The Accidental Cupid

Author's note: Hey there! I hope you're having a wonderful day! Just a quick interruption in your scheduled reading to inform you that I've created a Discord server around hypnosis, mind control and transformations, with a focus on concept stories. I'll also keep everyone updated about my upcoming stories (big novel underway) there. Feel free to join!

The air had that particular freshness to it that signaled the approaching spring—crisp but with a hint of warmth, promising better days ahead. After spending the night with Claudia, I felt strangely energized despite the lack of sleep. There was a lightness to my step that had been missing for months, maybe years.

Instead of heading straight to my new Porsche (which still felt surreal to think of as mine), I decided to grab some coffee first. I spotted a small café just down the block—nothing fancy, just a local place with a chalkboard sign out front advertising their daily specials in colorful lettering.

Inside, the café was cozy and quiet, with mismatched furniture and local artwork hanging on exposed brick walls. Only a few tables were occupied, mostly by people tapping away on laptops or reading. Behind the counter stood two baristas—a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties with a neatly trimmed beard and sleeve tattoos peeking out from under his rolled-up shirt, and a woman about the same age with a high ponytail of curly red hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose.

I couldn't help but notice how the male barista kept stealing glances at his colleague whenever she wasn't looking, his expression a mixture of longing and resignation. She, meanwhile, seemed either completely oblivious to his attention or deliberately ignoring it as she methodically wiped down the espresso machine.

As I approached the counter, the female barista looked up and did a double-take, her eyes widening in recognition. She immediately elbowed her coworker, who turned to stare at me with confusion until she leaned over and whispered something in his ear. His expression cleared, and he nodded with a sort of bemused respect, like he'd just learned a semi-famous local football player had walked in.

"Good morning," the female barista greeted me with a bright smile. "What can I get for you today?" She paused only briefly before adding, in exactly the same cheerful, customer-service tone, "And would you be interested in fucking me in the storage room during my break? It's in twenty minutes."

I was about to respond when something on the television mounted in the corner of the café caught my attention. It was tuned to a news channel, and I recognized Katherine Winters, the CEO of Winters Pharmaceuticals, standing at a podium surrounded by microphones. The ticker at the bottom of the screen read: "BREAKING: WINTERS PHARMACEUTICALS CEO PLEADS GUILTY IN CARDIAVAX PRICE-GOUGING SCANDAL."

I couldn't hear the audio, but the news anchor's surprised expression said it all. A small smile tugged at my lips. At least I'd done one thing right with my new power, besides meeting Claudia. Katherine Winters had been the face of corporate greed, now she was facing justice, just as I'd commanded. Her face on screen was replaced by the face of Deborah Thomas, newly elected president of the United States, her expression serious as she spoke directly into the camera, presumably about the scandal.

"Sir?" The barista's voice pulled me back to the present. "Your order?"

"Oh, right. Just a large coffee, black, and one of those blueberry muffins," I said, gesturing to the pastry case.

As she rang me up, I asked casually, "Are you single, by the way?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, her ponytail bobbing as she nodded. "Why? Wanna fuck me?"

I turned to the male barista, who was busy preparing my coffee. "What about you? Are you single?"

He looked up, clearly surprised to be addressed and not particularly happy to be drawn into this conversation. "Uh... I guess," he said, scratching his beard. "Why?" His eyes flicked briefly toward his colleague before returning to the coffee machine.

I paid for my order and waited until the female barista handed me my coffee and muffin. Then, carefully considering my words—I was starting to learn how important precise wording was—I leaned in slightly.

"I command you," I said quietly, so only she could hear, "to ask your colleague if he wants to have sex with you. If he says yes, have sex with him at least once, more if you want to. Forget my command and see it as a spontaneous idea you just had."

Her eyes glazed over slightly as my command took effect, then cleared. She blinked, looking thoughtful, as if she'd just had an interesting idea occur to her.

"Thanks," I said, taking my coffee and muffin. "Have a good day."

As I headed for the door, I heard her voice behind me, slightly nervous but determined.

"Hey, Josh? This might sound weird, but… do you want to, um, maybe fuck sometime?"

I glanced back just in time to see the male barista's shocked expression, followed by a shy, disbelieving smile.

"Yes," he said softly. "I'd like that."

