Reasoning with myself

Thankfully, the day was finally over. Once I’d said my goodbyes to everyone, I began my journey home, eager to wrestle with the whirlwind of thoughts clouding my mind. An evening to myself felt like a lifeline—time to process the events of the day and, hopefully, find some relief from the tension that had been gnawing at me since morning.

It wasn’t just today, though, was it? Something inside me had been shifting ever since the accident. At first, I chalked it up to the migraines—crippling waves of pain that seemed to unmoor me from reality. Then came the ring, a strange gift with stranger consequences. The migraines disappeared, but in their place, I was left with a persistent, gnawing restlessness. A need. I’d dismissed it at first, attributing it to the sudden loneliness of being single after years with Rosa. But now? Now I wasn’t so sure.

The day’s events replayed in my head like an unwelcome reel. First, there was the neighbor’s daughter on the train this morning. Then the break room with Christina and Esther. Katy in the afternoon, a moment I thankfully hadn’t acted on. Each memory left a sour taste in my mouth, but I couldn’t deny the common thread tying them together: the power. My power. I hadn’t fully understood its implications until Sarah on the train—when I’d used nothing but words to rewrite her perception of what had happened. She hadn’t just tolerated my actions; she’d embraced them, as if they’d been her own desires all along.

The realization had shaken me. At first, I’d told myself it was harmless. If no one suffered, if no one felt wronged or violated, was it truly wrong? That line of reasoning had given me an excuse to test the boundaries further, but the more I leaned into it, the harder it became to ignore the darker part of me it awakened. Rationalizations came easily, but deep down, I knew: this wasn’t who I wanted to be.

I was still lost in thought when the sharp blast of a car horn yanked me back to the present. Instinctively, I stepped back as a blue sedan sped past, missing me by inches. Heart pounding, I turned to glare after it. The car turned sharply into a driveway just a few houses down—the Davies' house.

Frustration flared, overriding my initial shock. I stormed down the street, my gaze fixed on the car. As I approached, I recognized the driver: Sarah’s mother, Mrs. Davies.

She sat in the driver’s seat, rummaging through her purse, seemingly unaware of the near-miss she’d caused. Around my age, she was strikingly beautiful, with shoulder-length red hair she often wore in a sleek, no-nonsense bun. Her large, elegant sunglasses caught the evening light, and her tailored suit jacket and blouse accentuated her confident, curvaceous figure. Her ample chest was hard not to notice, commanding attention without effort. There was an undeniable air of authority about her—poised but with a hint of haughtiness that bordered on entitled. Her husband, Timothy, twenty years her senior, was warm and approachable, but Mrs. Davies seemed to operate in a league of her own.

I knocked on the driver’s side window, snapping her out of her task. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to glance at me with cool, piercing blue eyes. After a moment, she pushed the door open, forcing me to step back.

"What do you want?" she asked curtly, one nylon-clad leg already stepping out of the car. Her tone was clipped, her expression exasperated, as though my presence was an inconvenience.

“Hi, I’m John, your neighbor...” I began, attempting civility.

“I know who you are,” she interrupted flatly. “What do you want?”

I felt my irritation rise at her dismissive tone. “Do you consider it normal to drive like that on a residential street? You almost hit me!”

She raised an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips. “If you’re careless enough to step into the street without looking, that’s on you, not me,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I couldn’t believe her response. “I was on the pedestrian crossing,” I shot back, my voice tinged with disbelief.

“Nonsense,” she replied, brushing past my words as though they were an inconvenience. “Don’t bother me, or I’ll call the police.”

Her arrogance was infuriating. I stood my ground, leaning on the car door to block her from leaving. “Could you remind me of your name?” I asked, my tone firm but casual as I rested one hand on my hip.

She crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing. “For you, it’s Mrs. Davies,” she said sharply, clearly annoyed by my persistence.

Amused by her irritation, I reached out and plucked her sunglasses from her face, tossing them carelessly onto the passenger seat. Her blue eyes widened, a flicker of apprehension breaking through her composed exterior.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and faint worry.

I met her gaze with a faint smile. “I’m pretty sure that it’s nothing you need to worry about,” I said, keeping my tone casual, almost dismissive.

Her hesitation was brief, but it was there—a crack in her confident demeanor. As I spoke the ‘magic phrase,’ I could see relief wash over her, subtly reshaping her perception. Though the worry faded, her unease at my presence remained, her guarded posture giving her away.

