The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Pluto Knee Em’s note: When I received this part of the story in my e-mail, my reaction upon reading the chapter heading was, “Who the hell is Carmella”? Because I’ve been very attentive in reading this true (according to the authors) account, and I did not remember that name. As I read, I saw that we have indeed met Carmella before, we just didn’t have a name for her. Anyway, I thought it might be useful to say that here, so all the readers intrigued by these events don’t collectively exclaim, “Who the hell is Carmella?”

The Breast Way To Get the Girls

Part 12

I had the dream every night, like a tape loop inside my sleeping head.

I’m sitting in the restaurant with my co-worker, Estelle, with a forkful of grilled calamari poised before my lips, ready to taste. Then, out of nowhere, the eruption inside my breasts. The confusion, wondering if the seafood is having some strange effect that my body is misinterpreting. The even more forceful wave, the wave that makes my nipples feel that they might launch right off the surrounding flesh, blowing my blouse open. Estelle asking what’s wrong, her words like something uttered from an alternate reality, from a place I’d left behind.

Just like that, at a corner table sitting across from a woman I needed to please for my job but didn’t even like very much, my breasts come to life for the first time, and I hadn’t even known they never had before. I’d never known how they were asleep, how what I’d called stimulation and tingling pleasure before had been nothing but a PG-rated preview of the vibrating thrilling fiery surge of exquisite body energy taking hold of my breasts now. They were awake, and all that force pushing at my nipples, coursing out from my heart, filling all that flesh...

The crushing irresistible need to be fucked, to be sucked, to spread my legs and have something happen or go insane, go nuclear, literally flying apart. My fork dropping, the table tipping, water and wine spilling as I jump up and rush for the exit, rush for my life.

The lights and people on the street, the cab there like a ferryman appearing to take me into the underworld, into a place no one ever returns from. My body like a puppet with broken strings as the heat knocks my senses senseless, diving into the cab with my legs hanging out. A touch on my ankles, my calves, firm hands pushing me inside, the firm touch like a firm dick, something in that touch igniting an even deeper place, opening my opening.

I scream out my address to the driver and my hand is in my panties without even knowing how it had gotten there. I’m bottom up, my huge breasts smushing into the vinyl seat, the middle of my body jackknifing involuntarily as my clitoris decides it wants to borrow life from my breasts, borrow energy and sensitivity and fucking ferocious need and...

“Mohhhhh!”

I was awake, really awake, my mind awake in bed and my breasts and pussy awake again, fingers flicking, nipples screaming. The dream of that night that had actually happened, out for dinner with Estelle, everything perfectly normal and ordinary until it was like a bomb had gone off inside my bra.

Why couldn’t I sleep through the night? And masturbating, I couldn’t stop masturbating, conjuring the images, replaying the sensations. I could hold things together during the day, working in my office, directing the editors, planning out future articles. No one suspected what my nights had become, and I could even believe at times that whatever had taken hold of me had let go, lifting like a fog, dissipating. But once night fell it was as if my body responded to the call of the wild again, to a voice from the ether that somehow lived inside my breasts. It always started there, the heat, the excitement, the waves that demanded a response. I couldn’t tell if it was more like an infection or a possession or just a level of sexuality that I hadn’t known about before, one that gave you no choice, hormones running the show.

I pulled on my fat nipples, pulled hard and groaned from the pleasure and the incompleteness both. I needed three hands, one for each breast and another to play between my legs. It was torture not being able to lie in bed and massage all three at once!

I hadn’t needed three hands in the cab. I don’t know what the driver thought, having a woman crying out and writhing in the back seat, tits and pussy almost eating me up with raw naked insistence. He’d stopped at some point, told me to get out of the cab, and all I could do was throw my handbag over the seat and beg him to drive to Englewood, taking whatever he needed for fare.

It had taken me five minutes at least to stagger from the cab to the front door. The neighbors, so often watching or in a couple of cases ogling, must not have seen, or they might have dialed 911, thinking I’d suffered a stroke.

I stroked all right. Even with the way I’d cum in the cab, I stroked the night away. I never even thought of my car, left behind, parked in a garage in Manhattan. I had no car the next day, needed a ride from a neighbor to get into the city to retrieve it.

