Days passed in a new normal. I came home from “work” one evening to the sound of laughter and the smell of frying onions. Dad and Grandad were in the kitchen, actually cooking together. Dad, sober and alert, was chopping vegetables while Grandad stirred a pot.
“The last of the bills are clear,” I announced, leaning in the doorway. “I’m starting to save for a trip, maybe. But why cook? Let’s order in. Celebrate being debt-free.”
We agreed on pizza. I placed the order on my phone. The app updated: Rohan – 51 – On the way. The profile picture showed a man with skin like dark polished teak and the most startling, crystalline blue eyes. Salt-and-pepper hair, a kind smile. He was beautiful. My thumb hovered over the screen.
Delivery arrived. I went downstairs. A motorbike idled at the curb. There were two helmets. One was removed, revealing the man from the picture, Rohan, his eyes even more striking in person. The other rider pulled off his helmet, and I froze.
It was a younger version of that angelic face. Same sapphire eyes, same strong bone structure, but untouched by time. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
“Kian,” the older man said, his voice accented and warm. “My son. He helps sometimes.”
Kian gave a shy, fleeting smile, his eyes darting away when I looked at him directly.
“The eyes run in the family,” I managed to say, taking the pizza bag. “Stunning.”
Kian’s smile widened, a blush creeping up his neck.
On an impulse, I pulled out my phone. “I, uh, actually run a small modeling scout agency on the side. Do you have an Instagram? Just in case.”
He looked to his father, who nodded encouragingly. Kian recited his handle, his voice soft. I added him immediately. He gave that embarrassed laugh again, a beautiful sound, before they sped off into the night.
The pizza was a cheerful, greasy affair. At one point, a string of cheese and sauce dropped onto my shirt. “Ugh, clumsy,” I muttered, pulling the shirt over my head to take it to the kitchen sink.
When I walked back into the living room, shirtless, I caught Dad’s gaze. He was staring, not with any strange intensity, but with open, proud surprise. “Wow, Mark. That gym is really working. You’ve almost got a six-pack already.”
I laughed, flexing playfully. “It’s starting to show, yeah.” The lie was easy now, woven into our new truth.
Two days later, I messaged Kian. He replied with polite, eager brevity. I invited him over on Sunday, mentioning my dad and grandad would be out. A perfect, private opportunity.
When the doorbell rang, I answered with a smile that froze on my face. It was Kian, but beside him, beaming apologetically, was Rohan.
“I hope it is okay,” Rohan said. “Kian was nervous to come alone to a new place. I will wait in the bike if you prefer.”
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through me. My plan had involved one susceptible, beautiful boy. Not his father as a witness. I couldn’t use the power on one while the other watched. Or… could I? The thought was a lightning strike. The voice in the box had never said one.
“No, no, please, come in,” I said, my voice thankfully steady. They stepped into the living room, both looking slightly awkward. “Can I get you some water?”
I fled to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, I pressed my hand to the mark on my hip. This was a risk. A big one.
But as I focused, something different happened. A searing heat, not painful but immense, shot through the mark and up my spine. In my mind, a clear, neutral voice spoke, as if reading from a newly-unlocked scroll:
Level 2 Attained.
Basic Mental Control: 2 targets, permanent simple commands. 4 targets for 30 minutes.
Duplicate Small Objects: Stable.
Modify Body Parts: Strength, Eyesight.
The shock was dizzying. The powers evolved. They grew with use. A wild, exhilarating fear took hold. This was new territory. Could I handle two? There was only one way to find out.
The mark on my arm began to glow, a faint golden light visible. I poured my will into it, focusing on the two men in my living room. The command formed in my mind, simple and direct.
I walked back to the living room. They were sitting on the sofa, looking at a photo on the wall. “The bathroom is just down there if you need it,” I said, my voice a strange echo in my own ears.
They both stood in unison, their movements synchronized. Their heads turned toward me. And their eyes—both sets of those incredible blue eyes—were now glowing with the same vacant, brilliant light that had filled Grandad’s. A shared, mesmerizing azure haze.
“Follow me,” I said softly. “To the bedroom. Remove your clothes.”
Without a word, without a glance at each other, they turned and walked, single file, down the hallway toward my room. I followed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm of terror and triumph. I reached my doorway and looked inside.
