The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Yes! Fuck yes, plug me with that monster! Plug me! Plug me!”

She was never a shy one, that was for sure. Jill liked to talk dirty, dirty duck lips Jill, and she liked it when he talked dirty right back at her.

“Spread them! Wider, wider! You think you can take all this? You think your cunt can handle this much meat?”

“Yes! Yes!” she insisted, spreading her labia with her index and middle fingers, her legs a wide V up in the air.

Jill’s ass was perched right at the edge of his new bed, up high enough that he could stand, knees just slightly bent. His cock, at least twelve inches long—maybe more, he’d never measured—looked far too large for her, and fat enough to split something open and make her scream in the wrong way.

But it wasn’t too large; he knew that from experience and he could see and feel it now with only his purple crown parting wet membrane, Jill telling him to stick it in hard and deep.

“You want all of this? You beg to get it. You fucking beg me for every inch!”

“Pleeeaaasssse! Oh God drive it in! Drive it in God damn you, drive it in!”

Not exactly a sustained begging in his opinion, but the sex talk was really her game to play. He had his own game, on a playing board where Jill had become one of several pieces unknowingly rolling fuck-dice and moving forward.

He eased his cock a tiny bit forward, the tip parting her too-tight pussy like the staff of a prophet opening a passage to a promised land. She groaned and urged, wanting more more more, always seeking that final sensation, the feeling of being filled to the max, every single molecule of sensitive pussydom touched, stretched, fucked.

“Is it long enough? Is it hard enough?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Then beg me long and hard for all of it!”

He could feel how his words acted like release valves on everything inside that made a pussy wet. He thought every pussy must be linked into a woman’s brain in a unique way, and with Jill this combination of hard sex talk with an immense dick to back it up was the magic key to be turned.

“Oh God, Please! Please, please, oh God I need it so bad I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything just fucking please jam that thing in, damn yooooohhhhh!”

No warning, no halfway thrust to prepare her depths for the onslaught, he just heaved his hips forward with his back arched and she was whooping, her ass bouncing and legs kicking.

In out in out in out in out iiinnn out, her alluring lips spread wide and round like a pond, her voice rising in pitch until it fell away into a kind of not-sound, sex-screams that might be silent or only meant for dogs to get horny over.

The welling inside him, insane with his balls and cock this big, like a giant reservoir overfilled after a month of rain, so much pressure building, so much dick feeling her silky wet touch...

“Blast me!” she cried, her voice regained for a final encore of fuck-talk. “Fucking blast my pussy! Blast my pussy, blast it, blast iiiooohhhGooooooo!!!”

She let loose before he did, and that was the difference now, wasn’t it? With Karen and Cynthia and Susan and Natalia, it was simultaneous just about every time, orgasms touched by the fairy dust of mutuality. With these bench women it was sex the way sex had always been to some degree, filled with unpredictabilities, with ebbing and flowing that changed depending on mood, on how alert or tired one was, all the normal things in life.

Even so, there was magic here; is cock so big for Jill every time was an obvious one. It had been that way from the very first time he’d gotten hard specifically for her, and he thought it was tied to her having such a strong fantasy about that, about a cock this size. He didn’t know if his cock had figured that one out, or his brain or even the bench, or all three together. Or maybe it was a leftover from his indecision about whether to dream himself bigger or not—the answer, if it was one, was flexibility to meet different situations, or different preferences. That rich woman in his dream wondering if the stories could be true? Maybe for some; for her, it might be completely different, ordinary sex or some entirely different miracle.

Size-wise it had been the most extreme with Torrent of all women. Four afternoons on his bench had been what it took to get her to take a walk on the sausage side, and when he’d felt his thing growing in his pants for her, and she’d freed it expecting to be able to wrap her mouth around it, he wasn’t sure which of them had gasped the loudest.

Her philosophy was more more more, and damn if his cock hadn’t agreed.

Jill, here, had gone soundless again, her eyes open but probably unseeing, her mouth stretched wide like she still needed practice to take him down her throat. When he came a full thirty seconds after her eruption, it felt like a canon going off in there, all that extra size creating a different rush that he’d swear he could feel as a tingling all the way down his legs to his toes.

