A.M. Wyckid's Erotic Word-Forge

Xenos had bent their minds to make them his unwilling sex-slaves. Now it was up to Hume Essex to save them. A relentless tale of two Telepaths — one a sociopathic mind-control specialist, and the other a mind-reading psychiatrist — in a battle for the minds and bodies of five women.

Length: ~48,000 words

Attributes: B&D, D&S, Paranormal, S&M.

Available on Amazon.com for 99¢

Let all the poisons,
That lurk in the mind,
Hatch out.

A minimal paraphrase from I, Claudius by Robert Graves
substitute ‘mud’ for ‘mind’ above to recapture the original.

• Prologue
• Chapter_One
• Chapter_Two
• Chapter_Three
• Chapter_Four
• Chapter_Five
• Chapter_Six
• Chapter_Seven
• Chapter_Eight
• Chapter_Nine
• Chapter_Ten
• Chapter_Eleven
• Chapter_Twelve
• Chapter_Thirteen
• Chapter_Fourteen
• Chapter_Fifteen
• Chapter_Sixteen
• Chapter_Seventeen
• Chapter_Eighteen
• Chapter_Nineteen
• Chapter_Twenty
• Chapter_Twenty one
• Chapter_Twenty two
• Epilogue

Cum Whore the red letters in front of her face spelled and Bite hovered over the left nipple, Pinch over the right, though they often switched. She moved her hand toward the letters, and as usual, they darted away from her fingers. You couldn’t touch them no matter how hard you tried. She knew without looking that Whip This appeared before her crotch and that Insert Cock Here followed behind her where ever she went. When things got this far, all the world could tell what she was just by looking. She’d felt the letters coming on all day. Held them off with the force of her will and prepared herself for the ritual that was the only way she had to make them go away, at least for a while.

Doctor Seevior had a problem. The solution to that problem had worked for a long time, for almost two years in fact, but now the ritual was losing its effectiveness. She had to do more, do it harder, and do it more often. The ritual was just a substitute for the real cure. For when he would visit her, but his visits had fallen off. Now she felt lucky to see him once each month, when he came for his envelope. If he was on schedule, she still had three more days to wait for real relief. For three more days she’d have to get by with this substitute.

She got off the elevator on eight. Akkadia General Hospital was a busy place, and it was hard to find anywhere that provided the kind of privacy she needed, even at two A.M. The remodeling that had been underway on the eighth floor had been a lucky break for her. The workmen were on a nine-to-five schedule. That meant there were sixteen hours a day when no one would be in that tower on that floor. It provided a place where she could be safe to do what she had to do.

She ducked behind the plastic dust barrier and the Under Construction, Keep Out signs, down the hall littered with construction debris, tools, ladders, and drums of paint. She paused and listened. She’d come too early last week and blundered into a painter washing out his brushes in the ladies room she wanted to use. “Can I help you?” the young man had asked.

“Oh, you startled me! I didn’t think anyone was still around.” She glanced in the mirror and the dreaded Cum Whore letters were just barely visible. She closed her eyes and willed them to subside. When she looked again, the letters were gone. “We’re missing a crash cart. I was wondering if it got left back here somehow,” she improvised, but in her head she worried, I hope he hadn’t seen the letters.

The man was fifteen years her junior, that age in a man when they’d have sex with anything female that didn’t resist or complain with too much vigor. He leered at her, scanning her chest, then down to her waist, and back up to her face. At thirty-eight years old, Erica Seevior was not a bad looking woman. At five-six and one-thirty-five her BMI was dead center in the normal weight range. Her black hair was straight and thick, and her hazel eyes were large even without make-up. Though the stress of the last several years had been hard on her, she was still a ‘looker.’

“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll keep an eye out and ask the other guys to do the same, Doctor Seevior,” he said in his best come-on voice. “I’m almost done here.… If you have a break soon, we could …”

Then it happened. Something that had never happened before or since. Bright red letters in front of the man’s paint-splattered tee shirt. They said I know what you are, you slut! She’d turned and run with the mocking voices of the letters pursuing her and calling Slut, you slut, fucking slut at her as she went. She’d gone home, called in sick, and performed the ritual twice in quick succession, just to be sure.

That was last week. Now, Erica held her breath and listened. She heard nothing. She advanced quietly up the deserted hallway and paused to listen again. Her face was flushed and she was sure the letters there were in full scarlet bloom. She could even hear their whispered abuse. She had waited too long for safety. Erica needed to get lucky now, or she’d be found out. “Hello?” she called, dreading to hear some reply. Still nothing.

