The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tit-Slave — Chapter 4

When I arose in the morning, I found my tits were very, very sore and sensitive. I finally took my tee shirt off because I couldn’t stand the friction and pressure of the soft fabric against my nubs. The cool air in my apartment took away some of the burn. I went to the bathroom and searched for some lotion and found a bottle in the linen closet that had come from one of the hotels I’d stayed in during my business travels. Covering the opening with my right index finger, I flipped the bottle, leaving a dollop on my finger-tip. I repeated the motion with my left hand, I had finger-tips coated with cool lotion. I raised my fingers to my nipples and gasped when soothing flesh met raw flesh. I rubbed the lotion in with ginger motions, not wanting to apply too much pressure to my abused nipples, or titties, as I was now thinking of them. God, that’s so gay, I thought. What kind of man calls his nipples “titties”? Only fags, and, though I’m comfortably gay, I never considered myself a fag. Yet, here I was, rubbing lotion into my “titties”. I gently pressed my titties between my thumbs and fingers, pulling from base to tip. “Fag”, I thought.

When they felt a little better, I dropped my shorts and climbed into the shower. I should say that I’ve shaved in the shower for years. I mean, why not? My face is already wet with hot water, so my beard is soft and why waste extra time and water shaving before or after my shower? It’s not like I can’t get a good shave by feel; I don’t need to see myself in the mirror. So after lathering up, I grabbed my razor and shaved my face. Then, something very strange happened. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I applied the razor to my chest. I started at the top of my sternum and drew it downward, shaving a clean swath through my chest hair. Then I shaved the fur from both pecs, leaving my chest as smooth as it had been before I had begun to sprout the fur in high-school. I’d always been so proud of my chest and belly fur: it proved I was a man. And to a gay boy, or, I should say “gay kid”, proving your masculinity is crucial. But now I was removing that external sign of my masculinity. Why? What the hell was happening? I had no answers, but I kept right on, as though some unseen, unknown being was controlling my actions. Something had changed in my internal sense of myself: I was losing my masculinity.

When I’d finished with my chest, being very careful around my sensitive titties, I removed the fur from my armpits, then my belly and lastly, my pubes, cock, and balls and ass crack. I watched the fur circle and disappear down the drain and felt that my proud manhood was disappearing with it. Was I becoming a fag? At this stage in my life? I didn’t want to be a fag. But I was doing these things that pointed to that. I was becoming a fag. And then the words found their way into my consciousness: “Tit fag. Tit slave”. Someone or something was taking control over me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Even if I’d had an idea who or what “it” was, there was nothing I could do to stop it; of that much I was sure. And I was equally sure that I didn’t really want to.

I got out of the shower and stared at my body in the mirror. Where there had been fur, there was now smooth skin. Where there had previously been rather normal, unremarkable nipples, there was now the beginnings of titties: points that were already showing signs of increased length and girth. And was it my imagination, or were the brown circles of my areolas increasing in diameter? Or was it the new exposure because I had removed the hair that had covered them for so long? I touched them and stretched them between my fingers, trying to figure out whether or not they were actually getting bigger. Then, glancing at the clock, I realized I had a meeting scheduled in an hour and needed to get my ass in gear.

I made my meeting after which Greg and I went back to our endeavors on the report. Greg was like he always was: efficient, friendly, and insightful about the executives’ concerns. But there was something just a bit different about him today. He kept looking at my chest, smiling ever so slightly, with a glint in his eye. Could it be? Was Greg gay? Funny that he and I had never talked about our personal lives. I had no idea whether he was gay or straight, partnered or single. I knew viritually nothing about this good-looking man that I’d worked with for several years now. I made my mind up to change that; I’d invite him out for a drink.

“Greg?”

“Yah?” he answered absently, reading over some figures.

“We’ve worked together for quite a while now, but I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“Yah...” he answered, looking up.

“Well, how about we get together after work for a drink? Maybe dinner? I mean, I’m unattached, so I always eat by myself anyway and I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

“A little better!” Hah. How about get to know you at all, seeing as how you’re a complete cypher to me.

“Sure,” he answered, smiling. “I’m ‘unattached’ too, so that would be nice. Tonight?”

“Sounds great,” I said, beaming.

