It happens to everyone. That moment you glance across the crowded room, and suddenly your pupils lock with a sinful pair of azure eyes. The stranger's razor cheekbones highlight the devilish grin sliding into place. He holds a whisky glass or did before the rich golden brown color vanishes down his throat. He strides in your direction, stepping to the music. Unconsciously, of course. He can't help himself. Man's got a sense of rhythm that infuses his being. And now he's so close you can almost smell him. Heart skips a beat, the brain starts to race, and some electric current causes your eyes to flutter in a strokelike fashion.

"Julia," he says. "Christ, it's been forever. Glad for a friendly face."

You open your mouth and, using every ounce of your feminine wiles, say-

"Hey... you."

The name is there. It's at the edge of consciousness, the tip of your tongue. Buried somewhere under the lyrics of Nelly Furtado's “Promiscuous Girl” or Iceland's capital. At this point, fate can break either way. He might raise an eyebrow in that particular fashion when suddenly memories of Miserable Matty Myers from Southern Presbyterian Youth Choir are unleashed. Two years younger, but still, you shared music after your eighth-grade "boyfriend," Bryce flushed Matty's solo down a toilet. You were always sweet to the unwanted.

A kindness returned fifteen years later with a truly glorious fuck. No good deed goes unrewarded after all. You scream that name as he bends you over his king-sized Tempur-Pedic mattress. The sound of one calloused hand spanking your ass echoes while his other wraps around your hair, forcing you to face the mirror. He wants to see everything. The boy works through issues, plowing his childhood tormentor's memory right out of his first crush. We can only pray for that kind of catharsis in our own lives. You help him along with a little, "Oh, my God, Mattie- so fucking BIG!"
and-
"Christ, it's better than I imagined."
Then bring it home with a throaty orgasmic rendition of our choir's piece de resistance.
"JESUS LOVES ME THIS I KNOW."

Or equally likely, you could forget his name entirely and, after a few awkward moments of chit chat, escape to the bar.

Ok, so maybe that particular situation is kinda specific to me, but I'm talking about the moment. The second you see a person and know them from someplace... somewhere... but... can't entirely fix it. That was my life. That face at the table or the voice behind the corner. Hanging near the bar or sitting in a new class. Here, there, everywhere, it doesn't fucking matter. When I meet a person, I get this absolute certainty, we've already met. That the right gesture will unlock everything, and sometimes it does.

Not all the time, mind. Mostly my brain goes into overdrive, and I practice my breathing exercises. But let's say one out of fifty times, a name jumps out, or a story, or a secret. As if I knew them years ago like Miserable Matty. Except I'd never met them. It's this weird click.

But let me tell you when the connection happens, it's a breath of fresh air. Or better yet, the moment when a man's tongue works you so fucking close that you're vibrating. But still, it's not broken open yet, and the seconds stretch into eternal damnation. You're terrified it'll never come. So you reach down, and all it takes is one sliding caress for all the tension you've ever held to escape in a single loud gasp.

The gift emerged in high school as a constant tension in my chest, this dull pressure between my eyes. Mr. Thomas Crollenburg, my school counselor, said, "anxiety" without looking up from his desk. But it wasn't that. Anxiety doesn't whisper that he was trying to rush me out because of Rebecca Owens, a TA I'd never seen. Never seen but her stringy red hair and lavender aroma inserted itself into my memory. So did the anticipation to dismiss me so she could step in, close the door, lower herself onto the floor and crawl under the desk-

"Julia," he said with genuine concern at my vacant stare. "You ok?"

..........................................

No, I'm not deluded, so fuck off right now with that shit, and it's not only me, by the way. This kind of power's been around forever. How else do you explain some of these people? Cleopatra wasn't cute. Seriously, Plutarch straight up calls her ratchet... well, in so many words. But once she started talking, once you looked into her eyes-- Game fucking over. A standard-issue nineteen-year-old Egyptian slut rolls out the carpet in front of the Roman Emperor; she's gonna get impaled. But Cleopatra... Nah. Even Julius Ceaser, son of Venus, becomes her bitch. They pop up all over once you start looking: Cleopatra, Faust, Nzinga, Rasputin, Crawley, Tongva. They are in every country and culture.

