The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I think it all started one night when I had an orgasm in my sleep.

It was the first time that had ever happened to me and it woke me up. I found myself sweaty and quivering, curled up in a ball as it coursed through my body and then slowly ebbed.

What had I been dreaming about? I wondered. The threads of the dream whispered through my mind. I ran though the possibilities. Sex? Spankings? Hairy chests? I went through the list of things which I normally found exciting.

Men? That felt right. Yes, there were certainly men in my dream. Breasts? Men staring at my breasts? Suddenly, I rose to a new climax, smaller this time, but still toe-curlingly delicious. Afterwards, I spent some time massaging my chest, which, for some reason, really seemed to need it.

Men, staring at my breasts... that was new for me. I had never dreamt about that before. But there was no denying how horny it made me feel. I rolled over and drifted back to sleep.

I’m an imprint. That is, I have the imprint gene IMPT4 on chromosome 13, near BRAC2 (the breast cancer gene).

I’m not the first imprint, as it turns out. My mother is an imprint, as was her mother, and my great-grand, as are about three-quarters of my aunts, cousins, and sisters (all of my 5 siblings are girls). We are quite the object of scientific study. “A new evolutionary stage for the human species,” said Time Magazine. “Where will it lead?”

Fortunately the details of my imprinting have stayed out of the tabloid press. I am merely known as “Case-7” in scientific journals. My private life is jealously guarded and none of the news media have gotten wind of who I am.

Thank goodness, for I would surely die of shame if the details of my imprinting were made public.

That weekend I noticed that my bras weren’t fitting me right, probably because I had recently gained a few pounds, so I went shopping.

‘Complimentary Bra Fitting,’ read the sign at the local Victoria’s Secret. ‘Let our Bra Specialists determine your perfect fit!’

Why not? I thought. The saleslady, Sally, was of course happy to help.

“You’re a 36C,” she informed me. “The perfect size.”

“What?” I said, shocked. “C? No wait... are you sure?”

“Uh...” she hesitated, surprised at how shocked I was. “Well, here. Let me check again...” she ran the tape measure again twice over my chest, once above my breasts and then a second time at the fullest part.

“No... 36... 38 and three quarters... This is correct. I mean, technically you’re probably a B+, or a B++, but you’re supposed to round up if you’re an in-between size. Why, are you surprised?”

“I’ve... it’s just... I’ve always been a B,” I responded, still trying to wrap my head around this new development. “A small B, actually. I’ve just never thought of myself as a C. That’s just... I just... I just don’t know what to think.”

“Oh, you are so not alone. Most women don’t know how to determine their size. They’re always getting a band size which is too big and a cup size which is too small, trying to come to a good fit. It’s totally understandable. Do you normally wear a 38 B?”

“Uh... no, actually... normally a 36B, sometimes even a 36A, which is why this is so... well I don’t know what it is.”

“Would you like to try on a few 36 C’s? I think you’ll discover that they’ll fit you quite comfortably.”

“I... I guess I should,” I replied, letting Sally lead me deeper into the store.

Two hours later and I left the store with several new bras, a couple new sexy T’s in vibrant colors, and some replacement panties. Sally was a delight.

“Oh, that fits you so well!” she said, smiling. “And the best part is, it’s such a classy fabric that you can easily wear it to work.”

“Work?” I shuddered, looking at how the T-shirt hugged my new 36C’s. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well...” I looked around the store, “My cubicle mate... he stares.”

“Ohhhhh....” Sally responded knowingly. “I understand. I get that sometimes.”

“Doesn’t it just creep you out?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, sure, of course it does when he’s being too obvious. But if he’s just checking me out, and if he’s cute... well then, I guess I just take it as a compliment. Besides, I figure I should just wear what makes me feel good, and the rest of the world—especially the male world—will just have to deal.”

“I wish I could be like that,” I said, wistfully.

“You can,” Sally pointed out, with a smile. “Just wear that to work. Wish granted.”

“I couldn’t!” I said, shocked.

“Of course you can. When you wake up tomorrow morning, open the drawer, take out that T-shirt and put it on. Then go to work. Easy peasy.”

“I’m a C,” I kept saying to myself for the rest of the day. “I’ve got C’s”.

I couldn’t believe it and I couldn’t help but be proud of them. My new C’s. I wanted to hold them, play with them, dress them up, and look at them in the mirror—all of which I did once I got home. I even had a nice little orgasm, playing with them while imagining men ogling them.

And never, not one single time, did I ever consider that perhaps my new-found size was not simply due to some early measurement error. At no time did I think that perhaps there was another reason why I suddenly had larger breasts.

Not once did I consider that perhaps they were growing.

There has been so much wild speculation in the blogosphere about ‘how to recognize an Imprint’. All I can say is, from experience, that without exception everything written about the subject so far is wrong.

Of course no one cares about Imprints after they’ve imprinted. They want to find them before, preferably right before, ignoring the fact that even if you could recognize someone who was in the process of imprinting it would already be too late.

The truth is that before imprinting I was a completely ordinary young woman. I went on dates, I broke up with boyfriends, I went to college, I got my degree in design, and then went to work as a web designer.

My only concern was to work hard, do a good job, and make something of myself. All of which just goes to show how powerful the imprint gene is, and how much it changes you.

“That’s, uh, a really nice shirt,” John said.

“Really? You like it?” I replied, sitting up straighter. I felt a warm glow run through me.

John’s eyes drifted lower, his gaze settling on my breasts which were clearly outlined by my new tight, turtleneck T. I could actually feel his eyes, as if they were little laser points, drifting across my chest, tracing feather light circles around my curves.

“Y-yes”, he stammered, struggling to lift his eyes up. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly, turning away.

“No, no, it’s okay!” I said, blushing furiously. “I shouldn’t have.. I mean... Oh, never mind”.

Why did I do that? I thought to myself, angrily. Why am I wearing this shirt to work? I thought back to when I had gotten dressed this morning. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I was so bored of wearing those ugly, baggy, office-blouses.

I have always known that John, my cubicle mate had a perverted tendency for staring. When we first met, he openly leered at my breasts until I slapped him. Yes, I actually slapped him across the face. It was harsh medicine, but it taught him quickly how to behave.

Since then, I’ve been wearing mostly drapey, concealing clothes with sports bras and nipple minimizers. Nothing revealing or tight. Nothing tempting or curvaceous. Nothing that would unduly draw the eye. And John has mostly behaved.

Oh sure, a couple of times he couldn’t help himself, but then I would just cover my chest with my arms and glare at him, and he would utter a bashful “sorry” and then quickly turn back to work.

But what was wrong with me today?? I practically begged him to ogle me! I had thrust my boobies right out there and had enjoyed it when he looked at them! Hell, it even turned me on a bit.

And what was with this outfit? Wasn’t it enough that my breasts were feeling tender and swollen? Did I have to put on that push-up bra from Victoria’s secret and then that too-tight T-shirt? I cursed Sally for goading me into it.

I put on the cardigan I always kept at work, ignoring John’s little sigh of disappointment.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the air conditioning. Since the project was so behind, John and I were forced to work late. At 5:30 pm, like clockwork, the air-conditioning shut down. And, to make matters worse, our cubicle has five computers all pumping out heat.

I was fine until 6.

From 6 to 6:30 it was bearable.

And then I began to sweat.

“Don’t think I’m doing this for you,” I cautioned, taking off my cardigan.

“Of course not,” John replied, his eyes drifting... just a bit.

“Good, It’s only because I’m hot,” John’s sudden grin made me realize my wording was unfortunate. “What I meant is, it’s only because it’s hot in this cubicle,” I said, with a huff. “I’m not trying to show off, or undress for your benefit, or increase the level of intimacy between us, or tease you, or display my assets, or encourage you in any way....” I trailed off, realizing how ridiculous I sounded.

“Of course, of course!” John replied, “I would never think any of those things. You’re just taking off your sweater.”

“That’s right,” I said, with emphasis. “Just removing my sweater.”

I turned back to my computer, relieved that I was now feeling cooler, but embarrassed by my rambling.

If only breasts didn’t feel so constricted! I rolled my shoulders, trying to get them comfortable.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“Yeah... it’s just that...”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just this bra. It felt fine this morning, but now... it feels tight.”

“You could always...” John halted in mid-sentence.

“What? Take it off? Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I said, sarcastically.

“No!” John protested, “I didn’t mean that... well...”

“Don’t bother. I know what you’re thinking. The bra stays. Pervert.”

Of course at the time I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know that I was sexually imprinting. Imprints and the imprint gene hadn’t been discovered yet. And here I was, just after my 120th menstruation cycle, entering stage one, spending all day and all night trying to finish this stupid deadline for this stupid, stupid client, forced to work literally side-by-side next to a horny, lonely, breast-obsessed, nerd.

It’s all about proximity. Close proximity over long periods of time allow an imprint to “harmonize” with her target. It doesn’t matter how it happens. It could be pre-planned for example, as it was for my youngest sister. Or it can be sought out, as it is unconsciously by most imprints, or it can happen accidentally—as it did for me.

Back then, there was no way for me to know—there was no warning at all. I didn’t understand what was happening to my body.

What if I had known? I often ask myself that question. Would I have done anything differently?

As it turned out, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Circumstances forced me to work closely with John, and our daily interactions were more than enough to bend my mind to his subconscious desires.

“Shoulders!” John exclaimed, smiling.

I looked down. Damn it, he was right. My shoulders were exposed. Why had I worn this tight boatneck T-shirt today? What was wrong with me?

“What, you’ve never seen a girl’s shoulders before?” I asked, haughtily.

