The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

All week long I’ve been hyper-aware of when I’m flirting. I do it more than I realized, in places like my bank and at the coffee shop I frequent, or at the pool—no one makes me wear that revealing a bikini. Sometimes I flirt just by getting out of my car; it’s the difference between simply opening the car door and stepping out quickly and efficiently, or making a show of coming out, heels and ankles first while knowing how that alone could already have arrested several pairs of eyes, and then brandishing my legs out the door. Once I’m standing I brush my hand across the bottom of my skirt, presumably to make certain there is no static cling, but I’m also describing the contours of my alluring rear for anyone to see.

So often the flirting has begun even before I’ve left the house, with my choice of how to dress. Yesterday, for instance, I was stretching downstairs in my dance space, wearing leotards. I needed to pick up a few things at the grocery store and I could have slipped a pair of pants or a modest skirt over the leotards, but I didn’t. It wasn’t terribly cold and so I threw on nothing but a short jacket, which meant I was parading my legs and even part of my ass down the aisles. That has an effect; I change shopping cart traffic patterns, with some men making sure they intersect me in different aisles over and over. Sometimes I meet their eyes and smile, or reach for something on a high shelf I don’t need, putting on a show. At times like those, I almost believe I can hear the stretch of their pants as they get hard.

Yesterday a hunky guy came on to me in a big way as I was buying milk—maybe something Freudian there, his choice of when to pounce? He was persistent, impassioned even, and I felt something like an animal attraction arise, not so much about him specifically, but the thought of just cutting free and fucking someone other than my husband for fuck’s sake.

But then it’s just like Stephen said, that something is there that keeps me from going any further. Knowing that I’m married, conscience, fears… I’m not crazy; it isn’t like I’d prefer to find myself rubbing against a smitten stranger in the produce section, spilling oranges all over the floor from our wild humping while creating a scene. I behave myself and I should behave myself, only…

Only there has been a feeling or an emotion inside, nagging at me all week, that Stephen and I could have explored this side of me more deeply. Is my path, sexually, locked in stone, no possibility of being touched or moved by something unforeseen? I don’t know if I can abide that, a life without some sort of trip into the underworld.

That had been the theme of a recent book club discussion, after we’d read how the goddesses from Greek mythology were perfect representations of female psychological archetypes. The goddess that had provoked the most argument was Persephone, who was young and beautiful, and kidnapped by Hades and taken down into the earth to reign as the Queen of the Underworld. Eventually she was allowed to return to the above-world for periods of time, and in this way she represented a mystical woman who brings hidden truths from very deep places, like a spiritual seeker.

Some of the women said they wanted to be that, despite the fact that most of their decisions have taken them in the complete opposite direction, into lives of privilege and safety. I think they imagine they want some unpredictability or risk in their lives, some excitement, but they’d balk at relinquishing even an ounce of their comfort to achieve it. Others shared this view, bringing reminders that Persephone was raped by Hades, and that a woman of that psychological make-up is sometimes compelled to act out the “unacceptable aspects” of life that others turn away from, and often judge harshly. Plus, the text stated plainly that women who fall into the Persephone archetype might be attracted, unconsciously, into difficult relationships, especially with controlling men. Or, because of their fear of that very tendency, they might choose pushovers, men they dominate. Either way it would be a life out of balance.

I never knew where I was on that spectrum—none of the goddess archetypes struck me as being a perfect fit, especially the motherly ones. But it’s on my mind because I might have more respect now for that idea of unacceptable tendencies bubbling up from a personal underworld. The way I flirt so shamelessly sometimes, and how I’ll use my looks almost as a way of twisting a knife into susceptible men… It’s cock-teasing for sure, and Stephen is helping me to understand the underlying motivations for those behaviors, but then what? If I love cock-teasing so much that it’s how I get my thrills, why aren’t I a more enthusiastic lover when in the presence of an available cock, meaning Tom’s? How, in a practical way, do I go about getting thrilled by that?

All of that was front and center in my thoughts when I showed up for today’s session. While awaiting my time in the reception area, I noticed there was something different about Pauline; it was like she was aglow or something, her eyes shining brighter and a dreamy expression sometimes softening the corners of her mouth. I thought she looked both stunning and stunningly happy, like a truly beautiful woman in love. Perhaps I was wrong to suspect that she has a predator’s focus on Stephen; as far as I know she’s in a completely happy relationship with some lucky man I’ll never meet.

