Part 12

We had painted for another hour when he stopped and sat down. He looked worn out.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s really hard keeping my feelings inside the wall,” he said.

“You’ve been doing that?”

“Ever since the mirror,” he said.

“What are you feeling?” I asked.

“The crush,” he said.

“You’re a teenage boy. Teenage boys think about sex every seventy seconds, if you believe what some people say.”

“I never thought about sex at all until I met you,” he said.

“You got erections,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but I didn’t know what they were for. Not like I do now, anyway. It’s all I can think about.”

“We can’t do that, Bobby,” I said, softly.

“I know that, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. I see you and imagine us that way. It’s driving me crazy.”

‘Crazy Bobby’ was potentially ‘Very dangerous Bobby’. I didn’t know what to do about it, though.

Then a thought came to me.

“Are you up for an experiment?” I asked.

“If it will help with this, then yes,” he said.

“Okay. Come with me.”

I took him to the bedroom and had him take off his pants. He removed his shirt without instruction. I told him to lie on the bed and then I climbed up to lie beside him, fully clothed.

“Now, close your eyes and imagine that I’m masturbating you,” I said. “You don’t have to keep anything inside the wall while we do this.”

I felt a wave of his passion hit me like Ali might have. If I’d been standing I would have fallen down. I groaned and felt his concern instantly.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Keep your eyes closed. Imagine I’m reaching for you. Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” he sighed. I looked. He was rock hard. His beautiful penis leaned, pointing toward his face. I felt something behind my belly button tingle and respond.

I wasn’t touching him at all, and yet I could feel my hand on his organ.

“Now, imagine I’m naked. You can touch me in your imagination.”

He had gotten much stronger. Apparently, working on his wall and using it had strengthened his psychic “muscles”, like lifting weights strengthens one’s physical muscles. It was incredible. I felt his hands on me, felt his finger penetrate me. I spread my legs automatically.

“Imagine sucking on my nipples,” I gasped.

He had no frame of reference for that, and all I felt was his lips, brushing across my breasts.

It was all I could do to concentrate on stroking him in my own imagination. What he was thinking about felt so real to me, it was a little scary. But it was Bobby, and I wasn’t afraid of Bobby. In his imagination his finger was teasing my clit. I could feel an orgasm trying to exert its power over me.

“Now, you can imagine getting on top of me and putting your penis where your finger is,” I panted.

It was a mistake.

I say that because within ten seconds I couldn’t concentrate on anything any longer. I was being fucked. I could feel it. I felt every bit of it, his flesh warm against mine, his weight on me. And I felt his penis in me. My eyes were open, which is what saved my sanity, I think, because I could see him lying there next to me. He wasn’t moving at all.

Then he spurted. His semen leapt up like a silvery dolphin-creature jumping out of the ocean. It was followed by two more happy, joyful leaping dolphins.

The other thing that helped my sanity was that there were things that were off, which helped reassure me that this was all just in his imagination.

First of all, when he pushed his penis in me, that’s all he did. He put it in me and then it just stayed there. He didn’t “fuck” me with it in the classical sense. Secondly, while I felt his penis in me, I still felt my hand stroking him. This was all a product of his memories being shared with my mind. Thirdly, I couldn’t feel his semen in me when he spurted. He had no frame of reference for that sensation, either, so he couldn’t project it or create it in my mind. I did feel the joy and ecstasy of his ejaculation, but only from his perspective.

And I did feel his passion fade, after he had his orgasm. He was normal in that way.

I, on the other hand, was almost insanely horny. I hadn’t had a penis in me for years. This one was different for obvious reasons, but there was something else at work, too. I liked Bobby. I did have a crush of sorts on him. I call it a crush because I was trying to prevent it from being something more serious.

This “experiment” had taught me, though, that it was already more than a crush.

For the first time, I contemplated making love with Bobby Wilson.

And not just in his mind.

It’s a lesson in what Sigmund Freud would have called the id. For those of you who never paid attention in school, or just forgot what some teacher tried to teach you, Wikipedia reminds us that the id is the personality component made up of unconscious psychic energy that works to satisfy basic urges, needs, and desires. The id operates based on the pleasure principle, which demands immediate gratification of needs. Bobby’s id was strong, and his talent helped him make it strong in those around him. Or at least in me. Thankfully, his ego was also strong, as was his willingness to keep his talents in check.

What was missing with Bobby was his superego. Freud would have said his upbringing prevented him from forming internalized morals and standards, usually acquired from our parents, family, and society at large. Bobby had no parents. His ‘family’ was a convent of nuns, and he had almost no interaction with society at large until I removed him from the cocoon that St. [redacted] was and thrust him into the real world.

He had morals and standards, of course, but it was like having a good grasp on sixth grade math in a college math world.