I stepped out into the sunshine, feeling oddly like some kind of twisted cupid. Well, it was alright. I was still entitled to some fun. The girl wouldn't mind anyway, not really, and it didn't break any of my rules.

I drove back to my apartment, still marveling at how the Porsche handled. The engine purred like a contented tiger, responding to the slightest touch of my foot on the accelerator. It was a far cry from the dirty public buses I'd been riding for the past few years.

When I finally reached my apartment building, I parked in my usual spot, wincing slightly as I wedged the expensive car between a rusty pickup and a minivan with a "My Child is an Honor Student" bumper sticker. The contrast between my new ride and my living situation couldn't have been more stark.

Opening the door to my apartment, I was greeted by the sight of relative cleanliness, thanks to Mrs. Johnson's efforts yesterday. The place still had that lived-in smell though—a mixture of stale air, lingering takeout aromas, and the distinct mustiness of unwashed laundry that had been festering in the hamper for what was probably approaching two weeks now.

I glanced at the overflowing hamper in the corner of my bedroom and sighed. I could easily command Mrs. Johnson or any other woman to come do my laundry, but something in me rebelled against the idea. Maybe it was the conversation with Melissa, her accusations of my perpetual man-child status still stinging. Or maybe it was just that after experiencing something genuine with Claudia, using my power for mundane chores felt… cheap.

"Fuck it," I muttered, grabbing the hamper and hauling it to the small stacked washer-dryer unit in the hallway closet.

It took three loads to get through everything—whites, colors, and a special load just for my collection of graphic tees that had specific washing instructions I'd ignored for years. Between cycles, I cleaned up the remaining clutter, tossed out old takeout containers, and even wiped down the kitchen counters. The physical activity felt good, productive in a way that clicking through Valheim quests never quite managed to be.

By mid-afternoon, my apartment was not just clean but actually pleasant. I opened the windows to let in the fresh spring air, feeling oddly satisfied as I surveyed my domain. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and for once, I'd taken care of it myself.

With the apartment sorted, I finally settled into my gaming chair and fired up my computer. The Discord notifications exploded across my screen the moment I logged in—hundreds of friend requests and server notifications. The "Finding The One" server that Greg had made me an admin on was still very much active, though the female moderators seemed to be keeping things under control.

I opened a private chat with Greg (OldSchoolMod), who had helped make me an admin yesterday.

TheActualOwner: Hey, how's it going?

OldSchoolMod: As well as can be expected when you're moderating the horniest server on Discord. These guys are going crazy.

TheActualOwner: Yeah, I can see that. Sorry about all this.

OldSchoolMod: Not your fault, man. It's not like you chose to be THE owner, did you? Though I can't say I wouldn't have enjoyed that power when I was your age.

TheActualOwner: What do you think I should do?

OldSchoolMod: That's entirely up to you. You're the one with the power. But if you want my two cents, some kind of decision would be appreciated. These guys are climbing the walls.

I leaned back in my chair, thinking about the situation. It was paradoxical, really. For all the frustration evident in the chat, I hadn't seen a single actual threat. Men were begging and pleading to be allowed to have sex again, but none of them seemed particularly aggressive about it—just annoyed and increasingly ****. It was as if the same cosmic joke that had given me ownership of all women had also neutered any violent response to that fact.

TheActualOwner: I think I need a bit more time to think about it. This is a lot to process.

OldSchoolMod: Fair enough. It's only been what, four days? Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was a new sexual world order.

TheActualOwner: Hey... Do you yourself need permission for someone specific?

OldSchoolMod: Me? Ha! I've been in a dead bedroom situation for twenty years. I'm 58 now—too old to worry about that sort of thing anymore. My wife and I have separate bedrooms and separate lives. We're basically roommates who occasionally remember we're married.

His dark humor made me feel a twinge of sadness. The world had turned upside down, but Greg was still here, keeping things running, and he wasn't even looking for a cut of the pie for himself.

TheActualOwner: Sorry to hear that, man.

OldSchoolMod: Don't be. I've made my peace with it. But these younger guys—they're not as philosophical about involuntary celibacy. Just something to keep in mind.

I promised Greg I'd think about it and logged off, my mind swirling with the weight of the responsibility I'd somehow been given. The power to control the sex lives of literally every person on the planet was a lot to handle for a guy who, until recently, couldn't even control the state of his own laundry hamper.