Chapter 1

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Teenagers, Mind Control, BiSexual, Fiction, Extra Sensory Perception, Incest, Sister, DomSub, MaleDom, Spanking, Group Sex, Polygamy/Polyamory, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Voyeurism, Slow, .

Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A young man finds he has the ability to read the emotions of those around him. Soon, his abilities begin to change, to grow, and he finds himself with frightening new abilities. When he takes his girlfriend as a slave by mistake, his whole world is turned upside down.

James Anderson had been a happy child, always smiling and, for the most part, making those around him smile as well. He never went through that colicky phase that some babies were prone to and, other than the normal feedings and occasional dirty diaper issues, manage to sleep through the night from the very start.

This, of course, endeared him to his mother, and her good moods endeared him to his father as well. There was always a smile on his chubby little face, and even the most cynical of his parents friends thought him just the most wonderful baby they had ever met.

As a toddler, he never went through the "Mine!" phase, sharing his toys with anyone who would play with him. As he entered kindergarten, he quickly became the darling of the teachers there as well.

He was a quiet child, and it usually took people quite a while to realize that he almost never spoke. Oh, he could speak, and fairly well, though he wasn't any more advanced than his class mates, he just seemed content to let others babble on while he listened.

As he progressed through elementary school, he never lacked for playmates, but his parents began to notice that he didn't have a best friend and, in fact, had very few playmates that were good friends. He was friendly to everyone, seemed to know just want to say or do to get people to like him, but he didn't seem particularly concerned about getting close to any of them.

His parents spent many an hour discussing this, even going so far as to have him talk to a child therapist. When the therapist told them that the boy seemed well adjusted, they decided to leave well enough alone.

James, for one, was relieved. You see, James was quite a bit brighter than he let on, having learned at a very young age that if he showed others, some would be unhappy with him. It was much easier to just go along to get along.

Getting along was very important to James, because he could always tell when others were unhappy, or angry, or a host of other emotional states that were not conducive to a calm existence.

James was an empath. He didn't know this, of course, not from the beginning. He was a child after all. He knew, after several aborted attempts to explain how he knew what someone was feeling, that others thought it simply a harmless childhood fantasy. The one teacher who he had almost managed to convince had become nervous, afraid whenever he was around and it took the rest of the school year to convince her that it had all been a bit of a lark.

When James entered High School in the United States, well, that is where this story properly begins.

"Well, this is going to be a proper pain in the arse." James thought to himself, keeping his face expressionless as he watched the horde of students filing inside when the first bell rang. He had never attended a school with so many students and his uncanny ability read the emotions of people around him became problematic when in large crowds. His recent headaches were exacerbated by crowds as well, so it was almost guaranteed he would be feeling poorly before the day was done.

Nothing to do but get on with it.

James's parents had moved to the US over the summer, his father taking a position with an American firm with a fairly substantial raise in pay being the lure. The company had also paid to relocate them, finding them a rather larger house than they had owned in Oxford as part of the bargain.

James had been quietly impressed with America thus far. Everything was so big here. The streets, the cars, the buildings and now this monstrously large school. The people he had met seemed to be as nice as those at home, though the accent was taking a bit of getting used to and the food was all odd-tasting. Good, for the most part, but definitely not what he was used to.

The students at the school he was attending numbered almost five thousand, and the building was larger than any school he had seen, including the buildings on the campus at Oxford. It was three stories and covered what would have been about eight square blocks back home. Behind the school were two American football fields, two regular football fields (the Yanks called it soccer), several tennis courts, two baseball fields and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

When his mum had brought him down to register for classes, he had been astounded at the size of the school building, but literally speechless at the size of the school grounds. Then there had been the folderol about getting the school to recognize the classes he had already taken. They organized education into strict levels here, based mostly, it seemed, on age rather than education level or merit. Quite a change from the charter school he had attended in England.

So many new things to get used to. Ah well, soldier on as his father liked to say, though he was not sure exactly why since his father had not, in fact, been a soldier.

Shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder, he consulted the map he had been given and joined the throng of students as they passed into the building. As he worked his way through the crowded hallways, searching for his first period class number, he had occasion to feel thankful that he had insisted on American style clothing. He seemed to blend into the crowd here, a good thing.

His first class was English, and he couldn't help but grin. It should properly be called American, he suspected, as he wasn't all that sure that the Yanks spoke English anymore. He did his best, as he entered the classroom, to block out the emotions of the other students. He was mostly successful, just feeling a general buzz of excitement from the others in class, with a few spikes of anxiety and one really bothersome flow of despair.

Casually looking around as he chose a seat near the middle, but off to the left of center, he opened his 'shields' in an attempt to hone in on the despairing student, but didn't have any real luck, the ambient emotional noise making it difficult to concentrate. Closing his shield up again, he pulled out his book and waited, watching the ebb and flow around him.

When the bell rang again, he heard the door close and looked over his shoulder. The teacher, a rather attractive woman in her late twenties, if he guess correctly, was making her way to the front of the room. She was very pretty, and had a very nice figure, though her clothes appeared to be chosen to disguise that fact. Probably a defense mechanism against the leering eyes of teenage boys like himself.

Well, not exactly like himself, he thought amusedly, and he wasn't exactly leering, just admiring.

"Good morning class, I am Ms. Sommers. This class is English Literature, a precursor course for the English classes you will be taking when you become a senior, and those classes preparing you for college. This semester, we will be studying some of the greatest authors of our time. Next semester, we will focus on creative writing and what makes an author more than a scribe."

Her voice was melodic, James thought, very well modulated and pleasant to the ear. It made you want to listen, a very valuable talent for a teacher. As she introduced herself and described the syllabus, she was pacing around the room, looking over her students as they looked her over in return.

Returning to the front of her class, and leaning up against her desk, she picked up a notebook and began calling the roll. He was the third name called, there being an Charles Aarons and an Amelia Abelard before him, and he raised his hand when called.

"Here." he called out, mimicking the students before him. That went well enough, he thought. I don't want to be called out as a foreigner any sooner than necessary.

He had allowed his attention to wander, assuming she would continue the roll call, but he had been mistaken. When he noticed that almost every eye in the class was on him, he glanced around worriedly before returning his eyes to the teacher. She had obviously asked him something.

"I beg your pardon, Ms. Sommers, I didn't catch that." He said, silently damning himself for not paying attention.

"I asked if you were the new transfer student, but I think we have our answer." she smiled, attempting to make it a joke. Some of the students laughed, a couple smiled, but most just stared at him.

"Ah, yes Ma'am. From Oxford, England." He answered, though he might well have just kept his trap shut, now that he thought of it.

There were a couple of giggles from the rear of the class, and one girl in particular was staring at him, her eyes intent, but not in an unfriendly way.

Ms. Sommers returned to calling the roll, and when she was done, she placed the notebook back on the desk and crossed her arms.

"Today we are going to get to know each other. In addition to being your English Teacher, " James saw her eyes flick to him, the hint of a smile on her face. "I am also your home room advisor. We will be seeing each other twice a day this year. What I would like to do now, is to start at the rear of the class with Mr. Brennan, and have each of you introduce yourselves and list at least one hobby. Mr. Calder, having met you before, I would prefer if you limit your list to half a dozen in the interests of time." She smiled at the boy in question while about half the class laughed at some inside joke.

Great. Yet another thing I didn't consider. Growing up and going to school with my old school mates meant that we all had a common frame of reference. I could, for instance, mention the Cod Cricket incident, and everyone knew without asking that I was referring to Basky Anders's father having a laugh during a cricket match by bowling with a bit of haddock instead of the ball. Here, he had no common frame of reference and would be all the more an outsider for the lack.

"My name is Andrew Brennan and I play baseball." the first student said quickly, then returning to his seat with a relieved look on his face.

"My name is Cecelia Topin and I collect butterflies." a very plain looking girl reported next.

This went on for quite a while before they reached him, with James taking mental notes when one reporting something that might interest him.

