The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bonnie — June

I floated up until I was somehow situated upon a breast that might be big enough to be seen from space. I wasn’t alone; there was a man there, with a hard cock that pulsed with enough vitality that I thought it could enter a woman and fuck her for an eternity. I desperately wanted it inside me, and though we hadn’t yet fucked, the pulsing energy was already within, permeating my core. There was a voice, unknown at first, saying something about sexual alchemy, about combining and mixing and a force that wanted to make the whole world climax. I couldn’t understand and I tried to ask, but the voice that responded was only a normal woman’s voice, becoming more familiar, calling my name.

“Bon? Bon?”

“Yes? What… Where am I?”

“You were thrashing and dreaming. Are you okay?”

I blinked my eyes, aware of my surroundings. It was night, the sounds of traffic gone quiet like it must be late, almost morning. Turning my head, I was met with the darkened form of one of Mirabella’s creamy smooth breasts, very close. My lover had great breasts and she knew it. She liked to put them near my face in bed, as if to make them appear even bigger through proximity. “You were saying, ‘fuck me, fuck me’ in your sleep,” she said, a pebbly nipple too close to my mouth to resist.

I leaned in and drew her nipple into my mouth, and felt it grow hard against the tip of my tongue. My right hand was already resting on Mirabella’s hip and I grabbed her inner thigh and pulled, turning her and spreading her legs in one motion.

“You’re going to fuck me for real this time,” I said, digging my hand hard against her pussy, sending an unambiguous message, no dreaming now.

“Bon! Oh God, wait, it’s already been the best sex we ever...”

Wait? I tuned out the rest, unwilling or unable to listen. My breasts throbbed, my pussy throbbed, and the last thing I wanted to contemplate was that we might be through for the night.

What Mirabella had said about it being our best sex ever—did she even understand how different my body felt from the inside out, and how the orgasms had been like rampaging lions compared to the cuddly kittens that must have been living in my pussy? I didn’t know why or how, but something had awakened inside, something that made me need more in a whole new way.

“Gentle!” she said, when my fingers sought entrance.

Gentle, tonight? Some other time that would have been just the ticket, but tonight, fuck gentle.

I got out of bed and padded into the kitchen for something to drink, and made my way back to the bed via my dresser. Opening the top left drawer, I found the neon pink dildo I wanted, nestled with my bras and panties. It was eight inches long and very thick with a ribbed surface; no guy, unless he was a lizard, would have a thing with this particular undulating texture, but the size would make any man proud. We had only used it once in our lovemaking, and Mirabella had been hobbling most of the next day. She was afraid of it, and I’d kept it hidden away, not even using it privately. But now, I just fucking needed to be cock-stuffed.

I rubbed its stiff surface with my palm, as though instinctively testing what it would be like to give a dildo a hand-job. The shape was fascinating, and for the first time in years I found myself remembering how a real cock had felt in my hands, like muscle-memory carried in the skin. I thought I could feel my interior walls quiver, widen, as if muscle-memory were alive and well in there, too.

“Bon? I hope you aren’t thinking… That thing nearly crippled me before. I don’t want it anywhere near me.”

“Then I’ll have to fuck myself,” I said without hesitation, parting my legs and bending my knees where I stood. I let the tip of the pink beast penetrate my opening; one small thrust and I wondered why I hadn’t been masturbating with a stand-in penis every day.

Enough moon and city light filtered in through the west-facing windows to see the shift in Mirabella’s expression as she watched. Distrust of the dildo changed to interest, and interest changed to undisguised hunger to participate. “Let me manipulate it,” she demanded, and my lover almost glided off the bed, squatting at my feet and taking hold of the dildo’s thick base.

“Put it on,” I guided her, as the dildo had a strap-on capacity. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

It almost killed me to have the dildo withdrawn, but its return, attached to Mirabella who mounted me doggy-style, made the pain of anticipation worth it. My pussy felt so slick and needy as it devoured the pink beast, and I knew my face must be twisting with the rapture I felt inside. The heat in my pussy kept expanding outward, like every dildo-loving nerve had found a way to sing to other other nerves all the way to my tits.

