I can’t even reply. I’m still trembling from a heady mixture of fear, surprise, and orgasm induced tremors.

“You…you’re…okay?” I probably sound like a lunatic, sucking in air between words. I’m probably minutes from dropping, I can feel a panic attack building.

What is happening right now?

“More than okay. That was…damn.” He leans down to kiss me again and my body is already gearing up for another go. “Do you know that your arousal smells sweet, like cherries or…?” He whispers against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine, until he swoons a bit on his feet.

Oh no. No, no no no no no.

I need to pull back before the swimmy feeling starts again. It’s a fucking miracle he lived through it once. I’m not chancing this again. Just as he presses in to deepen the kiss, his magic cock twitching back to life against my stomach, I manage to find the mental fortitude to push him away. He stumbles back, unsteady on his feet, and braces himself on the wall.

Is this a delayed reaction? Am I about to have to watch him die without the benefit of being mid-release? If that’s the case, he’ll be in so much more pain…

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I…I have to go,” I stammer before running out of the bathroom, leaving him standing with his pants around his ankles, wide eyed with confusion as he struggles to maintain consciousness. The thud of his body as he falls back against the wall echoes in my ears.

Making a beeline for a door marked employees only, I run up a flight of stairs and into what I’m pretty sure is a dressing room for visiting bands. There was a DJ tonight, so hopefully I’ll be safe from any company for a while. Locking the door behind me, I sink down to the floor.

My fingertips are numb. I haven’t stopped trembling since the Earth-shattering orgasm that remarkably didn’t kill the innocent man that my power lured onto the dance floor and then fucked against a dirty bathroom wall. At least not right away.

Rubbing my fist into my sternum, I try to do everything to stop or at least stall the rapidly building panic. Why is it so hard to remember all the exercises when you’re in the middle of it?

Sound—The muffled bass of the music below me.

Smell—Stale smoke, spilled beer, and…cum. Fresh cum. His and mine.

Sight—I focus on the peeling wallpaper and nicotine-stained band posters tacked up everywhere. Trails of viscous fluid on the inside of my thigh.