"My name is Jim Anderson, and I am trying to learn Spanish." he said.

The process continued through the rest of the class, the only real standout being Joe Calder, who reported that he was "in the band, played classical guitar, and concert piano and collected baseball cards and rode BMX bicycles and..." he was cut off there, to general laughter and sat down with a cheeky grin on his face.

By the time the last student had reported, there were forty-two in all, it was almost time for second period. Glancing at her watch, Ms. Sommers told the class that she wished a two-page report, due the next day, on what they had done over the summer holiday. The groans were almost universal, and Ms. Sommers grinned.

When the bell rang there was a general exodus for the door but, when he stood to join the queue, he found that his way was blocked by the girl who had been so assiduously studying him earlier.

She was very cute, was his first observation. She was about two inches shorter than his five foot, six inch height, and had a nicely developing figure. Her platinum blonde hair and bright blue eyes were striking, as was the grin she had on her face as she held out a hand in the universal "STOP!" manner.

"I'm Zoe, and you are Jim." she said, and he could feel the waves of curiosity practically rolling off her. It was mixed with something ... ah, that was odd. It was mixed with a touch of fear and a touch of longing. How strange.

"I have the weirdest feeling that we are going to be friends. I know we have never met, but I would swear that I know you from somewhere." she said, her head cocked slightly to the side, a puzzled expression on her face.

He nodded to the doorway, now almost clear, and she looked around. She stood aside and, as he went to pass her, she slipped her arm through his and matched his step.

How very extraordinary. Now, in addition to curiosity, she was feeling compassion, as if she was empathizing with his plight as a new student.

They walked through the door together and, after glancing at the map in his hand, he turned left. When she stayed in step with him, he glanced over to see her studying him out of the corner of her eye.

"I have Mathematics next, in room 207." he said, as much to gauge her reaction as anything.

"I know." she replied, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. When she saw his expression, she relented. "It's right there on your map, silly! I have Physical Science, room 211. You don't mind if I walk with you, do you?"

"Not at all." James did, a little, but because he would be more conspicuous walking down the hall arm in arm with this very attractive girl, not because he objected to her presence. He had intended to keep a very low profile for a while until he better understood the pecking orders.

Zoe kept up a running travelogue of sorts as they walked upstairs and down the hall, pointing out directions to various destinations. The gym, the cafeterias, the library and the activities rooms were just a few. She commented on groups of people as well, pointing out the 'Jock', the 'Society Girls', a group of black-clad Goths and she seemed to know just about everyone, having exchanged waves or greeting with at least thirty students.

When they reached James's classroom, Zoe simply released his arm with a cheerful "See you later!" as she continued onward. James stood and watched her walk away, enjoying that view as much as he had enjoyed the front view. He was a bit nonplussed when she looked back over her shoulder, a grin on her face as if she had known he would be watching, and a cheeky wink.

He saw Zoe again in Home Room just after lunch, of course, and was not surprised when she grabbed the desk next to his. When Ms. Sommers called the class to order, the rest of the students pulled out various books and began working.

Not sure what he was supposed to be doing, he looked to Zoe who was more than happy to explain that Home Room was a period where they could work on projects, on home work, go to the library, see a counselor an things of that nature. They could, it seems, chat during class, but Ms. Sommers was quick to inform several groups that any talking should be done at low volume, and only about class work. Gossip was not a course on the syllabus. Shrugging, he started in on his Mathematics assignment.

It turned out that Zoe was in three of his classes. English, of course, and home room, but also in his last period class, Introductory Spanish language as well. His prediction, vis-a-vis his impending headache, was right on the money. By the time he was walking to his final class of the day, his head was pounding. The crush of people, the unstoppable waves of emotion that had rolled over him all day long had taken its toll.

He stopped by his locker to exchange his Geography text for his Spanish text, and, as he was about to close the locker door he felt a great weight slamming him into the metal lockers. He was shocked, as much by his failure to read any warning before the push as he was by the attack itself.