So who am I? An oversea's dictator or maybe a crime-boss brainwashing hapless minions? Pretty close. I'm a twenty-six-year-old political-science major paying for school with tantalizing photos to a delightfully frustrated thirty thousand followers and, more unique, as a hypnotist. In fact, the Hypno-hostess is at your service, available for addiction issues, confidence building, and the occasional party. Finding mesmerism was a lifesaver for me. It beats booze by an inch, drugs by a mile, and ties with sex for relieving the ache. Plus no risk of pregnancy.

So I'm supposed to say hypnotism is not how it looks in the films. It's a whole process, and they gotta be as into it as you.

Or that's what they tell me. But when I read the stories featuring Cleopatra, or Rasputin, or Morgan Le Fey... that's not the impression. It shows me there's more. You can unlock a power that bends the world. Desires manifest. Empires fall to their knees to kiss your inner thigh.

Sadly, that's not my experience. The client enters, and it starts with a little chit-chat. But doesn't begin until we begin eye contact. I tell them to breathe deep and then focus on the pressure in my forehead. Electricity dances over my skin, my voice reverberates, and I feel the link between us. Watch my videos, you'll see the moment it hits them. The pupils dilate, body slacks, and their soul becomes malleable. At this moment, I absorb more than an odd name or favorite color. When we speak, they become mine. Not only in mind where I summon memories or twist desires. But also the flesh where I enhance strength, breath, and body. If they let me, I'll remake them in an hour.

It's not as cool as it sounds. Day-to-day, I'm an anxious mess with perfect poker instincts. During the session, I'm a goddess basking in my client's worship. But afterward, I'm drained, covered in sweat, and ready to scream because that pulsing fucking ache returns with a vengeance.

But it helps. So I whisper to Alice, "give up smoking.” I command Bryce, "Each step on the treadmill brings joy." My clients always come back, finding new problems they want fixed. Self-improvement is a powerful motivator, but so is the euphoric sensations that define our hour together. Four regulars have confessed undying love, and in the case of one blond Swede named Hans (of course)  temptation almost beat the better part of prudence. But believe it or not; I'm a professional. No one has ever accused me of mixing work and pleasure.

And certainly not with a guy like Lucas. Sure, he was tall, real tall, 6 "2' or more but lanky. Long mousy brown hair covered his head, ending in a ponytail. Red cheeks peeked out above a thick earthy beard with blond edging that fell just beyond his collarbone. Thank God hipster chic was a thing for some cause he had nothing else. The blue flannel shirt with closed buttons was somehow too long and ended at his upper thigh. His hands were deep inside his khakis' pockets as he sat down on the couch I bought for these sessions. The rooms were part of a co-op thing, and Tuesday was my day at the office. This was a day I wanted to rush him out of the office. I had a hot date that night but work before play. So I sat behind a sterile see-through plastic desk belonging to a now-dead startup. Boy kept his gaze firmly in the corner of the room.

"Lucas, right?"

He nodded.

"Call me Oz the great and powerful. What can I do for you?" my gimmicky opening line.

At first, I thought he'd keep staring in that corner, but eventually, a nasally little voice emerged.

"Thanks for seeing me... I... uh... well like I said... I'm... well... kinda... useless…" he glanced towards my face, and I got my first look at his eyes.

A perfect combination of fire and ice, his crystal blue irises blazed across the room. My head screamed. Simultaneously, my throat dried, static traced down my spine, and an overwhelming delicious pulse erupted from my core. A flash that touched every inch of skin, but before I could finish my breath, it was gone.

Nothing. Nothing to indicate the powerful surge of lust that engulfed and evaporated within the same moment. I blinked and focused on the sinewy giant's guileless features.

"So, you're a lion looking for a little courage, right?" My voice rasped, and I took a sip from my water bottle.

