Focustunes Ch 03

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: I appreciate your kindness.

To the astute commenter who shared their concerns with the mechanics of FocusTunes and its effect on Miranda: I appreciate the time and thought you put into my story. I had left FocusTunes' mechanics intentionally obscured and they will continue to have unexpected side effects as the story goes. This is because, well, Ben doesn't really know what's going on or what his plan is. Unsolved mysteries are a part of that process.

With that said, I re-organized the next couple of chapters to give some notes on your questions in this chapter, with the hope of keeping an appropriate balance between smut and plot. Thank you again for your note.

-----

This was it.

It was...well, I mean, it was fucking weird. I was still trying to make Friday night normal in my head, but boy, we were already at late Saturday morning and quickly accelerating on a one-way ride into Fuckknowsville.

Miranda stayed in reconnaissance mode as I sat there, pants down, agape. Reconnaissance mode was the best way to put it: she just kinda floated like a sentry around the room. She perused a bookshelf for a while, tilting her head to read the titles as her fingers drifted over the spines. Her eyes registered me in the sense that they noted my existence and my features, but she made as much eye contact with my left knee as she did my face.

I don't know what I had expected. She couldn't have been fully, I don't know, fucking hypnotized or something -- she wasn't going to go into a deep sleep, I mean. The whole point of FocusTunes was improving your studying and retention, so you still had to be able to observe and obtain information. So she just did that, in this passive, floating sense.

After a minute or two watching her, I was fully soft -- tough to remain hard when you're skeeved out of your wits. My objective, which had driven me to

holyshitwhatamIdoing

ends, fizzled in my heart. This was really, definitely, unquestionably taking advantage of Miranda. She was vulnerable, and I was in control. She was putty, and her malleable form was in my hands. She was...

Fuck. I was getting hard again.

Listen, you can like what you like -- I don't give a shit. Feet aren't my thing, but boobs are weird if you start thinking about them too long. Ass to mouth sounds wild messy on a bacteriological level, but if gets your engines purring then what do you care about my opinions? Different strokes for different folks.

I like control. I don't need it to get off, and I want my partner to have a good time, but

fuck

me if I don't like the way the steering wheel feels in my hands.

My grip on Miranda's phone was white-knuckle, my dick straight as a compass needle pointed to the true north of Miranda's unaware ass. I knew what I wanted, I knew it was available, and I knew I shouldn't take it.

Then I did.

I quickly scrolled through FocusTunes -- I was halfway through a song called The Hippocampus Hop, which alone almost killed my boner. I didn't really know what to do next, so I decided to try and grab Miranda's attention.

"Miranda?" I said softly, as if breaking her trance wasn't my goal.

She didn't move.

"Miranda." A little louder now.

Nothing.

I had figured this might happen. Back in the library, my phone call had cut Miranda's music off, so I had to stop the music in order to get her attention. I was worried -- stopping the music meant she would slip from the trance, and I'm not sure how gradually that would happen, or what her mood would be like when she came to. Reassuring myself that she had forgotten the first incidental brainwash and would subsequently forget the intentional second pass, I paused her music.

Miranda stopped her sentry-like drifting, looking lost in a dream -- like a person who entered a room and forgot why they had. I didn't know for a fact that I needed to act quickly, but I sure fucking felt like it.

"Miranda," I said urgently, and she turned to me, but no recognition or emotion passed her face. She was still kinda zoned out.

"You want to fuck me, Miranda." AHHH WHAT WAS I DOING! "You've always wanted to fuck me, you've wanted this for ages."

She blinked once. I didn't know what that meant, so I just repeated myself. "You want to fuck me, Miranda." Another blink.

Emotion started to come to her face; energy back to her limbs. A small smile started to grow as her frame straightened out, her weight settling back onto her heels.

FUCK! I needed her to listen to the music again, in case I royally fucked up or I wanted to...uh...fix what I had royally fucked up!

"Miranda, you trust me in everything. Miranda, you trust me with everything, you'll do whatever I say."

I sped through the commands as she roused, her eyes suddenly brightening and locking on to my face. Then dropping down to my dick. Then back to my face again. They gleamed.