I stepped closer, studying her face. Her makeup was flawless, her lips painted a bold red that perfectly complemented her fiery hair. Even in her defensive stance, her poise only served to highlight the curves of her figure. She was undeniably beautiful—mature, commanding, and self-assured in a way her daughter hadn’t yet achieved.

She turned slightly to retrieve her sunglasses from the passenger seat, the movement giving me a perfect—and thoroughly distracting—view of her chest. The tailored blouse she wore didn’t hide much, and it framed her figure in a way that demanded attention. My ‘little buddy,’ already battered by the frustrations of the day, decided to join in on the protest, straining against the tight confines of my pants.

The absurdity of it all hit me, and I almost laughed. Here I was, wrestling with profound questions about morality and power, and my body had the audacity to remind me of its basest instincts. The discomfort wasn’t just physical; it was a mocking commentary on my attempts to play the ethical arbiter of my own actions.

With this power, no one had to suffer—or at least, no one would remember enough to complain. And if I could shape reality to soften every edge, justify every indulgence, then maybe the line I’d crossed didn’t exist at all.

Determined to finish something I’ve wanted to do since this morning, I released my erection from its confines, my hand moving to cup one of Mrs. Davies' magnificent breasts through her blouse.

Startled, she stammered, a flush rising to her cheeks, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“I’m trying to calm myself down from the fright I’ve had when you almost hit me with your car...” I replied with a smirk.

“But, that’s not true!” She yelped as I slid my other hand inside her blouse to feel her skin directly.

“Now be quiet and patiently wait until I’ve done my thing!” I said, unbuttoning her blouse to reveal her breasts, their fullness spilling over the constraints of her bra. With one hand still groping, my arousal now bobbed free, dangerously close to her face. She watched, her eyes wide with shock, her face turning a deeper shade of red as she sat in stunned silence.

I withdrew my hand from her bra to stroke myself slowly, guiding my tip closer to her lips. Even as her eyes remained locked on my member, she didn't recoil or stop me. The temptation was there, the opportunity to press further, but her expression, contorted with distaste, made me reconsider immediate gratification through her mouth.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, my hand moving with deliberate slowness as I continued to fondle her.

“I don’t like... this near my mouth…” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, really?” I said, a sneer touching my face as I brushed my tip against her closed lips, leaving a trail of my arousal that made her grimace. **** for release, I decided on a less invasive but still satisfying act.

I nestled my erection between her breasts, squeezing them together, the sensation of her soft skin against me sending shivers down my spine. She winced slightly, her discomfort clear, but the ring ensured her compliance. The warmth of her cleavage enveloped me, the soft flesh yielding to my touch, providing the perfect friction. I watched as my tip disappeared and reappeared with each thrust, the sight of her breasts constricting around me was almost hypnotic. The contrast of her pale skin against my darker, veined length, the way her breasts jiggled with each movement, it was all too much after such a day; my climax came embarrassingly fast, my moans drowning out her quiet protests as I spilled over her chest, my release decorating her skin in stark contrast to her immaculate appearance.

I took a moment to admire the sight— my semen against her flushed skin, the way it pooled at the base of her neck before trickling down her sternum, marking her with my desire. It was a sight of both conquest and release, a visual echo of the power I wielded, the control I could exert.

As I stepped back, my breath ragged, my semen began to trickle down her torso, staining her skirt. I tucked myself away, my eyes catching movement through the kitchen window of the Davies' house. There, partially hidden behind the curtain, was Sarah. Her face was flushed deeply, a stark contrast to the window's glass which had misted slightly with her breath. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her hands fidgeting near her waistline before one quickly darted out of sight.

The look on her face, the way she hurried from the window—guess my words from the train had more of an impact than I thought, I mused, a smirk playing on my lips. With a startled expression, she backed away from the window, disappearing into the shadows of the house.

Amused by her reaction, I turned my attention back to Mrs. Davies. She was wiping at the mess on her skin with sharp, irritated movements, her disgust evident but subdued by the ring's influence.

"Well then, since we've settled our little disagreement and I've made my point, have a nice day, Mrs. Davies," I quipped, smirking at her venomous glare. She said nothing, but her silence was thick with disdain. Satisfied, I turned and made my way across the street toward home.

Reaching my porch with keys in hand, I took a moment to glance back. Mrs. Davies had exited her car and was unlocking her front door, still dabbing at her chest, her movements sharp, her muttering audible even from a distance. Though I couldn't make out her exact words, their venom was unmistakable—and directed squarely at me.

A slow smile spread across my face as I stepped inside. The Davies household was proving to be far more intriguing than I could have imagined—and I had a feeling that our story was only just beginning.