The student who had shoved him hadn't done so because of some personal animus towards him, but as a sort of banal, target-of-opportunity brutality. He hadn't detected any anger before it happened because there hadn't been any, and only a low level enjoyment of the event afterward. The student, a much larger boy wearing a football jacket, simply sneered at him as he and his friends continued walking. James stared after them, watching as they pushed and shoved their way down the hallway, not letting anyone get in their way.

He had run in to the type before, and he had a long-standing plan to simply avoid their type once identified. In an odd way, he preferred emotionally stunted people like that, at least as long as he could avoid them, as their emotions rarely impinged on him unless they were angry.

He was a bit embarrassed that other students were looking at him, sitting there on the floor, so he scrambled to his feet and almost ran head-first into Zoe.

"Don't worry about those guys, they are assholes to everyone. I doubt they even saw you, not as a person." Zoe said cheerfully as she brushed a bit of dust off of his shirt.

"There seem to be some of that type in every school." James agreed, his face a bit red.

"So, Spanish next?" Zoe asked, either oblivious about his embarrassment or simply ignoring it, not wanting to make it worse. In either case, James was glad for a change of topic.

"Ah, yes. You as well?"

Zoe just smiled and slipped her arm through his again, leading him off down the corridor.

The noise level, in both auditory and emotional volume, seemed to explode when the last bell rang. James, almost overwhelmed, lay his forehead on the cool desk and tried to block it all out.

He had developed what he called his shields over time, learning to partially shut out the constant impinging emotions of the people around him. There had been a time, when he was in lower level classes, when he thought he was going to go stark raving bonkers. But, through a lot of hard work and, frankly, desperation, he managed to work out a way to simply ignore most of it, focusing on one person at a time, or focusing his mind on one favorite topic to the exclusion of all others.

At times like this, with extended, overwhelming exposure, the shields were overwhelmed and it felt as though he was suffocating, his head pounding and his skin clammy. Nausea sent waves through him as well, making him feel even worse. He needed to work on his defenses if this was how the first day of school had bothered him, and he needed to start straight away.

He felt a hand on his back and turned his head to the side, just enough to crack his eyes open and see who it was. Zoe, of course.

"Are you ok?" she asked, concern in her voice and a low-level panic in her emotional state. "Should I tell the teacher? Call the nurse?"

"I'm ok, Zoe. I just have a headache and the noise makes it worse. It will be better as soon as the rest of this lot clear out." James hated displaying weakness, or anything really, in front of others. He was, by training if nothing else, a taciturn youngster. The emotions of others had a sharpness out of proportion to their actual depth when they were directed at him, so he preferred to be a wallflower, a non-entity if at all possible.

When James had realized that he could tell when others were happy (a warm, cheerful glow), he tried his best to keep them that way. Happy feelings like love, contentment, pleasure, satisfaction and so on, were all comfortable, warm waves and it was enjoyable even when people were present in large numbers. Other feelings like anxiety, worry and sadness left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable, like they were attempting to swamp his own emotions. Feelings like anger, hate, pain ... these he wanted to avoid if at all possible. Those feelings caused James actual pain, low level pain, but sharp jagged stabs to his nervous system.

Zoe remained crouched by James until the class was empty, her hand companionably on his back, making small circles. James didn't have the nerve to tell her that it wasn't helping, fearing that her disappointment would be sharper than her concern and curiosity.

Recovering enough to gather his belongings, he smiled at Zoe and thanked her for her concern.

Zoe, not looking convinced, obviously decided not to push the issue and, instead, changed the topic.

"What are you doing after? Some of us are going to grab a soda and hang out at the park, talk about the teachers and stuff. Want to come? I can introduce you to my friends."

"Ah, that sounds like fun, but my mother has been a bit anxious about the new school, the new educational system and so on. I quite expect that she will be waiting for a full report. Thank you for the invitation though." James demurred. Zoe was very attractive, and a nice person as well, but until he got a handle on the school and, he grimaced, his damn weak shields, he didn't want to join any cliques. It would be better to fade into the background as always, at least for now.