Her smile was knowing, sultry, and yet still somehow pure. With another lilting giggle she bounced over to my chair, throwing a leg over my waist and straddling my lap, pushing my back down onto the recliner with one dainty hand on my chest.

"God, I can't believe we've waited so long to

do

this," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness. She balanced herself on her knees and her hand, reaching behind her with soft fingers to find my cock and start giving it those little, teasing strokes. "I've been

waiting

to fuck you."

I couldn't help it. I grinned the cheesiest grin, ear to ear, like a fucking third grader who found the cookie jar on a high shelf. As I looked up at Miranda, she grinned with me, entirely unaware. The realization that she didn't know why I was so smug made my dick lurch in her hands.

"Someone's excited," she laughed again, the picture of a horny teen excited by a novel sexual frontier.

"I am," I said, my voice quivering in excitement. "I've...I've wanted this for a really long time."

"Then why are we waiting?" Miranda asked breathily, leaning forward and pressing her lips against mine.

It was a ravenous kiss -- horny teens and all. I had wanted to fuck Miranda for forever, and she had wanted to fuck me for forever since 60 seconds ago, so we had a lot of pent-up sexual energy to expel. I reached for her ass and squeezed two plump cheeks with force, relishing in the softness I felt through her leggings. She moaned at my touch, dropping her pelvis to start grinding against my stomach, communicating her need with animalistic subtlety.

I palmed her ass from all angles as we made out, again desperate for as many sensations as possible should I wake up from this dream, ne'er to return. She leaned against me more earnestly now, dragging her tits across my chest in a frantic rush to get as much of her touching as much of me.

I sat up, cradling her head in one hand now as I leaned her back. During a long and messy tongue war, I reached for a clasp on her bra, desperate to prove that I brought at least one functional skill to the table. There was no clasp to be found.

I pawed at her again, positive I had missed. Nothing.

She giggled.

"It's a sports bra, baby." She leaned back, showing me her chest. "It just goes on like a shirt."

Well, that was fucking delightful, wasn't it? Red rushed to my cheeks and my body burned with a desire to run. How many times had I played a depraved sex scene with Miranda in my head; how many naughty lingeries had she and I both pulled off her body? And here I was, ripping the back of her sports bra like a fucking Neanderthal.

I opened my mouth to say something; nothing really came out. Miranda looked at me expectantly, her fingernails slipping underneath the hem of my shirt and drawing light circles on my abs. (I have because I don't eat. Calm the fuck down.)

"Well?" she said pointedly, shrugging her head down to her shoulder. "Don't you want to take it off me?"

She sent me a pout -- an actual pout! -- and fucking puppy dog eyes, amplifying the overtness of her interest with a squeeze of her forearms and a subsequent bulging of her chest. I reminded myself again of the new reality, the rewritten rules:

she

wanted to fuck

me

.

She

wanted

me

to take

her

clothes

off

. Any mistakes I made, she would take in stride -- because she wanted to get to home base, and if previous events were any indication, she would do anything to get there.

I dragged my fingers over her rib cage hesitantly, slipping under the tight edge over her sports bra as she raised her arms over her head. I tugged. Underboob began to slip out, and from there, I pretty much threw caution to the wind.

Her tits dropped out in chorus, full and heavy and topped with tiny nipples, which winked at me as they bounced. Her boobs were

somehow

bigger than I thought, sliding away from her midline and overlapping her narrow frame on both sides. I'd seen more naked and well-endowed women on the Internet than I cared to admit -- Miranda put them all to shame, and not just because she was real. She was

stacked.

Miranda gave her shiny hair a shake as she discarded her bra, smiling knowingly at me again and biting her lower lip. I reached out and hefted one of those forbidden fruits in my hand -- God, this woman was going to have back problems, if she didn't already. I felt its weight slowly slip from my grip as I traveled up to her nipple, ending with a soft pinch on the erect nub.

She moaned theatrically -- it was definitely more for my benefit than it was for anything else, but I didn't fucking care. I dove in face-first, worshipping her tits with kisses and licks and grabs. She liked it all, but she liked it best when I raked my teeth over her nipple, so I did it over and over again, determined to make the authentic Miranda pleased with my performance even beneath the layers of synthetic Miranda I had skewed to my liking.