“The garage,” I said, meaning my garage, where my car was parked now.

Two nights in a row? Last night, unable to stand it any longer, I’d pulled the car from the driveway into the garage for privacy, poured baby oil on the shifter and humped it, letting that vinyl-topped stick enter me and spread me as I abused my tits. It smacked of desperation and something like sexual insanity and maybe that was where I was, undergoing some sort of hormone awakening while in-between boyfriends. I felt promiscuous and degenerate without even making love to anybody, doing things to myself that I wouldn’t have thought I’d be capable of. Refusing to frequent bars or create one-night stand situations with friends or co-workers, hook-ups I’d regret forever, what else was I supposed to do? I had to get off, which left my hands, the moveable showerhead, a cucumber from the fridge, the fat vinyl-covered shifter between the seats in my car.

“I should have gotten something.”

Some sex toy in the city, although I didn’t know anything about them and couldn’t even believe I was thinking it. Sex toys were for sex addicts or perverts, yet here I was how many nights in a row, aching, ready to pull my hair out because I needed to fuck and fuck and had no one to fuck.

“It would be so easy,” I knew, so easy to pick up a stranger. My looks, my figure, it would take about two minutes to line up twenty admirers and bed the bunch of them. Bill Dentley, across the street three houses away, had a telescope that I was sure he sometimes trained on my windows, hoping to get a show of the neighbor with the tits, undressing. He flirted shamelessly at block parties and it was almost tempting to march over there and fuck him senseless, even though he had a desk culture gut and his sideways peeks at my chest mostly gave me the creeps.

But he could be a tall and handsome Romeo and I didn’t think it would be much different. Somehow I knew in advance that a random fling wouldn’t satisfy, that no one I knew could satisfy. I didn’t know how I knew that, didn’t know what to do with knowing that, other than to get through these nights however I could, fucking myself, fucking what I had in the refrigerator, Me-so-horny fucking a Mitsubishi.

I swung my rear to leave the bed, feet halfway to the floor and only then knew what I’d been about to do. “I won’t!” I told the ceiling above my bed, flopping back, hands grasping the sheets like they could hold me in place. I would not fuck the shifter again; it was too pathetic and humiliating, the kind of thing a crazy nympho woman would do.

I lay there, breathing hard, hands on my breasts—when had my hands let go of the sheets? They squeezed, pushing the volume of my tits high, my body involuntarily rocking, shifting the weight of my boobs side to side slinky-style. Lovers went ga-ga for these every time, and now it was like I was going ga-ga just for having them. My nipples jutted, so plump and fully extended, so ridiculously sensitive, begging for attention. I pinched, pulled...

“Gah!”

I made my hands leave, put my arms straight out to the sides and pressed them into the mattress like they were velcroed to it. I couldn’t play with my tits or I’d end up in the garage. I couldn’t play with my tits or...

“Gaaah!”

Resist the urges, they would pass. It was like a bug bite—if I didn’t scratch it the inflammation would subside, the nerves eventually calming.

“GAAAH!”

I leaped up, breasts bouncing, heart pounding. I felt like a haunted creature chased by ghostly bees as I ran downstairs, through the kitchen to the mud room and through that to the garage. My sports car was there, unlocked with the bottle of massage oil still in the cupholder where I’d left it.

I couldn’t, I couldn’t, but I had to! With shaking hands I spurted lotion all over the stick-shift, pulling my soaked panties aside and positioning my haunches with one foot on either seat, lowering myself. Hard contact, the shifter too wide and stiff, far too fat at the top but all the better for it. It spread me, stretched me, went in and forced me wide, and finally I could hold both breasts with my hands, their weight on my forearms, fingers pulling my nipples out, pushing them in and pulling them out, my legs raising and lowering in the same rhythm below, the shifter going deeper, my fingers pulling harder, faster and harder, never fast enough or hard enough but life-saving even so, my clitoris buzzing, the car rocking on its shocks.

Shocks, shocks, so many shocks, electrical current firing, my hard aching nipples feeling zapped, feeling hardwired, so much current, so strong yet never fucking strong enough!