My tits, holy shit what was going on inside my tits? They were so alive, dynamos of energy that united with the friction inside to form a triangle of heat. My nipples throbbed, my breasts throbbed, my pussy throbbed, stronger, my God how could it still be getting stronger?

“Belle! Faster! Oh my God my pussy is… is...”

Everywhere. It almost felt like it was everywhere. And my breasts, my nipples... It was like they were reaching out the windows, out towards the city across the river, stretching and yearning.

“Oh God, Mirabella! Faster! Fuck me faster!”

Mirabella was runner strong and I needed that strength and endurance, needed her to keep up the liquid friction, the relentless rhythm. I didn’t know how I could be feeling so much, or even taking the reaming as I was. In the past I hadn’t been able to take the entire length—being petite in build, I had, as Mirabella sometimes said with obvious admiration, a petite pussy, too. Today I raised my haunches and arched my back for even deeper penetration, taking it all and wishing for even more. It was like the yoga flexibility I’d gained throughout my body had all been transferred to the interior of my pussy, and it wanted—needed—an entirely new level of stimulation, something even harder, even bigger, something to wrap around and squeeze and until every single cell felt stroked.

It built more and I didn’t cum, and it built even more and I still didn’t cum, beyond anything I’d imagined I could endure. My muscles tensed, my thighs vibrated, and when it all went critical and burst it was like a storm system with lightning flashing and thunderbolts cracking—my pussy kept spasming and every wet quake was a blast all the way up and inside my brain. The quakes reverberated, all wet, so blissfully wet inside and out. Even when the quaking passed the wet remained, and my scent carried like someone had filled the room with pussy incense. I realized that I was looking up, must have been turned over, on my back with my legs all askew. Through unfocused eyes I might have seen Mirabella on all fours above me, peering down with concern or… envy?

Mirabella was gone when I awakened at nine. She had left a note on the adjoining pillow, that smelled of her perfume and perhaps even her sex:

Your passion was a wonder to behold, girlfriend. Best. Sex. Ever.

By a mile. Whatever you were drinking last night, I want some!

I’ll be wrapped up with an editing project for the next two days, and I’m worried about my mother. I’ll call.

xxoo, M

It was a sweet note, though it produced mixed feelings. One feeling, new to my experience, was akin to fear, that I could have to go two whole days without sex from my lover.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said out loud, because our schedules had sometimes required nearly a week apart. Not the rhythm I’d choose in a perfect world, but it was hardly something worth this much agitation.

Lying on the bed, I closed my eyes and tried to remember every detail of the night’s sex with Mirabella, from the moment we’d met at the Pleasuredome to the final time I’d squeezed wet lips around my girlfriend’s swollen clit. It had all been crazy-good, but what stood out was that second round of multiple orgasms with the dildo strapped to Belle’s front. She had fucked me, a virtual cock blissfully abusing my box. My lover was real but the cock had been inanimate, just a thing.

My foot found the pink toy at the foot of the bed. Picking it up, I couldn’t help fondling it. It was weird how right it had felt inside, when fulfillment always came from a woman’s knowing fingers, and patient lips, and supple tongue. A dildo or vibrator was an add-on, nothing more.

Unless I had failed to understand something. This thing in my hand, for instance—it had been a present from an old lover, Janice, left in my possession when we stopped seeing each other. I’d never thought about it before, but it seemed silly to have a fixed attitude towards dildos when I’d never even chosen one for myself. I had friends who sometimes gave me their cast-off clothing—it kept a wardrobe fresh to swap items to some degree—but more than half of the stuff I received went straight to charity or into the trash. Like anybody my girlfriends had uneven taste, and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing an inherited blouse that didn’t suit my style. So why had I kept this colored dildo in my drawer, instead of spending time to find one that suited me perfectly? There had to be a multitude of shapes, textures and sizes. This pink thing actually struck me as ill-designed—wouldn’t it best to have one that was almost exactly like the real thing?