I might have tried to probe her, seeking details I have no right knowing, but Stephen was there and he beckoned me to enter his office. I had chosen bright red tights and a rather daring skirt, and I caught my therapist studying my legs; he is human after all. I was showing far more cleavage than usual, too, a V-neck that exposed a good eight inches of cleavage, and I was happy to catch him licking his lips when his eyes rested there.

I just wrote that I was happy, but I won’t lie on these pages. I got excited, like a distinct aching between my legs.

Stephen settled in behind his desk, and I pulled an envelope from my handbag before taking my seat. I can’t really say where the impetus had come from, but Stephen had asked about my parents in our second session, and I’d brought a recent photo they’d sent. I slipped the picture out and handed it to him over the desk, and he studied it for ten or fifteen seconds before handing it back.

“How old is your mother in this photo? If it’s not too tactless to ask.”

“She just turned fifty. It’s from this past Christmas.”

“Thank you for letting me see this. You must know that your mother is a great beauty. Like you.”

I opened my mouth, intending to utter some platitude about the apple not falling far from the tree—or in my case the melons not falling far—but I decided the point was obvious. And I have to admit I was pleased that he hadn’t said my mother was a great beauty, when she’s kept her figure and can pass for a woman in her late thirties.

I was the one steering the beginning of the session, by bringing up my recent Persephone thoughts, and how that might be tied into my cock-teasing tendencies. Of course Stephen was familiar with the concepts, and he had read the book we’d discussed in book club. He didn’t weigh in on what goddess archetypes he saw in me, and I was intrigued when he said I might, eventually, need to find a framework outside of “convenient Western psychological frameworks” to get at my deepest truths.

I was going to question him about that when—bam—it was as though he could turn on X-ray therapist eyes with the flip of a switch, commenting that my questions about goddesses and archetypes might really be a kind of diversion, a means of holding back on what was really eating at me. “Tell me your difficulties,” he said, and it was like his words pulled my true questions right out.

“Remember you were asking what sex was like for me and Tom? You might look at me and think… Well, whatever you think. But the sex isn’t all that good most of the time, and that’s probably my fault.”

It was almost surreal, speaking about my only occasionally fulfilling sex life with Tom, while it was an entirely different story underneath my skirt. Because it was almost like Stephen’s insightfulness had turned some kind of valve inside me, and the slight lubrication I’d felt earlier, when I’d seen him appreciating all I was showing of my body, had turned into a more insistent throbbing. I wiggled in the big chair, and tried several slow and deep breaths to calm down, but it was to the point that I wondered whether my scent had become noticeable in the room. My legs were crossed and I made an effort to hold my thighs tightly together, concerned what Stephen would think if it became obvious that I was getting all hot and bothered right in the middle of a session.

I was all tingly as I admitted that when it comes to sex with Tom, I know I can get by on my looks, so our lovemaking has never gotten very adventurous. I admitted that I’ve never even given my husband a blow-job—I half-expected Stephen to interrupt there with a “You have to be joking” or something of that nature, but he just listened, attuned to my story. I described how I’ve kissed Tom’s thing and tongued him a little bit there, part of foreplay, but basically we’re all missionary position or sometimes doggy-style, and then, because I have so much, the tit-fucks. Experimental positions, doing anything that has Tom cumming anywhere near my mouth, any fetish stuff like toys or bondage or any of that… No. It’s just not something we do. For whatever reason it’s not something I’d do.

Stephen returned to how I get turned-on when I flirt, and he commented that I must also flirt some when I’m in bed with my husband. I said that wasn’t the same—I know Tom practically worships my body and I feel totally confidant about that, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into doing anything special for him. We probed at that a bit, and I could start to see where I shut down the teasing once I’m naked with Tom, and the teasing is like an engine inside that makes my private parts go rowr. Plus, there’s the issue of the condom. I always make Tom wear one if we’re going with vaginal penetration, but he’s been arguing against it because he wants a baby. The back and forth on that issue breaks the mood, plus now I’ll essentially be lying to him because he’ll be wearing a condom when I know I can’t get pregnant anyway.

“I’m on the pill now,” I said, “and Tom doesn’t know that. He will, eventually, because there will be a visible result pretty soon. I’m one of those women where being on the pill has certain effects, and in my case… It’s not like I’ll be able to hide the truth for very long.”

I think Stephen took my meaning. I actually wanted to talk about how amazing my tits are; that must be wicked of me, but I liked the idea of making Stephen endure a detailed description. I think I saw that as a form of payback, like I was having to deal with the silent torture of lubricating while speaking, so shouldn’t he have to withstand some hardship, too? But where he led me was to a discussion of how I don’t feel as sexy in bed as I know I look. There might be multiple reasons for this, he said, and one had to do with my dance background.

