The Monday morning alarm on my phone buzzed at 6:30 a.m., pulling me from a shallow sleep laced with tether echoes—Sarah's faint morning stretch in her body at Jake's parents' house, Elise's jet-lagged yawn in Paris, Lena's slow wake-up back east. I silenced it quickly, rubbing my eyes in the dim light of my childhood room. The house was still mostly asleep, but I heard faint movement downstairs—Mom starting coffee, Dad's shower running. I could've stayed in bed, but the plan for Friday's sleepover at our house burned too hot to ignore. Annie's friends—Mia, Jess, Kara—overnight, pajamas thin, bodies close in the dark. The erotic potential was endless: slip into Mia during pillow talk, feel her fuller curves from inside as they whispered about boys; edge Jess in her sleep, make her wake confused and wet; possess Kara for a midnight "dare" in the hot tub, her redhead freckles flushing under my control. But to do it right—to keep them pliant, unaware, deeply asleep when I jumped between them—I needed meds. Stronger than over-the-counter gummies. Something prescription-level to stun them without risk. Sleeping pills, maybe Ambien or Valium—subtle doses mixed into drinks. And who better to get them than Mom? The local pharmacy knew her by name—years of picking up Dad's blood pressure meds, Annie's allergy scripts. They'd hand it over no questions if she asked for "something for my son's insomnia."
I threw on jeans and a hoodie, headed downstairs. The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and toast—Mom at the stove flipping eggs, Dad at the table with the paper, steam rising from his mug.
"Morning, early bird," Mom said, surprised but smiling. "Didn't expect you up till noon. Sit—eggs are almost done."
Dad looked up. "Coffee's hot. How'd you sleep?"
"Good," I lied, pouring a mug. The warmth seeped into my hands. The longer I possessed my power the more it feels like a stage where I had to represent myself – bodies waiting to be worn, to be touched and to erected. We ate und discussed my time that I had been missing since I got to university. Suddenly Annie shuffled in – pajamas rumpled, hair a mess, grumbling something about school. Probably something she dreamed of and so let we her talk.
"Morning my loving shine", thought my mother ironically and dad just look up on her, where she just sat and began to eat breakfast. My parents looked back to me and thought about the theme we were talking about. "And so, you are going to finish your studies in a half year or so?" I nodded. "And do you know what you are going to work?", he looked critically. "Probably, to be a psychiatrist or something similar."
"So you want to do something what does not have future?", he thought that it is a bullshit that I went directly into university without any job knowledge. As the oncle in Spider man says "with great power comes great responsibility" so does my pops say "with early job knowledge comes great job opportunities", which by the way I cannot believe. Even though we had a rough conversation about the need of psychology in general, my mother settled the dispute. "He can be a lecturer if he wants", she answered to my dad, which I could see was pleased with the possible money that I could earn. Right than my mom changed the topic und turned to Annie, who was psychologically asleep.
"And what's going on with you, young lady", mom looked at Annie, who chew the bread in her mouth.
Annie complaining about cheer ("Coach is a tyrant—my legs are killing me from yesterday's drills"). I kept it light: teased Annie about boys ("Any crushes yet?"), laughed at Dad's bad jokes, helped Mom clear plates. This warmth—family, chili from last night still in the fridge. But Gina's laugh echoes. She'd hate this—suburb boring her thin, bitchy ass. Soon she'll pay.
After breakfast, my family was ready to go. Annie changed her outfit, my dad looked in the news paper longer and my mother was on the toilette finishing her business before she and him are going both to their separated cars. I heard the toilette flushed which door opening was followed by. I decided that I had to go on with my plan to be able to possess Annies friends on Friday evening. So an idea erupted from my brain cells. Why don't I use my mother for this mission? I mean, she had very well connections in the pharmacy nearby, so they really good know her as honest person who would never harm anybody. Well she wouldn't but I would, why not.
So while she walked to the entrance room, I just laid on the couch, drifting of thinking about my mother, building my connection like an Phone wireless and there I had her. Connected with me really fast, even though she was awake. This let me assume that I could easily to drive-in with the people from the family and so I just saw what she just saw. Her eyes were my eyes and so I pushed her in the back of her head, turning her to sleep. And it was easily done with her, she slept really badly and even coffee couldn't help her.