“Maybe that’s what I want,” I said to the pink sex toy, meaning a real penis. The problem there was that the real thing would be attached to somebody, and I wasn’t headed back into hetero-land, no way. Mirabella wouldn’t stand for it for one thing, and I hadn’t met a guy in months that I’d even consider...

Well, perhaps one, yesterday. Only he was Laura’s ex and how awkward would that be, to poach a boy-toy out from under... Only it wouldn’t be poaching, would it? They weren’t together now, making him fair game.

“Why am I even thinking about this?” I asked the phallus in my hand. “It’s late, and I have a million things to do before my evening class.”

I showered and had nuts and fresh strawberries for breakfast, after which I loosened my limbs on my yoga mat, all the normal rituals. Breathing exercises next, in preparation for my morning meditation. I began the meditation by inhaling through the right nostril, out the left, circulating the air, managing the energy. Only in some ways the energy felt like it was managing me—my nipples still felt touchy, and I wondered if the sex with Belle hadn’t been just a bit too rough last night, because my breasts still ached in a delightful way, and might even be swollen.

“Or growing.”

Crap, had I just spoken in my meditation? That was a sure-fire path to nowhere, and I couldn’t even believe I’d allowed the words to come out.

I taught my students that proper yoga practice is less about stretching and placing the body in contortionist positions, and more about being right with the relationship between the mind and body. The proper attitude is like a master to a dog—the body is the most faithful of companions if properly trained, which means the mind has to take the role of the master and enforce discipline to keep the body from operating on blind instinct and pleasure-seeking, which leads to overeating, oversleeping, over-doing everything.

The relationship between my mind and body wasn’t right. When I closed my eyes, my mind raced and my body pulsed, and I couldn’t get close to the inner stillness I sought. My body still felt stirred and shaken by the night’s sex, and my nipples throbbed with a delicious excitement like I’d clamped wires to them, hooking them up to a powerful battery. It felt like my tits wanted to fuck something. Something like a real cock, squeezed between them.

My pussy was wet, crap, another distraction. I focused on the lower part of my spine, and the solidity of my seated position on the yoga mat. The building was quiet, which was a help. It would be even more quiet on my floor in ten days, when Steph and Mark left to spend two months in Holland. I needed to speak with them about whether they’d already found someone to sublet their space; if they hadn’t I could call or email Martin, Laura’s ex.

Had they split because of sex? I wasn’t sure that I believed it, but a friend of mine insisted that no couple splits up when the sex is really good, no matter what other difficulties arise. Like me and Belle last night, my God. Only she hadn’t wanted to follow every place I wanted to lead, meaning the dildo. She’d strapped it on, sure, and pummeled me with it, but I could tell she found the thing distasteful. It wasn’t that it was a sex toy; it was the fact that it was a stand-in phallus, and Mirabella wasn’t into phalluses.

She’d probably freak if I bought one that looked more like an actual cock. And if I wanted some real cock after a hiatus of years? I could see rubbing my tits all over one, or poking a hard, fat nipple against the tip like my breasts wanted to enter it. Oh God, rubbing a hard cock with an aching nipple, equally hard and stiff...

Wearing a double-D bra, Mirabella’s breasts were big enough that she could push them together and tit-fuck a guy—not that she ever would, but she could. My tits ached just picturing a hard cock squeezed between them, gliding up and down, it’s swollen head pointing right at my face, growing an angry purple with need as I kept massaging it, squeezed my tits tighter around it. Oh God, to have one right there above my beating heart, pulsing like an engine, heating my flesh, fucking my big tits...

“What am I doing?” I asked, because I sure wasn’t meditating. Not only was my mind full of images—at some point when picturing Belle’s large breasts I’d begun to believe they were mine. My hands had gone up under my shirt to squeeze hard into my breasts, pressing them together, such as I could.

“I can’t believe I did that,” I said, forcing my hands back where they belonged. I tried to re-gather myself, start the meditation afresh, but playing with my breasts had them aching, throbbing. With my eyes closed I kept seeing them as glowing red-hot, because that’s how they felt, like if someone poured water on my blouse a cloud of steam would hiss out the neck and sleeves.