It drained him and he slipped out, sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed, his forehead pressed against her creamed pussy. He breathed heavily, in and out, the smell of their sex so strong and close. After a few minutes he placed his hands on her thighs to help push up, and organized her more comfortably on the bed. She’d lie there recovering for at least ten minutes, and she’d either send out signals that they were two and done, or she’d fondle him back to hardness again, wanting to hit a triple.

He glanced at the digital display on his new Ikea dresser—11:17, really not enough time for a third go before Jill’s noon shift. And he had somewhere to be at one, the graduation ceremony.

He would not be participating. The Monday after his final big dream, the hash dream that had reconfigured so much, he had met with his advisors and convinced them to allow him to withdraw from all but three of his classes, and to take an incomplete on his Egyptian Art class. He had pleaded a breakthrough in his independent projects class, profound enough that he wished to stay in school an extra year, gaining his final credits in a way that allowed him sufficient time to give his paintings every bit of attention they deserved. It was a sincere argument to some degree; even so it probably wouldn’t have flown without Susan’s letter, explaining how she and her husband had become aware of Mark’s large canvases, and saw enough potential in them to consider making a generous donation to the art department that fostered such strong, provocative work.

Susan—he owed so much to her. This furnished live/work studio, for one, a large loft space on the third floor of a building just two doors down from his bench. Susan knew all about the bench, had even sat there with him on numerous occasions, and it was funny because she was completely impervious to any special influence there. The dreaming had already formed her, or formed them together, and there was no changing it, or adding on.

The same was true of Karen, whom he’d tried to steer into not being upset by his sexual dalliances. She hadn’t dropped him; she couldn’t, not until the end of the semester, which was, technically, today. But she hadn’t been happy about it. They had a couple of fights—which always ended in hot sex—and she’d later channeled her anger and hurt into a song that he had a feeling might become a hit some day: “What Kind Of Man Would Ever Cheat On These?”

Mark stepped over to the nearest window, and peered through a mosaic of brilliant green leaves to the red brick sidewalk below. His bench was mostly visible just a little to the left. Two people were sitting on it, an elderly woman and a girl, maybe eight or nine years old. Grandmother and daughter with ice cream cones, not aware that anything at all was out of the ordinary with the bench taking their weight.

Like Karen in a way, believing their relationship was normal, that it had come about like other relationships come about. And that it should or could behave by the rules of romantic love, which, perhaps ironically, had been foreign to her heart back at the beginning of all this.

He watched the woman and the girl get up from his bench and walk away, and in his head heard the repeating part of Karen’s song:

We’ve gone just as far as two lovers can go

I’ve done a hundred things a girl can do on her knees

So tell me something baby ‘cause I really wanna to know

What kind of man would ever cheat on these?

He had to admit that Karen’s song asked a question as pointed as an erect nipple—how could he have cheated on those? Thing was, he’d come to believe that Karen might have needed that insanity in her life; her songwriting had grown by leaps and bounds, and some of that had to do with knowing what it was like to be in a relationship she’d felt a real stake in, even if that set her up for some hurting in the end. Her earliest songs had just been about sex; the last ones she’d sung to him, fingering her newly purchased guitar for accompaniment, had been about life, which included sex.

His life sure included sex. He hadn’t gone nuts with the bench, collecting women like an attempt to fill a hole in his soul. Really great-looking people were probably like this—they didn’t fuck strangers right and left even though they probably could. They were choosy, and so was he. So Jill and Torrent, of course, and two one-night flings, Aiko and Lisa, and one threesome fling with Rosanne and Bethany. Good ordinary sex that he never would have engaged in without his friendly neighborhood spider bench.

“Mwe should shar,” Jill said from the bed. Translation: We should shower. She was his favorite of the bunch and it sounded like she needed some coffee, which she’d be up to her ears in soon enough.

“You can go first,” he said. “You don’t want to be late.”

