For as long as man lived, magic was real, feared, and revered, with the exception of an imperceptibly short period of time ironically named after light.
Light had nothing to do with it!
This documentary chronicles—in no enlightened fashion and with excessive focus on the carnal—the return of humanity to its magical roots.
***
“Close your eyes, and the world will become real. Open them and you’re staring at nothing but shadows and illusions. Listen to your heart and you’ll be free. The only way out of the abyss is to stop thinking.”
Elijah Jones had to double-check the book’s cover to make sure it wasn’t a cheesy fiction of some sort. It wasn’t. It rather stated matter-of-factly its name and objective: Fifty-Three Steps to Unlock the Mysteries of the Universe. Even its writer’s name seemed serious: Nazarhak Shagardan.
He hesitated for a second, then grabbed a pen and underlined the “stop thinking” advice. A highlighter would be a better option, but what young man owns one of those? He then added in the white space next to it: “This explains a lot.”
In thirty seconds, his sister’s smile as she received her returned book will dissipate when she notices the sacrilege, and the insult. Elijah would laugh at her reaction and insult her book some more. Their mother’s alarmed and urgent call to 'come see this' was the only reason Ashley didn’t lunge at her brother.
In the living room, they found their mother staring at the TV. Dumbfounded. They, too, became dumbfounded after staring at the TV. The reputable anchorwoman had just announced the arrival of some unusual guests. Humanity had received guests for the first time, and one of them—a very tall and ethereally beautiful woman—was being interviewed on live television.
“This has got to be a prank,” Elijah said when he came back to his senses. “A modern-day War of the Worlds’ drama.”
His mother looked at him incredulously. She pressed a button on the remote, and one channel after another was showing the same event; the only difference was the channel’s logo and the text at the bottom.
“A bigger effort than I initially estimated, then. Still, a large-scale prank is much more probable than interstellar travel. Only a dimwitted person would thin–”
He didn’t get to finish his rational remark, for his mother—for the first time in his life—took him over her knee and spanked him!
***
All over the globe, people began rejecting the Paendans’ friendship offer—the alien species visiting Earth. Some even denied their existence outright, insisting the whole event was some psyop or another.
The first confrontation was a political one. The spacecraft had landed in New York outside UN Headquarters, appealing to the myriad nations of Earth to collectively bargain with them— one species to another. This was clearly a gargantuan mistake on their part. Using ‘collective’ and ‘bargain’ so close together triggered what future historians would call Red Scare 2.0 in the UN’s host nation. Consequently, the People’s Republic of China offered the visiting race, who intended to collectively bargain, an eager invitation to land and temporarily resettle on its soil. This open invitation moved the Doomsday Clock up to 0.5 minute until Midnight.
To add holy insult to injury, heads of organized religions—separately and with great animosity to one another—asked of Earth’s visitors to confirm the one and only universal truth (which happens to coincide perfectly with each speaker’s own dogma) if they truly wish to gain humanity’s trust. It didn’t help that the Paendans’ response was this:
“For the sake of furthering the friendship between our two species, we’re willing to tell Earthmen what they want to hear, provided that they reorganize in one clearly-defined, superstitious belief-system first. Otherwise, this white lie business won’t work.”
One Reddit user by the name of Rationalist_Elijah divulged in detail the personal suffering the arrival of the extraterrestrials had inflicted on him. He would interrupt his typing at intervals to rub his still sore bottom.
Between impending nuclear war, theological jihad, and Elijah’s red bottom, the Paendans had no choice but to skedaddle back to the solar system from which they came. Leaving only one cryptic message for whoever might listen:
“The only way out of the abyss is to stop thinking.”
***
Things returned to normal.
Some sci-fi works were reclassified as drama. But that was it.
Rationalist_Elijah joined a local Femdom Subreddit in a quest to find a reasonably pricing Pro Domme to spank him. But that was hardly the Paendans’ fault; they would never have willingly inflicted such torment on a young mind as the search for a reasonably priced Pro Domme.