“I’m too horny to meditate,” I stated the obvious, getting up and almost staggering my way back to the bed, wanting the brightly colored dildo laying there. It wasn’t the real thing, only an approximation made of plastic or resin, but when I spread my legs wide and let its head tease my opening, pushing in just enough to make me gasp out my need for the feeling of entrance again, and again, I could close my eyes and picture a real cock, a true flesh and blood cock.

“Oh yes!” I choked out between clenched teeth. I could try to get Mirabella on board, shopping together for an assortment of strap-ons, a whole arsenal of stand-in cocks. If she wouldn’t play, if she refused to go there, I could sneak in a one-night stand with a guy, maybe even go for a repeat if it felt good enough, felt right enough.

Real cock. Hard cock. In my hands, in my pussy, in my mouth...

I needed real cock!

Cat — September

I’d never even come close to having a fainting spell, and hadn’t realized how disoriented you can feel for some time afterwards. After lying down for a few minutes out of the sun, my body must have processed the alcohol that had brought on my near-blackout, and Blossom gave me a little tour of the converted bedroom where most of her video performances and photo modeling took place.

It was a long room, and someone, presumably Martin, had installed a sophisticated track system on three walls and up near ceiling level, where several cameras could be mounted and remotely controlled to provide multiple viewpoints. Even the attached bathroom, complete with a jacuzzi and larger than some student apartments I’d seen in the city, was equipped with an oval ceiling track, allowing a camera to move smoothly high in the space.

There was no doubt that somebody in this operation had some money to play with. I’d always suspected that Bonnie was wealthy—she hadn’t needed to take out student loans and she’d lived in a great loft all through school, so she had some bucks, presumably from her family. Perhaps there had been plenty to buy this house and all the fancy equipment even before her site started to bring in money.

I filed the idea about financing in the back of my brain, thinking I might want to research where the start-up money came from in other porn operations. It could be an additional chapter in my book, about the intersection of porn and what some might call the shadow economy. It might say one thing if there were sugar-daddy enthusiasts behind some of the more prominent content creators, while it would be entirely different if I found ties to things like drug money, or international sex-traffickers.

I was thinking straight again, but it would be an exaggeration to say that I felt like myself when Blossom showed me around her house. It didn’t help that she gave the tour in that top-stressed bikini, my eyes only taking in half of what she pointed out because they kept swinging back to those outrageous curves. It had to be the whole package that was getting to me, all that yoga-honed petiteness intersecting with the breasts that, considering their miraculous sprouting, were like some sort of fantasy come to life. Every time she moved, or when I found myself in a place in relation to her with a new viewpoint, I stared, like if I saw how she was put together from every conceivable angle I might understand how those tits did what they did, being so big but fitting onto her like it was nothing. And the way they stood out, and all that cleavage, and the fact that I could sometimes get just a peek at the rim of a perfectly round areola, even though the triangles of fabric on her bikini top were far from small...

I felt an attraction as powerful as magnetism, or a longing like... I couldn’t even tell what it was, but my emotions felt like surf crashing against my ribcage, churning up spray that created an unfamiliar sense of longing. And under my breasts, that pulsing, that energy, the same as I’d felt since first seeing Bonnie.

Did I want to fuck my friend? There were times when my eyes rested on her and, other than the whopping tits and red hair, I saw the same friend who’d always been lovely and extremely fit. Other times I had the sense that I was looking at something closer to a mythological creature, like she really wasn’t Bonnie anymore, and needed the name change because she’d trespassed into some sort of sex zone that you can’t come back from completely intact, completely as the self you were before.

She’d put cut-offs over her bikini bottom, and when I viewed how smooth and toned her thighs were as they disappeared up into the frayed hem, I kept remembering what I’d seen her vagina do on film, forcefully jetting orgasms like she had a powerful water serpent living in there. Then, as if to bring my imagination back to earth, she’d bring up some tidbit we’d shared in freshman of sophomore year, and I saw her as Bonnie again, only Bonnie with dyed hair and super-boobs.