So Greg was “unattached” too. So who knows? Maybe he’s gay like I am. I do have to say, he’s a good-looking guy and smart as a whip. I felt my cock beginning to harden and my tit’s beginning to erect. I had to remind myself to stop: we’re colleagues and colleagues don’t get involved with one another; too many issues when there’s fraternization in the workplace. But the thought never completely left my mind. I began to find myself noticing things about him: the shape of his ass as the fabric of his trousers molded itself around his globes; the outline of the substantial bulge in his crotch when I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of his remarkably well-outlined and big, thick cock, all the while trying not to be caught stealing a glance; the outlines of his pecs and the points of his nipples when his shirt clung to his chest. And when I noticed these things, my cock would harden of its own accord.

I asked Roger to order me some lunch and when he brought it in, he brought along a shipping envelop and placed it next to my lunch.

“Came this morning,” he said.

The return on the envelop was only an address, so I wasn’t absolutely sure what it was, but I waited until Roger left for lunch to open it up. I had an idea it was my nipple cups. I locked my door, opened the package and pulled out four smaller plastic ziplocs, each with a pair of translucent silicone cups in it: a graduated set from small to extra-large. I took out the smallest pair, holding them in my hand.

“These,” I thought, “will be taking me somewhere I’d never planned on going. But I want to go there; I do want to go there.”

I don’t know how I’d come to know this, but I’d gone to the drugstore on the way in this morning, and picked up a bottle of body lotion with an ingredient called hyoluronic acid. I’d read on the web that this ingredient makes skin flexible and supple, so it would make my nipples supple too. I’d also picked up a jar of hand cream from Burt, the Bee guy, with almond milk in it. It was thick and would provide a good seal on the cups.

I threw my tie over my shoulder, unbuttoned my shirt and pulled up my athletic tee, exposing my newly shaved chest and belly. I opened the bottle of lotion. I capped the opening with my index finger and tipped the bottle, leaving a coating of lotion on my finger-tip, which I touched to my left index finger. I brought both finger-tips to my titties and inhaled sharply at the touch of the cold lotion on my hungry points. I was glad I was sitting, because my knees went weak. Rubbing the lotion around and pulling on my nips, I almost drifted off. But I wanted those cups on my titties. I coated the flanges of the cups with a thing layer of hand cream and squeezing them, placed them on my smallish points. When I released the cups from my grip, they began to expand, pulling my nips inside. I was inpatient to see them fully expanded and kneaded the flattened cups between my fingers, causing them, in turn, to knead my nipples. I groaned and leaned back in my chair, my cock hardening with the stimulation on my titties. Soon they were fully expanded and I looked down to see my nipples nearly twice the length they had been. Of course, that was because of the vacuum, and I knew they would return to their more-or-less normal size when I removed the cups. But I also realized that if I wore the cups all day, every day, my nipples, my titties, would grown permanently. I squeezed the cups again to increase the pump and my nipples expanded incrementally more.

I wanted so much to play with them, but I had meetings after lunch and an apointment with Greg to continue work on the report, so I reassembled my clothes and tried to focus on my lunch. But my hands kept wandering up to my suctioned nipples. I could see that the cups created significant protrusions under my shirt, but, at this point, I didn’t care. I was going to get titties. I was a happy fag.

Oh, that word! Why did that word come into my consciousness again? Tit fag. Tit slave. What the hell was happening to me? But as I rolled the terms around in my brain, I found my dick getting harder and noticed a wet spot growing on my pants. I was getting really turned on by the idea of becoming a tit fag. And submitting. Submitting to what? To whom? I’d never considered myself submissive. To be honest, I’d never really thought about that aspect of my sexuality. As I’ve said, I was pretty vanilla, straight-arrow, for a gay man. I guess I was vaguely aware that world was out there, but it wasn’t something I’d thought very much about. But now, I was finding myself thinking about it more and more and even acting on it, though I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know who was pulling the strings. Ted? Was that who it was? I became aware that all this had begun when I’d visited his website. Was he the one dominating me? All I could remember was that each night, I get home, eat my dinner and go to my laptop and find that e-mail from Ted and that’s it. Nothing more. I awaken the next morning with sort tits and these undeniable urges to do things; resulting in my titties being the subject of an expansion project. There has to be a connection with Ted. But how could he, whoever he is, be doing this to me? It’s like I was being hypnotized. But I don’t believe in hypnosis! It’s just a silly thing that some gullible people believe in. I guess if you do believe in it and it can help you overcome problems like smoking or over-eating, that’s fine. But I don’t believe in it! And yet, here I was with suction cups on my nipples and words like “tit fag” and “tit slave” creeping into my consciousness.