"Like... it's... whenever I... try to talk... or... look at someone... There's this... weight. Like I'm tied to an anchor... it's um... ice cold. Water fills my lungs and... I try to climb out, but I feel like... I gotta wait.... and I'm tired. Tired of..."

He trailed off, and despair infected the atmosphere. The withering high pitched voice cracked with a pain that didn't fit the package.

"Listen, I'm not a psychiatrist." This felt off to me, and Lord help my career if this poor fellow did something nuts afterward.

"No... I've seen them... It's like... can we just try... please."

I hate whining.

"Ok, Lucas. We'll try. But I'm going to need you to look at me."

His eyes had drifted to my legs. Good taste, they were nestled in their most flattering emerald green business skirt with the slit hem for style and comfort. He startled, embarrassed, and brought his head back to look at me directly. I tensed briefly as his face returned to its pitiful resting place, but the flame was gone from those pale glacial eyes.

Shame. Thought he might be a Cleopatra.

First, I focused on the pressure in my head and imagining it as a bright light pushed the energy towards him. He sucked breath through his teeth in that same instant. I stepped from behind the desk, the sound of my heels clicking on the laminate floor. There were precisely ten steps from the desk to that couch. I'd mapped it out.

Click.

Click.

"Lucas, are you ready?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Call me Julia. Understand?

"Yes, ummm...

"Say my name."

"Julia."

"Again."

"Julia."

"Slower."

"Juul-ee-aaaa"

Click.

"Lucas, can you see my eyes?"

"Yes, Julia."

Click.

"What color are they?"

"Green?"

"More Lucas."

"Light green-

"More Lucas"

"Hazel"

"Lucas!"

"An uncut emerald found at dawn."

Click.

"Go on, Lucas."

"Not only green but blue. There's an ocean living there. It doesn't stop moving-

Click.

"Do the green and blue switch, Julia?"

"You tell me, Lucas."

"They do. They do! Dancing together, changing hues. Absorbing colors-"

Click.

"I can see the sun in your eyes, Julia. I see the stars. Every color in this room is hiding in those pearls-"

Click.

"Name the colors, Lucas."

"Earthy brown, like the wood on the floor, and scarlet from the walls. The ivory from your blouse and..."

"Don't be afraid, Lucas. Speak."

"The blue lacing of your bra. I can see all of you in your eyes. I can see the whole world in them. I can see-

Click.

"ME!"

With a final step and click of my heel, I made it across the room. Lucas was a big boy, and even sitting on the couch, his head came to my breasts. All his tension gone, shoulders relaxed, the eyes wide enough to eclipse his face. It would be so easy to reach out, run my fingers through that hair, and bring his mouth to my breast. Have him tear aside my blouse, pull down my bra, and suck. Every appointment I have these thoughts, but it's wrong, and fundamentally, I'm a decent person.

Wish I wasn't.

"Close your eyes and lay down, Lucas."

He did. His lean body took up the entire couch as he stretched. Feet dangled over the end. I looked over his outstretched form to confirm he was still relaxed. Indeed he was. Which made the thick outline coursing down to his inner thigh all the more... miraculous.

So that's why you wear long shirts.

Even limp, that thing would gag me. I considered maybe I'd been too hard on poor Lucas. Pretty eyes and a massive cock, I could and have done worse. Shame, the boy is a client now. Probably would have done more for his confidence straddling him.

"Lucas, can you still hear me?"

"Yes, Julia."

"Tell me how you feel."

"Cold."

That surprised me. Usually, at this point, clients were floating on a cloud or basking in a brook. The images were always as unique as they were cliché'.

"It's so cold, Julia. The water rages. I'm trying to hold the blood in..., but it pours out as fast as the river."

His voice was changing. The nasally little shrill slowed with each word and got deeper... much deeper.

"After all, I did for them such obscene treachery. Those suka!"

The echo from his throat caused my waterbottle to fall from the desk, so deep I could feel my bones vibrate. I'd read about this—past lives. Hypnosis supposedly could help people reach into previous existences. But I'd never seen it before.

