Summer Sessions: The Late Bloomers

“You missed the speech, and the dinner,” the mind controller said. “And there’s no one to check you in, including me.”

Cyrus didn’t say anything. It was a surefire strategy for people having a problem with him. Blank expression, dead eyes. But his traveling companion had a different tactic: hopeful smiling.

“Maybe you can go in and find the– what’s the name of the super strong mind controller?”

“Damien,” Cyrus said.

“Damien!” Cary said, “Right. Maybe go tell him we’re out here? If you wouldn’t mind? If you wouldn’t mind control?”

Cary had a lot of flesh and radiated a firm belief that things would work out. He was soft and wet.

The mind controller smirked. His mental probe skittered all over Cary, learning his likes and dislikes, assessing his still-complaining bladder. Cary had no mental talent at all. The probe slid over to Cyrus, where it was stopped absolutely cold, at a mind that was wholly opaque. Impenetrable.

Or so Cyrus had always believed, until he’d met Damien.

Cyrus earned a grudging nod of respect. To save face the mind controller had Cary’s knees give out. He flopped backwards onto his butt, letting out a big gasp. The man’s cock wobbled between his legs. It was at least twelve inches long. Cyrus avoided looking at it as much he could.

“Damien told us to meet here,” Cyrus said. “Do you think he’d want you to help out?” Cyrus didn’t even try to exert mental pressure. He’d learned how to glare a long time ago. The mind controller rubbed at a oversized mustache and muttered to himself.

“I’ll check into it,” he said, finally.

“Good,” Cyrus said. “Thank you.”

“You’re one of HIS kids, right? I think we have three dozen of you this summer. Nothing but brothers.”

Cyrus flicked his gaze up to the mind controller. He waited for the man to try something, and then he shut it down. Pain blossomed on the man’s face. “Thank. You.” Cyrus said.

He helped Cary up. Cary’s hand was past moist – it was a stream, a terminus for condensation starting from his shaggy head. “Geez,” he said, hurt. “Sorry we’re late.”

Cyrus considered himself born into mind control. He’d felt around in other people’s heads for a long time, felt at home in the world that could sink tendrils into exterior thoughts. He glowed. And yet, Cary had been the one to end their flight with the stewardess hungrily sucking his dick. While the man ate a stroopwafel.

—

The final batch waited near the double doors. The main lecture hall at Seeprince University contained a half-dozen statues of old man appearing thoughtful. All the lights had been turned down very low. Which was tough, because the late recruits were all very tired. There were no chairs or anything, so they sprawled against the imposing granite columns.

Cyrus had been the last addition to a late group. From conversations with the others Damien had made his pickups swiftly and with prior knowledge. This despite the tremendous versatility in abilities, skills, talents. They were all young men, except Ronald, who was on the other side of 60, and fast asleep on the floor. Cyrus wasn’t even the shortest. They were sheepish and wore ugly shoes. The only thing they really had in common, at all, was that they were very, very, very good at getting women to fuck them.

When it came to that, they were amazing.

“We should be getting instructions soon. Everyone else is getting dessert.” No one said anything about crashing the main hall. Interrupting a huge crowd of mind controllers, moments before dessert, was a bad idea. Many of the crew were still in shock – Cyrus had been one of only a few to know that a larger world of skilled mind controllers and body transformers existed.

Ronald stirred. He sat up. “Damn. I keep expecting to wake up. But it’s still you people. Explain to me, someone, why all of us here, all of us so good at getting women to cream their panties, are hanging out at the sausage party of all sausage parties?”

Cyrus, who had some ideas about this, didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else, although Cary seemed about to burst into tears.

“Well,” Ronald chewed on his lower lip. “Since we’re all waiting around, lets go around and say what it is we do. I can’t imagine even one of you can make a lady cream their jeans.”

“Please,” Cary said. “Stop saying, cream your… whatever. Please.”

“You start,” Ronald said.