Jill sat up, her legs covered by a sheet, upper torso bare. Compared to Karen or even Torrent her breasts were relatively small, but there really was something about the way they sat so proudly upon her ribcage, and a compelling structural affinity with her lips that he hadn’t quite figured out yet. She raised her arms and stretched, not trying to be provocative at all. Her right breast, in profile, caught the window light in a way that emphasized it’s soft and smooth volume, which had an effect on his dick. With another woman, say Karen or Susan, his cock would have stopped growing where it was supposed to stop growing. With Jill as its Muse, it got that far and wide and then asked to be super-sized, and by some dream-echo bench miracle he’d probably never understand, his cock’s wish was granted.

Jill’s eyes were glued to its transformation, and she breath-pouted like a bit more duck had been injected into her lips. “Let’s shower together,” she said, staring open-mouthed at the rod that sometimes made him go a little weak in the knees, too.

“Jill, if we do...”

“I can be ten minutes late and the world won’t end,” she said, getting up and coming over. She put both hands around his cock and pulled, lightly. “Come and be my big wet beast.”

A nice way of putting it. Which, if he knew her, would be more like, “Fuck me hard with that big wet cock-beast!” by the time the water had gotten hot.

Mark had no idea what to wear to a graduation ceremony when you were supposed to be a part of it, but weren’t. Lots of people dressed up, suits and ties for the men, designer dresses for the women. Susan had scored an Armani suit for him to wear to art openings or when doing business, but he left it hanging in his closet, going casual in fresh jeans and a linen button-up shirt.

The ceremony took place at the Johnson Theatre, a big oval building with a sculpture garden occupying the area around its entrance. The day could hardly be any more gorgeous, white on blue in the sky with a light breeze that ruffled the leaves on trees.

When Mark arrived, a good half hour before the ceremonies were to begin, the first familiar face he spotted was Jorge. With a cane?

Mark approached his friend. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Football happened. Pulled groin.”

“Bummer. You’ll be able to walk across stage and get your diploma?”

Jorge winced, which wasn’t a good sign because he hadn’t moved at all. “I’ll manage,” he said.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, eyes roaming, taking in the scene. There were so many good-looking women all around them, and most would be somewhere else in a few days or a few weeks, never resting their fine behinds on Mark’s bench.

“You aren’t with Karen,” Jorge said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Should I read anything into that? It seems to me that you two...”

He let that hang, and Mark didn’t keep him waiting too long. “We’re over. It was an amazing run, but it wasn’t built to last.”

“Funny. I always thought she looked very much built to last.”

Mark couldn’t make himself laugh at the joke.

“But really, I’m sorry to hear that, man,” Jorge filled the space. “She changed with you. She respected you. You sure this can’t be fixed? You are staying, she is going, but if the love is strong...”

“Sounds like one of her songs. But no, the love isn’t that strong. We’re over.”

“I heard her sing the other day, just a few people gathering after exams. She is very talented.”

“She is indeed.”

“For you... I don’t know. It may sound shallow, but how does a man come down from a pair like that, you know?”

“I know. Meaning I don’t know. I’ll just have to move on.”

Speaking of moving on, Mark spotted Cynthia in a group that included parents and children, probably her family. Cynthia was decked out in a short teal-colored dress without shoulders, with a little bag slung diagonally across her chest, separating her tits oh-so finely. To Mark’s eyes she looked like a piece of blueberry candy he wanted to suck on, but couldn’t.

“I’ll bet that’s her mother,” he said, indicating a diminutive woman with hair almost the same color. Probably fifty or so, and though small like her daughter, her figure was still excellent.

“That one,” Jorge said, and there was something odd in his voice. “Cynthia is like the treasures she studies, you know? I feel pity for any man...”

“Pity?”

“She is saving herself for someone, you can tell.” And something whispered in Spanish that Mark didn’t catch, with the hand gestures of a prayer.

“You always had a thing for her, didn’t you?” Mark asked.

Jorge smiled, winced. “You know that saying, watch what you wish for?”

“I think you’re the third or fourth person to say that to me recently.”

“Because it is so true. I wished for Cynthia. I wished for her for two years, but I...”