She arrived at the door to the ladies room. It was propped open by a five-gallon paint drum and the lights were out. She flipped the switch and called, “Hello?” again as the lights flickered on. No answer. She was safe for one more day. At least, she hoped she was safe. If only she could have the next fifteen minutes uninterrupted.

Erica pushed the paint drum out of the way and let the door close behind her, then pushed the drum up against the closed door. That might give her a few extra seconds if someone should happen by.

She glanced into the mirror and the dreaded letters were visible. Cum Whore, Bite, Pinch, and Whip This all ablaze in crimson letters an inch high. She turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder at her behind. Insert Cock Here. All was as dreadfully expected. She made her way to the far side of the room, pushing open each stall to make sure it was empty as she made her way to the fourth one on the end.

She stepped inside and closed the door. If only there were a latch, she thought. She closed the toilet lid and set her purse down on it. Erica slipped off her shoes and stripped off all of her clothing. Scrub pants and blouse and the long-sleeved base layer pull-over she wore for warmth. Stripping was necessary. The bit of sympathetic magic she was about to practice was messy by its very nature. The surgical cap would keep her from making a mess in her hair. She pulled it over her head and got her dark hair tucked underneath.

Erica put her shoes back on, the low heel they sported would make the next part easier. She took one towel from her purse and spread it on the floor, then squatted down in front of the toilet, draped the other towel across the top, and arranged all the rest of her paraphernalia on that.

She opened the little compact and arrange the mirror so that her face was visible in it. Her face was red, burning with embarrassment. The only thing redder were the Cum Whore letters themselves, now in full crimson burn.

First the nipple clamps. The Bite / Pinch letters dodged her fingers as she applied the clover clamps. The cord that connected them, she looped behind the hinge of the toilet seat. Erica would be able to lean back against it when she needed more pressure.

She snapped the condom covered dildo onto the short wooden cross-bar and smeared it with KY from the tube, then got the cross-bar in position under the heels of her shoes. Next the surgical glove, more KY, then a single finger in her anus, then two, all the while the flush on her face intensified. She could never tell exactly what she felt at these moments. Embarrassment certainly. Fear assuredly. Abject mortification wouldn’t be too strong. Under it all, though, was something else. Some kernel of belief that this was right; that she was nothing but a Cum Whore waiting for him to make contact and use her as she should be used.

She removed her fingers and the stink invaded her nostrils. The glove turned inside out as she stripped it off from wrist to fingers and hid the smell. Erica lifted herself up, got the dildo into position and then lowered her hips, impaling herself on the thick hunk of cherry-red silicone. The first dildo she used had been black and much slimmer. When she needed more she’d gotten a heftier one that was also black. That one had been adequate for only a short time. When she upgraded again, the massive red one had caught her eye. The letters wanted it, insisted on it, maybe because they were the same color.

With Bite, Pinch, and Cock Goes Here satisfied, it was time for Whip This. The TENS unit was a recent refinement in her ritual. At first she used an actual whip. That was before she needed the cord on the nipple clamps. When the cord became a necessity, a ruler made a poor substitute for the whip, but was the best she could do in the cramped space that was left. The pain level was never high enough though. The TENS solved that problem. She applied the two negative electrode pads on the inside of each thigh. The positive side of each channel of the TENS were wired to the short metal wand. She powered the unit on and to maximum power. Then took the insulated end of the wand in her hand and looked down. The Whip This letters demanded that she proceed. She gritted her teeth and brushed the metal end of the wand over her bare labia — she’d had to shave, the hair got in the way and made contact uncertain. The current caused her legs to contract, driving the huge red member deeper into her. Uuuughhh! she growled. That the motion was involuntary intensified the feeling that this wasn’t something she was doing to herself, but it was something being done to her instead, making the magic that much stronger.

Erica quickly got into a rhythm. Tap the wand into her labia, jerk down onto the invader behind, then relax. Tap, jerk, relax. Tap, jerk, relax. The tears started slowly as the feeling inside her built up, and the already intense burn on her face grew stronger. She leaned back against the cord making the clamps bite deeper into her nipples then eased forward again. The tinnitus hit her — that sudden silence after a loud bang close to the ear into which the ringing whistle drops. She might have been screaming or she might not. This far gone, she couldn’t hear anything. Erica had tape recorded a session once. The sounds she made seemed inhuman, but were not particularly loud. At least not that time.