Some daring linguists tried their hand at decoding whatever hidden message in the aliens’ cryptic sentence, but there wasn’t much to go on. Finally, they heeded the literal meaning of it and ceased their attempts.
The Doomsday Clock was back to 10 minutes until Midnight.
Ashley Jones masturbated herself to sleep every night to the memory of her brother’s naked ass over their mother’s knee, getting gradually redder as it writhed about with no rhythm or purpose— a poor little tush with a mind of its own, comically trying to escape its long-overdue punishment. She would feel terribly guilty about the subject of her fantasies shortly after her toe-curling orgasms. Helen Jones didn’t feel guilty at all, but that might be due to the fact that she only masturbated to the memory of that event twice a week or so.
On one eventful Thursday, late in the evening, when the three Joneses happened to be hands-deep in their respective underwear, indulging in the same mental imagery of their shared domestic discipline experience, something magical happened. Ashley sensed it first. An otherworldly source of nourishment coursed through her veins. Was she imagining it all? She thought about it for a second but then realized that she was too far gone in her lustful trance to care. She stopped what she was doing, stood up, made herself as presentable as possible under the circumstances, and headed to her brother’s closed door.
The river of power flooding into her was intoxicating. She somehow knew what she had to do. Ashley could see her younger brother behind the closed door. His hand and his erect penis were clearly visible despite the door, the dark room, the duvet and his underwear being in the way. She should be freaked out, but she was pure instincts at this point.
Elijah sensed the door being flung open a fraction of a second before it happened. Nowhere near enough to hide anything. Someone resembling his sister dashed towards him. Before he could comprehend anything, he was naked, lying on his stomach, and getting one hell of a hand spanking.
He barely registered a voice scolding him. It took a lot of concentration to decipher some breathy words: “naughty, boy, teach, slut.” The pain was unbearable and unbearably pleasurable. He dangled on the precipice of an explosive orgasm—a dangerous position to be in for more than a fleeting second. He was dangling there for eternity.
He looked behind him with pleading eyes. On the room’s threshold stood his mother. Naked. One hand cupped her generous breast, another moving at inhuman speed in circles over her clitoral hood.
No one in the room was thinking clearly. Or at all.
***
Atop a rather comfy pillow—his bottom still perched over the edge to avoid any contact—Elijah sat naked to eat breakfast.
He was naked because his mother had forbidden him from wearing any clothes. The reason he obeyed such an unusual order was that the post-climax clarity he normally experienced never came. Nor did the climax itself. Falling asleep was nigh impossible for the thoroughly spanked and still erect young man.
Ashley appeared for breakfast, wearing just a small black thong and an oversized white shirt. She smiled at the protruding red bottom and gave it a not-so-gentle slap. Before her startled brother could make a sound, she captured his mouth in a deep kiss.
When she finally let go of his lips, she asked teasingly, “Where are your clothes, you naughty boy?”
“He’s not allowed any,” stated her mother matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
“Look at his penis. I draw the line at washing clothes covered in pre-cum, thank you very much!”
Ashley took a seat but not before brushing the head of Elijah’s erection to assess the severity of the situation. “Wow. I half-remember ordering you not to cum before leaving your room. Don’t tell me you actually listened for once!”
Elijah finally found his voice and informed them sheepishly that he actually tried to not listen… but couldn’t. They laughed heartily at his admission. The humiliation of his semi-public nudity and their teasing only made his predicament harder. And longer!
A thought struggled to surface through the hormonal fog clouding his mind. This, the faint thought argued, was not normal!
***
While Ashley used Elijah's bottom as a drum on Thursday night in St. Louis, Missouri, it was Friday morning in Mansoura, Egypt. The identical slapping rhythm echoed across 6,328 miles in the form of calculated strokes to a rather old rug on a fourth-floor balcony by a perspiring young woman named Rania Asfour.