Zoe looked disappointed, but shrugged her shoulders and slipped her arm back into his as they left the classroom. They parted at the lockers with a cheery "See you tomorrow Jim!" from Zoe, and James stashed his books in his locker. The only assignment left for tomorrow, most teachers being rather lenient the first day, was his essay for English, and he didn't need a book for that.

His freshman year was off to an inauspicious start.

His mother was indeed waiting for him as he arrived home that afternoon. Sitting in the living, she was reading and, when he walked in, set her book aside with smile.

"How was your first day?"

"It was ok, mum. The teachers all seem nice enough, and the kids were, oddly enough, not all that different from the kids back home. No uniforms, of course, and it was really odd to see everyone wearing blue jeans and sports shoes, not to mention more shirts with slogans than I have ever seen before." he replied with a smile.

James had always had a good relationship with his mother. She was a great listener and almost never judged before she had heard all sides of the story. She doted on him, but not in a clingy fashion, and he enjoyed spending time with her, even after he became a teen.

She was turning forty this year, but she looked much younger. A thin, almost spare woman with raven black hair that hung to her waist, she had a ready smile a set of very thick glasses that gave her a perpetually bemused look, as if the entire world amused her. There were a few laugh lines around her mouth, small crow's feet next to her eyes, but from across the room she could easily be taken for a twenty year old student.

James dropped his backpack by the door and took a seat in a recliner. He went through his day, hitting the highlights and describing his teachers. He also told her about Zoe, making her laugh as he described her way of breezily taking command and leading him around as if he were a schnauzer.

"This Zoe sounds like quite the character. Is she pretty?" his mother asked, zeroing in on the one bit he had deliberately left out of the tale.

James shook his head ruefully. He should have known better. His mother had the uncanny knack of finding that little tidbit, that crumb trail of clues and asking exactly the right questions. He wondered, for probably the thousandth time, if she was empathic as well. He hadn't asked, hadn't told anyone since his run in with the child psychologist when he was six, afraid of the possible results.

"She is very pretty. Long platinum blonde hair, the brightest blue eyes and," he felt a little self-conscious at this, "quite a nice figure as well. She just has this way about her that makes you smile. Did I tell you how we met?"

His mother smiled and shook her head.

"She walked up to me and introduced herself by saying "I am Zoe and you are Jim. I have the weirdest feeling that we are going to be friends." It was a bit disconcerting, actually, but in a nice way." he admitted.

"I see." his mother said, grinning at him

"Don't go planning the wedding quite yet." James admonished her, a smile on his face. He knew her!

"Of course not, dear. She sounds quite lovely, but I would have to meet her parents before anything official could be planned." she said, deadpan. Her eyes, however, were twinkling with barely concealed humor.

James just shook his head. "Well, I have an essay due tomorrow so I think I will just get it done straight away." he said, grabbing his backpack and beating a retreat to his room.

His room was at the top of the stairs, and shared a bath with the guest room. The second floor of the house was an addition. The original peaked roof was high enough that somewhere in the house's history, a previous owner had converted the loft space into two spacious rooms, each with seven dormer windows. Three faced the front and three the rear, and each one had a window that faced the side of the house.

The house had originally been a smaller dwelling and the high-peaked roof designed to shed the snow during winter. That itself was an oddity since they were in Santa Barbara, California, a town that had seen snow maybe once in the last hundred years. The lower floor had been expanded, and expanded again until it covered almost four thousand square feet, not counting the garage, but only the center of the structure still had the original peaked roof.

His room was roughly twice the size of the room he had in Oxford, and he had arranged it to keep as much of the floor space open as possible. He liked having the extra room. His queen-sized bed was high off the ground, what would have been the top bunk of a very large bunk bed set, but the lower level was a study desk and storage drawers. He often thought of it as his little cave. He even had lighting under there, some clever LEDs that he could adjust to suite his mood or activity.

Across from the bed, on the far wall overlooking the front yard, his father had hung a large flat-screen television. James had been chuffed, to say the least, when his father had presented it to him the day they moved in to the new house.