“Yes?”

“Ah!” Jorge said, eyes going elsewhere. “Come and meet my parents, just arrived.”

Mark did just that. He met lots of parents, but no one met his because they weren’t here, because he wasn’t graduating. Which his parents were pretty pissed about, if anyone wanted to know.

Standing alone after the parental invasion, he spied Natalia, standing near the building entrance with a group of women whose toned legs and lithe torsos could only belong to fellow dancers. Natalia, looking finer than fine in a form-hugging beige dress, was not graduating, only supporting her friends who were. She spotted him and smiled, waving a hand at her side. It was no secret that she had modeled for him several times now. And she had told him to call her any time he wanted as often as he wanted, that she would drop anything but her most pressing engagements to model for him again and again.

“I swear she looks more like your superhero character every day,” he heard to his right, and down. Cynthia, in that tight dress and the heels that just about brought her into the petite zone.

Mark felt chills being near her. He felt a stirring in his pants, aw crap, no, don’t do that down there, please! But he was, getting hard in a jerky vibratory way, his cock’s way of telling him that if he fucked this one, he’d have the added advantage of being like a human vibrator once she had her pussy wrapped around him.

He put one hand over the other, standing with them down, screening his crotch, so lame.

“Hello? Mark?”

“”I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Your dancer model. I’d swear her boobs are bigger than they were a couple of months ago, like they see the way you paint her and want to be like that.”

Almost exactly what was happening. Natalia had modeled for him three times now, and each time her tits grew like crazy during sex, and shrank back a little bit less afterwards. At this pace, a dozen more sessions and they wouldn’t need to grow at all, because they’d already be Thunder Woman’s tits.

“She’s a growing girl, I guess? Some women are probably late bloomers.”

“I wish some of that would rub off on me.”

Maybe she was talking about her size overall, like wishing to grow six inches up, which wasn’t going to happen. But her tits were going to be bigger and better versions of themselves in three years, and he was pretty sure that process would start very soon.

“I’m making you nervous,” Cynthia said. “But I don’t care what Karen thinks or says, this might be the last time I see you. I’m all packed up, leaving tomorrow morning.”

Damn, so soon. “Where do you go from here?”

“Back to Indiana, storing stuff at my parents’ house while I figure out which coast I end up on.”

East coast, east coast. “ Anywhere specific in mind?”

“I’ve been sending out resumes for months. I’m on the short list for...” She stopped, the eyebrows frowning. “I should say, two commercial galleries want to interview me to work as an assistant. One’s in San Francisco. the other in Manhattan. They aren’t my dream jobs, but you have to start somewhere, right?”

“You have to do Manhattan.”

“Oh? What makes you so sure? They’re both expensive places to live, but the climate in San Francisco... It’s pretty attractive.”

“New York. Just trust me on this.”

Cynthia’s eyebrows did a little complexity dance. “I wonder about trust, I really do.”

“What do you mean?”

Her head went down for a couple of seconds, and he noticed the flesh under her collarbones flushing pinker. Was she focusing on his hands trying to hide his erection? Registering how just being near her, even in a crowd out in the sunshine, caused an erection?

She shuddered, a quick all-body tremor that he would swear was a sexual event. “It’s a tender subject,” she said, her voice thicker than before. She shook her head and looked up. “I mean Karen trusted me, you know? And she shouldn’t have.”

“But that...” He didn’t know what he could say.

“I can’t believe you aren’t graduating,” she said, changing the subject. “Jorge said it probably makes sense, because you’re one of the few that will keep painting. You know what all the professors say to us in freshman year, that the ones who choose to make art will probably give up in five years?”

“I remember.”

“So is Jorge right? He thinks you’ll be painting up a storm in five years.”

“I can’t see five years from now. Three, maybe.”

“Well just to let you know, I think you have the makings of a true artist. The gift.”

“Thank you. We’ll see.”

“I think I have the makings artistry, too,” she added, and let that comment do whatever it was going to do, which in truth was to create all sorts of additional discomfort in his pants. “You know, there’s something I want to give you,” she said, rummaging in her bag.