“Of course I have,” he said. “It’s just that... uh... I’ve never seen your shoulders before.”

I turned away, not knowing what to say. I automatically reached for my cardigan...

...but it was gone.

“My sweater!” I exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?”

I rummaged through the drawers of my desk, looked behind the guest chair and under the desk.

“Very funny, John. What’d you do with my sweater?”

“What? What do you mean, what did I do? You took it home last night, don’t you remember?”

“No... I...”

Suddenly, I had to stop and think. As soon as John said it, I realized I had taken it home last night. Why had I done that? It was my office sweater, it was the one I always left at the office so I would always have something to cover up with. Why would I take it home?

“I... I guess you’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you.”

“Oh, I think you did,” John said, with a snort. “Listen, Lisa. Are you feeling all right? I mean... you’ve been acting really strange lately.”

“It’s... I’m fine. It’s just the pressure of this deadline. Sorry.”

Damn it, I thought to myself, what was wrong with me? First, I decide to wear these ridiculously clingy T-shirts, and then I go and take my cover-up home and leave it there. And now here I am, my breasts out on display for my perverted cubicle mate with nothing to hide them.

What could be worse?

Just then, I felt a chill across my bare shoulders.

The evil air-conditioning, coming on full-blast during the day.

I felt my nipples crinkle and pop out thanks to the cold.

“Lisa?” John called out from behind me.

“Uh-huh?” I answered, not looking back.

“Could you take a look at this? Is this what you were thinking of for the tab transition?”

“I... um... I’m in the middle of something. Could I get back to you?”

“It would only take a second. Please, then I can get this PTR off my back.”

I sighed, took a deep breath and then turned around.

“It’s not exactly the wipe you were looking for, but I think that...” John stumbled and then stopped talking altogether.

To make matters worse, my normal sports bra, the one with the nipple minimizers, didn’t fit anymore. I had been forced to wear this sheer, silky one that had been too large just a few days ago.

And so there they were. My nips. Perky and standing at attention in the cold.

Nothing to do but just grin and bear it, I thought to my self with more confidence than I felt. If he wants to look, then let him look, I bravely told myself, stupidly ignoring the pleasurable blush that washed over me as I saw his eyes linger.

Somehow, my nipples got even harder. The points at the front of my shirt were practically pornographic.

“So, how about that tab wipe?” I asked.

“Uh, sure!” John said, turning back to his computer, blushing.

Well, at least he has the decency to look guilty about it.

That night on the way home, I got out early enough so I could stop at the mall and buy some new bras.

“I wonder if John would like this?” I muttered to myself.

“Wait a minute!” I stopped and shook my head. “What do I care what he likes?”

“May I help you?”

“Sally!” I said, happy to see her friendly face. “Hey, cute sweater dress!”

“Don’t you love it? We just a new shipment. But hey, did you wear that shirt to work? How did it go?”

Like two school girls, I told Sally all about my recent fashion exploits.

“But that brings me to these,” I said, motioning at my breasts.

“What’s the matter?”

“My bra... it feels tight again!”

“That’s impossible,” Sally said, with an abundance of confidence. “I measured you myself. The straps must be adjusted wrong. Here, let’s check...”

Sally pulled me into the dressing rooms where I pulled my shirt off for her.

“Hmmm...” she muttered.

“Uh, oh.”

“No, no. Here, let me just measure you again,” Sally pulled out her tape measure and ran it across my chest.

“You’re definitely borderline,” she concluded.

“But how can I be? I mean, the bra feels tighter, not looser.”

“Oh, I meant that you’re a C cup, bordering on D.”

“D??” I squeaked. “How could I be a D? That’s... that’s impossible! There’s no way I could be that big.”

“Well... let me measure you again.”

No way could I be a D! D’s were... well, they were big, there’s just no other description. B’s are small, C’s a... well, perfect, and D’s were... big! Women with D-cups had big breasts, titanic tits, massive mammaries, huge hooters...

Suddenly images of me with enormous bosoms flashed through my mind. At the beach, walking down the street, them swaying with their weight, going into work... having John stare at them...

Stop that! I scolded myself. Horrified, I realized that I was actually getting excited at the thought.

“The measurement’s the same,” Sally said, “But really, it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Nothing to be concerned about??”

“Lisa, it’s fine! I’m sure that they’re just swollen. Are you near your period?”

“No...”

“Are you... uh... pregnant?”

“Hell no!”

“Sorry, never mind then. Listen, I’m sure they’re just a bit swollen for some reason or another, and that in a few days they’ll be back to normal. Our bodies just do weird things—it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, in a small voice.

“Oh honey, of course I’m sure.” Sally pulled me into a warm embrace. “But in the mean time, I think you may want to try some of these, uh, looser styles... you know, just temporarily.”

“Okay.”

“I used to work in the ‘business world’,” Sally said. We were in a nearby wine bar, swapping war stories.

“Really?” I asked. “Where?”

“Proctor and Gamble. I was group president of global fabric care.”

“Wow! Impressed I am!”

“Don’t be. They have, like, dozens of presidents.”

“But even so, if you were a president at P&G, why... why are you...”

“Why am I working as a sales clerk at a Victoria’s Secret? I just got so tired of the business culture, you know?”

“No... not really...”

“When I was in business,” Sally continued, “I acted like a man, I thought like a man, and I even dressed like a man. And then, one day, I just woke up and thought to myself: ‘What am I doing? I’m not a man, I’m a woman!’ It just all felt so false, you know? Having to bottle up my natural tendencies just to fit into that corporate culture and get ahead. And for what? A bigger house? A bigger paycheck to spend on my unhappy, non-existent life?”

“So what did you do?”

“I quit. Once day, I just walked into my boss’s office with my resignation and left. It was completely unplanned, but afterwards I felt so free! It was amazing. After that, I got my shit together, sold my house, pooled my assets, and bought this Victoria’s Secret franchise, where I’ve been ever since.”

“You mean, you own the store?” I asked, surprised.

“Yup. Great little business too. I think I wanted to run something as girly and flirty as possible, but, you know, still classy.”

“Well, you’ve certainly accomplished that.” I paused. “I wish I could be half as brave as you.”

“But you are! You wore that nice flirty T-shirt to work, right? And that turned out all right, didn’t it?”

“I guess so. It was fine. He... well he mostly behaved himself.”

“I’m a big believer in wear what you want—within reason, of course. I don’t think we should all run around topless, of course.”

“Oh my god, that would drive John insane! I bet his head would explode.”

Sally laughed, “wouldn’t that be a hoot? But what’s next? How about that sweater dress you just got?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s kind of... you know... low cut.”

“It’s not that bad, honestly. You should go for it.”

“But John, you know, my cubicle mate... I mean...”

“Let him look. What harm can come from it? Now that I’m free of P&G, I flirt all the time. I just love it. It makes him feel good and it makes me feel good. I’d say go for it.”

“Do you really think so?” The possibilities were swirling around my head. Could I do it? Wear something that clingy to work? Just the thought of John scoping out my new outfit caused me to squirm with pleasure.

“Absolutely. Be brave. Wear what you want.”

‘It’s so nice to shop’, I thought to myself, putting my new things away. What a relief to throw away all of these old frumpy things and finally do something nice for myself.

On the fringes of my consciousness, I think I knew, even then, that I wasn’t really doing this for me.

That’s the problem with imprinting. Your brain says one thing, but your gut says another. And when you move into transition, the gut starts to take over. And it’s weird. It all feels so natural. You float through the day, not realizing what you’re doing. It’s like a mental defense mechanism I suppose—sending you down a path which you would normally fight tooth and nail.

Until one moment you stop and really think for a moment. Those were my “what the fuck?” moments, and they started coming more and more frequently.

“Woah!” John said, then whistled.

“You like?” I twirled around, giving him a 360-degree scan of my new sweater dress. It hugged my curves from top to bottom. The new bra didn’t hurt either.

“Very much,” said John, admiringly.

“I’m so glad,” I said, as I held my hands behind my back, thrusting my chest forward.

“But why the change?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Of course! I think you look great!”

I beamed.

“I just wondered... you know... why you were dressing up now? Is there something happening in your life, or something I don’t know about?”

“I...” I hesitated. “I just felt like it, that’s all,” I said in a huff. “Why do you have to question it?”

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that... this is so different for you.”

For some reason I was almost in tears. I got out a tissue and blew my nose.

“I... I know,” I said quietly. “I just felt like dressing up a bit, that’s all. Isn’t that okay?”

“Of course! Nothing wrong with that,” John said. “You look absolutely fabulous, by the way. I was just wondering if maybe you’d found some new boyfriend or something.”

A new boyfriend?? Just the thought made me sick. Stifling a sob, I excused myself and ran to the bathroom.

In the stall, I had a good cry, going over and over our conversation. Why had it upset me so much? What did I care if John was curious? What did I care if John thought I had boyfriend? I should have boyfriend!

But the thought made me so sad, I almost couldn’t bear it.

Eventually, I settled down. But then I looked at my wet tissues and got another shock.

Makeup.

I had put makeup on that morning! I never put on makeup for work.

But looking in the mirror, it was unmistakable. My waterproof mascara was running. So there was nothing else to do but open my purse, find the makeup (all brand new, from the looks of it), and fix my face.

Apparently this morning I decided to start wearing makeup to work.

What the fuck?

For the rest of the day, I could feel John struggle.

He wanted to look. I could sense it. He wanted to take his time and fully scope out his new bosomy cubicle mate.

But also, I could tell that knew he shouldn’t. He knew it was wrong, and he was doing his best to concentrate solely on the job at hand.