I didn’t want to fuck Bonnie, my friend. But if I were to be honest about it, I did want to fuck Blossom. To have the experience of that, to be able to let my hands and mouth roam for an hour on each breast, not because I was into girls and tits but because I was into the Grand Canyon, or the Taj Mahal, or any kind of wonder of the earth.

And I was horny. I’d been horny since before Bonnie arrived at the Starbucks in Tarrytown. Where Martin, essentially unobserved, had been checking me out. Several times as we walked into a new room I peeked out a window, hoping to see Martin out there, shirtless as he had been, tending to shrubs or flower beds. I’d been ready to get his perspective on the porn filming life when I’d gone all dizzy, and it frustrated me that we didn’t run into him, and I couldn’t see him. I had this terribly insistent urge to just go running through the house to find him, to question or interview him or to... I wasn’t sure what. Or I had an idea, but couldn’t allow myself to think it.

They had to be lovers. He couldn’t film all that and not want it, and I couldn’t see how she could open herself as she did on film without a connection between them that was physical. Though my name is Cat I don’t think of myself as being catty, like the kind of person who’d use my looks to grab some other woman’s boyfriend. And really, though I had some qualities that probably made me even better-looking than Bonnie, what kind of ego would I have to have to think I could compete when she had tits that could eat my little things like a snack. And orgasms that, as I’d seen for myself online, might cause the Guinness Book people to create a whole new category. I’m not blind; since my teens I’d been hot to look at, but I wasn’t in any way a fully realized sexual creature. It sucked to admit that, but there it was. I was writing a book about porn partly to fill a void, or to ease a sore spot, or possibly to awaken something in me that had always felt partly switched off. And Bonnie, now that she was Blossom, was... I didn’t really have a word for it. An uber-sexy yogafied gland goddess with more-gasms. Even if I had sex all the time and had a certificate that proclaimed me great in bed, try to compete with that.

I was dying to ask Bonnie any number of questions, but thought it best to be patient as she continued to give me the tour. It turned out that she had a sculpture studio in a converted attached garage, and when we entered I thought at first that she must be renting it out to a different artist. Bonnie’s sculptures in school had been abstract assemblages, metal and wood and found objects, meant to be outdoors like the big sculptures on her lawn. The art in her new studio was completely different, mostly ceramic figures that were like exaggerated versions of her already extreme figure. They weren’t huge in size, perhaps eighteen inches max when standing, but the proportions of the breasts on most of them were simply unrestrained, like she’d packed clay on the chest area of each womanly figure and packed on more and more, molding and shaping like the whole point was to design a woman whose tits had the same mass as the rest of the body. At least.

“Wow,” I said, feeling completely unsettled. They were beautiful and strange, and somehow fresh and new while stirring up some emotion that I usually felt when visiting ancient ruins somewhere.

“Don’t feel like you need to critique them,” Bonnie/Blossom said. “Most of my old professors probably would have laughed at them, but we aren’t in art school anymore. I’m just making these for myself. I don’t really have any plans to exhibit them anywhere, but who knows.”

They were lined up on long tables, dozens of them, and as I walked around and examined each one I was hit by a need to reach out and run my fingers on the forms of those ridiculously overblown breasts. Something about the amplified curviness, the excessive...

“Oh!” I started, seeing one figure unlike the others. This one was male, and it had escaped my notice somehow, probably because my eyes had been so drawn by all the gigantic clay tits. The phallus on this thing... It shouldn’t be shocking, not when it was just a male version of what was happening all over the place with the female sculptures. Again the figure itself wasn’t so large, maybe just a foot in height. The man, lean but well-proportioned overall, stood with his hands on his cock, like he was guiding it, or holding it up. And maybe, if any human being ever had had a cock like this, it would have needed scaffolding to hold it up, not hands. Or maybe Bonnie had needed to design it this way so the figure’s clay dick wouldn’t break off, because it was just fucking outrageous in scale, longer than the figure was tall, challenging gravity as it stretched out, and out, horizontally.