She glanced into the compact mirror. The Cum Whore letters swarmed across her face. They were ready to have their due, and she was nearly ready to let them. She pulled up off of the huge red silicone member and felt it pull out of her completely. She hopped back off the cross-bar and the dildo plopped down between her feet onto the towel. She dropped the wand and inserted all four fingers into her vagina. With her other hand she readied the syringe while vigorously rubbing her clitoris and g-spot. She leaned back against the cord to intensify the sensation on her nipples and further satisfy Bite and Pinch. The orgasm built but could not happen until she took the final step. If she moved too soon, the spell would fail and she’d have to start over again. She felt the swelling at the base of her spine, spreading out into her whole body. She slammed the plunger of the 250 cc syringe against the toilet seat and the massive jet of mock-cum splattered against her face unleashing the massive orgasm. She shuddered, jerked, did it again, and finally collapsed onto the toilet’s lid. The syringe clattered onto the floor. She glanced into the mirror and could see the tears of utter shame running down her face and mixing with the yogurt that was her substitute for semen.

She used to enjoy floating in the afterglow of sex, but since he’d come to her, it was never like that anymore. It was dark and desperate, like the let-down an addict might feel after all the hard work to steal or whore enough for a fix, and after the fix — after the high had worn off — they realize, I’m going to have to do it all again, and much too soon. She sobbed quietly. There wasn’t even a sense of relief that it was over for now. Her condition was completely unpredictable. Once it had reoccurred just a few minutes after she completed the ritual. So all that she was left with was apprehension. Three more days of it. Once she saw him, she’d be ‘cured’ for a couple of weeks. If only he’d come to see her more often. I guess he’s gotten tired of me, she thought and then an ugly idea hatched inside her head and brought her bolt upright. What if he never comes to see me again?

He thinks you’re worthless even for a cum whore and he’s never going to see you again. You’re going to have to live like this the rest of your life and you fucking deserve it. It was just a whisper in her mind. She wasn’t even sure she heard it. It might just be her own fears talking, but it crushed her spirit, and the tears flowed and the shame was so palpable that it oozed out of her pores like poison.

She heard the door bump into the paint-drum with a muffled thud a few minutes later. “What the hell?” It was a man’s voice.

She snatched up the syringe and rolled it into the towel with the rest of her arcane supplies as she heard the door scrape the drum back against the wall.

“Security … is anyone in here?” the man challenged.

As quietly as she could she hopped up onto the toilet seat, turned to face the stall-door, squatting with the bundle hugged against her chest. Please, don’t let him find me. Please, please, she begged the universe.

His shoes clunked twice as he stepped to the first stall and pushed the door back against the side with a thump.

Please, please, … Erica begged.

Clunk, … thump, … The second door opened.

No, no, no. Please, no …

Clunk, … thump, …The last door before hers.

Oh god, please no, …

Clunk, … She could see his polished black leather shoes right in front of the door. This was the larger handicapped stall and the door opened outward to swing up against the back wall. Any second it would do so and she would be caught. Please! Just go away!

“Fuck this!” he said, and turned to walk away. “God damn workmen,” he added as he turned out the light and left Erica in complete darkness.

I’ve got to get some help, Doctor Erica Seevior thought as she sobbed with relief and the after-image of her shame.

A little learning is a dangerous thing; 
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: 
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
and drinking largely sobers us again.

Alexander Pope

They say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?
A excess of knowledge may be even more dangerous.

Unknown

The right side of my head exploded in pain. I’d once been cracked in the head with a bat, been thrown from a horse and hit my head, and even been hit in the skull by a small caliber bullet. None of that could compare to this. It felt like the right hemisphere of my brain was being yanked out through my ear with a pair of red-hot tongs. I staggered out of my chair and I dropped to the carpet on my knees, retching. I grabbed the wastebasket and lost my lunch into it. Had I pushed too hard, and this was the result?

“Doctor Essex!” my patient cried. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry Cilia, I’m not.… Migraine,” I managed to say. “Have Sharron reschedule you. Tell her I said to work you in tomorrow or the next day no matter what she has to do. We were making progress and I don’t want to lose it.” Another wave of nausea twisted my guts and the light stabbed my eyes, feeling like actual knives or maybe needles, long sharp barbed ones. “Could I ask you to turn out the lights on your way out? The light is killing me.”

