Andrew Darlington

The Man Who Had Power Over Women

Every now and then, the earth moves. Even for geeky Gruber Hoover.

He suffers from what he calls his ‘problem’. That’s why he takes a couple of extra Y-fronts when backpacking in the Peak District or along the Pennine Way. Activities also done to avoid situations that cause his embarrassing condition. City precincts, particularly in summer, tend to provoke his ‘problem’. Girls wear short dresses, tight T-shirts and often less. Thin fabrics that contour their frequently bra-less and visibly quivering breasts, and that sets off stirrings in his underpants which he can’t control. And his Y-fronts fit him as tight as a warm handshake from a friend. If he had a friend. Which he doesn’t.

Gruber is meek as a squeak, with a train-spotter’s dress-style. The recession never bothered him. He’d been a failure even during the boom. He’s also invisible. Meet him, and ten seconds later you’ve forgotten what he looks like; which is geeky. Even at thirty-two, living with Mumsie, he’s got explosions of facial acne like complex Braille texts, lank hair that’s long and greasy where it’s not already receding, and heavy-rimmed glasses as thick as bottles.

So when he’s in precincts or Shopping Malls, and its summer, he’s worked out some survival strategies. A girl, a T-shirt so sheer the nipple pigmentation and dimpled areola are not only visible, but tactile. Two playful snub-nosed mounds just begging to be petted. So first you deliberately don’t look, so as not to alert her to your intention. Walk towards her, your eyes hunting dropped coins on the pavement, or sight-cruising the Music Centres, lap-tops and DVD displays behind the reflecting shop windows. Until the last possible moment. Then look up sharply – as if surprised, pausing as long as is safe to gaze directly at the breasts. Sometimes, if that gaze lingers a nano-second beyond the acceptable limit, she intercepts your attention. Luckily Gruber is – remember, invisible, and her expression of shocked distaste soon fades as, a moment later, she’s forgotten he ever existed. Of course – if the furtive gaze had come, not from geeky Gruber, but from a good-looking hunk, her expression would be a secretive smile of approval. He knows this. Sometimes the unfairness of it all gets to him.

Public transport is also a dangerous provocation. Even before sitting down in the No.167 bus to Halifax, or the 07:46 train to Cleckmoorside, he knows the seat-vibration on his clenched buttocks will cause instant arousal. And that once arousal begins its unstoppable expansion within the tight confines of his trousers, the friction that results between the sensitive tip of the glans and the slightly coarser material of the Y-fronts will speed up the process. If there’s a girl there on the seat across the aisle it then goes into overdrive. Which is where the extra underpants become important. On a bus or a train it’s impossible to control an in-pants ejaculation – so what do you do? Stuff a handkerchief into your fly, hoping no-one notices, and bite your lip to stifle the groan? Cross you legs furiously, close your eyes, and hope against hope the ‘problem’ will subside first…? But you know it won’t.

So Gruber goes backpacking by himself in the Peak District or along the Pennine Way where he can avoid the things that bring on his ‘problem’. Humming Abba songs to himself. Sitting on a smooth rock looking over Ribbledon he can noisily chomp the cheese & tomato sandwiches Mumsie has prepared, and slurp sweet milky coffee from his red thermos. The air sharp and cool. But even here, miles from anywhere, there can be daydreams of shocking nymphs doing delectably dirty things. And his cock achieves lift-off beneath his anorak…

Of course, he’s a virgin. And would be still, were it not for the intervention of the Octopus-Alien from some Bubblegum planet.

It begins like this. He’s humming “Voulez Vous”, striding his ungainly uncoordinated gait along the drizzle-drab Pennine Way towards his planned overnight stop at Luddenthorpe, when the rapid dot of a Spacecraft cuts the clouds. Then he loses sight of it beyond the sudden jump of a hill. Until, with a spiral cavorting across a cleanly slashed sky and a sound like the air itself retching, the craft comes in low over his head. He can see it in detail now. All winking green lights and the chuntering clunking motion of something wounded.