"A little gift to make the move more palatable." his father had said with a grin.

The TV was mounted high enough that it was easily viewable from his bed, and his wireless game controller meant that he could lounge and play games in comfort. There was a futon, a sort of half-couch, half-bed placed in front of the television as well, giving him an entertainment area of sorts. The rest of the room was rather spare, only a bureau and a wardroom taking up any real space, with a single exception.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a big, professional quality drafting table. James had dreams of being and architect when he was older, and loved to sketch building he had seen and to create new ones for scratch.

James dropped his backpack on his desk, stripped out of his school clothes and pulled on a set of trunks. Grabbing the light-weight gloves from where they hung, near his door he headed downstairs to his 'other' room'.

One thing his father and he shared was a love of weight lifting. His father used it to keep in shape, along with racquetball matches with his work mates, but James had taken to the weights like he was born with a barbell in hand.

Thy had converted a spare bedroom on the first level into a weight room. There was a universal gym, a big, steel girder structure with various stations each attached to stacks of iron plates and controlled by cables. There was a free-weight station as well, with four hundred pounds of plates, as well as dumbbells and kettle ball weights.

After spending an hour on the free weights, he was ready for his favorite workout, the bag.

James had a heavy bag, those long, hanging bags you would see in movies about boxers. His old school had one hanging in the gymnasium, and he had found that he really enjoyed putting gloves on and beating the snot out of it. Sometimes, when his head was pounding or he was feeling particularly frustrated over one thing or another, a session with the heavy bag was just the ticket to make him feel better.

He had earned half the money for his first bag, as part of an agreement with his father, when he was eleven. This was his third bag, and the gloves that dangled from the chain holding it up seemed to be calling out to him. It hung in the corner of the room, secured to a specially reinforced truss and backed on two walls by floor to ceiling mirrors.

The gloves he used had minimal padding, just enough over the knuckles to protect the skin, and none elsewhere. They provided plenty of feedback to the wearer when the bag was struck, allowing him to feel the give, the angle and the force of the blow, helping him to adjust as needed.

Stretching his arms, shoulders and back, he bounced in place, trying to clear his mind before taking his first swing. His fellow students, if they could have seen him shirtless and facing the bag, might have been very surprised. James habit of blending in also affected they way he dressed. He wore comfortable, loose fitting clothes that were in mostly neutral colors and always, always long sleeved. Nothing that would cause most people to look at him twice.

What they would see if peeking through the window now was quite different. James loved to work out, to run, to jump and especially his martial arts classes. The heavy bag, however, was his therapy. His frame was heavily muscled for a lad of only sixteen. There was not an ounce of fat on his torso, his abs and pectoral muscles clearly defined. His forearms and biceps, triceps deltoids and lats were all perfectly formed, clearly defined and, when he was sweating, a sheen covering his body, looked as though he was carved from marble.

He cleared his mind, and began sparring with the bag, his punches coming fast and accurate as he danced around his imaginary opponent. His kicks would have been devastating, rocking the bag in wild arcs that he used as if it was an opponent bobbing and weaving. He continued, taking out his frustrations, his tensions, for over an hour before he slowed, taking deep breaths as he began to cool down.

He gazed in the mirrors, flexing and relaxing, his critical eye roaming over his physique, looking for flaws, for weakness. It was his one true vanity, though a secret one, and he doubted even his parents knew about his mania to maintain a perfect body. It was, he supposed, a bit of an obsession, though it was probably a harmless one. He was very careful in his diet, eating healthy was a necessary component of his regime.

For probably the ten thousandth time, he imagined actually using the training he had received, letting his anger loose to smash and humiliate people like that uncaringly vicious idiot at school today. He had never raised his hand in anger to another person, knowing that the pain he caused would come back to him through his empathic senses. Perhaps someday, he thought again, when his shields were strong enough.