I wasn’t making it easy for him.

“Here, let me show you,” with one hand gently on his back and my tits practically in his face, I leaned over, took the mouse and resized the DIV tag.

I turned to face John, my tits perfectly at eye level.

“See? We have plenty of room. It’s okay if it covers the logo, because it’s just a temporary pop-up.”

“Uh... sure, I see,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from my rack and returning to work.

“John?” I asked, sweetly, later that day.

“Yes?”

“I... I have this thread sticking out. Could you cut it off for me?”

“Sure,” John said, fetching a pair of scissors. “Where is it?”

I lifted my arm. “Here,” I pointed.

The thread was poking out of the seam which ran down the side of the dress, right next to my left tit.

“Oh... okay.” Carefully, John plucked at the thread, and then cut it away. Quickly he turned away.

“Thanks!” I said, giving him a quick hug from behind.

The next couple of days went about the same. I just couldn’t seem to stop myself.

“I’m so sorry!” I would say to John. “I just don’t know what’s come over me.”

“It’s okay,” he would reply with a goofy grin.

I promised over and over to be more professional, but then I would just go back to doing all those things. Flirty things. Suggestive things.

I would touch his arm as we spoke. I would brush against him with my breasts as I pointed out stuff on his computer. I switched to shirts with a deep V necklines, exposing more cleavage. Late at night, I took advantage of the empty office to give him a neck rub. I put on perfume. I actually would pinch my nipples before turning to talk to him, to make sure they were nice and pointy.

Once I actually brushed a nipple across his cheek!

What was wrong with me??

I tried everything. I made detailed tasks lists to follow. If John wasn’t around, I would slap myself. I tried pinching a finger in the desk drawer—hoping the pain would force me to focus. I put “Concentrate on Work!” on a post-it note and stuck it on my computer. I gave myself mental deadlines, like “I must finish this mock-up before I turn around,” or “one more help page and then I can talk to John again.”

It was a losing battle. I would be sitting there, working, and then I would blink, and realize that 5 or 10 minutes had passed, and that my hand was stroking my breast and I was breathing heavy. It was awful.

Or I’d be there, trying to chose some pantone color or another, and then suddenly I’d start wondering what John’s favorite pantone color was, and then I though ‘why don’t I ask him?’ and then I would start to smile, and giggle, and the urge to turn around and ask him would almost overwhelm me...

John! Why John? My nerdy, breast-obsessed, perverted, un-social, creepy, probably-still-sleeps-in-super-hero-underwear, cubicle mate! John, John, John, John, John!!! Why John??? It was driving me crazy. Nothing about him ever appealed to me. Ever. He was... IS... so wrong for me! Nothing at all of what I would ever want in a man...

Except he is kind-of cute...

And I get horny just thinking about being next to him.

Did I just say horny? HORNY?

What the fuck?

What I mean is that when he looks at me, I don’t care how, I mean he could be staring directly at my nipples which are getting hard right now just thinking about how he might be staring at them getting hard...

Listen, what I mean is that when he looks at me I just feel like we’re connected, you know? Connected with some indescribably deep connection.

And yes. That makes me horny.

Damn it.

Originally, the scientists thought that Imprints were just really good at picking up subtle cues as to what other people were thinking. They found it hard to imagine that it was more than that.

And when I was asked by Dr. Morely (yes, the famous Dr. Morely, only he wasn’t famous when I first met him, of course) what it feels like, I had a hard time describing it.

It’s like you just know things, you know what I mean? Only, that’s not right. Or you just feel them, but that’s not right either. I mean, “knowing” and “feeling” are terms which describe things that are so... discrete. Definitive. As in there is something that you can point to, some fact that you “know” or some feeling that you “have”.

And it’s really not like that. It’s more like some things just “are”. It’s like someone went back in time and chose a different sperm to fertilize your egg. And now you’re grown and you’re a completely different person. You can’t remember it being any different. When someone asks you what it feels like, you can’t answer because it just is. Is it something you “know” or “feel”? It’s more than that. It’s deeper than that.

That’s what it’s like.

A few days later, I woke up in the morning and instantly knew that something was wrong. I didn’t know why or how, but I knew it.

So that day I dug out an old pair of jeans and simple baggy blouse and took a cardigan to work.

Of course, I couldn’t wear my old bras, they wouldn’t fit anymore. I had grown to something like a C++ (I was still denying that I was a D). So I put on one of my new, push-up bras, grimacing at how it put my tits on display.

And when I stepped out of the house, I was like, ‘this is great! I’m cured! I’m back to my old self!’

But it didn’t feel great. It felt awful. Something was wrong. I felt like crying.

“Hey John,” I called out, trying to sound breezy and carefree as I stepped into the office, fifteen minutes early than usual.

“Oh! Hey Lisa,” John said, reacting with a jolt.

I knew instantly that he had just closed a web browser with something he didn’t want me to see. Something serious.

“I see you’re back to dressing like your old self?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said casually, “I... uh... just felt that I should.”

“Of course,” he said.

I could feel the wave of disappointment that radiated from him and it made me so confused!

He wants me to dress up for him! On the one hand, I was elated!

But then, what was wrong? Something was wrong, I was certain of it.

About a half hour later, John went to the bathroom, and in a flash I was at his computer. Of course his screen saver was locked, but I entered the password, brought up Firefox, and checked out the browser history.

Wait...

Did I just enter his password? How the fuck did I know his password?

But then I saw it.

“Sexual Harassment”—the web page from the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

Oh my god.

I quickly closed the history, re-locked the computer, and returned to my desk, a whirl of emotions.

He thought I was sexually harassing him! I was making his work environment uncomfortable! Oh my god, what was I going to do?

Here I was losing him, all because of some stupid government rule which shouldn’t apply but then why did I feel that he really wanted me to, but then why was he looking at that site?

Of course, I mean, everyone knows that office romances are terrible and should be avoided at all costs, but this was different! I mean, it was, wasn’t it? Was I making him uncomfortable? Was he afraid of being with me because we both happened to work at the same office??

“Lisa, are you okay?” John looked at me, concerned.

I looked up at him briefly, my eyes brimming over. “I... I’m sorry!”

I grabbed my purse and ran to the bathroom, where I sobbed my eyes out.

What was I going to do? It felt like the entire office was against me, pointing fingers at me and how foolishly I was acting.

And now I was going to lose John, because of the rules, and because I was making him uncomfortable at work, and... and...

But wait, I thought again. So what if I lose John? What do I care? I don’t even like the guy! He’s just a breast obsessed pervert...

Breaking down into fresh sobs, I tried to figure out why that line of reasoning felt so false all of a sudden.

It took a while, but I realized there was really only one solution.

After washing my face in cold water, I went back to my desk, where, still a little shaky, I typed up a letter.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

The concern I felt from him was heart-breaking.

“No...” I said, “I... I’m not feeling well. I... have to go home.”

“Oh. Well... of course. I hope you’re feeling better!”

All I did was nod.

“And if there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know, okay?”

I want things to return to how they were yesterday!!!

But I didn’t say that out loud. Instead I just said “Good bye, John,” choked down a sob, and then left.

My younger sister, in this same situation, committed suicide. I’m the second oldest of my sisters, and the first to imprint. She was the third oldest, and we hadn’t figured out what was going on before we got the call from her college roommate that she had killed herself in the shower.

She had accidentally imprinted on a college professor, who had been tutoring her after school. Unfortunately, he was married and concerned for his job, so he rejected her in a way that she could sense was irreversible. And so she saw no alternative but to end her life.

What made it all the more tragic is that the professor ended up killing himself as well. They had both progressed too far together.

After dropping off my resignation on my boss’ desk, I went home, closed all the curtains, and crawled into bed. My mind numb. Too depressed to cry.

The phone rang and I couldn’t stand the sound so I unplugged it and threw it out the window. My cell-phone rang, so I removed the batteries and smashed it with a hammer.

Suicide and John were the only things I thought about. Suicide was more of a “when” than an “if”, and John was more like an abstract thought. A ‘situation’. I didn’t dare think about my feelings for him, or why he suddenly mattered to me so much.

And then there was a knock.

“Lisa?” It was John.

It was as if my body levitated to the door.

“John? What are you doing here?” I asked, stupidly, opening the door a crack.

“Can I come in? What are you doing here in the dark?”

When had it gotten so dark? What time was it? I turned on a light and let John follow me into the living room.

John guided me to the sofa, and then took a chair opposite.

“What’s the matter? Is something wrong? We’re all so worried about you at work, and I’m so confused!”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I said, softly, realizing for the first time that something was actually wrong with me.

I had just quit my job and was contemplating suicide! Of course something was wrong! Why hadn’t I seen it before?

“Why are you quitting? Was it something I did?”

Tears started to well up in my eyes.

“No, of course not!” I wailed, trying to put a lid on my emotions.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I saw you reading that website about Sexual Harassment. And I realized... I don’t know what I realized! Am I harassing you??”

“No!” He said, quickly. “I was worried that I was harassing you! Or, I was worried...”

And then suddenly I knew.

“You thought I was trying to set a trap for you,” I said, horrified.

“Yes,” John said, looking at the floor. “I... I had no idea that you’d react like this. Honestly. I would have never... I mean...”

“Why would you ever think that?” I asked, pained to the core.

“Because I just couldn’t figure it out! I mean, here you are, dressing up nice, standing so close to me, touching me, wearing tight clothes... And why? You’ve only ever just tolerated me before. And I’ve done nothing to deserve all this new attention. It... it’s all just so confusing!”

“Maybe it’s just because...” I hesitated, realizing for the first time a fundamental truth, “Maybe it’s because I like you,” I finished, softly.