I started awake in total darkness, lying on my bed with the new dildo in, or possibly out. I didn’t even know, couldn’t quite remember the end of my last masturbation session except for how suddenly the need had come upon me, and how incredible it felt.

I lay there unmoving and sighed, and could see how that sigh came from a place deep within, a place that wondered if it could ever feel satisfied. Even with it feeling that good, I knew I needed something else or I’d go crazy.

I sat up and turned on the beside lamp, reaching for my phone. I dialed Mirabella’s cell, praying she’d pick up.

“Belle? Thank God you’re there.”

“I thought you’d call again,” Mirabella answered. “Really Bonnie, I need a time-out.”

“Belle, something’s seriously not right with my... with me.”

“That’s what I tried to tell you when you nearly bit my head off.”

“I’m sorry. You want me to be happy that you’re going away?”

“I want you to respect my need to do so, that’s all.”

Her mother was due for hip-replacement surgery, and would need help afterwards. Mirabella would be hundreds of miles away, giving me every opportunity to stray.

“I’m worried, Belle. I can’t meditate at night and I’m always churning, and horny. Something weird is… I get excited out of nowhere and when I do... And my boobs are growing,” I said, because they really did look even more swollen than before. “They’re growing a lot,” I said, pinching my right nipple and hissing, almost losing my grip on the phone.

“You’re twenty-two, Bon. Your boobs might be growing a little, but not like growing.”

I glanced out through the bedroom door, where I could see a little ceramic figurine on my work table. Ever since school ended and I didn’t have a studio large enough to create my assemblage sculptures, I’d been dabbling with clay, going back to the material that had drawn me to sculpture to begin with. After my last masturbation session, I’d been compelled to play with freeform shapes that coalesced into a single recognizable anthropomorphic form. I’d recognized the clay figure as feminine, and trimmed it at the waist, taking all that discarded clay and adhering it above. It was essentially a featureless woman, an hourglass of overstated femininity standing tall with huge breasts jutting out.

“I really think you’d be surprised at how much I’ve grown, Belle. You should come over here and check them out.”

A long silence. “This isn’t fair. Why would you tease me this way?”

“I’m not teasing. It’s almost like I can feel them growing every second!”

“Now you’re just being melodramatic.”

“They’re so fucking sensitive. My nipples... You can’t even imagine, I swear. They need you. I need a lover!”

“Bon, stop! I’ve got a million things to take care of before my flight.”

“Come fuck my tits, Belle.”

“Stop that!”

“I want your breasts in my mouth, too!”

“With your new dildo strapped onto me, pretending I’m a guy, right?”

“Stop being angry and come fuck me!”

“Look, when I’ve made myself available, I get the sense that you care more about your stupid dildo than me. Is that where we are?”

“I don’t know where we are. Everything is suddenly different. How? How could that happen?”

“Why not kundalini energy, just like Ram said?”

“I’m not sure about that anymore. I think it has to be more than that.”

“You would know more about it than me. Look at your books and see what they say about the symptoms.”

I did exactly that, soon after ringing off. I had trained in hatha yoga, a gentler practice than kundalini yoga, but kundalini energy could arise spontaneously in any yoga practice. Its appearance marked a shift in spiritual level—nothing good and powerful ever arrives without some kind of sacrifice, and if the changes besetting my mind and body were due to the arising of kundalini, then I was, in a sense, being partially reborn.

From the accounts described, my body’s functioning would become somewhat awkward, and the contact with higher energies would manifest as heightened sex drive. There were other symptoms, and as expected some applied while others didn’t. Tingling in the brain and body, check. Flashes of heat or cold, not so much, unless heat meant lust. Twitching of muscles, maybe. Pressure in the third-eye region, no. Sudden bursts of energy in the body, definitely. Incredibly intense feelings of desire for my partner, hell yes, only sometimes the word “partner” applied as much to the dildo, or to an almost irresistible urge to hump the daylights out of my new neighbors once they arrived.