Eventually she got my shirt off, and we made out again for a while, naked chest to naked chest, my dick fucking throbbing for attention. She made her way to my neck and to my chest, nipping back in playful revenge at my nipples, biting my shoulders. As she traveled lower, the arch in her back became more pronounced, and her ass jiggled with every movement. I reached behind her and slapped it once, enjoying my impunity. She wiggled her ass at me enticingly, sending a smirk from my lap -- so I slapped her again, harder this time.

"Ow!" she said involuntarily, darting back up to eye level. "Too much there, cowboy."

"I'm sorry," I said immediately; but the expected mortification never boiled up. I knew with a music track and a word, I could make her throw herself on my lap and beg that I beat her ass red.

Not that I wanted to. Or anything.

"I've worked too hard for this to see you damage it," she said, magically turning the mood from awkward to arousing in one deft move, as only attractive girls can do. She stood back up from the chair and spinned around, pulling her waistband up to tighten the spandex around the form of her ass. More than ever before, I appreciated the flare of her hips. Yes, Miranda had certainly worked hard for her muscle tone -- but she had also flat-out won the genetic lottery.

She bent over for me now, knees locked, pulling her pants slowly down her hips to reveal a navy-blue thong, thick along her waist but thin between the heavenly cheeks of her ass. Out of instinct, my hand went to my cock and started to mindlessly stroke.

Miranda stepped out of her leggings with impossible grace -- I've worn spandex for track races; that shit is not easy to get over your ankles -- and turned to me again. She had a healthy blush to her cheeks and her chest -- some arousal, some embarrassment now, her arms crossing over her tits uselessly. The incessant want to fuck me, as well as her building arousal, clashed against the youthful fear of bare nakedness. Even for a creature as sexy as Miranda, I realized, there was still that hunger for approval -- maybe even more so.

"You look

beautiful

," I said sincerely, and she squeezed her arms closer to her chest, her tits overflowing into every escapable crack and crevice.

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course!" I insisted earnestly.

"Do you want to see me naked now?" she asked, coquettish as I had ever seen.

"Yes. So badly."

I realized as she slid her thong down her legs what she had done. I had committed multiple faux-pas in this session alone, and Miranda knew -- both from our friendship and from our sexual interactions thus far -- that I

hated

being embarrassed. There was no apprehensive bone in her body -- she was a sexually confident, a sexually

arrogant

young woman -- but she wanted me to feel as if she was as vulnerable and nervous as I was, so she played that part for me.

I was half-pissed, half-touched as Miranda straightened back up, naked as the day she was porn. I mean--born. Shit. Fuck me.

"Climb back up here," I said, patting my lap. She obliged with a smile, sitting behind my dick so that I could see it poking her in the belly button, lusting after its newfound home. She dropped a hand to it and began to stroke, but I picked her up at the hips and pulled her forward, so I could slide a finger between her legs and into her pussy.

She was wetter than any girl I'd ever felt -- and I hadn't been shoving my cock into dry holes, I promise. I'd gone down on and fingered girls like any respectable 18-year-old with no fucking idea what he was doing, but the best intentions at heart. Those girls were wet; Miranda was gushing. Her pussy felt like home as I slid a finger in, finding the ridge of her G-spot and curling my finger against it.

Miranda's gasp had no theatrics this time and I felt back where I belonged: on top of the situation. I kept up a steady but gentle coaxing, not knowing exactly what Miranda might like -- after a few pulses, she started to earnestly grind herself against my finger, her mouth sliding up to my ear. "Fucking go at it baby."

I kept at it, my wrist screaming in protest at the severe angle, the mind and dick threatening to cut my arm off at the elbow if I failed to bring Miranda to orgasm. And that I did, fingering her with reckless abandon by the end as she bucked against me, authentically mine, authentically pleased that she had given me access to her unspeakable body and most tender areas. After a crescendo of moans and coos, she came with a silent cry, her teeth buried into my shoulder, her hips shuddering with intensity.

She slumped in relief as she descended from her peak, finding my lips and covering them with kisses. "You should have told--" wet, sloppy "--me that you had--" wetter, sloppier "--good fingers--" a quick peck "--

ages

ago."

"I could say the same about you and your non-existent gag reflex," I said teasingly, stunned at my own confidence. Miranda giggled, lifting her hips and finding my dick with a grasping hand.