“Really?” John asked, in a hushed whisper.

I looked up and stared him straight in the eyes.

“Yes,” I said, feeling our souls connect.

“Oh my god,” John said. “But why? Why now? Why all of a sudden? What’s changed?”

“I don’t know!!” I wailed, bursting into tears. “I don’t know what’s changed! All I know is that I want to do things to please you. And it kills me to think you don’t want them, but you do like it when I dress nice, don’t you? And is it so terrible when I’m nice to you? Am I really harassing you? Do I really make you uncomfortable at work???”

“No! I think it’s completely wonderful!”

“Maybe it’s Karma,” I said. “For all of those days when I was a total bitch to you.”

“Oh, you weren’t that bad...”

“Oh, no. I was.”

“No worse than any other beautiful woman has treated me.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” my heart lept up into my throat.

“Well, yeah. I mean, duh.”

“Oh John! That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Oh come on. I said it when we were first introduced.”

“I think you said, ‘hey good lookin’’.”

“Same thing.”

“No, John, it’s not,” I said, feeling just a little bit like my old self again.

We both paused for a moment, trying to work through all of these new revelations.

“You could tell me what to wear!” I blurted out, suddenly taken by my brilliant new plan.

“What?”

“If you’re concerned about the whole sexual harassment thing,” I said, trying to think it through as I was speaking, “you could tell me what to wear. So it would be impossible for me to make you uncomfortable, don’t you see? Because you would be in complete control of the situation.”

“But...” John sputtered, “but that only solves half the problem. I mean, sure, I can no longer sue you for sexual harassment, but you could still sue me.”

“But, I would be willingly wearing what you told me to wear!”

“I don’t know, it would look pretty strange from the outside.”

“I know! I’ll write a letter,” I raced to my bedroom and came back with some note paper.

“A letter?”

“A letter giving you permission!” I started writing, “I’ll say that I, Lisa Franklin, give you, John Sturbridge, permission to choose my clothing on a daily basis. In fact, I would very, very much like for you to control what I wear at all times. I promise to wear whatever you tell me to wear, no matter what, and no exceptions. That such an arrangement does not make me uncomfortable, in fact, any other arrangement would make me uncomfortable, so you really have no choice, do you? And that I am giving you this control over me because I like you, and...”

I looked into his eyes.

“... because I want to dress up. Just for you.”

I signed it, and then, for good measure, kissed it before handing it over to John.

“Are you serious?” He said, staring at me, eyes wide.

“Yes. Please,” I pleaded.

There must have been something in my eyes, because just then I felt a little ray of hope enter my heart.

“Okay,” said John, with a smile. “I... I guess I’m just going to have to enjoy this, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, beaming.

“Okay then. You’ll be back at work tomorrow?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Well then, Lisa. I would like for you to wear your sweater dress tomorrow.”

“I will, John. Just for you.”

Only someone who was moving into Stage-2 imprinting would come up with such a ridiculous plan. And only the object of a Stage-2 imprinting would agree to it. What utter nonsense! I shake my head when I think about it now.

Here we are, all worried about “sexual harassment”, when in fact we are two consenting adults. And if we were all that worried, why would I deliver written proof of my intentions into his hands? And why would he just accept it?

It’s IMPT4 logic. That’s the only way to describe it. Anything that puts you closer to your target, anything that ties your life closer to theirs, anything at all, seems to make perfect sense. And you are so convinced of your logic that you can describe it so convincingly, that no one on either side seems to question it.

And it doesn’t matter that it puts you at a disadvantage or that it puts your life in someone else’s hands. It doesn’t matter that you give away things like your freedom, your free will, your ability to choose for yourself, your free time, or your thoughts. None of that matters in stage 2.

Because, whether you realize it or not, you are now on a one-way trip.

The next day I wore my sweater dress, went back to work, got me resignation letter back from my boss and tore it up.

Something had eased between John and me. The tension was less, and he seemed more convinced that I was just being nice, and that I didn’t have some evil plan.

And in a weird way, our productivity just started to take off.

We started doing things for each other. He was choosing colors, fonts, and layouts. I was correcting his JavaScript. The bandwidth of our sharing just increased by leaps and bounds. It seemed that whenever I needed something, ping, there it was on my IM or E-mail, and vice-versa.

And whenever we turned around, it was simultaneous.

It was weird. But amazing.

“What should I wear tomorrow?” I asked.

As a test, I had started to write down what I thought his answer would be.

‘Short skirt, tight, low-cut T-shirt’, I had written.

“Short skirt, and... a tight, low-cut T-shirt?” he asked.

“Okay!” I said, happily. “But what should I wear, you know, underneath?”

“Uh...” John gasped, clearly unprepared for the question. “Uh... Oh... uh...”

“Would you like some help?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, good. Here. I have a Victoria’s Secret catalog. I can stop at the mall on the way home and get anything you want. The sales lady there... she’s just wonderful.”

His mind blitzed for a second, but then he eagerly snatched up the catalog and leafed through the pages.

“Here,” he pointed. “I dare you.”

He was pointing to the “Very Sexy, Extreme Push-Up Bra (sizes 32A-38DD)”

“You can’t dare me,” I said, with an impish grin. “You have to tell me.”

“Alright then, Lisa, you will wear this tomorrow. And also these...” he flipped through the pages again, “right. These panties.”

They were the ‘Lace on lace cheeky panty.’

I smiled happily. “Oh John!” I said. “I will be happy to wear these for you! But how will you know that I’ve followed your instructions?”

“I don’t know,” he said, flustered. “Uh, what do you recommend?”

“Maybe I could bring you a picture?”

John choked.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be great.”

The next morning I had another one of those “What the fuck am I doing?” moments, walking into work with my new panties and bra and carrying pictures taken with my new camera, tripod, and lighting rig.

What the fuck am I doing?

Here I am carrying lingerie pictures, of me, in lingerie! to give to my cubicle mate, at work, a guy who I’m not even supposed to like, who is now telling me what to wear every day??

By this time I was standing outside the office, petrified, trying to decide what to do. I could actually feel my new underwear. They now felt like foreign objects wrapped around my body, clutching me. Foreign objects, that I was wearing, for John! A co-worker!

I blushed to the core with shame and embarrassment.

Workers smiled at me as they passed by and entered the building. I knew that I looked just like any other, well-dressed female employee, with my short skirt, tight, low-cut T-shirt, makeup, and high heels.

HEELS?

I looked down. I was wearing 4″ heels.

I couldn’t help but smile. They looked so cute on me!

But then, my boss passed by and said ‘hello’. And suddenly, I felt like some object, some sexual plaything with my (now D-cup—Sally had measured me again last night and had forced me to upgrade) breasts sticking out thanks to the “ultimate push-up” bra, wearing my “cheeky lace on lace” panties, with cleavage and legs exposed.

Standing here, exposed to the world. Just some sex bunny dressing up for some man that she didn’t even really know that well—and a work colleague at that. Disgusting.

It was too late to change my clothes. I would have to suffer through the day wearing his chosen underwear.

But I could do something about the pictures. I fished them out of my laptop bag, threw them in the trash, and then quickly walked inside.

Only to find myself digging through the trash, just minutes later, fishing out the pictures.

How could I have been so stupid? I said angrily to myself. What was I thinking? Of course John wanted to see the pictures. I had promised them to him. And I always pride myself on keeping my promises. And I could just feel how much he was looking forward to seeing them.

Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll start slowing things down. We’ll have a talk, I’ll let him know that I can’t keep having him choose what I wear—that’s just ridiculous.

But I might as well just go with the flow for now, right? I mean, I made promises, he’s expecting things... it would be cruel and impractical, and even... unethical, that’s right, unethical to go back on my promises right now!

Tomorrow. I’ll get things straightened out tomorrow.

“You know,” John said, almost too casually, “these pictures could have been faked. Or, you could have simply changed after taking them. How do I know you’re actually wearing this underwear right now?”

The rest of the office had gone home, and John and I were working late again.

Bless his heart, he had hid the photos until the office was completely empty. My impression of John as a considerate person, and not just a perverted creep, took a big leap forward.

“You think I don’t keep my promises?” I said, indignantly. “Of course I’m wearing them now!”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” John replied, smoothly. “But how do I know?”

“What do you expect me to do?” I asked, haughtily. “Show them to you?”

“That’s a great idea!” John said, with evident enthusiasm.

“No way,” I put my foot down. “No way. Never. Not out here.”

“But it’s late. No one else is around. Even the cleaning staff have gone home.”

“I don’t care. Someone might stop by. It could happen.”

“Okay then, what about Derek’s old office?”

Derek was a manager who had left the company just last week. His office had not yet been re-assigned.

“I don’t think so.”

“Fine, have it your way. But I guess we’ll never know for sure if you followed my instructions or not, will we? Like you promised, in your letter. Should I read your permission letter again? I especially like the part where you said ‘I promise to wear whatever you tell me to wear, no exceptions.’ I like that part a lot.”

“Fine!” I said, exasperated. “Let’s go, and I’ll prove it to you.”

When we got to Derek’s office, John closed the door and turned to me.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Fine. But no touching.” Good girl, I told myself. That’s the way to set boundaries and control the situation.

I took a deep breath and pulled up my T-shirt, exposing the bra that had been squeezing and pushing out my breasts all day long.

“Satisfied?” I asked.

“Wait, how do I know that’s exactly the one I told you to wear?”

“Of course it is!” I replied, exasperated.

“Well, I mean, of course it looks like the right one. But how do I know for sure?”

“You... you could check out the label,” I stammered, turning bright red.