The last symptom on this particular list was tremendous vibratory energy emanating from practically any region of the body. Enough fit for the theory to be plausible, but what about the swelling of my breasts? Check that—not swelling; they were fucking growing. I’d read accounts of spiritual masters experiencing permanent bodily changes—their posture, for instance, or previously unattainable facial expressions. But I’d never heard about spiritual growth being expressed as actual body growth.

Curious, I lifted away my tank top and cupped my breasts. They were way larger than they should be; I could feel it as more for my hands to hold onto, and more weight. I softly touched my left nipple with the tip of an index finger; it immediately stiffened in response, swelling more than expected. I touched it again and my breath caught—it was still swelling, still stiffening, and the sight and sensations were going straight to my pussy. Both of my nipples begged to be pinched and I did so; thank God I was lying on my back because if I’d been standing I might have fallen to the floor.

With exaggerated caution I massaged both breasts, measuring how different they were from how they’d always been. They felt so substantial. I pushed them together from the sides and actually had cleavage, the kind that could draw stares in a low-cut top. I pinched both nipples again, rolling them and pulling until I screamed with pleasure. I did it again, even more vigorously and saw flashes of light behind closed eyelids.

“This won’t last!” I choked out, afraid for the first time that I might go back to the way I’d always been. Kundalini experiences were transitory by nature, the symptoms eventually subsiding; if that was the answer, all I felt right now and all this growth on my chest would probably shrink away. I hoped this wassomething other than temporary symptoms from kundalini, even though it was torture with my lover away. I thought of Mirabella sitting on a plane, or being at her mother’s suburban home. “And I’ll be home alone with my tits going haywire.”

Unless I cheated. And I’d already begun to make plans in that direction, hadn’t I? The neighbors held firm in their sublet price as I’d known they would, but I’d emailed Martin and lied, saying they met his price. I was prepared to pay the difference for the two months in secret, and what was that all about? It made no sense, not unless it was about one thing.

“I’m paying for sex,” I admitted. Or paying for the hope of sex, right down the hallway.

They wouldn’t move in for days. Meantime I had yoga classes to teach, and private clients to tend to. I felt relatively composed during my noon class, although I thought that Brian, the lone male, kept stealing glances at my chest. Three students lingered when class was over, and Missy, a young mother trying to work off fifteen pounds, kept making barely concealed remarks, wanting me to announce that I was pregnant. She asked point-blank in a private moment, eyeing my bigger boobs. All I could do was fumble through a weak, “They’re just growing of themselves, don’t ask me why.”

On the way to my two private sessions in the city, I bought a new bra at a Victoria’s Secret, a lacy D-cup, and it fit snugly, miracle of miracles. I couldn’t even believe how it looked on me when I posed, lingerie-model style, in the tall dressing room mirrors. Just for the hell of it I took two quick snapshots of my reflection, thinking I might send them to Mirabella. She didn’t believe my boobs were growing? Well take a look here and see for yourself.

I got fresh produce at the nearby Union Square market, and there was no mistaking how people were checking out my tits. It was the same with Gianna, my late afternoon client; her eyes bugged out when she opened her door and she took all of two seconds to say, “You got a boob job!”

I explained that I hadn’t, that they were growing because of a kundalini shift in my energy, and I could see she didn’t believe a word of it.

Laura was my six o’clock, and she stared at my chest too, but with nervous eyes that kept moving around. I’d gotten to know Laura’s moods pretty well through our four weeks of yoga sessions, but I’d never seen her quite like this before. She asked me if I’d put on a tiny bit of weight—I had gained a pound, maybe two, but it had all gone to one place, or two.

Her eyes managed to linger on my chest for a couple of seconds, the most focused they’d been since I entered her apartment. In a small, almost apologetic voice she remarked that I was looking really hot, and I threw caution to the winds by responding, “Thanks. And you’re looking really horny.”

Because she was. Laura was easily my most attractive student, and my gaydar had told me right off the bat that she was staunchly heterosexual. Something wasn’t right, though—I knew how a girl looked and acted when she was in need of a heaping scoop of sex, and Laura had the vibe of someone who’d consider jumping off a cliff if she thought a satisfying orgasm lay at the bottom.