It’s a UFO. He knows that immediately. He’s seen the blurry out-of-focus photographs and the ‘artist’s impressions’ in his magazines, The Unexplained and UFO Watcher. And now it’s coming down violently a close hundred yards away, beyond the dry-stone wall and just in front of the trees…

***

And every now and then, the earth moves.

This can’t be happening. Not to geeky Gruber Hoover. But it is.

From where he’s lying on his back on the floor of the reception hall of the B&B he can see right up Mavis Bisselrode’s dress. The effect is sensually shattering. She’s middle-aged. A little over-weight. But all Gruber can see is legs ascending to heaven above him, smooth sleek female legs that go all the way up to her stocking-tops. And the dark M&S suspenders. And the white knickers with shadowy traces of pubescence curling from beneath their lacy rim.

Only moments before he’d come lurching and staggering down from the tree-line above Luddenthorpe, his moss-green anorak scorched, his long greasy hair crisped, and his face blackened but for the two large round circles around his eyes, where his shattered glasses had been. He’d come all wonky-legged and shaky to Mrs Bisselrode’s B&B, where he’d earlier ‘phoned through a reservation, and as Mrs Mavis opens the door to his frantic buzzing, he falls inside, flat on his back, spread-eagled on the carpet. His eyes – looking straight up her dress, are glazed. His breath rasping somewhere deep in his throat, where little gasping groans get caught up in each ragged bubble of exhalation. But, there in his trousers, in instant reaction to the vista of her revealed crotch, his problem starts stirring.

“Oh, Mr Hoover, whatever’s the matter?” she gasps, her motherly concern an overwhelming thing that urges her to stoop protectively over him. So that the secret odour of her scented underwear reaches his nostrils. And the unbidden dirty thoughts storm his head even as he lies there. The knickers. The nest of coiling hair. The taste of those moist vaginal lips where the pubescence must delicately part. It’s all too much.

Her expression changes in a subtle way, as his thoughts rage feverishly out of control. Although he can’t see her face, even as she’s reaching down to help him unsteadily to his rubber legs, and shepherding him attentively up the staircase towards the room he’s been allocated. “My My Mr Hoover, what’s happened to you then, Dear? You’re in a proper state and no mistake. Here we go, not far now, just lean on me Dear, almost there. We’ll get you cleaned up quicker than a jiff.”

The door opens inwards. The room is not a large one, the ceiling slopes down towards a single dormer window. There’s a bed with a pale blue floral duvet, and a bedside table with an old-fashioned angle-poise lamp. They stumble around awkwardly. His brain on fire as he’s pressed up against her huge breasts and the aroma of her engulfs him. She sprawls him back onto the bed.

He watches her breathing heavily from her exertion. Remembers her stocking-tops in startling clarity. Savours the imagined taste of what must lie between her legs. And even as his problem goes near-critical and his imagination roars into overdrive, she reaches up under her dress, wriggles her hips in a provocatively feline way as she tugs her knickers free and down to her knees. They drop to her ankles. She steps out of them one foot at a time.

He lies on his back, spread-eagled on the duvet. And she climbs up to straddle him. “Here we go Mr Hoover. Breathe deeply now.” Lifting her dress. Her thighs bare now. A riot of pubes above the stocking tops. He’s transfixed as she moves up over him until she’s sitting gently on his face. Her hair tickles his nose. The scent is intoxicating. The vaginal lips part, flesh-pink and glistening. His tongue extends, lapping helplessly. At first a faint sourness attacks his taste-buds.

“OOOOOO Mr Hoover! That feels sonice. The late Mr Bisselrode never did anything like that to me. You naughty man!” She grinds her hips down into his face less gently now, and he’s devoured by the sweet rush of her moistures, the hard bud of her clitoris moving insistently on his agitated lips. He can hear her breath racing as he slavers and slurps unbelievingly. His cock so stiff and angry it’s almost painful, until she reaches round to slide the zip and release it shimmering and pulsing into the cool air, and into the tight grasp of her warmly enveloping fist. As he hoped she would. Her eyes grind shut with agonised concentration. He licks and laps and sucks like a man possessed. And orgasm hits him suddenly, shooting long gooey strands over her hand and over his trousers.

