The Power Growing, The Sex Intensifying
A box.... sitting on my dresser as if it had always been there. It was small, made of dark wood with intricate carvings that looked vaguely Greek, the size of a large** shoebox. On a whim, I took a 50-euro note from my wallet, placed it inside, and closed the lid. A soft, golden light pulsed from the seams. When I opened it, there were two 50-euro notes. My heart hammered against my ribs. The bills at home were piling up. This was the answer.
I gathered all my savings—5,000 euros in cash—and placed it inside. The box glowed brighter this time, humming with power. When I opened it, the stack had doubled. Ten thousand euros. I laughed, a sound of pure, dizzying relief. I hid the box and the money, the weight of our debts suddenly feeling lighter.
Before lunch, I had to go to my part-time job. The pay was decent, but the environment was toxic. My colleagues were a gallery of irritants: Jack, 33, a homophobic, loud-mouthed guy with pale blond hair and a reddish beard, constantly talking about women; Claudio, 29, a dark-haired, green-eyed religious fanatic who was always trying to save my “sinner’s soul,” despite tolerating my being gay; and Juan, 27, a sweet-natured Venezuelan with a footballer’s slightly crooked toes and a perpetually pleasant scent I’d caught when he changed in the locker room.
My boss, Marcelo, was a 48-year-old Italian, always impeccably dressed and smelling of expensive cologne, a married man with a thick pelt of chest hair visible at his open collar.
The moment I walked in, the usual dread settled in. I was so annoyed I’d almost forgotten my new power. As Marcelo strode past, barking orders, I touched my forearm and willed it. Forget I’m here. Assume I’m working.
His gaze slid over me without recognition. I did the same to Jack, Claudio, and Juan. A bubble of silence formed around me. Grinning, I simply walked out and went for a long, leisurely coffee. I lost track of time, only remembering I needed to clock out when I returned with an hour left in my shift.
I saw Jack at his desk, snickering at some crude video. He’d made my life hell for years. A dark, delicious idea clicked into place. I touched my arm again and focused. Jack. Go to the bathroom on the top floor. The empty one. Strip. Wait.
I found Marcelo in his office. Marcelo. Same place. Now.
When I arrived at the disused, echoing bathroom on the top floor, they were both there, naked and standing rigidly, eyes glazed. I couldn’t help but laugh. Jack was… underwhelming. Small, shriveled, and hairy. So that’s the source of all that rage, I thought. Marcelo, however, was well-built and completely smooth.
“Marcelo,” I said, my voice echoing. “Take him. Now.”
Their movements were jerky, puppet-like at first. They kissed, a clumsy clash of teeth and beard. But as Marcelo pushed Jack against the cold tiles, a raw, real hunger seemed to take over. Marcelo’s body was powerful, commanding. Jack’s protests were silent, his face a mask of confused pleasure as he was entered.
I sat on a sink, unzipped my jeans, and stroked myself, watching. The power was an aphrodisiac. I walked over to where Jack’s head lolled. “Suck,” I ordered. His mouth, which had spat so many insults, opened obediently. The humiliation was exquisite. The pleasure built in me, swift and intense, and I came in his mouth. “Swallow it,” I whispered. He did.
Soon after, Marcelo finished inside him with a guttural groan. “Marcelo, shower. Return to work. Remember nothing.”
I left Jack there on the floor, a pathetic, soiled figure, his small penis now erect—a comical 13 centimeters. “Get dressed,” I commanded. “And finish in your pants. Then go back to your desk.”
Back in the office, I sat directly across from Jack, visible again. The spell lifted. He blinked, shifted in his seat, and his face paled. He subtly touched himself through his trousers, then sniffed his fingers. His eyes widened in pure horror. He bolted for the bathroom.
I didn’t even try to hide my smile. They couldn’t see me unless I allowed it. I logged out, my steps light as I walked home. The world was clay in my hands now, and I was just beginning to learn how to shape it. The box of miracles waited in my room, and the taste of power on my tongue was sweeter than anything.
The key turned in the lock with a familiar, weary scrape. I pushed the door open, the scent of stale beer and old paper washing over me. Home. Dad was, as always, a silhouette on the sofa, the blue glow of the television flickering across his face and the bottle in his hand. A grunt was my greeting. From the back room, the soft rustle of a page turning—Grandad, lost in one of his history books. I passed his open door. “Hey, Grandad.” He looked up, his eyes milky but kind behind his thick glasses, and gave a slow, silent nod.
I went straight to my room, the sanctuary. Closing the door, I leaned against it, the weight of the day—the real one and the secret one—settling on my shoulders. From the top drawer of my desk, beneath a stack of old notebooks, I retrieved the bundled cash. Half of what the magic box had given me last time. 2,500 euros. The notes felt crisp, unreal. This was the plan. The first step.
I took a deep breath and went back to the living room. “Dad?”
He turned, and I was relieved to see his eyes were clear. Still sober. “What’s up, Mark?”
“Got some news,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Promotion at work. More responsibility, better pay. I, uh… I wanted to take a look at the household accounts. See where we’re at.”
He waved a dismissive hand, a flicker of shame crossing his face. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Just a few things behind. I’ll sort it.”