She said under her breath that Stuart kept working nights, which was a gentle way of confirming what I could see, that the woman was being sexually neglected. Working crazy hours was all part of the big-money Wall Street culture, which I’d assumed she was fine with. She’d always come across as more mental than physical or emotional, like she could be happy if she convinced herself to be happy.

She did not look happy. More like she wanted to grab happy, roll it into tube shape and hump it until happy snapped.

Not surprisingly, her concentration was way off during our yoga session, and she actually quit on me three-quarters of the way through, just sitting down cross-legged and staring at the floor.

“Laura? What’s going on? This is unacceptable.”

“I... Do you want to go out for a drink somewhere?”

Meaning girl-talk. I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea or not, when every night for who knows how long I’d gone into something like a desire tailspin, losing control of my libido and almost abusing my body to orgasm. And Laura was looking way too good to me—not everybody would be attracted to the edge of desperation I saw on her face, but it was getting to me, partly because I’d been feeling so much the same of late.

“You do not quit on me in the middle of a yoga session, not without consequences.”

The consequences I pictured had the two of us in her bed, Laura being forced to suck my nipples until I came. I immediately experienced that hum of energy in my breasts, like the picture of our bodies intertwined had opened a doorway that led to Tailspin City, a destination I knew only too well.

“Let’s get drunk,” Laura said. “And then... whatever you want.”

Dangerous, Jesus did she know how dangerous that sort of talk was? She probably thought I had a lover, or lovers, and wouldn’t feel the need to turn a straight girl to the bi side. And she might have been right, a couple of weeks ago.

“Laura, I’d better take a raincheck. You’re too...”

Her cell rang, and it was as if the musical ringtone activated an electroshock device hidden inside her shorts and tanktop. She gasped and jumped to her feet, and moved away from the low table where her phone vibrated. Her legs were spread with her weight on the back foot, leaning away from the phone like it might fly up and bite her. But incongruous with the posture, her nipples were poking out like extra-thick pencil erasers.

“Laura? What on earth...”

“It’s Martin!”

“So?”

“He keeps... I gave him reason to think that I’d... And I won’t, I can’t, but I want to! I really want to!”

The phone stopped ringing at about the same instant my tits started buzzing. I could say that I was used to it, only the runaway sensations were so strong that it upended me every time, and this time... Oh God, this time might be the worst yet! I bit my bottom lip trying not to let my distress show, but Laura wasn’t even looking at me. She was standing completely still, with the exception of deep breaths that brought my eyes to her breasts.

She was wearing a red tight-fitting tanktop, and the outline of her sports bra was visible. And through that, making a statement that caused my own deep breathing, her nipples were jutting like I’d never seen them.

Mine grew in response, and I found myself swallowing, my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth. Laura’s hands were at her thighs, at the front like she was clutching her quadriceps to keep from tottering. I thought about stepping over there to hold her, but if I did, if I touched her, and she eased into me in any way, even the slightest accepting of my touch...

“He calls and I... It’s like my body wants what I know I can’t have!”

This was more than missing an ex, or having second thoughts about Stuart. This was animal attraction in heat, a woman needing to get off like her sanity depended on it. This was a lot like me, with my body rampaging out of control and my tits feeling like they knew things about sex that it would take the rest of me decades to learn.

“Maybe you wouldn’t feel so tempted if you weren’t so terribly horny,” I said, finding myself right behind Laura, not even remembering that I’d moved there. To stay true to Mirabella I needed to back off, to just take two steps back and roll up my yoga mat and leave. Now. Right now.

I didn’t move, feeling her body’s heat, smelling her desire. I reached out, and very lightly placed my hands on her arms.

“Unh!” Laura responded. “I feel like I’m... It’s like they come alive and they won’t leave me be!”

Mine too, more than she could even imagine. Standing closer, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, I slowly brought my hands around, not going right for her boobs but close enough to brush their edges. My nipples and pussy were pounding like they had their own beating hearts, and I pressed in against her back, letting her feel how hard and hot my nipples were. I wanted to hiss and scream and pull Laura onto the floor and drag her tongue across my aching nipples just from the contact with her back, but I steeled the impulses and tried like crazy to keep my voice level and not frightening when I next spoke.