The moment I took over, sensation came over me. Her body felt familiar yet intimate: mid-forties softness, breasts heavy under her bra, hips wide in jeans, a faint ache in her knees from years of standing. Inner thought: Different from Annie's youth—lived-in, comfortable, erotic in its maturity. Feel the sway with every turn, nipples brushing fabric, the quiet heat between her legs from morning thoughts of Dad.
"There you are, I thought you were already gone", let his news paper on the kitchen desk before he stood up and came up to me to the entrance door. "You know where I am, everywhere", I winked at him while laughing. My parents had a really interesting humor with each other, they are teasing each other as they were twenty again. We pulled on our shoes, took our keys and went outside. "I will be home at 5 today", he told me came near me and kissed me on the lips. I went along and played with the part of kissing him. I'm not gay in any way but I had to keep up my facade. He was my dad since I was born but for mom, he isn't a dad but a husband and that part I had to play, if I liked it or not. And so, we said goodbye and went our ways. He, in his cars, and drove in front of me while I were later going. I started the car and drove of to the pharmacy.
The pharmacy smelled exactly the way it always had: antiseptic mixed with the faint sweetness of cough drops and the rubbery tang of latex gloves. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright for 8:17 a.m., turning everything clinical and sterile. Mrs. Delgado — same woman behind the counter since I was ten — looked up from her computer screen when the bell jingled.
"Mary! Good morning, hon. Early for you."
I smiled with Mom's mouth — warm, familiar, the exact smile she'd used on this woman a thousand times. "Morning, Rosa. Couldn't sleep again. My son's home from college and I've been tossing and turning worrying about him. You know how it is."
She nodded sympathetically, already reaching for the little pad. "Insomnia's the worst. You want the usual? Melatonin's over-the-counter, but if it's bad I can call in something stronger."
I made Mom lean on the counter just a little — casual, tired-mother posture. "Actually… something prescription this time would be better. Just short-term. Maybe Ambien? Or whatever you think works for someone who can't shut their brain off. I don't want to be a zombie during the day, just… sleep through the night for once."
Rosa didn't blink. Mom had picked up Dad's blood-pressure pills here for fifteen years, Annie's EpiPen refills, even my old ADHD meds back in high school. Trust was currency in a town this small.
"Ambien's good for that. Ten milligrams should knock you out clean. I'll need the doctor to sign off, but Dr. Patel owes me a favor — I can have him e-sign it in ten minutes. You want thirty pills? That'll cover a month if you're careful."
"Thirty's perfect," I said through Mom's lips. "Thank you, Rosa. You're a lifesaver."
She tapped away, printed the label, slid the orange bottle across the counter with the little white bag. "Take one at bedtime with water. No alcohol, no driving after. And call if you feel weird — some people get sleep-eating or… other side effects."
I laughed — Mom's light, reassuring laugh. "I'll be good. Promise."
Paid cash — Mom always carried a little emergency stash in her purse. Walked out into the cold morning air with the bottle warm in my coat pocket. The drive home felt longer than it should have; every red light gave me time to imagine Friday night: five teenage girls in pajamas scattered across the living room floor, sleeping bags unzipped, popcorn bowls empty. Annie — my little sister — curled up nearest the TV, completely unaware that her big brother was already inside her head, planning to borrow her friends one by one.
Back home the house was empty again. Mom's shift didn't start till nine; Dad was already at the shop. I slipped into the downstairs bathroom, locked the door, and opened the bottle. Small white tablets, innocent-looking. I counted out ten — enough for a heavy dose split five ways without killing anyone. Crushed them fine with the back of a spoon against the sink edge, funneled the powder into an empty travel pill case from the medicine cabinet. Easy to slip into soda, hot chocolate, whatever they drank during movie night. I returned my mom to her car and while I waited on a traffic signal, I just disconnected from her. I faded back to my own body in the hallway. Cock painfully hard, breath ragged. I adjusted myself, went back to my room, locked the door.
I faded back into my own body in the hallway, the sudden shift leaving me dizzy for half a second. The house was still quiet — only the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the living room and the low hum of the fridge. My cock throbbed painfully against my jeans, the echo of Mom's borrowed arousal still pulsing in my veins. Ten crushed Ambien tablets sat innocently in the little plastic travel case in my pocket — enough powder to drop five teenage girls into a deep, pliant sleep come Friday night. The sleepover was four days away. Plenty of time.
But right now I needed release. And distraction.
Elise.