“Now never you mind Mr Hoover,” gasping out one word at a time, to the rhythm of his tongue on her clit. “Just keep on doing what you’re doing. We’ll get you cleaned up just as soon as you’ve finished. Then we’ll get you – and this (squeezing his messy penis affectionately) ready for whatever else you have in mind…”

***

The following morning he lies in bed trying to reconstruct it all.

It had all started so differently.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door. For a moment he can’t quite understand what the sound is. His mind turning slowly like a sluggish wheel.

Now he remembers. The UFO. The saucer that came down beyond the dry-stone wall, and just in front of the trees. Normally he’d have put as much distance between him and it as possible. But instead he found himself lumbering towards it as if wound in by an invisible spool. Over the wall he goes, rasping his ankle. Until he can see it clearly, a crashed saucer of flesh-imitating plastic, with a crawling green luminosity that crackles, faintly droning like a damaged insect. He gives his head a punch-drunk shake. His entrails move unpleasantly. A smoking hatch gull-wings open. There are chumbling light-displays set in smooth ebonite beyond. So why does he enter the wrecked ship? Some kind of Compulsion-Beam or Force-Ray. Must have been.

“Come in.” He raises up on his elbows as the bedroom door opens inwards.

“Good Morning Mr Hoover. Feeling better today, are we?” She comes into the room with a tray. There’s coffee on the tray. A silver toast-rack with fresh slices of toast slotted in. And a white carnation in a tall-stem glass. She looks about twenty-one. A younger daughter-shaped version of Mrs Mavis Bisselrode. Wistful brown eyes that closely resemble two Coco-Pops adrift in a bowl of milk. He watches her come in. And his problem begins almost immediately.

The saucer creature watches him with its single huge segmented eye. An Octopus. Or Octopoid-type thingy. He watches it, loathes it. Its disgusting warty skin repulses him. He wants to be sick over and over again. The machine noise ascends in a dangerously accelerating whirr. The whole thing is going to explode. And yet he’s helping that foul warted Octo-beast out onto the Pennine grass beneath the Yorkshire trees and beside the dry-stone wall. There must have been some kind of telepathic compulsion.

She leans over to place the tray on the bedside cabinet beside the old-fashioned angle-poise lamp. He can feel the derangement of his libido beating and pumping in response to her nearness. A rush of blood to the groin. A stiffening of… resolve. An orgy of erotic images in his head.

She smiles at him so closely he can smell the sweetness of her breath. “I’m Rosie. Mother says you were too badly shaken to come down for breakfast, so I should bring it up for you. Is there anything else you need?”

He looks at her unwaveringly, and concentrates his thoughts hard. “As you ask, yes, there issomething.” Should he? Can he? He draws the covers down breathlessly, scarcely daring to believe his new talent will work a second time.

The Octopoid is as chill and warty as a knob of well-chewed bubblegum. Its single eye watching his every move. Controlling his every move. He half-drags half-carries it leg-by-leg-by-leg towards the safety of the dry-stone wall as the ascending whine gets unbearably shrill. Then the UFO explodes. Waves of black flame as thick as oil flashing out slowly, like in a weird rental special-FX DVD. And the blackness hits them. Swallows them. Fusing them together as close as one single entity…

He looks down unbelievingly, over the skinscape of his undulating stomach. Rosie’s eyes looking up, meeting his eyes looking down. Her head in his groin bobbing up and down his engorged shaft gently. His cock trapped between the agonising tenderness of her full warm lips. Her fingers smoothly working on his balls. She even seems to be smiling her approval, although it’s difficult to tell. Only a throaty slurping noise escapes with a trickle of saliva down her chin. Telepathic compulsion. And he has it! As that warty Octopoid died he must have acquired its powers, fused into him by the blast. So that now Rosie is here cheerfully and eagerly sucking his cock.