“I said there would be consequences, Laura. Maybe tonight is a night to explore more than yoga. Maybe...”

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Meaning, to me, that she might not unless led into the lioness’ den. I brought my hands in more, the contact with her breasts more deliberate, my wishes unambiguous.

“Stop,” she said, but made no move away. “I’m not... I never...”

I went there, spreading my palms and bringing them right onto her front, her hard nipples pressing into my palms. She had wonderful breasts, big and round, not quite as full as Mirabella’s but close.

“Just try to make me stop,” I said, lust coating my tongue, making it feel swollen, my voice just as thick.

“I can’t, I can’t. I can’t... stop,” she whispered, as her hands left her thighs and reached back, cupping my ass.

Too much, too excited, no going back no matter what. I wasn’t about to give her a choice, now that we’d gotten this far. My boobs were throbbing, were hot and pulsing, my pussy saturating my spandex shorts. I grabbed Laura’s shoulders and quickly turned her, and drove my tongue into her mouth as my hands reached between her thighs, fingers seeking the contours of her slit. She was neatly shaved, hot and steamy, wet and fragrant, needing sex so badly. Needing me.

She moaned into my tongue, grabbing my ass again to grind into me. I let up from my pussy-press just long enough to undo her shorts, and together we slid them down her legs. I wasn’t going to play around now, going for gold by lightly touching her clitoris, just the tiniest brush of a finger. She hissed like a cobra, and leaned her head down onto my shoulder, whispering in my ear.

“I’ve never... With a woman, I never thought...”

“Just come with me. I’ll show you.”

I felt out of control but also strong, the experienced one. She was so beautiful, and needed to be taught, to be led.

Like a virgin. Or like a lamb, to slaughter.

I’d been a very bad boy in the way I’d continued messing around with Laura, calling her and sending waves of stimulation to her tits when she didn’t answer. I couldn’t say that I had any definite plan concerning my ex—with her health issues no longer a concern, I simply felt free to make her horny from runaway tit-lust, and I was doing just that.

Between film or fuck sessions with Dawn I kept up the pressure on Laura, calling her and not playing fair, making her breasts all excited with every ring. One call at I time I intensified the stimulation, leaving messages on her voice mail saying that I understood she couldn’t go where she’d said she’d go, that I was only calling to tell her that I knew we could be nothing more than friends and that I was fine with that.

Isn’t there some saying, that it’s your actions that speak much louder than your words? I was pouring words of contrition into her phone, and actions of ignition into her tits. Like I said, bad boy.

Twice when I called she was in movement, probably out on the street. I didn’t think she’d go ballistic enough to step in front of a bus or anything; it did have the effect of causing her to run home, to masturbate. Funny how I never got hits of Laura running to What’s-his-face, where I’d have to endure the sensation of his greedy hands squeezing her breasts. I might have stopped messing with her if all I was doing was lighting Laura’s jets to give the Wall Street suit a much better sex life, but she didn’t go to him for release. At all.

What were they doing, taking some sort of time-out so they could pretend to be old-style honeybangers when they got married later in the month? Did people still behave that way, “saving” themselves to fit a romantic framework of wedded bliss?

I wanted to plant my throbbing dick inside Laura again, just because, but that had its own complications in that my penis was larger than when we’d been together. Laura was a sharp woman—even if I engineered some scenario where she invited me into her bedroom in total darkness, she’d have to feel the difference with her hands, her mouth, her pussy. And then the questions, and I didn’t know if she could handle the answers, and whether that might create some problem for me.

I didn’t have that figured out, but it did nothing to stop me from dialing her number every now and then, just to keep the pot on simmer. I’d been ready to repeat the process yet again when, to my surprise, Laura’s boobs and Bonnie’s boobs were practically right next to each other.

Bonnie’s overshadowed Laura’s in intensity, and the most shocking thing was that her breasts actually had a little more mass than Laura’s. She’d grown that much? It didn’t seem possible, but the side-by-side comparison brought home how much Bonnie had grown in, what, something like ten days?

They were both horny, too. Laura because of what I’d been putting her through recently; Bonnie because she always seemed to be horny, at least at night.

