Reality check

Jessica sighed, surveying the chaotic aftermath: Randy’s explosive geyser had punched a jagged hole clear through her drywall, plaster dust mingling with thick ropes of pearlescent cum splattered across her ceiling fan (still spinning lazily), dripping onto her lemon-yellow sofa cushions and pooling on the laminate floor. "Ugh. Looks like a Jackson Pollock painting threw up," she muttered. Before she could even *think* about grabbing a sponge, the air shimmered. Dust motes reversed trajectory, plaster chunks flew backwards into the wall, sealing it seamlessly. Cum streaks retracted upwards off the ceiling fan, sofa cushions, and floor, coalescing into a floating, wobbling sphere that vanished with a faint *pop*. The lemon scent intensified, pristine and sharp. Her apartment looked untouched, cleaner than when she’d moved in. "Huh," Jessica blinked. "Handy. And kinda creepy." She wiggled her toes experimentally. Nothing happened. Okay, so the cleaning was automatic? Subconscious? Did her powers have a maid service subroutine? The sheer convenience warred with a sudden, unsettling prickle at the back of her neck. Was *she* driving this cosmic clown car, or was it driving her?

The question hung heavy. Was any of this *real*? Maybe… maybe she’d smoked way too much Cosmic Giggle? Maybe she was having a psychotic break in her tidy cage? The horny confidence faltered, replaced by a flicker of mundane panic. She needed… grounding. Professional help. Jake. Dr. Jacob Miller. Dave’s colleague. Competent, calm, married, always seemed genuinely kind when she’d bumped into him at Dave’s terrible office parties. He wouldn't judge. Probably. "Right," Jessica breathed, trying to channel sensible Jessica Jones. "See a shrink. Logical next step." She pictured Jake’s soothing, slightly bookish face, the soft leather chair in his minimalist office… *Kaboing!* The familiar lemon scent vanished, replaced by the sterile tang of antiseptic and old paper. Jessica blinked. She was perched awkwardly on the edge of Jake’s plush leather client chair, facing his startled expression across a neat mahogany desk.

Jake froze mid-sentence, his pen hovering over a notepad. Opposite him sat Mrs. Eleanor Thorne, a woman radiating entitled outrage like cheap perfume, her face frozen in mid-snarl, her perfectly coiffed Karen haircut practically vibrating with indignation at the sudden, impossible intrusion. "What in the absolute—?" Mrs. Thorne shrieked, her voice sharp enough to shatter glass, pointing a manicured finger trembling with fury directly at Jessica. "Who is *this*?! Dr. Miller, this is utterly unacceptable! My session! My *paid* session!" Jake recovered faster, his therapist mask snapping into place, though his eyes widened slightly as they took in Jessica’s impossible form – the supermodel face, the gymnast physique straining against simple yoga pants and a tank top, the sheer, radiating aura of cosmic sex appeal that seemed to warp the air. "Jessica?" he managed, his voice carefully neutral but laced with profound confusion. "How did you…?"

"Jake! Hi! Look, massive emergency," Jessica blurted, leaning forward urgently, completely ignoring the apoplectic Mrs. Thorne. Her movement shifted the fabric of her tank top, revealing a glimpse of cleavage that seemed to defy physics. "It's… complicated. Reality stuff? Powers? I think I might have accidentally turned Randy into a human firehose? Or maybe I'm just super high?" She waved her hands vaguely, a gesture encompassing cosmic uncertainty and Randy-related plumbing disasters. Jake’s professional calm faltered. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on her words, but his gaze kept snagging on the impossible contours of her body. A flush crept up his neck. "Jessica, I… this isn't appropriate," he began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His khaki trousers suddenly felt unbearably tight. Mrs. Thorne slammed her designer handbag onto Jake’s desk with a thud. "Appropriate?! This is lunacy! Security! Dr. Miller, call security *immediately*! This… this *creature* barged in!" She jabbed her finger again, her voice escalating into a hysterical screech. "Get her OUT!"

Jessica flinched at the screech. "Look, lady, chill! It's a cosmic misunderstanding!" But Jake wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were glued to Jessica’s chest, wide with a mixture of profound confusion and involuntary, overwhelming arousal. He tried to stand, to push his chair back, to do *anything*, but his body refused. A low groan escaped him as his trousers tented obscenely, straining against the fabric. Mrs. Thorne followed his gaze, her outrage twisting into horrified disgust. "Oh my GOD! You're… you're *aroused*?! By this… this *trollop*?! In MY session?! Disgusting!" She recoiled as if physically assaulted. "I am reporting you to the board! To the ethics committee! To *everyone*!"

