It happened at a crowded outdoor café on an unseasonably warm sunny afternoon. She was seated alone at the table across from me, directly in my line of sight, but that did not excuse the brazenness with which I stared at her. I can’t remember which of us sat down first. I had been daydreaming over my latte, savoring the chance to be out of the office for a while, when I noticed her.

I can’t say what it was about her that wasso magnetic. She is beautiful, that is sure, but LA is full of beautiful people. She wore dark glasses, so that her expression could not be read transparently. But the set of her mouth and the bearing of her shoulders conveyed self-assurance and poise. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight alluringly. The tight fabric of her dress outlined the ample contours of magnificent breasts, and her sheer stockings accentuated legs so shapely that the heart raced to look at them. All of these aspects explain why she caught my eye, but they do not explain why I could not look away. My gaze traveled up and down her body repeatedly, savoring every inch of her form with intense and mounting gratification. I could sense that I was being rude, but long after she had given clear signs of noticing my imposition upon her privacy I could not stop. I was in the grips of an uncontrollable compulsion.

I was not prepared for what happened next. She rose from her table and crossed to mine, thrilling me involuntarily with the motion of her legs, breasts, and hips. As she seated herself across from me I cleared my throat nervously, struggling to cover my embarrassment but still unable to avert my gaze. “You’ve been feeling me up with your eyes for a while now,” she declared, her voice stern but not shrill. “I feel like we should be introduced.” I gave her my name. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I don’t know what’s come over me…I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that….” I could not finish a coherent thought. “Fascination,” she said.


“Fascination. From the Latin ‘fascinare,’ ‘to bewitch,’ which is itself derived from ‘fascinum,’ the phallus. The Romans were obsessed with their cocks, but in this they weren’t wrong. The desire that a woman inspires in a man is a kind of witchcraft. When a man looks at a woman, or listens to her, or smells her, and feels his cock engorge; it is more than a physical reflex. It is mystical. The highest, most divine mystery. His life energy, his soul, is in the power of another. She has penetrated his mind and taken control of his bodily responses.”

I was blushing, but not beyond trying to hold on to some dignity. “I think you’re exaggerating,” I protested feebly, “It is a powerful reflex, yes, but…”

She laughed. “A reflex? If it were merely a reflex, I could not know that you have been picturing running kisses up and down my calves and thighs. Licking and sucking my breasts. Pressing my hand to your cheek. Kissing my ass. Rimming my anus with your tongue. Lapping at my pussy. Your cock being enveloped by My sweet pink pussy as you bury your face in my hair. Those are all rather particular fantasies to be produced by a ‘reflex,’ wouldn’t you say?”

My mouth must have hung open for several seconds. She had described the images that had been passing through my mind exactly, virtually in the order that they had occurred. It was a clear sign that I had entered very deep waters, and I should have sought a hasty escape right there. But some mad hubris had hold of me. “You have amazing intuition…” I began.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she interrupted, her tone harsh for the first time. She took off her glasses, revealing eyes such a mesmerizing shade of green that I could not resist staring into them. “Since you don’t seem to understand what it is to control yourself or to be controlled by another, I will have to demonstrate. Listen to my voice…”

I don’t recall what happened in the next few minutes clearly. The next thing I can remember, I was kneeling onthe paving stones in front of her, my suit trousers filthy from the dusty ground. One of her shapely feet was in my mouth, and I was sucking loudly upon her toes. I had obviously been doing it for some time, because saliva had run copiously down my neck and soaked my shirt collar.

As I became aware of the other patrons of the café staring at me and muttering their disapproval I stopped sucking, though not without some difficulty and regret. The woman withdrew her foot from my mouth and wiped it on the shoulder of my suit jacket.

“I think that makes my point,” she declared, thrusting her foot in front of my face once again and pointing imperatively. After a moment’s confusion I grasped her meaning, and retrieving her shoe from the ground between my knees I placed it on her foot. “Good boy,” she said, rising and stroking my cheek lightly with her long, elegant fingers. “Try to be more discrete next time you become fascinated.” She walked away as I stared after her, still on my knees.

One might expect that I would collect my wounded pride and try to forget the whole episode. But that has not been possible. I have not been able to stop thinking of her since. She has haunted my dreams and very nearly my every waking thought. Luckily, she is rather easy to find. If one Googles words such as “blond,” “gorgeous,” and “hypnotist,” she can be discovered in short order. She is Goddess Marquesa, and having been exposed to Her fascination I will never be the same again.