She withdrew something wrapped in red tissue paper and handed it to him. It was hard, feeling like glass in his hand. “What is it?”

“Unwrap it and see, dummy.”

He did, and when he had the object uncovered, he still wanted to ask what it was. ”It’s... a carved banana?” More like half a banana, encased in hard resin or plastic.

“Just something I’ve been experimenting with,” Cynthia said. “That’s the best one so far. It broke in half... It’s hard keeping them intact when I try to get the designs on them. But that doesn’t matter; I just wanted you to have it.”

“It’s a real banana?” he asked, feeling lost. If this could be called art at all it would have to be in the direction of kitsch.

“Dipped in an acrylic polymer, yes.”

“What did you make these shapes with?” They looked like softened hieroglyphics, and probably were considering her interest in all things Egyptian.

Cynthia giggled, which he wish she hadn’t done because he just wanted to eat her up and swallow her. “Don’t make too much of it,” she said. “Keep it or use it as a paperweight or throw it away, whatever. It’s just... I don’t know, an exercise.”

“I won’t throw it away, I promise.”

“I saw you speaking to Jorge,” she said, moving on. “How did he say he ended up with that cane?”

“Some soccer injury. His groin, I think.”

“Ah. Interesting.”

Mark felt fresh chills, especially when he saw the little smile playing at Cynthia’s lips.

“Never been called ‘Soccer’ before,” she said. She looked past him and frowned. “I guess it’s time to go in. My folks are waving for me to come.”

He felt like waving for her to come, too, but knew that would be years ahead.

She stepped in to him and went up on tip-toes. He leaned down to meet her and she kissed his cheek. His cock knew it was in love and he wanted to just wrap her up in his arms and hug the living shit out of her. He put his hand on her chin instead, prepared to say something, anything. Before he could say something stupid she gasped and her eyebrows went all wonky, her lips parting in a round ‘O’.

He heard a sound like something that might emerge from a fishbowl, followed by a clanking that repeated several times. He stepped back from Cynthia and she stepped back, too, looking down at two polished silver balls coming to rest on the pavement between them. The air had become thick with a scent that overpowered pollen and flower alike, and his cock breathed it in deeply, never wanting to forget it.

“That was bound to happen sometime,” she said, squatting to scoop the balls, glistening with a nectar he so longed to feel and taste, into a small hand.

And then she hurried away, Ben Wa balls clenched in one hand while the other waved to her family.

Mark had intended to sit in the balcony seats and watch all his friends and classmates get their diplomas, but after that cockbreaking encounter with Cynthia he just couldn’t do it. He walked back towards his new apartment, feeling alone. He knew he was following his own drummer and that was okay; still, his drummer had tapped out some really weird shit, hadn’t it? Everybody else was transitioning into the post-college phase of their lives; he was transitioning from Karen’s boobs, mostly, to Jill, and more Natalia super-fucks, and sometime in the fall some in-house trysts with a select few of Susan’s dolled-up friends.

He hadn’t seen Karen out there for graduation. She’d surely been around, probably inside since there would be no missing her. Keeping away from him, perhaps? Not wanting to start some sort of a break-up scene with her family around?

They might not even have a final scene like that. Since the last day of final exams, Karen had gradually withdrawn, skipping a night of sex, then skipping two. It was like their relationship was a battery losing its charge, and by now it might be functionally dead.

And hadn’t she told him that in so many words, through her music? She carried a notebook around now, never without it, where she jotted down lyrics when they came to her. He had peeked the other week while she was in the bathroom, and her latest song, not quite finished from the crossed-out sections and notations on the side, was titled, “Packin’ Up This Rack and Movin’ On”.

Like draw me a roadmap, he thought. He’d known it was coming and even when; still, it was much as Jorge had said—how does a man come down from a pair like that?

Turning onto his block, he thought about going up to his studio to paint, but ended up on his bench instead. And not with any designs on girl-prowling today; he just felt like sitting in the sun to bleach some of the country music thoughts out of him, of things that might have been or were yet to be.