The new bond with her hummed bright and fresh in the back of my skull — sharper than Lena's, hotter than Sarah's. She was six time zones ahead, already deep into her Monday afternoon in Paris. I could feel the vague shape of her day: jet lag finally easing, body loose from a long hot shower, the faint scent of hotel soap still clinging to her skin. She was out walking — I caught flashes through her eyes: cobblestone streets, the metallic tang of the Seine nearby, the low winter sun slanting golden across Haussmann facades.
Perfect.
I locked my bedroom door again, kicked off my shoes, lay back on the quilt, and closed my eyes.
Reach.
The snap was instant — smoother than ever. No rubber-band tug, no headache. Just… presence.
Elise's eyes opened to a wide, busy boulevard. Boulevard Saint-Germain. Late-afternoon light poured over the street, turning everything honey-colored. She — I — was mid-stride, long black coat open over a cream sweater and high-waisted black jeans that hugged her legs and ass like a second skin. Black ankle boots clicked against the pavement. A paper cup of coffee steamed in her right hand; the other held her phone, screen glowing with a map app.
The city hit me all at once.
Cold air sharp with diesel and fresh bread. Horns blaring in the distance. Snatches of French conversation drifting past — rapid, musical, incomprehensible. The smell of roasting chestnuts from a street cart twenty meters ahead. A bicycle bell dinged behind me; I stepped aside automatically, feeling the easy sway of Elise's hips as she moved. Her body felt alive in a way no other had — lithe, confident, every step carrying that effortless Parisian elegance. Breasts shifting gently under the sweater with each stride, nipples brushing lace with faint friction. A low, pleasant ache between her thighs — still tender from Friday night, still remembering the stretch of me inside her.
Inner thought: Fuck. This is different. Not just the body — the place. I'm in Paris. Through her eyes. Her feet. Her lungs breathing this air.
I let her keep walking for a minute — autopilot — while I drank it in. Café tables spilling onto the sidewalk, couples arguing in low voices over cigarettes, a street musician playing accordion near the metro entrance. The Seine appeared on the left — wide, gray-green, Bateaux-Mouches sliding past under the bridges. Notre-Dame loomed ahead, half-scaffolded but still massive, still holy in that ancient way.
I took the wheel fully.
Elise's stride changed — slower, more deliberate. I made her pause at the river wall, lean her elbows on the stone, coffee cup cradled between gloved hands. The wind off the water lifted strands of black hair across her face; I tucked them behind her ear with her own fingers, feeling the silk of it, the warmth of her skin. Below, a tour boat slid past, tourists snapping photos. I smiled — her smile, full red lips curling — and felt the city pulse around me like a living thing.
First stop: a patisserie two streets over. I guided her through narrow alleys until the smell hit — butter, sugar, yeast. The window was a jewel box: éclairs glistening with chocolate glaze, macarons in pastel rows, pain au chocolat still steaming on trays. I made her point through the glass — "Un pain au chocolat, s'il vous plaît, et un café crème à emporter." The woman behind the counter smiled, wrapped it quickly. Elise paid with her card; I felt the small thrill in her chest when the total flashed — cheap compared to American prices.
Outside again, I found a bench facing the river. Sat her down. Unwrapped the pastry. The first bite was obscene: layers of flaky dough shattering, dark chocolate melting against the tongue, butter flooding every taste bud. Through Elise's heightened senses it was almost sexual — the crisp crack, the warm gooey center, the faint salt cutting the sweetness. I chewed slowly, eyes half-closed, feeling the warmth spread down her throat, settle low in her belly. Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach — flat under the sweater — then lower, pressing lightly against the seam of her jeans. A faint throb answered between her legs.
Inner thought: Goddamn. Food hits different in her body. Everything's more intense — taste, smell, texture. No wonder Parisians are obsessed.
I finished the pain au chocolat in four bites, licked flakes off her fingertips, sipped the coffee — strong, bitter, perfect. Then I stood her up again. Time to explore.
Next: Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I walked her past the famous Café de Flore — tourists snapping photos of the red banquettes — then turned down a quieter street. Bookstores everywhere — Shakespeare and Company was too crowded; I skipped it, ducked into a smaller one instead. Old wood shelves, the smell of paper and dust. I made her browse slowly, trailing her fingers along spines. Pulled down a slim volume of Baudelaire — Les Fleurs du Mal. Opened it at random. The French swam in front of her eyes; I didn't understand most of it, but the rhythm felt filthy, sensual. I made her lips move silently, tasting the words.