“Well, if you think that’s a good idea,” John smiled. He turned me around and looked inside of the strap in back. The gentle touch if his fingers on my bare skin felt electric.

“The Very Sexy Ultimate Push Up” he said. “So far so good. Now, let’s check the panties.”

“Do I have to take my skirt all the way off?” I asked, timidly.

“I think that would be best, don’t you?”

With a sigh of resignation, I unfastened my skirt and took it off.

“Oh, goodness,” John gasped, much to my satisfaction. “Those panties, are... amazing.”

He just stood there for a second, drinking in the sight of my bottom cupped in the intimate grasp of the micro-mini briefs.

“John?” I asked, softly.

“Oh, right.” He gently pulled open the waistband. “Uh... there’s no label here?”

I looked back. “Oh, right. It’s, uh... probably here, on the right.”

John’s fingers slipped across my waist and then into the waistband, making my close my eyes and bite my lip with pleasure. Damn him, I thought. Damn him for making this feel so good.

John finally found the label, having to expose a bit more of my hip and bottom than I thought were strictly necessary.

“Sexy Little Things, Lace on Lace Cheeky Panty” he read.

“Satisfied?” I asked, defeated and submissive.

“Yes,” he said, letting go of the waistband. “You have kept your promise.”

“Now, I hope we won’t—”

“For tomorrow,” he interrupted, “I’ve circled what I want.” He handed me a copy of the lingerie catalog.

“Satin lace up hip-hugger,” I read, then flipping through the pages, “plunge demi-bra. Oh, John—I really don’t think... listen, I...”

“And I want pictures, of course,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, John,” I said, humiliated, my face flaring up with shame.

“And... I think we’ll need to do an inspection tomorrow as well, don’t you?”

“If... if you say so.”

“I’ll leave the dress up to you. Just make sure it displays your breasts nicely. You know how much I love your breasts, don’t you? And also make it nice and short. You have such wonderful legs.”

“John... I...”

“Did you not give me permission to choose your clothing every day?” he asked.

“Yes, but...”

“Did you not say that such an arrangement was the only arrangement which made you comfortable at work?”

“Yes... it’s just that...”

“Just nothing,” he said, flatly. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Look me in the eyes. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

I looked John in the eyes. He was having the time of his life, I suddenly realized. His self confidence was growing by leaps and bounds, and every time I submitted, I could feel it grow even more.

“Yes,” I said, meekly. “This is what I want. Please tell me what to wear.”

“And you understand how I’ll need to check that you’re wearing what I’ve instructed?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Excellent. Now let’s get back to work!”

“My best customer!” Sally exclaimed, pulling me into a warm hug.

“I’m back again,” I said, more than a little embarrassed. “For these items.”

“You must really like this guy, to be dressing up like this for him,” Sally said, grinning. “I mean, you must really, really like him.”

“I... I guess I do,” I said, blushing.

“Oh honey,” she said, “it’s okay. I think it’s cute. Now should we measure you again? I think it’s best. I’ve never seen anyone with a late growth spurt like you’ve had.”

Stage 3.

I don’t want to give the wrong idea. In general, this whole business about “the stages of imprinting” is a gross oversimplification. Every imprint is an individual—and each one handles the situation in a completely different way. It’s not like we’re all robots following some program—no matter what Doctor Morely might say in his lectures on the subject.

But there is some truth to the stages—or phases, in an imprinting. The first stage, the “acquisition” stage, usually lasts a few months. This is where the imprint forms loose, but breakable relationships—seeking out the right partner.

I’m not exactly sure how long stage 1 lasted for me. I think it began well before I started dressing sexy for John. That’s the problem with Stage 1, the imprint doesn’t even know it’s happening. And especially when the imprint and her target are working in close proximity, then typical stage 1 signs are easily masked by everyday behaviors.

Stage 2 starts when the target indicates some reciprocal interest. This started sometime in those first few days when I was dressing up, and John was, warily, enjoying my attention. In stage 2, the Imprint “tunes in” to the target and starts to pick up on his unconscious desires—making them her own and then acting upon them.

Stage 3 is when the target starts to become an active participant. This is the beginning of a feedback loop that starts to develop between the two. The mental communication starts to project in two directions.

It’s a dangerous time. The feedback loop is unregulated and can easily become unstable.

My sister was in Stage 3 when she was rejected by her professor. Her suicide was long an painful. Her professor actually sensed what was happening, but unfortunately he was over a hundred miles away at the time, participating in a family-counseling retreat with his wife. He raced back to the university but by the time he got there, my sister had died.

The next day, I was standing outside the office building, photographs in hand.

‘This is crazy,’ I kept telling myself.

I had said the same thing to my self earlier, as I put on the underwear that John had picked out for me.

I had said it again as I put on my makeup and perfume.

I said it a third time as I posed for the camera.

I said it a dozen more times as I quickly hemmed the dress I was wearing, making it two inches shorter, just to be absolutely certain it was short enough to please to John.

And here I was saying it again, trying desperately to throw the damn pictures away, telling myself to just turn around, go home, and change into something more sensible.

My dress was positively indecent! My tits were practically hanging out and the skirt was just mere inches lower than my crotch. My legs looked like they were a mile long, and the heels didn’t help matters.

Time to put a stop to all this nonsense, I decided. Time to start acting normal, for god’s sake!

“Lisa?”

“John!” I yelped, jumping about a foot in the air.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “Hey, I love the dress. Good choice.”

“Oh...” his praise coursed through my body like a warm river. “Thanks. I... uh...”

Stop it! I tried to tell myself. Don’t let him confuse you!

“Are those my pictures?” John plucked the photos from my fingers. “Excellent! Thank you so much. I’ll look at them later—you know—once everyone else has gone home.”

“You’re welcome...” I muttered, feeling thwarted. “I was just getting a breath of fresh air before heading inside.”

“I know, the office is terrible, isn’t it? Hey! I have an idea. Why don’t we head back to my place after work?”

“Your place?” I asked, weakly.

“Sure! Instead of working late at the office, we can work late in my apartment. I have a great Thai carryout just next door, and wireless, and everything.”

“Your place?” I repeated, stupidly.

John hesitated. “I’m sorry. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just say no, really. It’s just that... well, it would mean the world to me.”

“The world to you?” I looked into his eyes, feeling that deep connection re-ignite. “It means that much to you?”

“More than anything.”

His words drew me a step closer.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I’d love to come join you for dinner and work at your place tonight.”

“Excellent!” he said, delighted. “And you know that I’m going to have to check out what underwear you’re wearing when we get there, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” I responded, submissively.

“Mr. Sturbridge, welcome! I see you have a new girlfriend?” the order-taker at the Thai takeout grinned broadly.

“I’m not his girlfriend!” I said, indignantly. “We’re just work colleagues.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

I followed his eyes, and suddenly realized that I was possessively holding on to John and gently rubbing my breasts against his arm.

“Uh....” I said, quickly letting go and stepping up to the counter, “Uh... I’ll have the Ka Pow fried rice with beef, and the steamed dumplings with pork.”

“Hey!” John said, surprised. “That’s exactly what I was going to order. Those are my favorites. What a coincidence.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“I said, what a coincidence that you like the beef fried rice and pork dumplings just like me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t eat those,” I said shaking my head, “I’m a vegetarian....” I trailed off, my eyes wide.

“But then...” John sputtered, “why... uh... why did you order them?”

“I... I don’t know,” I said, blushing. “Suddenly, they just sounded really good to me.”

“Do you want to change your order?” I looked up at the clerk, who was looking at me like I was a crazy woman.

“No, I’m good,” I replied. For some reason, I was suddenly hungry for the taste of Ka Pow fried rice with beef and pork dumplings.

Even though I had never tasted them before.

“Yeah, it’s been hard, living alone in the city,” John said, “with all of my family so far away. But after college I really wanted to get away and start a new life.”

I held the door to the apartment open for John, who was being a gentleman and carrying all of the food and both of our laptops.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I got dumped pretty hard by my high-school sweetheart, and so I just wanted to get away.”

“Oh!” I said, horrified that anyone could be so mean to John. “That’s terrible. I would never dump you.”

Shit, I said to myself, wanting to hit ‘rewind’ and just roll those words back up. Did I just say that? Lisa! Stop that! You’re not his girlfriend, you’re just a work colleague!

“Uh... I sputtered, trying to cover. “I mean, why’d she dump you? I can’t imagine you’d ever do anything bad. She must have been the one with the problem.”

“No, really, she’s not. It was just that...”

The elevator arrived and we stepped into it. I punched the button for John’s floor.

“Just what?” I asked, innocently.

“Well...” he hesitated, “she found the pornography that I had downloaded from the internet.”

“So what?” I said. “What’s wrong with browsing porn on the internet?”

“I... you...” this time it was John’s turn to blush. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this. You mean, that it’s okay to browse porn on the internet?”

“Of course,” I said, “it’s perfectly natural. Hell, if we were together, I’d love to browse it with you. We could look at the pictures together. We could wallpaper our walls with pictures of beautiful, naked, big-breasted woman if that’s what you wanted.”

“IF, we were together,” I added, emphatically, “which we are NOT.”

“Would you really do that?”

“What, you mean browse porn with you?”

“Uh... yeah.”

“Of course. I mean, why not? Heck, if you want to show me some when you get to your apartment, that’d be great.”

“You’re amazing,” John said, simply.

“Here we are,” I said as the doors opened.

“Wait a minute. How did you know what floor I live on?”

As we set up for dinner, I had to speak up.

“John, that whole business about browsing porn together...”

“I know. You were just joking. That’s okay. I didn’t take it seriously.”