"As much as I love sucking your cock, I want to fuck you so bad right now." She moaned at the very mention of it. "Do you have a condom?"

Do I have--

Do--

Do I have a condom?

A condom?

A CONDOM?!

DO I HAVE A CONDOM?

C-O-N-D-O-M

CON. DOM.

"Fuck, shit, uh..." I looked over to the side table, IN CASE THERE WAS A CONDOM NEXT TO THE FUCKING COASTERS.

Miranda burst out laughing.

"The look on your fucking face,

fucking

hell." She dropped her head to the crook of my neck again, and I felt her slender frame shake with laughter. "I'm on birth control."

This time, I laughed with her -- this was the real Miranda, who somehow, sometimes, still slipped through the cracks of the programming I'd given her. I loved that flash of genuine Miranda -- she made it feel real.

"You dick."

"

Your

dick," she corrected with a laugh, slowly sliding her pussy over the aforementioned apparatus, the hypercharged head of which was barely splitting her outer lips. She leaned forward, breathing into my ear. "I would have let you fuck me anyway."

And with that, she slid down.

To this day, I remember how she felt. That impossible, inimitable blend of soft and tight, warm and slick. In my youth, I had idealized sex with girls and was eventually disappointed, as all young men were when they discovered it was a ungainly interchange based on unintelliglbe logistics that required studious practice and only occasionally included cumming.

In my youth, I had also idealized sex with Miranda; I had undershot the mark entirely.

She knew what she was doing. Fuck, was she built for this. She leaned her shoulders forward and arched her back, rocking her hips against me to slide up and down my length, gently but fully. All but an inch out, everything back in, over and over again with silky confidence.

I grunted in pleasure with every downstroke. Her eyes flashed to mine, her hair a curtain around us both, ensconcing our perfect little world.

"You like that, baby?" she asked me, panting the words in her exertion.

"

Fuck

. Yeah."

"Mmmh," she purred. "You feel amazing inside of me."

Thank goodness for my ejaculation-riddled day, otherwise I would have already gotten too close for comfort. As it was, I reached behind her and grabbed her ass, plenty supple so that I could dig into both cheeks and get a firm grip. Her tired muscles gave me some of her weight, and I controlled her pace now, pulling her even further along my dick before slamming her back down onto my length. She started to give yelps of pleasure with each thrust, so I pulled her further down to me, lifting her ass in the air so I could pump with my hips. I felt the desire to slap her ass with my thrusts, but placed that desire in an inner pocket of my brain for safekeeping.

As I tired, she leaned back on her knees, straightening her back with me still inside her. I could see her in her fullness now: hair dishevelled, blush spreading across her pale chest to the tops of her heaving breasts. She gyrated now, finding her softest inner points and grinding them against my dick as I watched her work.

She caught my admiring eyes and smiled a quick smile before contorting her face again in pleasure. I watched her brow furrow for a while more before dropping my eyes to her tits.

"Grab your tits," I told her. She obeyed, gripping both of her tits with small hands, holding their weight to relieve her shoulders from their bounce as she wiggled. "Look at me." And she did, her dark bangs over one green eye, but the other crystal clear as it watched me watch her, my eyes drinking over her clutched tits and tiny waist and glistening pussy before pulling back to her lusty gaze again.

"I know that look," she told me, still softly circling her hips.

"My look?"

"That's how you looked at me in the library when you wanted to fuck my throat but didn't know if I wanted it." She dragged her right hand's grip to her nipple, pinching herself softly, her eyes still on me. "So what do you want, Ben?" Her tongue danced over her lips. "I know what I want..." she continued softly, adjusting her tits now to push them together, as an offering to my hungry gaze. "...and I know what you want..." She squeezed roughly, white grip marks lingering in her tit flesh. "...I just wonder if you're gonna take it or not."

She had no idea how much I had taken already.

I wrapped an arm around her waist and rose to my feet, her legs wrapping around me and pulling, determined to keep me buried inside of her. She gasped in pleasure as I dropped to one knee, then to another, the sudden shift in weight and angle pushing me further into her. Carefully, I leaned her back onto her shoulders, her grip with her legs loosening as her hips dropped to the carpeted floor.