The drive had been a 15-minute nightmare of thumping pop music, Jon’s head bopping “accidentally” to the beat, and his hands and feet flying over the manual transmission with an expert, “cool” skill he didn’t possess. He was acutely, horribly aware of the three boys in the back seat, their conversation a mix of awe over the car and quiet, mumbled observations about him.
The laser tag arena was in a strip mall, wedged between a dollar store and a mattress outlet. The moment he cut the engine, the spell of "cool driver" broke, and Jon was left shaking in the hugging bucket seat, his nipples aching from the constant, subtle jiggle the car's vibrations had caused. God, he was horny.
"That... was... AWESOME!" Mikey screamed, piling out of the back. "You gotta teach me how to do that J-turn!"
"Yeah, that was sick," Ben agreed, his eyes still glued to the back of Jon's head.
Jon just nodded, his throat tight. He unbuckled and had to do the awkward, ass-first slide and twist to get out of the low-slung car, a move that stretched his jeans to their limit and "accidentally" gave the boys another show.
...always so sexy…
He slammed the door, his face burning, and "accidentally" tossed his hair, making his dark curls bounce. He led the way inside, his hips swaying, his body's unwanted, fluid grace making him feel like a puppet. With every step, the rough denim of his skin-tight jeans chafed against his bare, sensitive, and already engorged cunt. It was a constant, maddening friction that was half-pain, half-pleasure, feeding the unwanted arousal he was desperately trying to ignore.
The inside of the arena was an assault: flashing black lights, the smell of floor cleaner and plastic, and the distant pew-pew-pew of the game already in progress. Behind the counter stood a guy in his late teens, maybe early twenties, leaning on the counter with a look of profound boredom. He had a faint, wispy moustache and a name tag that read 'KYLE'.
"Alright, Mikey, go get the vests," Jon said, his voice coming out as that low, flirty purr. He'd meant to sound brisk.
"You gotta pay, Esme," Mikey said, bouncing on his heels.
Jon sighed. Right. He- walked up to the counter, the four kids trailing him. Kyle's eyes skimmed the kids and then landed on Jon, and his bored expression... shifted. He straightened up, his chest puffing out.
"Hi," Jon said, trying to sound normal. "I need five for the next game. It's for his birthday." He gestured to Mikey.
Kyle didn't even look at Mikey. His eyes were doing a slow, appreciative scan from Jon's artfully messy hair, down to his chest—where the crooked neckline of his shirt was still exposing one smooth shoulder—and then lower.
"Five, huh?" Kyle said, leaning forward on his elbows, trying to "casually" look down the loose collar of Jon's shirt. "Big party."
Jon felt his skin crawl. He wanted to pull his shirt up, to cross his arms. Instead, his body, guided by the wish, "accidentally" leaned on the counter, mirroring Kyle. The pose pushed his braless breasts forward, his shirt falling a bit lower giving Kyle quite the view.
"Something like that," Jon heard himself purr. His full lips formed a "playful" pout. "It's my little brother's 13th. A big deal, right?"
...always so sexy and flirty…
"Thirteenth... right," Kyle said, his voice a little strained. He was staring at Jon's mouth now. "Well, for... you... I think we can maybe... expedite things."
"Oh?" Jon's eyebrow "accidentally" quirked. His hand came up, and a delicate finger began "accidentally" tracing the high-gloss plastic of the counter. The unwanted heat was pooling in his stomach, the arousal making his face flush. The pressure of leaning against the counter pressed the denim seam painfully, yet 'pleasurably', against his throbbing clit, making him bite his lip to stifle a gasp.
"Yeah," Kyle said, puffing up. "Maybe I could, y'know, give you a... private tour of the arena. Make sure your vest is... fitted correctly." He winked, a slow, greasy gesture.
From behind him, Jon heard Jeff whisper, "Whoa, your sister's amazing, Mikey."
Mikey just sounded proud. "I told you she was cool."
Only Maya sounded annoyed. "Ugh, can we just go?"
This was it. This was the nightmare. Jon was being actively hit on by this... this Kyle, and his body was flirting back. He wanted to throw up. He opened his mouth to tell Kyle to just give him the vests, but what came out was a low, throaty laugh.
"That's so sweet of you," Jon purred, "accidentally" brushing his hand against Kyle's as he gestured. "But I think I've gotta stick with the birthday boy." He then "accidentally" winked. "Maybe... later?"
Kyle looked like he'd won the lottery. "For sure, for sure! Okay, five vests, coming right up!" He practically ran to get the gear.
Jon turned, his face a mask of smooth, flirty confidence, but his eyes were screaming. He snatched the bulky, plastic vests from Kyle, his fingers "accidentally" brushing the guy's again, and shoved them at the kids.
"Go," he hissed, the purr replaced for a split-second by pure panic. "Go, go! Get suited up. I'll be right there."
Mikey and his friends, even Maya, scrambled away, not noticing his terror. The moment their backs were turned, Jon bolted, diving into a dark alcove next to the bathrooms. He ripped his phone—a sleek, new iPhone, not his old Android—out of his back pocket and fumbled with it, his hands shaking so badly he could barely type. He finally found Zoë's contact and hit 'call'.
She picked up on the third ring. "What? Jon, I'm busy. Athena's here, we're..."
"Zoë, you have to help me!" Jon whisper-shrieked, his back pressed against the wall. "It's bad! It's so bad!"
"What? What's wrong? The car? Mikey's friends?"
"No! It's me! The wish... it's... I can't control it!" Jon was crying now, his flawless makeup starting to run. "I'm hitting on the guy at the counter! He's this... this creep, Zoë, and he's hitting on me back, and I... I winked at him! My body is... it's encouraging him!"
There was a muffled sound on Zoë's end, like she'd covered the phone. "Shit. Okay, Jon, calm down. Listen to me."
"I can't calm down!" he sobbed.
"I know! Me and Athena... we're looking at the stone," Zoë said, her voice strained. "I can't come there, Mikey will know. I can't wish away the 'flirty,' it'll contradict. But... Jon, you're having a panic attack. Listen to me."
"I... I can't! Zoë, just do something!"
"I have an idea," Zoë said, her voice suddenly grim and determined. "It might... help. Just... try to hold on."
"What idea? Zoë? What are you going to do?"
"I gotta go. Good luck."
"Zoë, wait—! Don't hang up!"
Click.
She'd hung up.
Jon stared at the black screen, his entire body shaking, his breath coming in ragged, terrified sobs. "No... no, no, no..." He slid down the wall, the movement dragging the rough jeans agonizingly over his sensitive, bare skin, and he choked back a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. He was alone. She'd hung up on him. She was... doing something, and he didn't even know what.
What if she made it worse?
Oh shit! He wouldn't be able to notice because he wouldn't hear the wish.
He was spiralling, the panic building into a full-blown, silent scream.
And then, it hit. Jon Esme didn't notice.
What was Zoe's wish?