He didn’t have a harem, yet. Jill was becoming pretty regular, Susan about three times a week and Natalia every now and then. He didn’t know what sort of instincts or logic Natalia followed when in the fever of her Thunder Woman posing, but she was in some ways driving the story lines through her modeling now—she’d give him fabulous poses that he captured on his phone, and then, bass-ackwards, it was his job to fashion a narrative that fit with the visuals at his disposal.

Susan, he’d decided, was a recurring character now. He’d given her the name of Amy Addings, a journalist and personal friend of the main character, Michelle Morris. Global warming was causing a change in storm formation that sometimes flipped a switch in Michelle Morris’ brain, turning her into a sexually voracious version of Thunder Woman. Amy Addings was the first “victim”—the shots of Natalia with Susan were ideal for this, and he’d already sketched it all onto five new canvases, waiting to receive paint up in his studio.

Susan had purchased those paintings already, along with the first set. And she had suggested a particular friend of hers—not one of the women from his dream—to be Michelle Morris/Natalia’s next victim. Mark hadn’t met the woman yet or gotten her on this bench, but Susan had shown him a couple of photos online, and homina!

There was plenty of motivation to work hard in his studio—how could he have a show of his paintings, like in the dream, without first making the paintings? He had the first of a second series of paintings going, this one with Torrent as the model. He thought of it as his “Superheroines at rest” series, and thought they would be an interesting counterpoint to the more active Thunder Woman canvases.

Torrent, nude, actually looked like a comic-based woman, with her workout muscles and big tits. He had positioned her, after all the fucking with a dick that might be at home on the Hulk, on a divan that Susan had scared up somewhere, in the classic pose of an odelisque. Lots of drapery and other classical elements there, but also her superhero costume, casually laid aside.

No one but Susan and Torrent had seen that painting so far. They both thought it was wonderful; he hoped they were right, because the alternative was that it was ridiculous. He had a serious side, an art-making craft-oriented side, but also his love of fantasy and the comic book stuff that had gotten him into drawing in the first place. Sometimes, when genres mixed and reality and fantasy came smashing together in art, it worked, but other times not. Maybe the most difficult thing about it was telling the difference.

A breeze blew up suddenly, rattling the leaves behind him and kicking grit into his eyes. He wiped them and looked up at the sky. Still mostly blue, and getting closer in quality to the light that would, someday this summer, bring Clarisse and her legs to this bench. He guessed about three weeks, though he couldn’t be sure. He wanted those calves and thighs in one of his odalisque paintings, definitely, the Amazing Super Legs, out of costume.

Time passed, the sun casting different shadows than when he’d first sat down. His right cheek felt warm and he wondered whether he might be getting too much sun. He also wondered: Would Clarisse herald a harem? He thought that might be the magic number where it would become necessary to park his women one by one on this bench and aim an attitude of knife-aversion into their brains. Or harem-love, go positive.

That was it. On a perfect spring day with Karen gone or going and Cynthia gone for years, he needed to go positive, be positive. He had Susan and her megabucks backing him up—he hadn’t met the doctor husband yet but she said it wasn’t a problem, that she and her husband were coming to a mutual understanding that she would need sexual adventures outside of their bedroom. The brain guy was cool with it. She hadn’t said it directly, but Mark was under the impression that Don, as she called him, was completely enthralled by the miracle of her nipples, like he’d married a trophy wife and the trophy had sprouted additional trophies while sitting on a shelf. Hey, whatever made the guy happy, and docile.

So he had Susan, and this new place to live and paint, and Jill wearing blonde roast like perfume, and Natalia sometimes blowing in like that there-and-gone breeze however many minutes ago. And soon enough Super Legs, able to talk dirty in French. In other words, tons to be happy about.

Mark tanned well, but worried that he’d get too much sun if he stayed much longer. He thought about going over to Café Magoo for an iced latté as a pick-me-up, but decided against it. He rarely went inside when Jill was on-shift, because one wrong look could bust her concentration all to hell. It wasn’t so much a question of whether she’d get fired or anything, more a problem of whether he’d actually get the drink he ordered.