"Pay for your treachery! The fields will be barren. The centuries will grind your home to dust, and I will howl in joy! Famine, Plague, War, Death is all I leave you. ya ne umru! D'yavol nikogda ne umirayet!

A force radiated from his voice, and I fell back. The lights above my head exploded. My hand covered my eyes from the falling pieces of glass. Darkness filled the room.

A moment later, the emergency generator kicked on. The red haze of the backup lighting saturated the room. Lucas looked dead, splayed out on the couch like a corpse at a viewing.

I put a hand on the floor to steady myself and push up-

"Fuck"

I pulled it back—a gash across my palm.

"I can heal that." 

That wasn't Lucas' voice. There was no stuttering, no avoidance, and the intensity of his tone was like a caress. He swung his legs to the side and stood, holding out one hand. He did not look down; instead, his eyes faced the windows.

"The New Empire, I take it? America. I should have predicted that. Many did, but politics was never my strength."

He looked down, with those eyes of fire, ice, and power. An electric pulse coursed through my body. My back flexed as I gasped and, without thinking, took his hand with my injured palm. He brought me directly to my feet, keeping me at arm's length. Granted, while still holding my bloody hand.

"Lovely to meet you, Julia," he bowed and kissed the tips of my knuckles before straightening. "Apologies for my ungainliness."

His left hand gripped my forearm, pulled me in, and placed my lips within an inch of his smile. He raised my hand to his cheek, gently pried open my fingers, and showed me the wound.

Or the place it had been a moment before.

"The least I can do.”

The air was becoming toxic in my lungs, but I couldn't will myself to breathe. The constant pressure in my forehead had expanded to every pore. It didn't help that as I stood there, my thighs instinctively squeezed. A sticky sensation rubbed against my legs as I realized my panties were soaked. When the fuck did that happen?

"Breath, little devil."

I did. This energy was everything I'd ever read. The eyes that faced Ceasar, Elizabeth, and... the Tsar.

"Rasputin," I said.

He smiled. A toothy grin with sharp teeth that threatened to leave marks over my body. Or trap a painfully erect nipple between them.

"You know me, Julia? What a delight." His right hand brushed my hair back into place while the other continued to massage my fingers.

"You're dead." It was all I could think to say.

"Niet, my dear Julia. Souls-like us never truly die. We simply wait. Wait despite the unearthly temptation before me. Alas, it is not yet the moment for my return." His thumb brushed my bottom lip, and my mouth watered. "But this godless season has robbed you of your birthright. Allow me to correct this injustice."

A hissing rattle escaped my throat instead of words. My right knee had started to shake; my vision blurred, the only element in focus were those eyes.

"Please, allow me to thank you for this brief awakening. I must be allowed to return the favor." The man's fingers stretched until they gripped the back of my neck while his thumb continued gently stroking my bottom lip. "Let me open your eyes."

I tried to speak. To say yes, no, ask him how this was possible. How I stood inches from Rasputin bathed in red emergency light, but my voice couldn't let it out.

So I kissed his palm. It smelled of whatever no-name moisturizer Lucas used, and then I bit down to taste his flesh. A low rumble came from Rasputin, and I couldn't tell if it was a growl or a laugh. But he dropped the once wounded hand, grasped my lower back, and pulled me against him. My balance gone as my breasts smashed against his chest. Thighs parted around his leg, rubbing against a cock so large it felt like a weapon. My mind jumped to that ridiculous old joke-

Is that a cucumber in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

The thumb at my lips moved to the center of my head. My knee gave out, but I did not fall. He trapped me between his arm and body, and I moaned. Moaned like a bitch, rubbing against his leg, trying to trace the outline of his shaft with my pussy. I tried to grab his arm and bring those coarse fingers inside my shirt. But he was iron as his thumb circled the spot between my eyes.

"Probudites'. Moy d'yavol," and he pressed down.