“But no!” I said, correcting him. “That’s the problem. I was serious.”

“Really? What about now? Do you want to browse porn with me right now?”

“I do,” I muttered, looking down at the floor, ashamed. “I know it’s wrong. We are work colleagues, after all. I shouldn’t want to. It’s not right.”

I paused.

“But yes,” I admitted. “I want to. I want to very much. But we shouldn’t, right?”

“It wouldn’t be very proper, that’s true. But then, we’re doing all kinds of things that are way outside a professional relationship.”

My lip started to quiver.

“Not that I don’t think it’s amazing!” John hurried to add. “This is the most fun I’ve had since moving to the city. By a long shot. By a very long shot.”

“Me too,” I said, beaming. “But the weird thing is, I don’t know why I would want to browse porn with you. I mean, I’ve never thought about it before. Why would I have such a strong desire to do it now? I’m so confused. But I mean, is it something that you want?”

“Hell yes! I love looking at beautiful women and beautiful breasts. And to do it with someone, of the opposite sex, and I know were not boy-friend/girl-friend or anything, but to be with someone who not only tolerated it, but actually condoned it—even encouraged it! Oh my god... that would be a dream come true. I wouldn’t have to hide it anymore, it would be... amazing. She would be... amazing.”

I smiled broadly again. I’m amazing!

“But...” he continued, “I don’t think the time is right. When it’s right, if it is ever right... then we’ll know.”

“I agree,” I said, just a little saddened by thinking that this simple pleasure for the both of us would be delayed.

“But speaking of looking at beautiful women, I think it’s time that we inspected your underwear, don’t you?”

“I..., no...” I stuttered.

“Otherwise, how will I know that you followed my instructions? I need to inspect them. That was the agreement yesterday.”

Don’t! I told myself. You said you wouldn’t today! Stop and set him straight! No more choosing clothes! No more inspecting undergarments!

But meanwhile, my hands had already reached for the waist of my deep-V wrap dress. I undid the tie and slipped it off.

And then I smiled shyly at John, thrusting my breasts out slightly, in only panties, high heels, and a bra, waiting for his inspection.

And even though the food was getting cold, he took his time. Running his fingers along the straps, making sure everything was straight and nice (he’s so thoughtful!), and checking the labels carefully. I had forgotten how embarrassing the panties were! They laced up in back, so my ass cleavage was on full display. I blushed to my toes when I remembered that. Finally, we sat down for dinner.

“Uh, aren’t you going to put your dress back on?” John asked.

I looked at him and blinked. Shit, I realized. I had just sat down at the table without putting my dress back on.

I looked over at it. For some reason, I couldn’t stand the thought of wearing it right now.

“Uh... I don’t know. Do you have a pair of shorts or something I could put on?”

“Sure, here...” John got up.

“No, sit down and eat. I’ll get it.” I trotted off to the bedroom, where I opened the third drawer down and picked out a pair of shorts. Putting them on, I went back to the dinner table and sat down to eat.

Only to realize that John was looking at me like I was an alien.

“What?”

“How did you know where my bedroom was? How did you know where my shorts were located? How did you find the one pair which is too small for me? And, uh... don’t you want to wear a shirt?”

I looked down at my “plunge demi-bra”, and realized with a blush that it hadn’t even occurred to me to cover up on top.

“I should probably get a shirt...” I said, without much conviction.

“Let me,” John rose. “It’s freaking me that you know my apartment better than I do.”

“No!” I said suddenly. “Don’t. I... I’ve decided I want to stay like this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

And before I could stop them, the words just came right out.

“I want to stay like this for you,” I said.

After dinner, we finally got down to work and were amazingly productive, clearing two whole user scenarios from start to finish. We sat side-by-side at the table, and I didn’t mind at all that John turned to look down my cleavage every, oh, 15 milliseconds seconds or so.

Of course I didn’t help matters. Why wasn’t I wearing a shirt? Why did the thought of covering up with a shirt make me feel so unhappy? I wear shirts all the time! It should be no big deal.

But it was.

And worse, I would occasionally stretch, hands clasped together, either above my head or behind my back, pushing my tits out as far as I could.

And even worse, my nipples were hard just about all the time.

Poor John.

But then, we got into these zones, where we were solving problems, communicating in half words and phrases, making decisions, snap, snap, snap!

So it was pretty great, all together.

“What should I wear tomorrow?” I asked as I packed up to head home.

“I don’t know,” John said. “I can’t make you stop at the mall—it’s long closed. So... I don’t know. Surprise me!”

“Okay!” I said, delighted.

So that night I got out my sewing machine and decided to do some special tailoring on my interview suit. I cut off the lower half of the skirt to make it short enough to meet my new standards for John. Then I choose a silky blouse and carefully repositioned the buttons, re-sewing each one by hand, making it tighter under my new bosom and lowering the buttons so that more cleavage would show. Finally, I took my suit jacket and shortened the sleeves to show more arm and make it more casual.

Putting it all on, I looked fantastic! I put on some heels and added a pair of stockings.

Perfect.

Then I took it all off and cried myself to sleep.

I had just ruined a $500 dollar suit!! It had been a present from my aunt and uncle.

What is wrong with me??

The next day, as I got dressed in my new “sexed up” business suit, I had mixed feelings.

I was certain John would love it. Just why I was so certain, I didn’t know. But at the same time the suit itself was a symbol of my mental instability. Why would I ruin a perfectly good suit? All for some game that I’m playing with some guy at work?

Worse, I hadn’t had time to buy new underwear, so what was I going to do? I just knew that I had to do something special to ‘kick it up a notch’ for John.

My breasts had continued to swell. Perhaps I should have worried more about this, but with so many weird things happening, I just didn’t have the mental energy to deal with it properly. From a B-cup just three weeks earlier, I was now exceeding a D.

Clearly, none of my old bras would fit anymore. Why hadn’t I purchased some spares when I was last at the mall? I could have just kicked myself. I knew that John would check, and I just knew he would be disappointed if I was wearing one of the old bras he had previously selected.

What to do? I fretted back and forth, emptying all my drawers on the floor and turning my bedroom upside down. Ultimately, there was only one thing I could think of.

And so I went bra-less.

Panties were less of an issue. I had a few thongs from some fancy affairs I had done a couple of years ago. So, I wore one of those. Of course, my ass cheeks would be fully exposed, but better than being completely naked underneath.

I posed in several suggestive poses, took pictures and printed them out for John.

As I left, I checked myself out in the mirror. Something was different. I took a second to try and figure it out, but then just shook my head and left to face the day.

All that day, the fabric of the blouse rubbing across my nipples was a constant distraction. Had my nipples always been this sensitive?

Of course, my breasts were more tender in general. Sally now insisted on measuring me every time I visited, amazed that the measurement around my bust increased by a full two inches in just three weeks.

And now, without any sort of support, my pups felt unnaturally heavy.

Fortunately, when I got up to walk around the office, I could wear my new, tailored jacket, and that provided some level of support.

But in the cubicle, it didn’t feel right to wear the jacket and so I did without. It was infuriating. Every time I moved or shifted, my breasts would gently sway and brush my nipples against the inside fabric. This made my nipples constantly rock-hard, creating two very noticeable bumps that drew John’s eyes like a magnet.

“I’m knocking off early, John,” I said, trying to sound carefree. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“But Lisa,” John said, with a new sound of authority in his voice, “I haven’t inspected your underwear yet.”

“But...” I sputtered, “you didn’t tell me what to wear, so there’s nothing to inspect. So I figured...”

“If that’s how you feel, then why did you give me pictures?” he picked up the folder and waved it.

“I... I don’t know. I guess... I guess I thought you might like them.”

John smiled. “I’m sure I’ll love them! But how do I know that you’re still wearing what’s in these photos?”

“Have you looked at the photos yet?”

“Well, no... I didn’t want to look at them in the office.”

“Thank you.”

“But we still need to hold the inspection.”

“But how? I don’t want to stick around until everyone else leaves”

“Well, why don’t I knock off early too? Then we can do the inspection at my place again.”

I sighed, defeated. “That sounds okay. Thai again?”

“Actually, I know this great Italian place. Do you like Osso Bucco?”

“What’s that?”

“Lamb shank.”

“I told you I’m a vegetarian,” I said. “But now that you mention it, that sounds really good.”

Since it was Friday, we decided to have dinner at the restaurant rather than in his apartment.

“Like a date,” John said, with a smile.

“Exactly,” I said, but then added, “like a date, but not a date.”

Way to set the record straight, I congratulated myself. Unfortunately, it didn’t help that I was sitting next to him with our arms intertwined.

“Oh my god, this is really good,” I said, taking another bite.

“I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it? The osso bucco is their specialty. The best in the city.”

John paused.

“Only one thing would make this evening more perfect...” he continued.

“What’s that?”

“If you unbuttoned one more button on your blouse.”

“But... we’re in public!” I said, shocked.

John looked at me with a steady gaze.

“I can tell you want to,” he said. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just know. So, go ahead. Unbutton it. It’s just one more button.”

I did want to, he was right about that. I had almost done it several times already. Slowly my hand reached up, and undid it.

The blouse gapped open. The top button was just above the curve of my breasts, and so the gap in the blouse now parted to show the full extent of the cleavage between my breasts.

John just sighed with delight and stared, drinking in the sight.

When had he stopped feeling guilty about staring at my tits? I wondered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I think you have a crumb...” he reached out with a finger and tweaked my nipple through the blouse. “There. I think that’s got it.”

“John!” I said, shocked, nipples tingling.

“I’m sorry,” he grinned.