He looked that way, back over his left shoulder, and his spine turned to ice. What. The. Fuck?

His brain said Karen at the same time his dick said not-Karen, that clash igniting the sudden chills. He blinked reflexively, nothing but confusion until it all clicked into place. Two middle-aged people, tall good-looking husband and medium height better-looking wife, with tits. And to the other side of the wife, the Karen who was not Karen, with Karen-sized tits.

“Oh fucking Christ!” he exhaled, getting it. Karen’s parents, here for her graduation. And Karen’s sister, here to meet his cock—according to his cock, that is.

The trio paused outside of Café Magoo, mom and her mane of dark brown hair indicating she wanted to go in. Mark was treated to two seconds of Karen-sister tits in profile before she stepped through the door, the parents following. Holy gods of all that is round and heavy did her cups runneth over!

Just like her sister. Karen had never mentioned having one, but then he’d never asked. This one was younger, a touch shorter and trimmer with light brown hair, whereas Karen had gotten mom’s dark locks. Really similar face from what he’d been able to make out.

He’d learned that he could establish contact as far away as Café Magoo, especially when Jill was in there, acting like a relay station or some sort of frequency booster. He closed his eyes, fuck sunburn concerns, and felt Karen B, all bright and youthful and so utterly stacked. Man, what were they feeding these girls back home in Nebraska, and could he buy a few bushels of it to keep in a barrel behind his bench?

He thought come here. He thought this bench, warm and pleasant in sun. He thought sit right here, Karen sister. He knew when the connection was real, not imaginary, and when it was effective. And after about five minutes of sustained concentration, all three emerged from the store, and slowly walked his way.

Other people were staring at the approaching tits and so he didn’t think it mattered too much that he did, too. Karen-B had worn a medium length pale skirt to her sister’s graduation, and a boob-hugging white blouse that showed way more cleavage than pops was probably comfortable with. Or not—who knew, maybe Karen’s tits had blazed trails where these could follow with half the effort.

He made sure not to stare so much that he’d creep her out, especially when her eyes lighted upon the bench. He looked elsewhere and felt her approach, upping the image of gentle bench-attraction to finish luring her in.

“Here,” came the youthful voice, much like Karen’s but a touch lighter.

Mark looked up and saw the group contemplating how they could arrange themselves on the bench when he was already sitting there. “Oh, I’m sorry, you guys should sit here together,” he said, getting up. A possible hitch—he’d never tried any of this without actually sitting on the bench, and wasn’t sure it would still work.

Mom said something about her daughter insisting on this bench, and Mark laughed, positioning himself to the far side and resting a hand on a back-slat, keeping contact.

“I see you folks found the best coffee shop in town,” he said, his pulse rising now that he had a down-blouse view of Karen-B, holy crap. He would swear these tits were identical in size to Karen’s, only B was a little bit smaller overall, the effect amplified.

“Told you so,” B said, elbowing pops.

“Private joke,” mom said, addressing Mark.

“He looks like a farmer even in a suit,” B explained. “You knew we weren’t local the second you saw us, right?”

“I guess I did,” Mark said, though her logic was flawed. With a rack like hers, a guy would know whether he’d seen her, them, whether farmer dad was in the picture or not. ”Hope you folks enjoy the town,” he said, turning to go while also beaming stay stay stay into B.

“Hey wait!”

“Yes?”

“You a student here?”

“I am.”

“I’m thinking of coming.”

And he’d like to be there when she did, even help her to get there. “It’s a great school,” he said. “I can’t tell you how lucky I feel to be going here. Especially this past semester. The best.”

Mom and pop were smiling while he beamed come here great school come here great school into B.

“This feels right to me,” she said.

“You’re the only one who can know,” mom said.

“I think I want to come here,” B announced. “No, I want to come here. My mind’s made up, finally.”

“Two birds with one stone,” mom said to pop, meaning one daughter graduated on this trip, the other enrolled.

Mark smiled, thinking two Corsos with one bone.

“We should get back to Karen,” mom said, and the family got up to leave.