They stood in the middle of the room, bathed in the afternoon sun, already shirtless, their hands moving to their belts. Their eyes shone like captured stars, waiting for their next command. The game had just changed forever I stood there, confused, the strange mark on my arm pulsing with a warm, golden light. It had happened again. The more I used this… ability, this power, the stronger it became, the more precise my control. The simple, silent command I’d given—“Both of you, to my room. Remove your clothes.”—had been obeyed with terrifying, exhilarating efficiency. When I entered my bedroom, they were waiting. Standing side by side, their eyes glazed with a soft, inner luminescence, completely under my thrall. Kian, Rohan’s son, was 18. He had his father’s stunning, deep-set blue eyes, but on him, they were wide with a youthful nervousness. He smelled of clean sweat and adolescent anxiety, having been so worried about this “meeting” to discuss a summer job. And then there was Rohan himself. At 51, he was a statuesque Indian man with skin like polished teak, those same piercing blue eyes, and a dusting of silver in his dark hair. A handsome, powerful figure.
My will solidified. I focused, and with a mental nudge, they moved. It wasn’t an attack, not really. It was a surrender to my desire. Kian was on me first, his lips crashing against mine in a frantic, hungry kiss. It was consuming, almost feral in its intensity. Meanwhile, Rohan, with a single-minded focus that took my breath away, knelt behind me. His experienced hands parted me, and his tongue, hot and wet and impossibly skilled, found its target. The sensation of being explored, known in such a vulnerable place, was overwhelming. It was worship, and I was the altar.
We tumbled onto the bed in a heap of limbs. My own focus split, a testament to my growing power. I took Kian into my mouth. He was beautifully, identically made to his father—thick, uncut, and full. I worked him with a dedication, savoring the taste, the weight, the soft skin sliding back to reveal the head. As I did this, Rohan positioned himself and, with a patient, inexorable pressure, entered me. The forbidden thrill of having father and son in my bed, both serving my pleasure, was a dark, potent fuel. The room began to smell of sex, of musk and heat.
I shifted, straddling Rohan, riding him as I continued to pleasure Kian. The rhythm was a complex, shared dance. Driven by a need for more, for total immersion, I pushed the thought at Kian. Behind me. Now.
I guided Kian behind me. The feeling of him joining his father, filling me completely, was transcendent. It was a fullness that bordered on pain, a pleasure so acute it short-circuited my senses. When the waves of my own climax hit, racking through me as they stimulated my prostate, I saw stars. My body went rigid, then blissfully limp. I was spent, but they, under the lingering influence of my command, continued, moving me like a doll, chasing their own release until they both found it, showering my chest and stomach with their warmth. Afterward, they held me, one on each side. Their scent—sweat, sex, and their own unique skin—was oddly comforting. We lay in silence for twenty minutes, a strange, peaceful trinity. Finally, I commanded us to shower. They tended to me with a reverence that was unsettling, washing me from head to toe as if I were a king. Once dressed, I sent them home with the final, firm order to forget everything. Alone, exhaustion finally claimed me. My body hummed, my nerves alight, my very core still pulsing with the ghost of the experience. I had never felt anything like it. As I lay in the quiet dark, a new thought, cold and calculating, cut through the afterglow. My power’s potential whispered to me. I could exert permanent control. Not just for an evening, but for a lifetime. A plan began to form, meticulous and ambitious. I would use it on my own father and grandfather. With their labor and compliance, I could build a life of security, far from prying eyes.
The next few weeks were a flurry of activity and subtle manipulation. I told my father I was doing well in my new remote position and wanted to invest in property. He was skeptical, his fatherly intuition prickling at the edges of my story. I showed him my savings—a convincing amount, thanks to discreet prior use of my influence on a former boss—and we began looking online.
We found it near the mountains: a secluded, three-story house with eight bedrooms and, most intriguingly, a fully-equipped survival bunker. The elderly seller explained her late husband’s apocalyptic fears. It was perfect. The transaction was swift. My father’s suspicion grew as my physique became more defined and my financial confidence seemed unshakable. One evening, he confronted me in my old room.
“You’re going to tell me what’s really going on,” he said, sitting heavily on the bed.
I spun a tale of a lucky break in day-trading, mixed with a strict new fitness regimen. He wanted to believe his son, but a shadow of doubt remained in his eyes. It didn’t matter. The wheels were in motion. I quit my job, citing the move to full-time remote work. We packed, and soon my father, my grandfather, and I were standing on the porch of our new, isolated home. The mountain air was crisp and clean. Our peace was almost immediately interrupted by a neighbor making a welcoming call. He introduced himself as Merium. He was a tall, striking man in his mid-forties with a head of fiery red hair and emerald-green eyes that missed nothing. Flanking him were his twin sons, Merick and Mory. They were eighteen, mirror images with pale, freckled skin and their father’s red hair. The differences were subtle: Merick’s hair was a long, unruly cascade of copper curls, giving him a wild, artistic look. Mory’s was cropped short and neat, military-precise. They stood slightly behind their father, their identical green eyes taking in me, my father, and my grandfather with open curiosity. I realized solitude wasn’t really what I wanted. Control was. And this new world of mine, it seemed, was just beginning to fill with interesting subjects. The plan was evolving.