“No, no, I’m just embarrassed that I’m apparently such a messy eater. And look! I think there’s some more crumbs on the other side,” I looked at him with innocent doe eyes. “Would you help brush those away too?”

“With pleasure,” he breathed, reaching a hand out to stroke my other nipple, right there in the restaurant.

“Thank you so much,” I said huskily, now fully turned on. “You are such a gentleman.”

When we got back to his apartment, I hesitated, wondering exactly what to do.

“I think it’s time for the inspection, don’t you think?” John asked.

I looked at him with what must have been some weird mixture of desire and pleading.

“How else will I know that your pictures represent the truth of what you’re wearing?” he asked, reasonably. “This is the only way. I know you want to. I can feel it.”

Of course I wanted it. I wanted it more than anything. And I knew he wanted it, and that made me want it a thousand times more, and that thought scared the crap out of me.

“Fine,” I sighed, giving in. I pulled out a straight-backed chair from the dining room table. “But this time I want you to sit down.”

“Oh, like a lap dance!” he said, happily.

“No, not like a lap dance,” I responded, blushing to the tips of my ears. “I... I just want you to behave yourself. So just sit and be a good boy.”

John sat with his hands in his lap and smiled.

I thought I should start with the skirt, so I unzipped it and slipped it off, not bothering to remove my heels first. Holding my shirt out of the way, I presented my thong to John for inspection.

“Very nice,” he said, admiringly. “Now hold still while I check for the label.”

He made a big production of checking for the label, tracing his fingers over every seam of the fabric. I gasped as he put one hand on an exposed cheek, while the other hand held open the waistband to read the label.

“Hanky Panky low-rise cotton thong,” he read slowly. “Very nice. I approve.”

He then started gently massaging my bare ass cheek, causing me to moan softly, pushing back into his hand, ever so slightly. Separating my buns, he daringly traced a finger down the back of the thong, following the fabric as it disappeared between my ass cheeks.

“Oh no...” I whimpered, feeling more horny by the second.

When I felt his fingers slip into the waistband, I finally came to my senses and jumped away.

“Woah there, cowboy!” I said, “that’s not on the menu. Besides which, I know what you really want for your main course.” I placed my fingers at the button of my blouse. “You want to inspect the bra I wore, don’t you?”

“Yes, please,” John said, breathing heavily and trying to refocus.

I hadn’t realized this initially, but with John sitting and me standing, his head was exactly level with my breasts. I thrust them out a little, making sure he had made solid eye-to-tits contact before slowly, ever so slowly, unbuttoning my blouse, button by button.

“You...” John said, shocked, “you’re not wearing a bra at all!”

“Au contraire,” I said, with a giggle. “I am wearing a bra. The fabric is so sheer that it looks almost transparent. Isn’t it amazing?”

“Wow, that is amazing,” John replied, playing along.

“In fact,” I took a small step forward, “I don’t think you’ll be able to see the fabric without taking a really close look.”

John put his hands on my hips, guiding me in. “You know, I think I can almost see it,” he said. “Just a little bit closer, please...” I was now so close that could feel his breath on my bare skin.

“Here, maybe this will help,” I said, pushing forward until his face was buried in my cleavage.

“Oh...” John moaned, sending a thrill through my body. “Bless you...”

Unable to control myself, I started moving my chest back and forth, rubbing my tits all over his face, causing more delighted moans as he gently kissed them anywhere he could.

A second later John boldly reached up and grasped them, squeezing and massaging them, and then pinching the nipples—making me gasp and squirm.

John looked up. “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, John...” I sighed. Cradling his head in my hands, I leaned down and drew him into a deep kiss.

It was like picking up the phone and hearing your long lost friend talk to you from another country. One moment, there’s nothing but static, and then the next instant, snap, you’re connected. It was exactly like that.

“What the...” I said, startled, stepping back.

I looked at John, terrified of the power of what I had just felt.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, shocked, “oh my god!”

“Lisa...” John started to say, struggling to figure out what had just happened.

“John! I’m so sorry. I have to go. I...”

I gathered up my clothes and my laptop. Not even bothering to dress, I just ran for the door.

“I’m so sorry!”

“Lisa!”

I didn’t even bother to change in the hallway, I just ran to the car, threw everything inside, and left as quickly as I could.

At some point I found a deserted parking lot, pulled over, and just sobbed my heart out.

I woke up the next morning in a hotel 200 miles away. I could feel John trying to find me, going to my apartment and leaving messages. Trying to track down my family. Searching for places I had talked about.

What was wrong with me?

Every time I thought about my situation I dissolved into racking sobs. I was certain I was going crazy. I was putting my job in danger, I had handed my life over to a work colleague who I didn’t really know outside of work. I was exposing my body to him. I had given him nearly-naked pictures of myself which he could post on the internet whenever he felt like it.

Why? Why would I do this?

I finally got to sleep around dawn, but then slept only fitfully, dreaming of life with John and his pornography and exposing my ever swelling chest for his appreciation.

Rolling out of bed after noon, I took a shower and was able to calm down a bit. Looking in the mirror, I realized again that my hair looked strange.

I took a closer look, my fingers sifting through the hairs on my scalp. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. The hair at the roots was a different color than the rest of my hair.

My hair was changing... to blonde.

Stunned, I plucked out a hair and examined it carefully. Just a millimeter or so, but there was a clear delineation. My hair had changed from dark brown to blonde. Unless it changed back, in a couple of years I would be a natural, bright yellow, flaxen blonde.

Startled, I took another look in the mirror.

My eyes were now blue.

“But how do you feel about him?” my mom asked.

“How do I feel about him?”

“Right. What are your feelings for him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay then. Fill in the blank. “I—fill in the blank—John.”

“I..., Mom, really.”

“Just do it. Repeat after me: “I, Lisa,—fill in the blank—John.”

“I, Lisa...”

“Yes?”

I struggled. “I, Lisa...” I repeated.

“You can do it...” Mom encouraged.

“I, Lisa..., I...”

My mom waited patiently, as I paused, frozen to the phone.

“... love John,” I finally finished, dissolving into tears.

“I love him,” I repeated, sobbing, feelings of relief and happiness washing over me. “I do! I really, really do love him.”

“There you go, so what is the problem? You love him. From your description, it seems like he’s really in to you. So everything is just as it should be!”

“But I shouldn’t!”

“Whyever not?”

“Because...” I said, gasping for breath between sobs. “Because he’s a work colleague, and I swore I would never look for love at work. And I always thought he was creepy, and he’s got this perverted breast obsession...” I blushed, realizing I was talking to my mother.

Mom just chuckled. “But you love him! You just said so. And do you mind his... uh... other interests? I mean, ask yourself honestly.”

“No... but that’s what’s so wrong with this whole situation! Just a month ago, it really creeped me out. I actually slapped him for looking at my chest when we first met. What’s changed?”

“I think you just came to love him. It’s as simple as that.”

“And what’s wrong with my hair, and my eyes, and the size of my breasts! I’ve gone from a B-plus to nearly a DD in just a few weeks. It’s like my body is feeding his fetish. Something’s not right.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Mom?”

“When your father and I first met...” Mom paused, “I had brown hair too.”

“Mom!” I said, shocked. My mother’s hair has always been a vibrant red. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“I... I guess I just never felt it was important. At the time I was already coloring it red, so I didn’t even notice until years later. At some point I just stopped coloring it, and... well... it just stayed red.”

“I... I can’t believe it. And did you... I mean, did anything else, uh... unusual happen?”

“Well, I suppose we did fall in love awfully quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we were in a study group at college together. At the time I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. And he was so nice, helping me with research. I knew he was interested in me, but I was just too focused on my degree at the time. But then one day, you know, I was on the library ladder, and I noticed...”

“What?”

“I... I can’t say.”

“Mom!”

“Alright, alright. I noticed he was looking up my skirt. There. Are you happy?”

I giggled. “That is so funny! Dad, getting peeks up your skirt!”

“Anyway,” Mom continued, “for some reason, I didn’t cover up. Instead, I...”

“What?”

“I, uh..., gave him a better view.”

“Oh!” This time it was my turn to be embarrassed.

“You see, your father has this thing for lady’s panties.”

“Mom! T.M.I. !!”

“Sorry,” she said. “So you see, your situation is not that different, really. This is just how women fall in love. Love is a kind of insanity. It changes you. You become a different person.”

“Really? You think that’s all that this is? Love? Is love this powerful?”

“It was in my case. It certainly seems like it is for you too.”

“But, I mean... the eyes? The hair? My breasts? Did I tell you that I’m no longer a vegetarian?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I mean, what if I’m sick? What if this is some kind of illness—you know, some kind of mental illness? What if...”

I paused, suddenly considering.

“What if it’s genetic?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Mom said, musing over the possibility. “We Franklin women do tend to get involved in very close relationships. Most your Aunts married around the same age as you are now. And, now that I’m thinking about it, I discussed this once with your Aunt Sadie, and she had an almost identical experience. Turns out, her husband really likes analingus—”

“Mom! Stop! That’s uncle Bob you’re talking about!”

“Oh sorry. So anyway...” she paused, “I suppose it could be genetic. But then, so what? Does that change anything?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Fill in the blank.”

“What?”

“You know.... fill in the blank. I...”

“I...”

I paused, my mind a whirl. “I...”

How did I really feel? Did it matter if my mind was being controlled by my genetics? By John himself? Did that change who I was? Was I even the same person?

“I...”