Unbeknownst to either woman (or Elijah’s red bottom), their home cities were named after the same man. A trivial coincidence in the grand scheme of things.
It was equally coincidental that Ashley's spanking and Rania’s dusting off started at the exact moment, lasted exactly as long, and involved precisely 104 swings of each woman’s right arm. It was also a coincidence that during that short period of time, both their brothers experienced a raging arousal that ultimately led to nowhere.
Rania knocked repeatedly on the bathroom door until Tarek gave up on his out-of-place, carnal business, washed his hands, pulled up his pants, and opened the door.
It was a tiny apartment the siblings shared as they attended the nearby Mansoura University, and it had only one bathroom.
She shouted “Sa'a!” - the Arabic equivalent of “That took you an hour!” and rushed in to take a well-deserved bath, after vacuuming and dusting. Tarek had not offered to help with the housework.
With his sister occupied with what he assumed would be a lengthy bath, he moved his masturbation business to his own small room with an unlockable door and incredibly thin walls— a risky location for what he had in mind, in other circumstances.
For some odd reason, he couldn’t reach the desired result despite trying vigorously and despite having the biggest erection of his life.
A thought struggled to surface through the hormonal fog clouding his mind. This, the faint thought argued, was not normal!
***
Not a single sperm was spilled throughout the weekend. Not in Missouri, Egypt, or even virile France. The collective penis of humanity was very excited and with no end in sight.
Some medical professionals were alerted, but the majority of discussion and comparing of notes took place in the dark corners of the Internet—where such topics typically surface.
An anonymous poster on a popular Japanese imageboard wrote:
Insider here. This is a global problem. It’s happening everywhere, even in remote and isolated places. I’m talking lost-tribes level of isolation. The orgasm blockade thing is merely the tip of the iceberg. The real magic is what’s happening to women.
If you thought the alien visitation was a big deal, wait till you find out how big this is. It’s an escalating cycle, guys. What we’re experiencing directly feeds into something in women which in turn makes the arousal and blockade worse.
At this rate, we should have seen the first victims of these permanent hard-ons already, but we hadn't. The entire thing doesn’t make sense.
Again, this is big. Heads of States will be making announcements soon. Stay strong and don’t try to masturbate your way out of it—it only makes things harder… no pun intended.
True to the insider’s words (who was not a real insider but rather what the imageboard community calls a larper… nevertheless, his prediction was spot on), statements began to fly left and right.
The official statements were, for the most part, a load of bovine excrement. A lot of “we ask you not to be alarmed” and “our most competent experts are looking for solutions,” and so on.
An actual explanation and solution came from a rather unusual source—a neopagan Irishwomen group called the Pussycats on Brooms.
Previous to their globally resonant announcement, no one had ever heard of the Pussycats on Brooms, except for a small self-proclaimed fanbase called Gibbers—(Gooned into Believing: GIB).
Gibbers did manage, however, to spread the word of their worshiped Pussycats far and wide. It wasn’t long before reputable outlets broadcast the breaking address—reputable media outlets hate nothing more than being excluded from news everyone else is talking about.
The message itself was very fantastical, and the group's typically revealing costumes (which was the main reason they had gained and retained the Gibbers in the first place) was now torture to watch for half of the world’s population.
The High Priestess of the Pussycats on Brooms delivered a video message wearing a pointy black hat, a tiny black corset, shining black boots - nothing more. Gibbers got to see the original. A cropped version from the waist up was made for the global, non-believer audience. It was still pixelated to smithereens on Saudi Channel One, while the National Television of Afghanistan broadcast only the audio.
High Priestess Deidre Fay addressed the world as follows:
Greetings. I’ll be short and to the point. The three questions dominating everyone's thoughts must be: 'What?', 'Why now?', and 'What now?'. I’ll address each of them concisely.
First things first, this is not new. Not in quality, anyway. The quantity, however, is staggering.
