If only we hadn’t decided to make our aliens quite so … interesting.
Actually, if I’m figuring out exactly which hormone-driven witchy mistake I should have stopped myself doing, we have to go back farther. See, having wish powers never came easily for me, because I was always too scared of being caught, and even more terrified of things going wrong. I was traumatized from a very early age by my mom, who didn’t have it because (this is one of those clichés that’s actually rooted in fact) it really does skip a generation. From the day my feeble powers started to manifest she flogged me with the story of my cousin Phil, who’d swapped one single word around in a spell. and then he’d had one terrible last heartbeat to realize his mistake and know it was too late—far too late. “And now look at him!” she’d shriek, pointing at a tall onyx urn on the mantelpiece.
“He’s in the urn?” I’d whispered in horror, the first time I’d heard this story.
“He is the urn!” she’d hissed.
After a year of that, all my mom had to do when she’d catch a wistful glint in my eye, usually because, as always, things weren’t going my way, all she’d have to do was bring up poor, tragic cousin Phil. She changed up her game, of course, to keep it fresh. Sometimes she’d just mention his name. Other times, she’d glance meaningfully at the mantel. One time when I was fuming about being beaten up a school, because I’d ended up a weedy, undersized teenager quite unlike my taciturn bull of a dad or the crusading Valkyrie I had for a mom, she’d suddenly gone all sad and silently left the room as if she couldn’t bear to be near me just then, and I knew she was contemplating how bereft she’d be after her only son had, as he certainly would, fucked up his first real spell and turned himself into ceramic funerary decor.
I had a shameful secret, though, which was that I wasn’t in fact, a witchy virgin after all, and the fact that I had fucked up my first spell, in a startlingly mortifying way, for a long time only served to give my mother’s years of repression ironclad reinforcement. One day while I was still only 15 or so I’d had the old house to myself for a weekend—my dad was off at a conference for civil engineers and mom was reluctantly along for the ride. By Saturday afternoon I was so bored, even after a jerkoff marathon so epic my left wrist was sore and the skin on my still chubbed cock was begging for a moment’s surcease, that I dared to sit down in the study and start leafing through the family’s ancestral collection of grimoires and spellbooks.
And after an hour of curiosity, confusion, and uneasy shivers down my spine as I read about spells I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to perform, let alone me, I set down my PBJ and stared at the book in amazement. I hardly dared to believe my eyes. I think I actually giggled. There, in an appendix in a two-hundred-year-old dusty tome both as massive and as dull as an old unabridged dictionary, in a section given over to amusing and trivial incantations one could perform on oneself to wile away the idle hours, was a spell to, if I read it correctly, induce one’s own orgasm at will.
My dick, which I already knew from long experience slept only fitfully and sometimes not at all, sprang to instant and painful hardness in the gym shorts that were my only attire that singularly libertine day. Already I was finding regular excuses wherever I was—at school, at home, at baseball practice, even at fucking church (we aren’t all wicca hippies ya know)—to duck away to the bathroom or a broom closet or wherever I could find five minutes to pull my dork and blow a load. The only thing I liked almost as much as getting hard, jacking off, and cumming was white chocolate. Good white chocolate, not the kind you get in cheap candy bars, but the good stuff. And that’s pretty solidly in second place.
I’d thought when I started getting hard all the time that it might be just a phase, and I just had to wear myself out by doing it as often as humanly possible. But then I started noticing that I was somehow surrounded everywhere I went by stunningly attractive guys with sweet smiles and broad shoulders and flat stomachs and a big wad of something stuffed behind the flies of their jeans, or filling out their baseball team uniforms, or (jeez) flying free in the showers. I’m sure there weren’t actually any more hot guys around me than would normally be the case, but somehow it felt like there was some powerful entity somewhere assigning teams of yummy, smiling, shaggy-haired hunks to swarm around me in packs, just to torment me and make me need to cum no matter how recently I’d gotten off.
I got hard standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus, knowing it would be full of hot guys. I got hard in the back seat of the car on the way to baseball practice despite knowing the humiliation my uneven skills on the diamond would bring me (I was actually a good pitcher but a terrible batter, so the only thing I knew about my future was that if I did end up a ball player I’d be in the American League). I got hard at the supermarket because I knew there’d be someone in line, or behind the register, or bagging the groceries that would make me want to, have to, need to, rub one out. I was starting to be deeply frustrated by how often I needed to jerk off and couldn’t because, you know, I couldn’t just whip out my hard pud in line in the school cafeteria or in the third pew of St. Mark’s Presbyterian.