And suppose I was somehow, being controlled by his desires and wants. Weren’t they my thoughts and desires now too? Where did his feelings end and mine begin? Isn’t that what love is about, being so tuned into your lover that you want for them whatever they most desire? And what if that thing that they wanted most of all was a blonde, blue-eyed, busty woman who loved to have her breasts played with? Was that so terrible?

“I...”

Was it wrong that I now felt like I was living for him instead of for me? Was I somehow betraying my self? What good was it to maintain true to my ‘original self’ if I would end up miserable all the time? Is my ‘original self’ that important? Is this my higher destiny? My higher purpose in life—to be his dream woman? Is there anything wrong with changing to meet his desires if it makes us both so blissfully happy?

“I...”

Is it so wrong to just want to be happy and feel loved?

“I love John,” I finished, tears again flowing freely down my cheeks. “I really do love him, don’t I? Is this forever? Do you still love Dad?”

“More,” my mom responded. “More now than ever. Your love will only ever increase.”

“So... I’m trapped,” I said.

“Trapped by love? I suppose so,” she replied. “But is that so terrible?”

I sobbed quietly on the phone for a while.

“But then, why am I sad?” I asked. “I mean, I’m relieved and happy too. But why am I so sad?”

“You’re growing up,” Mom said, simply. “You’re becoming a woman, and that means leaving behind the naive girl you once were. Naturally that’s sad. You have such a big heart. Of course it’s sad.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I sniffled. “Mom?” I asked.

“Yes, dear?”

“Did you... I mean, were you ever able to... uh... guess Dad’s passwords without him telling you?”

“Passwords?” She asked. “Sweetie, you know I don’t use the computer much.

“Well... can you tell what he’s thinking? Do you know what I mean? Can you hear what he’s feeling in your head?”

“Well of course I can,” she said. “That’s just women’s intuition. All couples who are in love can hear each other’s thoughts.”

I sent a quick text message to John: “sorry 4 running. needed time 2 think. forgive me.”

He responded: “no prob. hope ur ok.”

Satisfied, I drove home to figure out what to do next.

“Hey John,” I said as I breezed into the office.

“Hey Lisa, how are—Oh my god!”

I grinned from ear to ear as John nearly fell out of his chair.

“You changed your hair!”

“Oh, you noticed,” I smiled, flipping my new blonde ‘do’ from side to side. “What do you think?”

“It... it looks amazing! I would have never though that you’d look good as a blonde, but... wow. You look just fantastic.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you like it,” I said, happily. “After all, I did it all for you.”

“No...”

“Is that all you like?” I asked, “Just my hair?” I batted my eyes and pushed out my chest.

John drank in my red scoop-neck jersey dress, complete with “Bio Fit Uplift” bra underneath. After trying on literally every bra in the store, thanks to Sally, we both decided that this was the one which gave me the most cleavage and “forward thrust”.

“No,” he said, caressing my curves with his eyes which made my nipples perk up, “everything’s just... I mean,” he sputtered, “all of you—just... beautiful.”

I’m beautiful, he said! I could have sung out loud.

“I’m so glad you like it,” I smiled. “And here are your pictures for today.” I handed over a file, especially thick.

“But... I thought...” John looked at me, puzzled. “I thought our game was over?”

“Of course not,” I said. I fixed John with a steady gaze. “I... I hope it never ends.”

“Really?” he said. The excitement in his voice was a joy to hear.

“Yes,” I said. “Really. I just needed to work out some things. I’m sorry I ran off like that. Can you ever forgive me?” I pouted and for good measure gently shook my boobies at him.

“Of course I can,” he said, with evident relief. “Always and forever.”

Something about hearing that word, ‘forever’, made my heart skip a beat.

“Lisa, stop. Please.”

“What’s the matter?” I pouted. John was sitting in the same chair as he had three days ago, and here I was about to take my dress off to start the “inspection”.

“You’ve been acting so strange, I’m... just confused, that’s all. I mean, are you okay? Are we okay?”

“I refuse to talk to you with my chest covered,” I said, adamantly. “Just let me take my dress off, and then we can talk.”

“Okay, fine.”

John whistled as I slowly slipped out of my dress. The bra, my new hair color and style, the now fully Double-D cup tits, the makeup, the ‘cheeky’ little panties—they all combined into something that was straight out of a lingerie catalog.

“There,” he said, his voice croaking a little. “Now tell me. Are you okay?”

“I’ve never been better,” I said, putting a knee on the chair between his legs and gently pushing it into his crotch. I reached into the bra cups and gently pinched my nipples, bringing them to full perkiness. “I just needed to work some things out.”

“Work what out?”

“I’ll tell you, but only if you’ll let me take off my bra.”

John gulped. “Okay.”

I reached behind my back, unhooked the bra, and threw it aside. I leaned in a bit, placing his face directly before my cleavage. I reached out and gently stroked his hair.

“I was just trying to work out what I wanted in life,” I said. “Ever since I was a little girl, I thought I wanted this one thing, you know, to be an independent, hardworking career woman. But then, these last couple of weeks, something in me just... clicked, I guess, and suddenly I realized I wanted something else. And I wanted that thing so much that it scared me.”

“What was it you wanted?” John’s gentle breath made the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end.

“I wanted to make you happy,” I said. “As simple as that. For some reason, I woke up, and I wanted nothing more in the world than to make you happy. To be your girl. To show you my tits. To caress your face with my breasts. To be your sex toy. To be your dream woman.”

“But why? Why would you suddenly want all those things?”

“Because,” I said, leaning over him, brushing his lips with my own. “Because I fell in love with you.”

This time I didn’t pull away. This time when we kissed, our brains connected, and I went all the way. And then we kissed and kissed and kissed, even as John carried me into the bedroom where we made love, I lost my virginity, and where I came to experience my first real orgasm. And then we just fucked and kissed and fucked and kissed until we finally fell asleep, intertwined, body and soul.

And then next morning, John asked me to bind my life to his forever, and he knew my answer even before I spoke it out loud.

“Yes,” I said, feeling my whole body glow. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Epilogue:

We all have the genes. Everyone is a little bit Imprint inside.

Scientists have traced the gene for changing eye and hair color back more than 95,000 years. They theorize that we once changed the color of our hair and eyes with the seasons. Blonde in the summer and brown in the winter, both for temperature control and for camouflage when walking through the savannah.

And we all have the same mental wiring as well, as do many other animals it turns out. Pigeons and sea turtles can both navigate based on magnetic fields. Humans have this too, only our receptors are usually randomly oriented, muddling the picture so much that it all mostly cancels out.

Even so, many people are sensitive to the waves. Scientists have now proven that non-imprint couples who have been together for a long time can ‘hear’ each other mentally. Intuition, premonitions, even maybe even dowsing may someday be explained by these newly discovered receptors.

The difference in Imprints is that during transition we release a trigger hormone that makes our receptors unusually sensitive to outside influence—but only to the brain waves from another human being in close proximity. Apparently this is because only another human sends out the right frequencies in the right patterns. And so our receptors become ‘tuned’ to this outside influence, receiving our partner’s thoughts and desires, and acting upon them.

Is it mind control? Or mind reading? Both of those statements imply an active individual—the one controlling, the one reading. An imprint isn’t really an active participant. Instead it feels like you’re swept away in a flood of feelings.

It feels like falling in love.

Nine months after that night with John, I quit my job and gave birth to Evelyn, named for my mother. Evie is the sweetest thing, and both John and I bonded with her instantly. And then a year later I delivered Sarah.

And life with John? My breast-obsessed perverted husband? Has he settled down? Hardly. Life for me is an unending sequence of breasts and babies.

Naturally he loves my pregnant boobies. He loves suckling on them, and, perverted as he is, he loves watching me use the breast pump.

And he refuses to let me wear anything up top except for a bra when we’re at home. And he still insists that he ‘approve’ everything I wear.

During the day I wear shorts and bras around the house, or I go completely topless. Outside the house it’s short skirts and tight clingy shirts with plunging necklines and lots of cleavage. When we’re out with his work colleagues or just eating out it’s figure hugging sweater dresses, or clingy scoop-neck jersey dresses, or flirty short halter top or tank-top dresses with spaghetti straps. In the evening I’m usually lounging around in babydolls or teddies or some other lingerie he’s picked out.

Sally is now giving me a 10% discount of the top, as a preferred ‘platinum’ customer.

Even now I can only wear what he wants me to wear. And I get ‘inspections’—all the time, so I’m always working hard to look my absolute best for him, 24x7.

And we have sex just all the time. It’s frightening, really. There’s this weird feedback loop where he’ll see some beautiful woman’s breasts—like on TV or in a magazine—and then his sexual excitement will enter my brain and get me going. Then I’ll look over at what he’s looking at, and because I’m so in-tune with his thoughts, I’ll get even more excited, and so it gets amplified and sent back to him, and then in seconds we’re all over each other yet again, fucking like bunnies.

And for some reason the pill doesn’t work for imprints. Did you know that? And so I use a diaphragm, and he uses condoms, but more often than not we just say “screw it” and just start fucking away. We’re just so overcome every day by feelings of lust and love that it’s hopeless, really. John has estimated that we’ll end up with 14 children unless we get our urges under control.

“Like that’s ever going to happen,” he says, rolling his eyes.

And so here I am, a man-obsessed, sex-obsessed, baby factory. Which is probably the last thing I would have expected for myself. Once a year, from now until menopause, I’ll produce a baby girl who will someday grow up, imprint upon her own man and then turn into a happy, loving, man-obsessed and sex-obsessed baby factory of her very own, unleashing more and more imprint girls upon society.

Are you worried for the world?

Don’t be. My mom just revealed that she’s pregnant again. This time with a baby boy. I wonder if he’s an imprint too?