Women have always had control over men’s arousal and orgasm, and over men through arousal and orgasm. For shorter periods, yes. Sporadically, yes. But this is not new.
Which leads to the second question. The why now?
Magic was drying up. Non-believers will fight this revelation with every futile iota of their corrupted hearts and minds—corrupted by false, patriarchal, dogmatic, dated beliefs. (This last part was censored in patriarchal, dogmatic channels… truly, if ejaculations didn’t mean so much to the patriarchy—and the pre-nut opaqueness wasn’t at astronomical levels—the entire thing would never have gotten anywhere near the frequencies of their broadcasting in the first place.)
Magic is essential for our world and its inhabitants to flourish. Magic has always been around. It lingered for as long as it could while the Patriarchy turned its back on it. Few pockets here and there provided a lifeline so thin it’s miraculous that it lasted for so long. But now the reservoir is nearly empty. And in an act of self-preservation, the mostly attuned to Magic—that’s to say, women—instinctively tapped on the most virile source of raw Magic; men’s libido.
The third question has an obvious answer. This isn’t going away. Four centuries of Magic depletion cannot be replenished in four days. However, women are the channeling masters, or rather mistresses. Sooner or later, they will be awakened to their full potential, and have better control on what they are now conducting on a subconscious level. At such point, ‘the blockade,’ as you boys came to call it, may be temporarily and individually lifted by a merciful mistress.
A final message to the socially conservative out there: my heart goes to thee—it's about to become wildly debauched everywhere!
***
Sales for men’s tight underwear and baggy trousers skyrocketed. The objective of that ensemble didn’t work—it was still very obvious, that which they were trying to conceal.
As predicted, women grew more adept at wielding their feminine charms. And as if their female intuition wasn’t enough, they freely shared every discovered technique.
Keesha DuShane, editor in chief of Your Queen Side wrote:
Queens of the planet, do not go gentle during this once-in-a-millennium opportunity. Claim your men. Claim other women's men—reciprocity applies! Claim even the untouchable outcasts of men, you don’t need to touch or even see those ones, just think of them as derelict real estate—you don’t have to live there, just have it under your name, for whatever worth it has or may come to have.
It turns out women were magical all along—I've been saying that for ages! And men are just batteries for us to recharge with. It will be cheating the batteries out of their life’s purpose if we don’t use them—very cruel stuff to leave them unused!
Now, the name of the game, ladies, is numbers.
I’ve conducted an experiment to test this. I had a fit, muscular partner of mine in a perpetual state of sexual stimulation while in a skin-to-skin contact for an extended period of time. Which is a fancy way to say that I fucked my boy toy for a whole hour.
The Magic power I channeled from him, while great and invigorating, was dwarfed by something much more mundane and much less time-consuming—wearing a braless white shirt and taking a brief neighborhood stroll.
I could almost sense each individual male’s contribution to the deluge of raw Magic surging through me. Now, you can have coitus with what? Four, five men at a time? If you are feeling adventurous. You can flash a hundred men in a second. You can tease tens of them with a micro skirt that doesn’t show any undergarment because you’re not wearing any. You can do both of these things, and many similar things, without even paying attention or actively planning it. That’s right, you can go about your daily routine without paying attention to your biological batteries charging your mana to maximum capacity!
This is clearly the more efficient way to do Magic!
Restoring the world's Magic balance demanded maximum efficiency. And it helped that the cost for teasing the permanently edged male population was incredibly low.
Rania Asfour, for example, just started fixing her wedgies whenever they occurred—which due to her substantial buttocks and the smallish panties she wore, was near constant. Prior to the Blockade, she'd endure discomfort until finding privacy. Post Blockade, her male classmates endured the torment of watching her delicate fingers reaching deep in the cleft, chasing the wayward soft material, and bringing it back to where it belongs. She was still wearing her hijab, which made the spectacle even more titillating in a taboo sort of way.
Ashley Jones...