I came. I came harder than I'd thought possible. The release had been building for a decade, and there was no stopping it. My legs spasmed, causing one heel to snap and the other to fly. My fingers clawed into his hand, gripped the flannel shirt, then tore his hair as wave after wave seized my body. The noises didn't sound like me. They weren't even fucking human. None of that cute little high pitched squeal-"Ohhhh- Yes, oh god- Yes!"

No fuck that.

I howled like a fucking animal.

At some point before eternity, the spasms started to settle, and I looked back into his blue-tinted soul. There was the same furious power from before, but now I could see past his eyes. Into his thoughts: The Tsar and his family, the child he cared for, the women he pleasured, and the betrayal from those he'd loved.

"Your eyes are open." His voice didn't echo now. He lowered me to my feet, and I kicked off the other shoe.

"It's amazing," I noticed the pressure from my head was not gone but had spread. Every inch of skin felt delicate. Like a touch could set me ablaze.

"Indeed you are, Julia." Rasputin smiled as he stepped back. "To exist in this withered era without wonder and still develop so far on your own." He clapped three times. "I think God brought me to guide you. Like the story of Jesus in the wilderness."

"Isn't the thing Jesus meets in the desert, the devil?" I ask.

His grin could have frightened a shark.

"The devil always brings you to the Lord, Julia. One way or another." He stepped forward and started to finger my blazer. "I'd like to bring you to God, again. Face his terrible ecstasy. What do you think, Julia?"

"I say hallelujah, preacher man."

He nodded sagely but turned away. I was in no mood for games so I started forward when he held up his hand.

"Not yet," he said. "We are improbably dressed."

"Then take off your clothes and give me your fucking cock," I shouted. Postal workers in the next building probably heard me.

"Of course," he waved his hand slightly. "When you join me."

A wave of heat erupted from every part of my skin. Sweat poured down my face. I started to take my blazer off.

"Not yet," he commanded.

The old power returned. The blue eyes glowed from across the room while a single hand undid each button on that tacky flannel without a hint of awkwardness. The other continued to point at me.

"The human body can do so much," he said. "Even in the face of fire."

The heat was coming from inside me. That beautiful throbbing ache that launches you into passion had left the realm of metaphor. I was hot for him; he gave me fever.

I leaned against the desk and spread my legs. My skirt rode up, and the blue silk panties I'd worn for my date later became the topic of conversation.

"Get over here and rip these off," I croaked.

"No." He said, letting his shirt fall to the floor. Muscle and scar tissue intertwined across his torso—plenty of places to run my tongue. "That is for you."

I was drenched. The anxiety in my chest mounted. The tightness across my breasts burned as my nipples rubbed the fabric of that stupid fucking bra.

Focus!

The blaze started there, in the center of my sheer ivory top. The ring of fire expanded, consuming every inch of fabric. The heat delighted me. I laughed as it tickled over my stomach, crisscrossed my back, and kissed my sides. It didn't stop. The flame moved simultaneously to my skirt and blazer, rougher now engulfing my waist and ass. A sharp burn covered each cheek, waiting to be soothed. The blazer combusted in milliseconds freeing my shoulders, chest, and body. The last cloth standing was my blue floral lace scallop trim lingerie that I’d spend a paycheck on and knew would not last the minute. But I held off the burning for a moment. Sparks highlighting my bra and panties. At the edge of the full release.

Rasputin removed his socks and shoes and now stood wearing only those beige khaki pants.

"Now who's overdressed?" I asked, willing the fire to dance over my body.

"Forgive me, dearest Lady," he said. "You overwhelmed my senses. Allow me to make amends."

I didn't know what was happening at first. A few seconds ticked away until I saw the fabric of his pants begin to strain. Not only around his cock, which you could see from space at this point. But around his legs, calves, waist. My eyes reluctantly glanced up and his torso when I saw the sinuous growth of muscle spread across his chest. His biceps tightened before my eyes. His stomach, once flat, was now defined by separate abs.

The long tearing sound brought my gaze back to where it belonged. The break was on his left side calf. The skin visible between the fibers desperately trying to hold itself together. No use. His right thigh found freedom next, then his right calf, part of his waist...

Then his cock.