A man in his thirties — dark coat, scarf, glasses — glanced over from the next aisle. Our eyes met. He smiled — small, knowing. I made Elise return it — slow, deliberate, lips parting just enough. Inner heat flared. I could feel her pulse kick up, nipples tightening under the sweater. I held the stare for three long seconds, then looked away first — coy, teasing.
He followed us out.
I let him. Led her down another street, narrower, quieter. An archway opened into a tiny courtyard — empty except for a stone fountain that wasn't running. I stopped her under the arch, back to the wall. The man appeared at the entrance — hesitant, but interested.
I made Elise tilt her head. "Tu parles anglais?" — voice low, accented, inviting.
"Oui… un peu," he answered, stepping closer. "You're… American?"
"Non. Parisienne pour l'instant." Lie. Smooth. I made her smile again — this time slower, lips wet from coffee. "But I like visitors."
He swallowed. I could smell his cologne — woody, expensive. I stepped her forward — close enough that her breasts brushed his coat. His breath hitched. I made her hand rise — fingertips trailing down his chest, stopping at his belt.
"Tu veux… quelque chose?" I whispered through her lips.
He nodded — fast, dumb with want.
I made her drop to her knees right there — cold stone biting through jeans, but I didn't care. Unzipped him with steady fingers. His cock sprang free — thick, already leaking. I wrapped her red lips around the head, tongue swirling slow. He groaned — hand fisting in her black hair. I took him deeper — throat relaxing, lips stretching, the taste salty and musky flooding her mouth. Up and down — slow at first, then faster, wet sounds echoing off the stone walls. His hips jerked; I felt the pulse against her tongue.
He came fast — hot spurts hitting the back of her throat. I swallowed — every drop — then pulled off slow, licking her lips clean while looking up at him through Elise's dark lashes.
He stared — dazed, panting. "Putain…"
I stood her up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Smiled once — wicked, satisfied — then walked away without another word. Left him there against the wall, cock still out, looking wrecked.
Inner thought: Holy shit. I just made her blow a stranger in a Paris alley. And she's still wet from it — thighs slick, clit throbbing. This body… this city… it's made for this.
I kept walking her — past the Luxembourg Gardens (gates closed), along the Seine again, past Notre-Dame's scaffolding. The sun dropped lower; the city turned gold and rose. I found a small bar near Saint-Michel — dark wood, jazz playing low. Ordered a glass of red wine — Côtes du Rhône — and sat at a corner table. Sipped slowly, feeling the warmth spread through her chest, loosen her limbs. A man at the bar glanced over — older, silver hair, expensive watch. I made Elise meet his eyes, hold them, then look away with a small smile.
He came over.
"Puis-je m'asseoir?"
I nodded — her nod, slow and inviting.
We talked — French mostly, my college classes barely enough to keep up, but her body language did the rest. Hand on his knee under the table. Fingers brushing his. When he leaned in to kiss her I let him — soft at first, then deeper. His tongue tasted of wine and cigarettes. I made her hand slide higher — felt him harden under expensive trousers.
Twenty minutes later we were in his apartment — fifth floor, view of the Pantheon. Clothes came off fast. His body was lean, silver hair on his chest, cock thick and veined. I made Elise push him onto the bed, straddle him. Lowered her slowly — stretch exquisite, walls gripping tight. Rode him hard — hips rolling, tits bouncing, black hair swinging. He groaned — hands on her ass, squeezing. I clenched around him deliberately — felt him swell, pulse. Made her whisper filthy things in French — things I half-understood from movies. "Baise-moi plus fort… remplis-moi…"
He came inside her — hot, deep pulses. I kept riding through it — chasing her own climax. It hit seconds later — sharp, blinding, walls milking him dry while her cry echoed off the high ceiling.
Collapsed beside him — both panting. He lit a cigarette, offered her one. I declined with a smile.
Slipped out of his bed twenty minutes later — dressed in the dark, left without a word. He was already half-asleep.
Back on the street — night now, city glittering. I walked her home to her tiny exchange-student apartment near the Sorbonne. Locked the door. Stripped her again. Stood naked in front of the mirror — pale skin flushed, hickeys blooming on her neck and breasts, come still leaking slow from between her thighs.
I made her smile — slow, satisfied.
Inner thought: Paris through Elise. No rules. No consequences. Just bodies. Just pleasure. Just power.
Fade back gentle.
Opened my eyes in my childhood bedroom. Afternoon light now — clock said 2:47 p.m. Cock still hard, jeans damp at the front. The pill case sat on the nightstand — ten doses waiting.