I wondered: Did they feel an attraction towards each other? They were equally lovely though quite different in appearance, Laura taller and built like a somewhat busty fashion model, Bonnie all blonde petiteness with worked-out yoga-style curves. I could see Bonnie diving into Laura’s pussy quite easily, trying to seduce her by “adjusting” some part of her body during yoga instruction, letting her touches linger, maybe even showing off, graphically, what her flexible body could do.

Laura, too reserved, too straight-laced. She’d never flirt with a woman, much less end up in bed with one.

Unless.

DId I have a plan? Not that I could see, yet my phone was already in my hand and I dialed Laura’s cell, expecting that she wouldn’t pick up. Her phone was on because as the ringing began, her nipples went hard, even before I set off internal boob bombs. It had only taken a couple of days to condition her body that way, and now it was doing half the work all by itself.

I didn’t go too far too fast, letting the heat simmer in there, slow and steady. Bonnie was the one pulsing the hardest, like her nipples had become heat-seeking weapons. They were both standing, and I knew something was up for real when Bonnie moved, and not too many seconds later some part of her made contact with the outer contours of Laura’s breasts.

Good things come to those who wait, and to those who tune into those waiting to get off. I made Laura’s tits need, and as the energy ramped up the sensation of Bonnie’s nipples pressing into Laura made me gasp out loud. I felt both women’s heat when Bonnie’s small hands spread over Laura’s tits and pressed, and from there it must have become more aggressive foreplay, their tits brushing body parts, chests heaving with hot torrid breaths.

Movement, with Laura’s hands cupping Bonnie’s tits. A natural spike in both systems, Bonnie’s energy going off the charts the way it did.

I was in my kitchen, packing things, and just stopped and stood there, leaning against a counter and shutting my eyes, feeling their heat and trying to decipher the movements, the specific actions. Bonnie on top, her tits extending down, and Laura’s lips greedily sucking a hard nipple. Laura on her back, writhing, her boobs being squeezed, her heart beating wildly.

There was a point where her energy spiked, and air released like she must be crying out. From the way Bonnie’s breasts were being compressed, I took it that she was lying between Laura’s legs, eating my ex-girlfriend out, being the teacher or just wanting to see Laura fall off the lesbian cliff.

I helped move things along, thought-licking Laura’s nipples, turning the nerves in her tits into pulsing quasars. Her torso shook, her breasts undulated, the heat building and building. I had a thought—should I not let her get off, meaning she’d need me all the more?

It was tempting, the idea of Laura being taken further down Lust Lane than she’d ever gone, then pulling the plug on her tits’ energy. But I did the reverse, sensing the few seconds before her body would have to crest, have to release. I hit her tits harder still just then, and felt the surge and release of her first orgasm like a lightning strike inside my dick. I was clutching the countertop’s edge, my cock so hard that it had pushed out my boxers and through the cuff of my shorts.

“Somebody’s in need of some help,” Dawn’s voice came softly from the other end of the room.

Christ, I hadn’t even heard or felt her enter the apartment, and I must be a sight, my hard-on sticking out and my face doing whatever it did when I created and rode the waves of a distant woman’s climaxes.

Laura was still cumming, her torso shimmying right and left, tits like beacons lighting the path to the thunderworld. And Bonnie was on the edge, her growing boobs alight with energy.

“I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?” Dawn said, pulling her blouse over her head, her braless boobs bouncing as only they could. She placed herself right in front of me, kneeling with hands tugging at my shorts. I sprang free, the tip of my cock tapping the underside of Dawn’s nose just before her tongue circled a wet trail around the swollen crown. I was hot, her mouth was hot, and I went into her big tits because they were the agents of bliss in here that could really catch fire, and felt the loveliness of a beautiful woman literally humming her desire into my cock, like a sigh of heat turned into a stuff-mouthed song.

Her cheeks were the sides of a liquid oven, her tongue a hot-blooded serpent. She sucked, swirled, and as she did I blasted energy into her boobs and Bonnie’s boobs and Laura’s boobs, all of us eating it up, the heat here, the heat there, the heat everywhere.

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