And here was my solution. Hands-free j/o on demand. I didn’t think about consequences, or cousin Phil, or anything. I was thinking with my dick. My lips were pursed to mouth the spell, my heart beating violently in my chest, when my dick raised its own objection: what about the cum?
It would hardly help matters to be able to cum hands-free in public if a huge, humiliating, rapidly cooling wet spot was the result. (Once experiencing that was enough, and the less said about that the better.) I frowned at the spell, and the supporting gloss, looking hard for a way out of this heartbreaking predicament. I flipped the page over to see the rest of the commentary, and—there it was! A drolly written, almost jocular notation alongside a coda that could be appended to the spell, explaining that for the truly dedicated hedonist the extra line of incantation would ensure that one’s “spend” would “transfer” to a “discreet location” upon “consummation” of the activity undertaken by means of the original spell.
That was enough for me. If I could whack off anytime, anywhere, and not mess my pants at the end of it, I was in. My brain was filled with nothing except all the hundreds of times over the past months and years I’d been achingly boned and unable to do anything about it, sometimes for hours at a time, waiting in agony for the moment I was free to get into a dark corner and jizz my brains out. And now I could do something about it. Without waiting another second I went back to the first page and mouthed the clunky Latin words (yes, they really are all in Latin, at least the ones written back when people studied Latin because it was the language of philosophy), tacking on the coda I’d memorized without trying. I was rock hard now, my cock eager for everything to change.
I’d never truly done magic before and was unprepared for the wash of cold that coursed through my almost-naked body. For a moment I felt as though I were passing through the chill soil of the earth, sinking immaterially deeper through growing warmth and elemental potential, and then it was over, as if I’d passed through something into another reality.
The spell had worked. I knew the spell had worked because I could feel my boner in my mind. And when I touched it with my thoughts, it felt as though I were grasping it with my fist. An erotic frisson ran through me. I looked down at my cock, still iron-hard in my gym shorts, just to check that my hand was really not touching it. It wasn’t, and yet, I could gently move that thought-fist along my shaft, up, and then down, and feel it as if I were grasping in tight in my beloved, well-trained hands.
Hands. I could use two hands in my mind. And even as I was enjoying a second mental hand rubbing my boner I realized there were three hands, not two, all finding places to stroke and rub with finger or palm or—and then suddenly, there was a mouth, and I realized as I ran my lips along the boner in my mind, feeling the sensation now on my real lips as powerfully and intoxicatingly as on my real cock that what I really wanted, what I’d always wanted out of this, was to suck myself off.
I was long enough, and limber enough, that I could just get the head in my mouth if I tried hard enough, but it was no fun, and so it was only a rare part of my j/o repertoire because despite how much I loved the taste of my own cum I really, really wanted to do it properly and couldn’t. And now—? Oh god, yes. I moved my mind-mouth up the hard shaft of my mind-boner, feeling all of it with my true lips and cock as if I could actually do this in reality. And then I imagined/felt that I opened my mouth and wrapped it around my cock, and it was so shocking and wonderful to really, truly feel my hard boner filling my hot, eager mouth that I came almost immediately—
And my mouth filled with cum. I came hard, shooting five or six huge loads despite an afternoon already spent jerking and cumming, and I had to keep swallowing to keep from choking on my own loads. I was panting so hard, my heart pounding so furiously, I thought I would black out. Only after several moments of intense pleasure could I open my eyes and force myself to look down. There was no cum at all on my cock or soaking my shorts. I yanked down the elastic and saw only a bead of cum on the slit of my still-completely-hard boner. All of it had gone in my mouth. And I loved it. I loved the taste of it, I loved, god, how I loved sucking myself, feeling that hard warm cock in my mouth, feeling my mouth around it. Before I realized it I was doing it again, ardently fellating the big hard boner in my mind.
It took me a week to realize just how much I’d fucked up, and it was too late anyway. I was hard all the time, my real boner and my mind boner alike, so aroused at just being able to do this, to taste my delicious boner, and because I was hard all the time I was sucking myself off all the time. I had to take my mouth off of my mind-boner just to talk to people—parents, friends, giving answers in class. It became a game to me, just keeping my hot mouth wrapped around my big hard yummy cock, holding off the cum until no one was looking right at me, teasing myself with my tongue, my lips, the back of my throat. Far from becoming withdrawn and preoccupied, though I was constantly feeling the impulse to hide lest anyone realize, I in fact became bolder and more assertive, starting conversations and joining them too, seeking out groups of people to hang out with because it was so exhilarating knowing that I was out bowling with my buddies on the baseball team or working out with my two best friends, the bookish but hot brothers from next door (they were named Dave and Ian) that I hadn’t come out to yet even though they were both gay, or even getting into a spirited discussion about the names of the apostles in Sunday school, knowing what a hot tease I was to myself, that every moment I wasn’t talking I was gently sucking my own rock-hard boner right there in front of everyone. The more people who were around me, but not looking at me at that moment when I shuddered and flushed and came, the more of a thrill it was on top of the sheer wonderful ecstasy of blowing myself.