Grabbing some light sweat pants, a long-sleeved shirt and his running shoes from his room, he jogged back down the stairs and out the rear of the house, heading for the alley that ran behind the property. Sticking to the alleys until he was at least a mile from his house, he began to run in earnest, wanting to get at least five miles in before he turned towards home. His routine was the same almost every day. He would start off at a comfortable jog until he was far enough away from home. Then he would pick up the pace, continuing to accelerate until he reached a mile-eating lope that would drive all thoughts from his head beyond those required to chose his next step.

He would continue until he had reached his pre-defined target distance, and then he would loop back around, taking a different route, and head towards home at a slower pace, alternating jogging with bursts of speed.

He occasionally saw other kids his age, but he found that they tended to either ignore or just dismiss him as another one of the million 'health nuts' that were so common in Southern California. He had been very glad to see so many other people who ran and exercised here, his running having been something of an oddity for someone his age back in Oxford.

Today, as he began his return trip, his mind was on a commercial he had seen recently. There was a marathon, raising money for some cause or other, but coming up in a couple of months. It was split into two parts, a five kilometer for the casual runners and a twenty-five kilometer run for the serious competitors.

He was toying with the idea of entering the longer run, testing himself against established athletes. He was sure that he could do very well, probably even coming first or placing for his age group, but that wasn't the real target. He wanted to test himself against the real runners, the older people who trained year round and ran for notoriety, to gather sponsors.

He wasn't sure how he would rank among the serious competition, but he was confident he would do well. The trick was to make sure that he wasn't a stand out. If he ran, he would pace the leaders, staying well back but within sight, and he would know at the end of the race how much he had left to give, if he would have pushed harder. He laughed at himself, at his optimism. He was assuming, of course, that he could even keep up.

With a grin, he sprinted the last mile, only slowing when he was a block away, and taking an extra lap around the block to cool down.

He was stretching his calves and hamstrings against a large oak in the front yard when he heard someone calling his name.


He looked around and spotted Zoe ... of course it was. She was walking with a group of four other girls about her age and they were all still carrying book bags, or in one case just books, and were obviously on their way home after the park meeting Zoe had mentioned.

"Hello Zoe." James smiled, though he was kicking himself mentally for having varied from his routine and not come home through the alleys. He had been thinking about the marathon instead of his route.

Zoe grinned, then wrinkled her nose. "I thought only adult health nuts ran when it is so warm outside. You are soaked!"

"I can either get up in the morning, extra early, or I can run in the evening. I like to sleep so..." he explained, his voice trailing off.

"Jim, this is Doris, Sally, Anna and Denise. We all live on the next block, we grew up together and have been friends since kindergarten!" she explained, pointing to each girl as she introduced them.

Doris was a blonde, but more of a strawberry, and wore braces. She just nodded, seeming a bit shy. James could see that she was uncomfortable with him, but he thought it was because he was new. Sally was a chubby brunette, not fat, but with some extra padding. She had a brilliant smile and the biggest breasts he had seen on a school mate so far. She seemed very outgoing and there was a touch of desire in her aura.

Anna and Denise were twins, almost identical except for their clothing. James was intrigued, never having met female twins before and he was fascinated to see that their emotional aura were very close as well. He had seen the same thing with the set of male twins he had known back in England, but hadn't known if it was just them or, as he was beginning to believe, a trait common to twins in general.

He waved at the girls. "Nice to meet all of you."

"So why are you running at all?" Zoe asked, as if she just couldn't understand why an otherwise normal person would do such a thing.

Temporizing, he told them about the marathon and that he was thinking about running in it. "Just for laughs, you understand. To see if I can do it."

Of the five girls, only Zoe and Sally seemed interested in all, and in Sally's case, the desire he felt from her ratcheted up another notch. She was openly staring at him now, her eyes roaming over his sweaty frame.

The rest of the girls were showing signs of impatience and Zoe relented.

"See you in English!" she called as they continued on their way.

James went back to his stretching and he saw both Zoe and Sally look back at him, Sally smiling and Zoe looking thoughtful.

Christ, he thought, now she knows where I live. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but his carefully laid plans were being torn to shreds by Zoe. She was a menace!

An adorable menace though, he added truthfully.

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