But Jessica is always on time.

"Name?" Muttered Becky without looking up from her monitor. She hadn't noticed as Jessica levitated into the reception area for her counseling appointment with Dr. Virginia and the as-yet unaccounted for Dave. She also missed the fact that every man in the waiting room - all thirtysomethings - had sprouted instant raging boners!

"LaMagicpussy,"

Becky finally glanced up, blinking at the woman whose presence made the fluorescent lights seem dim. Jessica leaned against the counter, radiating an aura that turned the drab waiting room into a shrine to her curves. The receptionist’s pen slipped from her fingers as she took in Jessica’s impossible proportions—the cascade of blonde hair, the gymnast’s legs, the gravity-defying breasts that strained against a simple cotton tee. Becky’s mouth opened, but only a faint squeak emerged, her professionalism dissolving into slack-jawed awe. Jessica just smiled, a lazy, knowing curve of her lips, as if this were the most ordinary Tuesday.

"Um...La..MAGA ...pupppy??...I'm not finding your name, Miss.... like do you have I.D?"

Jessica sighed, the sound like velvet over glass. She rummaged through her purse—a tiny, glittery thing that somehow contained a wallet, three lipsticks, and a vibrating crystal she’d "charged under the full moon." As she leaned forward, the collective intake of breath from the waiting room men was audible. Pens clattered to the floor. One man choked on his coffee, his eyes wide and fixed on the hypnotic sway of her cleavage. Becky’s own cheeks flushed crimson as Jessica finally produced a driver’s license that still read "Jessica Jones." The receptionist’s fingers trembled as she took it, her gaze darting between the mundane photo and the goddess before her. "Right...Jones...appointment with Dr. Virginia...at 3..." Becky stammered, her voice cracking. She didn’t ask about Dave’s absence; Jessica’s presence had erased all other concerns from the room, including the missing ex-boyfriend. The men weren’t just looking; they were transfixed, their postures rigid, their expressions a mixture of worship and agonized arousal. Jessica didn’t spare them a glance. Dave being late? Meh. Let him suffer. Her powers would ensure whatever humiliation he was enduring was suitably ridiculous.

"Thank you. I also need insurance and your copay. You need to fill out some new paperwork, so...please have a seat over by that fellow rubbing his cock...."

*Wait...WHAT?!?*

Jessica's eyes widened in mock innocence as she followed Becky's gesture toward a man in a rumpled suit, his hand frantically working beneath a magazine. *Oh. Right.* She hadn't consciously *meant* to turn the waiting room into a den of frantic masturbators, but her subconscious was apparently feeling playful today. A faint, warm tingle spread through her core – the universe’s equivalent of a giggle. Dave’s absence barely registered; the collective, **** focus of every male present was far more entertaining. She watched, utterly detached, as another man dropped his phone, his gaze locked on her swaying hips as she moved toward the only empty chair. His fingers twitched toward his zipper. *Whoopsie.* Her powers hummed contentedly.

Jessica floated over to her new throne—a stiff, plastic waiting room chair that shimmered and reshaped itself the moment her perfect ass hovered above it. It became a plush, velvet chaise lounge, carved from obsidian and draped in iridescent silk, complete with a subtle, approving hum. Perched regally, she surveyed her domain: the receptionist Becky now frantically typing gibberish into her computer, her cheeks flushed; the men, a symphony of stifled groans and rustling fabric, their eyes glazed with worship and torment. One particularly brave soul had abandoned all pretense, openly palming himself through khakis, mouthing the words *"Jessica... Jessiguese..."* She crossed her legs, a deliberate, slow motion that drew a collective gasp. Her throne pulsed warmly beneath her. This was *much* better than reading self-help books.

The waiting room was her chaotic canvas. To her left, a balding accountant type tried to suppress his erection. Near the water cooler, a man in a security guard uniform was attempting to discreetly hump the wall, murmuring apologies to the plaster. Becky, meanwhile, had started doodling elaborate, anatomically correct sketches of Jessica’s breasts on the appointment ledger, her tongue poking out in concentration. Jessica sighed contentedly. Her powers were like a mischievous pet—utterly devoted, occasionally messy, but always entertaining. She didn’t *intend* the wall-humping, per se, but the raw, unfiltered adoration vibrating through the room was undeniably flattering. It was just… *effortless*.

Jessica snapped her fingers—a soft, glittery sound like falling sequins—and Becky jolted upright, the breast-doodle pen clattering to the desk. "Insurance card, copay, and paperwork, right Beckster?" Jessica chirped, her voice honeyed. Before Becky could stutter a reply, a thick manila folder materialized on the countertop, followed by a gleaming platinum insurance card embossed with "LaMagicpussy Unlimited – Coverage: EVERYTHING." The copay? A single, perfect rose petal drifted onto Becky’s keyboard. The new-patient forms? They shimmered into existence already filled out in elegant, looping cursive, every "i" dotted with a tiny, glowing heart. Jessica beamed. "There ya go! All set!" Becky stared, mouth agape, at the impossible paperwork, her mind struggling to reconcile the mundane request with the magical delivery. The men in the room whimpered in unison, their collective arousal spiking at Jessica’s casual display of cosmic power.

The women, mostly bitchy uptight future cat ladies in their 30s, were less enthused and clearly outgunned.

Men's flies unzipped themselves with synchronized *zzzziiipppp* sounds, exposing straining briefs and twitching shafts as the women gasped in collective outrage. "Disgusting!" hissed one clutching her oversized purse like a shield. "This is a professional environment!" shrieked another, her sensible pumps tapping furiously on the linoleum. Their indignation only fueled the magic; Jessica’s subconscious delighted in their flustered disapproval. The louder they protested, the more enthusiastically the men thrust against their waistbands, faces slack with blissful idiocy.