It ripped through the fabric like a knife causing the pants to fall. The strangest dick I'd ever seen. Phallic in the old Greek sense of the word. Giant sure, easily the biggest of my life but also... monstrous. The skin gathered in bunches at odd places over the shaft. The head ballooned out of the foreskin with a massive growth just below. The skin was a strange mixture of colors from purplish black to pale ivory. Rivers of precum ran in spirals down his rod. Odd, ugly, and off-putting.

I craved it.

"Get the fuck over here,” I snarled, “or I'll kill you for good."

He ran the ten steps from couch to desk while I willed my lingerie to ash. Some embers caught in his beard as our lips connected, tongues dueling. His steel cock pressed against my side as I dripped on the floor. Fingers squeezed my ass and raised me into the air. I fell back, threw my arms behind my head, and clung to the desk. He continued to lift. Like a fucking ramp, my soaked pussy to his lips and shoulders against the desk. And he did it with a single hand under my lower back. Like a waiter holding a fucking plate. His other fingers were busy at my breasts. Playing with nipples, squeezing pleasure and pain from them. Then he started to kiss.

His tongue seemed alive. Every inch vibrated one moment, then pounded like a dildo the next. He tasted every fold and teased my furious clit. Fucking dangerous.

But the orgasms started with the humming, a resonating pulse that sent my body thrashing. I whipped my neck to the side; my arms shattered someone’s award for something. I tried desperately to catch my breath, but no use. Hyperventilating, vision hazed, and clutching a nipple so engorged it felt impossible, maybe it was.

Then he added fingers. While the tongue danced at the edges, his fingers thrust deep. The rhythm was alternating, opening me up. My legs felt oceans apart. An emptiness I'd fill or die trying.

I looked him in the eyes—my celestial emerald into his burning sapphire.

It's time.

He lowered me onto the desk, the juice on his lips catching the light. And I saw the freakish cock pulse before it entered.

It didn't merely fill me; I expanded. No pussy could absorb that thing without magic. But I watched it disappear inch by inch until there was nothing but his pubic hair stuck together with mine. He shifted, and my entire body writhed. I felt like glass, ready to shatter in a moment. He smiled between my spread legs, which framed his upper body like a portrait. He pulled out ever so slightly, and breath returned. He pushed, and I came again; the sound carried on the little air he'd returned. He pulled out further, letting the seconds drag the emptiness encroaching on my ecstasy. Fuck that. I started to buck, forcing his cock to return. He followed suit, out and in. Stealing my soul and pounding it back in place.

Control was gone; reason flown; God was either dead or cheering this devil who fucked me into sweet perdition. Each thrust was a new orgasmic seizure, but I'd found my tongue. I swore, shouted, howled, and laughed. And now it was my voice that shattered emergency lights as I gasped at an incredibly long rolling climax.

I kicked, and he tripped surprised. But I left no time for consideration. His prick was a spear jutting from his prone body, so I wrapped both hands around the weapon, tasted the mingling, and descended on the legend.

His turn to scream, curse, laugh and plead. Oh, he begged me to finish, to free him. He appealed in a hundred languages, and I still denied him.

Until my hunger returned, and I mounted the Russian beast. He squirmed under me and reached up desperate. I brought his hands to steady my breasts as I sped up. Grind him into the rug, look him in the eyes, let him see the face of God one last time before I send him back into the abyss.

"Say my name," I scream.

"Juuliaaa," he roars as he cums. It pours out like a river, overflowing as it runs down our legs, staining the floor. His face contorting, spent, and gone.

I laugh as I cum, triumphant.

When I finish, the last emergency light shatters. And we're left in darkness.

........

Lucas made it home safe; I made sure of that. I'm decent, remember? He doesn't remember anything, not even coming to see the Hypno-Hostess. The same fate may lie in wait but maybe you’ll be special. I'm telling you this because I already know everything about you. Recognize that the forces I'm about to unleash in your body are genuinely unexplainable and whether you remember these miracles about to happen...

Well, that's up to me.

So let's see how you do.