Had there been three or four of us taking care of him - including at least one man who could be his role model - he would have been fine. Actually, what I should say is that I would have been fine. Bobby was doing remarkably well in reacting to that real world he knew so little about. It would have been easy for him to sink to basic survival level and just kill anybody he saw as a threat. His talent couldn’t be defended against, and if he could see you, he could kill you.

Again, thankfully, all that never occurred to him. He had killed once and had not liked how it made him feel. I thank God for that on a regular basis.

But there weren’t three or four of us shepherding Bobby Wilson into the world. And I couldn’t find more to help me. What I should say is I couldn’t take the chance of finding more to help me. I understood Bobby. Nobody else was even close. My interrogators, more than once, had framed questions about where Bobby came from that suggested they believed he might be an alien, from another planet! His talent alone was cause for uproar and concern on a level of magnitude that went off the scale. Add into that the possibility that Earth’s first non-human visitor was running around loose, and I knew that the Government was going absolutely ape shit, looking for him. Quite possibly there were millions of dollars being spent every day in the effort to find him.

I couldn’t trust anyone else with his secret. Not until he was fully capable of protecting himself. Protecting himself without killing people.

It was because I was alone, and because I wanted to fuck Bobby Wilson’s very talented brains out, that I tried to distract myself by starting to think about what he might face when he went public again. Naturally, I thought about how a person like I used to be might approach things. It was quite possible he’d have to defend himself against fast moving projectiles.

I decided I needed to do something about that.

I started by throwing things at him. I chose a can of tuna first, which was a mistake, upon reflection. I should have started with a soft rubber ball.

“See if you can stop this from hitting you,” I said.

Then I launched it.

I also should have warned him about what my intent was.

The can hit him in the chest and dropped to the floor.

“Owww!” he yelped. “Why’d you do that?”

I realized my emotional condition had affected my judgment.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was trying to see if you could defend yourself.”

“You think people are going to throw cans of tuna at me?” He looked confused.

“No, but we’re going to work up to things that could hurt you a lot,” I said. “I should have talked to you about this before I started. I was distracted.”

“You mean because you were really horny?”

I groaned.

“I really wish you couldn’t tell what I was feeling.”

“I can’t help it,” he complained. “It’s just there.”

“I don’t want to feel horny,” I groaned.

Suddenly, so suddenly it took my breath away, I wasn’t horny any longer. There was no afterglow from ‘successful’ and happy sexual union, but I felt calm and ... just ... no longer horny.

“Better?” he asked.

I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to tell him he couldn’t just do things like that to people. But I realized I had needed his intervention.

“Try not to do that unless it’s really needed,” I said.

“I already know that,” he replied. “I thought it was really needed. You were getting really frustrated.”

“Okay,” I said. “We need to communicate really well as you get ready to go public. Here’s the deal. It’s creepy when you fix things like that. On the other hand, I really did need that assist. So I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” he said.

“And that’s another thing. It’s creepy that you know everything about how I’m feeling and I don’t know it.”

“But you do know it,” he complained.

I took a deep breath.

“Yes, I do, but nobody else does, and when they find out you can do that, they’re going to react badly. There’s no privacy with you around, and that’s going to scare the shit out of people. That will be one reason they want to control you in some way, and if they can’t control you, they’ll want to kill you.”

“I already understand that,” he said.

“What I’m saying is that we’re going to have to mask your true abilities.”

“But I want to help people,” he said. “And if I help them, they’ll find out what I can do.”

“I’m not saying people can’t know something about your abilities. They just can’t know everything about them.”

“Okay,” he said, looking puzzled. “Which parts have to stay secret?”

“Well, for starters, they can’t know you can have sex with them without touching them,” I said.

He looked shocked.

“I wouldn’t do that with anybody except you,” he said, looking injured.

“That makes me feel good,” I said. “Or at least better. Good isn’t the word I should have used.”

“Why not?”

“Because I liked it way too much. It wasn’t good for me.”

“Then I won’t do it again,” he said.

I felt a sudden loss that I was sure he had nothing to do with. Or his talent had nothing to do with. I missed it already.

“You have some strange colors,” he commented.

“I’m a little conflicted,” I admitted. “I want you to promise not to do anything to me without telling me first,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “I can’t promise anything when I’m dreaming, though. I still haven’t figured out how to keep the wall when I’m asleep.”

“I’m okay with your dreams,” I said, feeling a little like a slut. That emptiness faded. At least I’d have him when he dreamt. That wasn’t so perverted. In that sense an almost twenty-five-year-old woman wasn’t seducing a barely eighteen-year-old boy. He’d had a birthday while we were in Cheyenne Mountain. I wanted to celebrate it later, but he said he didn’t care. He didn’t feel any different.

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