Jessica sighed, exasperated. "Seriously? Right now?" The familiar, warm hum of her power surged in response to the escalating chaos—a lazy, amused ripple through reality. Mrs. Thorne’s furious tirade abruptly cut off mid-screech. Her mouth continued moving, lips flapping silently like a suffocating goldfish, producing absolutely no sound. Her eyes bulged, panicked and furious, but her body froze rigidly in her chair, unable to twitch a finger. Jake remained trapped in his own agonizing arousal, breathing heavily, unable to look away from Jessica or speak. The office plunged into sudden, eerie silence, broken only by Jake’s ragged breaths and the frantic, soundless flapping of Mrs. Thorne’s lips.

"Fine," Jessica muttered, rolling her eyes. "Let's try this again... properly." She didn't even consciously form the thought. It was just a flicker of annoyance mixed with a dash of boredom. *Blammo!* Mrs. Thorne vanished from her chair. In her place stood a stunningly voluptuous blonde woman, completely naked except for a pair of absurdly impractical stiletto heels. Her expression was one of serene, vacant bliss. Without hesitation, she knelt gracefully before Jake’s chair. Jake’s khaki trousers dissolved instantly into shimmering dust, revealing his rigid erection. The blonde woman took him eagerly into her mouth, her head bobbing with practiced, enthusiastic rhythm. Jake gasped, eyes wide with shock and overwhelming sensation, his hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. He couldn't move, couldn't protest—only endure the intense pleasure **** upon him.

Jessica floated effortlessly above the surreal scene, her legs crossed beneath her as if seated on an invisible cushion. "So, Jake," she began conversationally, gesturing vaguely towards the blonde enthusiastically servicing him. "Ignore her. She’s just a temporary... calibration tool. See, I’ve got this slight reality-warping issue? Like, Randy next door turned into a human sprinkler system earlier. And my apartment keeps cleaning itself. It’s handy, but kinda creepy? Makes me wonder if *I’m* actually steering this ship, or if it’s just... autopiloting?" She frowned slightly, tapping her chin. Jake tried desperately to focus, sweat beading on his forehead. "J-Jessica," he stammered, his voice strained as the blonde intensified her efforts, "this... isn't... standard... therapy... protocol!" He gasped again, arching his back involuntarily.

Jessica waved a dismissive hand. "Point is, I need to know—am I having a psychotic break fueled by Cosmic Giggle Kush, or did I genuinely ascend to godhood because my boss called me a space cadet?" She leaned forward earnestly. Jake squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. "The... the DSM-V... doesn't... cover... divine... ascension... through... workplace... trauma!" he managed through gritted teeth, his knuckles bone-white on the chair arms. Below him, the transformed Mrs. Thorne hummed happily.

"So unhelpful," Jessica sighed—then a sharp *crack* that made Jake flinch—and time accelerated violently. The blonde’s head became a blur, Jake’s hips pistoning upward involuntarily. His choked gasps escalated into a continuous, high-pitched whine before culminating in a shuddering scream as he ejaculated violently into her mouth. Mrs. Thorne gulped every drop and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Then reality reset with a wet *pop*.

Mrs. Thorne vanished mid-gulp. Not a trace remained—no blonde hair, no stiletto heels, no lingering scent of antiseptic mixed with sex. Mr. Thorne had a surprise coming, but that wasn't Jessica's concern. Jake slumped back in his leather chair, gasping, his trousers inexplicably restored and perfectly pressed. His face was pale, slick with sweat, his hands trembling violently on the armrests. He stared at Jessica, floating calmly before him, with the wide-eyed terror of a man who'd just witnessed the fundamental laws of physics dissolve into pornography.

"Okay, Jake, focus!". The sharp sound jolted him. "Deep breaths. Therapist mode. Engage." She drifted closer, her expression earnest now. "See? Quiet office. No interruptions. Just us." She gestured around the suddenly pristine room. "My problem: Reality keeps… accommodating me. Like Randy—poof, human sprinkler system. My apartment? Self-cleaning. Handy, yes, but creepy. Makes me wonder: Am I steering this cosmic clown car, or is it driving me?" She tapped her temple. "Could be psychosis. Could be godhood. Need professional diagnosis."