“I want to see, Dad. Please.” My voice was firmer than I intended.
The shame deepened into a flush. Reluctantly, he pulled a battered shoebox from under the sofa. Bills, mostly unopened, were piled inside. My stomach sank as I sorted through them. A final demand from the bank for a 1,000 euro loan payment. Notices for water and electricity, months overdue. The numbers swam before my eyes, a tangible map of his despair.
I looked at him, this man who used to carry people from burning buildings, now diminished by grief and amber liquid. “Dad,” I said, my voice low. “I want to help. I will help. But you have to help yourself, too. You can’t just… fade away here.”
That was all it took. The dam broke. A sob racked his broad frame, and he covered his face with his hands. “It’s so hard, Mark,” he choked out. “Being alone in this… this silence.”
I didn’t hesitate. I moved to the sofa and wrapped my arms around him. He felt smaller than I remembered. “You’re not alone,” I whispered into his shoulder. “I’m right here. We’re going to fix this.”
We sat there for a long time, talking in ragged sentences, mapping out the mess. Then, with a new determination in his step, he put on his jacket. We walked to the multibanco on the corner, the night air cool and bracing. One by one, we paid off the debts. The bank loan, the utilities, even a few smaller tabs at the local grocer. With each confirmed payment, I saw his spine straighten. By the time we were done, it was as if a physical cloud had lifted from him. The haunted look in his eyes had receded, replaced by a tentative, watery relief.
Back home, I climbed the stairs to my room. The small, ornate wooden box sat on my shelf, looking utterly innocuous. I touched its lid. “For the family,” I whispered. When I opened it, the space within, which had been empty, now held neat stacks of euros. 10,000 of them. A calm certainty settled over me. I took the money and added it to my drawer’s growing reserve.
That night was the first in years I didn’t hear the clink of a bottle after midnight. The silence was peaceful, not oppressive.
The changes started subtly, just as I’d wished. Standing before the bathroom mirror a few days later, I traced the strange, warm mark on my hip—a spiral that seemed to pulse with a light only I could see. My desire had been specific: an athletic build, gradually, over months. A body that looked earned. And other… adjustments. I’d told Dad I’d joined a gym to explain the coming transformation. He’d just clapped me on the shoulder, a genuine smile on his face. “Good for you, son.”
He’d even gone back to the fire station, doing light administrative duty to start. Life was recalibrating.
Later that night, after hearing Dad’s steady snoring, I slipped into Grandad’s room. I gently fitted the CPAP mask over his nose and turned the machine on, its soft whir joining the rhythm of the house. I pretended to go to my own room, waited in the dark, my heart a drum against my ribs. I hadn’t used the power since the box. I needed to know its limits, to test its control.
Grandad’s snoring, deep and rattling, soon gave way to the mechanical sigh of the CPAP. I crept back in. The room smelled of menthol balm and old books. I stood by his bed, my fingers finding the mark on my hip. It was warm.
“Sit up,” I whispered, the command flowing through my fingertips. “Remove your clothes. Touch yourself.”
His eyes snapped open. Not with sleep, but with a vacant, brilliant blue light that filled his irises. He moved with a smoothness that belied his 82 years. He was a Santa Claus figure, broad and grizzled, with a thicket of white hair on his chest and a belly that spoke of a lifetime of hearty meals. And there, between his legs, was the proof of our shared blood—thick, heavy, like my father’s, but aged. A surge of illicit, overwhelming heat flooded me. I knelt. The act felt natural, inevitable. His large, coarse hands came to rest on my head as I took him into my mouth. He was salt and skin and a faint, clean soap smell. His balls, heavy and warm, nudged my chin. He groaned, a deep sound from his chest, and his hips began a shallow pulse. He didn’t thrust, but the control was his, guided by my unspoken will. He held my hair, his grip firm but not painful, and I let him use my mouth until my jaw ached and my eyes watered. The power thrummed between us, a circuit of pure sensation. When I pulled away, gasping, I turned onto my hands and knees on the rug beside his bed. He moved behind me without a word. The initial penetration was a stunning, full ache that stole my breath. He filled me completely, a profound, stretching pressure that quickly melted into a rolling wave of pleasure. I thought the words, pouring my will into the mark: More. Harder. Faster. And he obeyed. His pace quickened, his body slapping against mine with a strength that was shocking for his age. It was ecstasy, raw and consuming. “Call me names,” I breathed out, my face pressed into the rug. “Quietly.” His voice, usually so gentle, was a gravelly whisper in my ear. “Shameless grandson. My little slut.” The coarseness of the words, coming from him, tipped me over an edge I didn’t know I was near. I felt him swell inside me, and then the hot, sudden rush of his release. He hadn’t pulled out in time—had I wanted him to? A deep, internal warmth spread through me. When he finally withdrew, a trickle of his seed escaped down my thigh. I turned and knelt before him again, cleaning him with my tongue. His taste was surprisingly sweet, musky and unique. A final, devoted act. After, I guided him back under the covers, reattached the CPAP, and watched as the light faded from his eyes, leaving only peaceful sleep. I cleaned the room meticulously, leaving no trace. The power hummed contentedly under my skin. To be continue..