“Certainly, Hume,” Cilia said, quickly moving toward the door and switching out the lights. She came back and put her hand on my head. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”

I looked up at her and her body seemed to be surrounded by a halo of lightning that burned my eyes, but still I couldn’t close them. Cilia was pretty enough, with short blond pixie-cut hair, athletic build, and large startlingly blue eyes, but her mouth was her best feature: rather small, but with generous lips that could stretch into a beautiful smile. That mouth had just taken on a new significance for me. “That’s sweet of you Cilia, but no.” Then she was gone. I rolled onto my back and lay there. I had the Treximet tablets in my pocket. I hadn’t needed them in a long time, but I was very glad I still carried them.

Cilia’s case was weird, and that’s not a word that I use lightly. She came to me complaining of black-outs, free-floating anxiety, and a sourceless sense of shame. The first of the blackouts had lasted for a day and a half. When her husband indicated that nothing at all seemed odd to him during that period or any other, I started to look at her case as a garden-variety Psychogenic amnesia, brought on by an emergent repressed trauma. Then she said that she’d seen her husband black-out as well, and I became suspicious of the diagnosis. I’m not sure why.

When I looked into her mind — another thing I don’t take lightly — I could tell that something was wrong. Not in the usual way that I see with some very ill patients, this was more subtle. Things seemed too ordered, but behind the order, something lurked.

Did I forget to mention that I’m a telepath? That can sometimes be a very handy thing for a Psychiatrist to be, but recently, it seemed to be a severe drawback. I had a handful of women patients, all with some sort of memory disorder, who seemed to be triggering migraines when I probed them. They weren’t responding to any of the usual techniques, so I’d used my ability, pushing them and myself harder than I normally would, trying to get through to the source. Cilia was the first, but others were to come. Understand, when I probe most people hard, it’s so — there is no adequate word so I’ll say — unpleasant for them that they never want to see me again. Like debridement of a wound, it was just too painful to bear, but necessary. These patients all responded in a completely opposite way. They felt like we’d made tremendous progress, they left feeling much better, and with no memory of me in their mind. I guess you could say that it’s ironic that instead of them finding it unpleasant, I did. The glimpses I’d seen in each patient before the migraines struck were all different but had the common element that they carried a huge charge of very dark sexual energy. In Cilia Wimlet’s case it was …

“Get on your knees, you filthy fucking bitch,” the man said to me. I couldn’t see his face somehow. It’s not that it was dark or that I couldn’t look at him. It was more that when I did, I saw eyes, nose, mouth, lips, cheeks, chin, brow, hairline — all the things that together make up a face, but they just wouldn’t come together as a face. I could see Nash fine, but not him. His body was somewhat similar, but not nearly so disorganized. I could tell that he was average height and weight, but not much more than that. I’d answered his knock on the door, and been so startled at the sight of him, that I didn’t resist as he simply walked in, pushing me back. “I said, get on your knees, cunt,” he continued.

“No! Nash, help me!” I cried to my husband. He was sitting on the couch watching the game and he didn’t respond. “Nash!” I screamed again. His attention flickered in my direction and he smiled at me and blew me a kiss before turning back to the television. It was like he didn’t see the man, or hear my cries for help.

“He won’t help you, you dirty whore,” he laughed. “Now beg me to ream your gorgeous mouth out with my cock.” Like his face, his voice also had a distorted quality to it. Not like a voice-scrambler, but more like it wasn’t coming in through my ears at all, and so it didn’t really have a sound you could identify. It was like it was just in your head; loud, brash, full of vile appetites, and all too ready to degrade. He slipped his shoes off, then his pants hit the floor and he stepped out of them. He draped his jacket over a chair, then pulled his shirt over his head, and put it on top of the jacket. The image of his cock was clear in my mind. It seemed to glow, was huge, certainly swollen and inflamed with his lust.

My answer to his demand was, No! I intended to say it to him loud and clear. To seize the phone and dial 911. I was going to strike him if he came any closer to me, but none of that happened. He did step closer. In my mind, I screamed my denial, and hit him with my fist. I was a brown-belt and my punch was first-rate. Then I was on my knees, with my hands clasped before my heart. My mouth opened and I said, “Please fuck my face. Fuck it so hard. Bury your cock in my throat. Fill me with your come, please,” and I thought I had gone mad. I couldn’t fathom why I would say such a thing. I didn’t even give Nash oral sex, and I loved him.