I tried not to show what I felt, which hit me in an instant and wouldn’t let go. My legs were quivering and it was like my pussy was tugging on my sleeve, asking if we could please have one. With a sense of something close to horror I saw that my hand had instinctively reached out to touch the ceramic dick—I pulled it back, feeling exposed and shaken and horny in a way I didn’t know what to do with. My pussy, my nipples... And Bonnie was right there seeing everything, seeing my reaction.

“You’re moved by it,” she said. “Don’t be embarrassed; it’s what any artist hopes to do, create some kind of emotional response in a viewer through the things they’ve made. Plus you have no idea how many times I had to take bathroom breaks while making these things. And not because I had to go to the bathroom.”

I believed it and I tried to laugh but my voice caught, and I wondered for a few seconds whether I might completely lose it and just wet my white jeans in a spontaneous soaking orgasm. I tried to think of something to say, some thing to do that might bring back the normal me...

“I’m going to go back to the kitchen and make us some iced coffee,” Bonnie said. “Hang out here as long as you like. You can touch them if you want, and don’t worry if something breaks. I make new ones all the time, and there’s a reason there’s only one male figure at present.”

It took a couple of seconds for the meaning of those last words to sink in. I turned to look at her but she was already gone, leaving me alone with the outlandish boob sculptures and this one male one with a dick that had to be fourteen inches long and as thick as a mailing tube.

And she had put something like that inside her? Fourteen inches, like this? Maybe some part of one. Or she had scaled the “useful” ones down a bit.

Regardless, she was making fetish sculptures and using the male ones as dildos. I got this mental image of her small hands fashioning just the cock she wanted inside her, lovingly building it, shaping it, adding the details of veins and a penetrating crown, making it look just as real in form as the one held in this little guy’s hands. Had this one been spared being fucked into clay oblivion simply because the hands, stretched halfway up it’s length, had prevented it from being suitable as a dildo?

I held my breath as I glanced back at the door. No Bonnie, just me and my straining nipples and my dripping vagina. I was in a state, horny like I’d never experienced in my life.

“They’re just sculptures,” I said. But when I turned and reached out, my fingertips brushing the underside of a breast that seemed to go on forever, and moved up the form at the front, coming to a nipple...

That nipple, so hard and firm yet alive, bringing heat, making my lips tremble, making my knees shake. It was sooooo sensitive, the nipple, sending messages to the rest of my body, reaching places never reached, opening a valve that brought almost unbearable liquid pleasure into my pussy, making me pant, making me need...

“It’s... Jeez, it’s mine,” I said, finally realizing that my other hand had crept up under my blouse, inside my bra, pinching my nipple.

I sank to my knees. The floor was smooth cement, clean, cool to the touch. And I was so hot, one hand inside my bra, the other digging down my pants, inside my panties.

“Not here, not like this.” On a cement floor, with Bonnie waiting elsewhere in the house. “I can’t mastur...”

But this ship had already sailed, and I sure as hell was going to mastur, my fingertips already baiting my clitoris, circling it, tapping, tapping harder and oh jeez, oh fucking sweet Jesus and Mary on fire, what was happening to me, why were my nipples so alive and the plunger already pushed down to set off this dynamite charge?

When it hit me I couldn’t remember the last time I had cum. I couldn’t even think, only shudder and shake, writhing there like a snake on the floor. My eyes weren’t entirely focused but up there above me were humongous hooters and one colossal clay cock, all so big compared to the bodies that parts of them stuck out beyond the tables’ edges for me to see.

It was like an entire village of little people were fueling my orgasms, urging me to feel more and to let go more, into a place I couldn’t even imagine until the experience changed me.

I didn’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t even sure where I was. But the climaxes, the liquid, the pressure inside my bra...

I was completely messed up but I knew what that all was, somewhere deep down. It was all in my future, and the future was coming fast, just like I was cumming, hard.