opened her lips and extended her tongue, my cum immediately pooling over the corners of her mouth. Jeez, I had cum a lot. Was that healthy? Damn.

No time for that now. I froze the image of Miranda presenting my cum back to me and burned it into my brain, and only when I was certain I would never lose it did I nod my head in assent. The Ben of 10 seconds ago would have said "Swallow," but the crash from that confidence high was fierce. The doubts my arousal had drowned out recognized their moment to strike, and suddenly I was accosted again with the fears: that her parents were about to walk in the door; that one of the grounds staff was watching us through the wide windows to the back lawn; that Miranda had gone batshit crazy.

I looked down at her, resting on her ankles, eyes closed as she savored the taste of my cum. Yeah. Batshit crazy felt possible.

One of the side rooms of the den had a mini movie theater for in-home screenings, with big plush reclining chairs. I trudged my way over and plopped down, fully aware that my post-coital etiquette was lacking for the second time in as many days. I didn't really care -- I was spent, confused, and content to die with my dick still wet from Miranda's mouth.

I turned as I sensed her moving towards me, all evidence of our encounter removed save for a dribble of a wet spot on her upper chest. She looked visibly relieved relative to the wound-up sex toy that had gone Texas Chainsaw on an innocent pineapple bystander only a few minutes previous.