He grinned down at me. Even though his face was scrambled, I could tell that he grinned, and that it was filled with evil. He reach down and stripped off my shirt and bra. “No,” I groaned.

“Yes,” he said. “Grab your nipples, squeeze, twist, and pull hard, then beg me again.”

My hands began to move. I wanted them to stop and still, somehow, I didn’t want them to. “Please, skull fuck this worthless cunt!” I hadn’t even heard the term skull fuck, and wouldn’t have guessed at it’s meaning if I had, but here and now, the meaning was obvious. The pain shooting through my breasts made my voice crack and waver.

He grabbed my head with both hands, my lips parted, and I could feel the betrayal. My traitorous lips wanted him to do it. My nipples were on fire and they wanted it, too. My face wanted to feel his come oozing out of my mouth, dribbling down my chin, and across my chest. My throat wanted to feel him close off my breath with his rigid cock. My lower parts felt cheated that they would get none of his attention. But I — whatever I was in all of this — I didn’t want any of it. No, I groaned inside. No. He inserted the tip of his penis between my open lips. The touch of his member against them was velvety and sent a surge of wonderful sensation down my body to settle between my legs. I could feel the head of his cock swell even more in my mouth. My hands gripped his ass, and I knew he was going to ram himself into the back of my throat and I wanted it. No, I moaned, helplessly lost. Then my arms contracted sharply and my head accelerated forward onto his member. The sensation in my lips doubled and tripled in intensity and the fire between my legs burned the hotter. As the rod approached the back of my throat, it slowed then stopped. I couldn’t breathe, but I could feel the head of his penis cupped in the depths of my throat and a near-orgasmic twitch happened between my legs. His cock finally slid back and I gulped air. Then again my own arms pulled his hips forward and I rocked into him to close me up once again. Out again and my tongue lapped at the head while I made up the oxygen debt that was building. Each lick triggered another twitch and I groaned. One hand moved of it’s own accord to cup and caress his scrotum and the other gripped the shaft hard.

His voice invaded my mind again, “That’s right you filthy cocksucking slut. Do it. You love it, so do it. Soon I’ll fill your throat with my come, and you will thank me.…”

That’s what I got from her mind. I remembered it as vividly as if it had actually happened to me, with all the violation, humiliation, and shame that went along with it. I felt I’d been raped. Then the pain and nausea slammed down and that was all. Except for my nipples which ached and my throat which was constricted and raw. There was an unfamiliar tingle between my legs. Not in my penis , but behind it. As if there were female genitalia buried beneath. The rest was the killing sense of utter shame. I cried. Cried for myself and cried for Cilia.

Reviewing the memory reactivated the pain and nausea. I retched again, but there wasn’t anything left to bring up. I reach for the Treximet.

Even with the Treximet, I was still reeling from the pain when I got home. I asked Sharron to drop me off since I couldn’t drive, and she insisted on getting me into my apartment. She helped me to the couch and took off my shoes and tie. “How about a drink?” she asked.

“Scotch, thanks.” The glass was sweating ice cold condensation and I put it against the side of my head where the red-hot poker was jammed through my temple.

She was in the kitchen. “There’s no food in here,” she said. “I’ll have something delivered. How about Thai?”

“Make it for two, if you like,” I suggested.

She made the call. Then stood behind me and massaged my neck and shoulders. “This headache doesn’t have anything to do with the shooting, does it?”

She called it the shooting, but I preferred the term accident, since I didn’t really know what had happened. I was sure that it didn’t have anything to do with that, at least not the way she meant. It was right after the accident three years ago that my ability started to manifest. I was never sure if those two things were connected or not, but it seemed likely. Since my ability was connected to that event, and the headache was connected to my ability, then in a very technical sense, she was right. “No. It’s just stress, Sharron. Let’s talk tomorrow about reducing my patient load. There are some people who would do better with a different kind of treatment. We’ll refer them on to other therapists.”

“What about the referral from doctor Willden? Are you still going to take that?”

“At least to evaluate, Sharron.”

The food arrived. We ate, and Sharron left. I sometimes got the impression that she wouldn’t mind if I asked her out. I was so out of practice, that I didn’t dare. It had been three years since I last saw anyone seriously, and a lot longer than that since I started something new with a woman. You’re going to have to get that part of your life going again sometime, I thought.