So you see I knew I had screwed myself and I didn’t care. I started looking for ways to expand the thrill I felt self-sucking in public. I joined the damn debate club. And when that folded due to lack of interest from anyone but me and Dave and Ian, we joined drama club together. That’s what kind of led us into our current predicament. I mentioned the “aliens,” right? I’m getting to that, don’t worry.
It was three years later and the three of us had graduated high school, and I—well, I had not gotten over sucking myself off all the time, all the time, all the time. Not at all. Actually, my mental erotic addition had escalated. I remember the exact moment it got worse. You see, Dave and Ian were joking around after one of our three-times-a-week workouts about what would happen if they were both into the same guy, because they were totally competitive with each other about pretty much everything, from sports to the defunct drama club to boys. And Ian was in a good mood so he just looked at him and said with a laugh, “I guess we’ll have to hope his cock is big enough for both of us!” And as they went on wisecracking about sucking some extra-blessed guy’s dick at the same time, and whether that would be too much for fucking and taking turns with that and on and on, I stared at them, unnoticed, because it suddenly occurred to me that the boner in my mind was entirely a construct of my own magic-aided fantasy. The fact that it felt like my dick really was in my mouth all the time, including at that very moment, had kept everything pretty much rooted in what my cock was really like. But in that moment I realized the boner in my mind could be, fuck, anything. What if—?
And as the thoughts formed around my mindcock, it…. GREW.
Suddenly I was close.
Quickly I looked down and checked my real crotch, and my cock was normal sized, for me. I almost didn’t care. I could deal with having a cock that big, a cock the size of an arm and just as thick. The real boner I did have, hard in my workout sweats as always, really had been getting bigger, not massively but a couple or three inches over the three years I’d been doing this and quite a lot fatter, as if the constant attention or some other by-product of the spell were having some expending effect on it, and I hadn’t cared about that either even if it was kind of getting impossible to hide. All I cared about in that moment was the massive, unnaturally large erection in my mind, and—and—oh god, could I actually suck it?
But I knew I could. At first I thought it might be by stretching my mouth around it, but I guess that seemed like it might be uncomfortable even in my fantasy, because what happened next in my mind was my imaginary mouth becoming juuust large enough to accommodate the top half of my enormous mindcock. I started to reach for the bottom half with mental hands, but somehow they became—
I could feel all three mouths, sucking my cock, licking the shaft up and down, and the taste and feel of that hard, sweet cockflesh was so exquisite I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. There were hands too, actually, but I had so much long fat cock there was room for mouths, hands, everything. I was shivering. I was waiting. Waiting for the orgasm that would rock me hard like a million volts of sensory overload.
I came so hard, so suddenly, so much real cum in my real mouth so fast and hard that I almost forgot to swallow it all—actually I almost couldn’t swallow it all. My vision swam and my brain capsized. I don’t think I actually blacked out, but things were fuzzy for a few moments and when I was able to focus on anything the brothers were staring at me.
“You okay buddy?” Dave said.
And I was giddy with the realization that I had been holding myself back from unprecedented erotic wonders through sheer lack of imagination, that I could do things that I hadn’t even thought to think I couldn’t. I was so giddy, in fact, that I deliberately tried something I hadn’t believed was possible. I swallowed the last burst of delicious jizz and, with my mouth—the mouth in my mind—still firmly wrapped around the top half of my enormous, hard hard mindcock, my other lips still mouthing the shaft, my mental hands grasping its hugeness and stroking smoothly and sweetly, I opened my real mouth and spoke.
“Yeah,” I said, carefully and clearly, and I felt a thrill of obscene proportions at what I could now do. “I’m fucking fantastic.”
After that, was I ever not sucking—and stroking and licking—a massive, arm-sized cock in my mind even when I was talking? Did my hard, luscious mindcock ever come out of the mouth that was forever worshiping it, cumming whenever I couldn’t stand it anymore? You tell me.
I could even indulge my two passions at the same time. Autofellatio and white chocolate—mmmmm, fuck yeah.