Mark told them to have a pleasant day, silently instructing B to bring her huge rack back to right here at this bench, bring those tits here to this bench the day she arrived for school come late August. He watched them walk away, back in the direction they’d come, wondering what B’s name might be. Maybe Kathryn or Candace, if they’d held fast to the sound of it.

“Kiki,” he said, liking the sound of that. “Kiki Corso.”

She would be that for him until she returned someday, and reality replaced his fantasy. How long after her arrival before he’d be juggling those flesh-balloons in his hands, or ramming his cock between them? Not too long, he thought. Maybe he’d even replenish his supply of baby oil way before she arrived, just to be prepared.

Thinking about those huge future-tits had him wanting some huge present-tits, which in his current world meant Natalia. Even at their maximum, Natalia’s tits didn’t expand into the Karen or Karen B zone, but hey, you couldn’t have everything.

He fished out his cell and called. “Natalia? Hi, it’s Mark. Look, I could really use some modeling help tonight if...”

He listened. She had party, celebration dance party. Dance party go late, but she break free, come before eight. Was okay?

Was okay. Would even be a cum-launching tit-expanding blast, even if she could never quite seem to remember that.

He left his bench, finally, and ascended the stairs to his loft space. He’d bought a digital camera for getting better quality photos of Natalia to work from, and he still didn’t know how to use most of its functions. He pulled a chair in front of his latest canvases, Thunder Woman storm-raping Susan, a.k.a. Amy Addings, and read through parts of the instruction manual, fiddling with dials and buttons, learning how to use his equipment.

It was a great camera. Every time he wondered why it couldn’t do such-and-such, it turned out that it could; he just had to figure out how. Lighting was never a problem with Thunder Woman, and now with a zoom lens he could go from far to near so easily, expanding the possibilities with...

Something hit him. Expanding. The possibilities.

He put the camera down, and stared at his canvases. It was all drawn in with vine charcoal, Michelle Morris overcome by barometric forces beyond her control, igniting a fire in her pussy that drove her to abduct Amy Addings, carrying the leggy reporter high into the sky for a super-hot girl-girl cloud fuck. Michelle Morris’ tits grew every time she transformed into Thunder Woman, and that was why Natalia’s tits grew, too, model and hero tied together by a long-ago dream.

Mark stood, found a rag and wiped out the Thunder Woman’s breasts as they first appeared in the center panel of painting number two. He knew how big they should be because he’d established their volume in his mind for years, and Natalia’s tits had grown to match that. “I be”, she had always insisted. Be Thunder Woman when she modeled for Thunder Woman. Change, by the graces of his old dream-magic, to meet the character’s parameters.

He thought of Karen’s breasts instead, and Kiki Corso’s whopping pair, if there even was a Kiki Corso. And he re-drew Thunder Woman’s super-boobs with those in mind, rather dramatically increasing their scale.

He stepped back, looked. Fucking erection city, popping a boner in his pants the way he used to pop wheelies on his bike as a kid.

“More,” he said, rubbing those out with the rag, too, and drawing them again, fuller by a factor of his penis pulsing like it wanted to fuck half the world. He stepped back, couldn’t help letting out a groan, and moved on to the next depiction of Thunder Woman, changing her breasts to match the first. In just ten minutes he had two paintings changed, a lot of smeary charcoal ground into the white of the gesso but who cared about that? It would all get painted over in the end. It would be.

Would Natalia also be, be this? She changed when they fucked to become his character in form, so if the character’s form changed, wouldn’t she?

“More more more,” he said.

Mark’s dick began to vibrate in his pants, a flutter of conflicting sizes feeling like they all applauded the idea. He slumped back into his chair, legs spread, feeling like he might faint from the excitement of it.

No telling. No telling if it could happen. The dreams had laid out rules that, until now, had not been yielding. His not graduating had not altered Karen’s trajectory of dumping him when school ended—school wasn’t over, not for him, but no tricky out-thinking the dream there with a technicality.

Still, with this, he was hopeful, very hopeful. After all, everybody knew that life did sometimes imitate art.