He lies back luxuriating in the sensation, flexing his legs, toes curling in ecstasy. He took his last breath what seems like five years ago, and the way she’s sucking at him it’ll be another five before he gets to the next. The challenge is to keep his flag flying for long enough to enjoy it fully. He looks down again, thinks a different set of instructions at her. A momentary puzzlement comes into her eyes. Reluctantly she releases his cock from her mouth so it slaps wetly back up against his gut. Then she shrugs her clothes off with indecent haste. She’s agreeably rounded in an agreeably round slightly chubby Yorkshire sort of way, with generous snub-nosed breasts that bob and shimmy, just begging to be petted. And beneath them, a fan of pubic hair so rich and dark it just insists you bury your face – and other parts of your anatomy, into it. She pauses for just long enough to let him see it all, then she licks her lips determinedly, as though she can still taste his cock there, and climbs up onto him, her fingernails biting into his skin in her urgency. She flips his cock vertical to kiss her lower lips with a practised ease that says she’s done this before, and, already moist, slides down onto it with a satisfying squelch.

She leans forward – resting one hand either side of his face, so her breasts sway and jiggle hypnotically an inch from his nose as she moves up and down on him with a vulgar suction sound to provide a voluptuous audio aphrodisiac. He reaches out to trap and suck first one nipple, then the other, so large and warm each one in turn fills his mouth. And just when he can stand it no longer and begins jetting deep and wet inside her, she grinds low and moans “yes yes Mr Hoover, do it to me, do it to me, pump me full of your lovely spunk,” just like he’s willed her to…

***

Sometimes the earth moves, and sometimes it doesn’t.

How long will the effect on these women last? He dresses quickly, his shirt-tail flapping mournfully out from his pants at the back. He sneaks out the B&B – without paying, unnoticed, walking at speed down the curving road towards Luddenthorpe. He’s invisible. They won’t be able to photofit him. A No.167 bus will take him back home to Mumsie. There will be plenty more women. But first it’s important to get as far away from here as possible before they realise what they’ve done. Before they realise what he’sdone to them. And what he’s compulsion-beamed them to do to him. His groin still tingles with aftershocks. A lascivious smile spreads as he replays each moment in his head.

Other moments too. He’s thinking of that warty alien Octopoid, presumably dead – and the remains of its Starship from the Bubblegum planet. They must still be up there. Somewhere just off the Pennine Way. But no… of course, there’s no way that Gruber can know what’s really happening out there. He’s unaware of the furiously circling lights that UFO-ologists from as far apart as Huddersfield and Halifax have been reporting during the night. He doesn’t know about the alien Mothership rescue-mission hovering there in the clouds, beaming the salvage aboard, and reanimating the stunned but still-living Octopoid. Taking it home. It’s influence already receding.

It’s then that the Police car slews around the bend. Gruber cringes, cold fingers passing up and down his spine. It slows to a halt so close he can touch it. A Policewoman. She must know. She must have come for him. ‘SEXUAL HARASSMENT in the B&B’. He can see it already in the papers. On local TV reported by that nice woman announcer.

She winds the window down. He looks into her eyes. And suddenly, all that fear is replaced by that tell-tale stirring in his Y-fronts. Gruber Hoover smirks an odd and unpleasant smirk, unzips, and extracts his stiff cock. Then pokes it in through the Police car window, concentrating his thoughts on her…

It’s only later, in the cell, that it occurs to him. Charged with indecent and offensive behaviour towards the officer investigating reports of a strange explosion above Luddenthorpe. He paces up and down the confines of the cell. Slumps down onto the hard bench. Now it dawns on him, that – just possibly, the alien compulsion-effect might be a temporary thing…?

What will Mumsie say?

Then he remembers Mavis. And he remembers Rosie. His problem begins again. And this time, he has no spare Y-fronts left…

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