“I’ll bet you loved performing in front of others,” he surmised. “Knowing you were being watched, your skills appreciated, your beauty there on display…”

I felt chills from the truth of it. And he added an additional truth, that something else that gets in my way is knowing that my technique, in bed, is rather limited. I know men see me and envision a world of fabulously limber stacked-athlete-sex, whereas the truth is that I mostly just look the part.

Stephen dug deeper, asking several pointed questions—yes, I did keep a very tidy home and could see where I might carry those attitudes about orderliness and cleanliness into the bedroom. Yes, I probably did have some half-buried conservative attitudes where the girls who sucked guys off were wanton and loose, essentially sluts. True, I didn’t like the idea of anything, including sex, becoming too sordid. And yes, I took pains when Tom fucked my tits to make sure his stuff never got on my face, and especially in my mouth. My breasts are so big that I can completely bury him in there, trapping his junk when he cums; in a way I use all that volume, while tit-jobbing him, as a natural barrier.

I was almost in shock at having revealed specifics like that, but it was useful because it led to another of Stephen’s famous summaries: “You flirt, sometimes shamelessly, and in those performances you experience a degree of satisfaction from the lust you inspire. And you feel safe in that zone, and don’t want to put those small pleasures at risk. You expect that if you gave in and pursued one of these affairs, or even pursued more daring acts of lovemaking with your husband, the actual coupling would be a disappointment—no magic, nothing extraordinary, just additional mess. And so it’s in your fantasies, especially during masturbation, where you can cut loose from those restrictions. It’s the fantasies that try to provide the magical element; they’re clean and you’re largely in control of them, but it nags at you that they aren’t real, aren’t the true experience. What you really wish for, deep down, is to have your desirability lead to a situation, a real situation, where you find that true sexual magic does exist. Where you want the coupling so much that you slash though those limiting preferences for order and cleanliness. Where you can throw off the invisible shackles and be every bit as hot as you look.”

“Yes!” I said, and I wondered if I’d shouted that so loudly that his receptionist might have heard. I inhaled my scent like I’d just puffed out a visible cunt-ring from beneath my skirt, and realized that I’d parted my legs in my excitement.

Stephen steepled his hands, his expression unreadable. I almost expected to see his nostrils wiggling like a rabbit’s; instead, his eyes burned into mine and he said: “Imagine, if you will…”

Hadn’t I heard those words before? Rod Serling and the Twilight Zone, that’s where. I felt my flesh tingling from head to toe and especially at the strategic problem-point in-between, and I also had goosebumps from the intuition that therapy was about to take me into a strange and haunting place.

“…that someone could wave a magic wand, and you could be made to be a more skillful lover. Is that truly what you’d want?”

I felt all shaky but I nodded yes, knowing full well there is no magic wand. The excitement remained, but with that wistful element he’d alluded to already, where the fantasy of something will have to collide with reality, and reality will turn it ordinary.

I was most nervous about my sex-scent issues when we transitioned into our customary hypno-meditation, but once Stephen’s golden tones entered my ears I succumbed, and all cares slipped away.

As always, I had rock-hard nipples when Stephen led me out to the reception room. Pauline wasn’t at her desk; the client after my session, a middle-aged woman who, I think, was momentarily stunned by the visible state of my nipples, or perhaps my boobs in general, informed Stephen that his receptionist had gone across the street for a few minutes on some sort of car repair errand.

I don’t know what got into me—I had a sense of urgency bubbling inside, like the gentle leaking I’d been so concerned about had become more like hot steam fueling an engine—and I took my time getting into my coat, which left me all alone in the reception space for the first time. I looked at the vacant desk, no Pauline, and didn’t even think twice about slipping around to the back, to snoop.

There was a computer on the desk, but Pauline kept a hand-written appointment calendar, and it was laying open. I found myself scanning it—the calendar was in the form of a weekly chart, the time slots all filled in with first names. There I was today as Angela, and the woman I’d just seen was Susan. Most of the names were female, though here and there I saw a Michael, or an Edward, and so on.

What really caught my attention was the way that some of Stephen’s work days were truncated, and marked differently. Sometimes once a week, but more often twice, he had morning appointments filled in with names, but the entire afternoon would be blank, except for the insertion of a single capital letter. Four days ago, for instance, the whole of the afternoon was simply marked ‘R’. Just yesterday, all his office time after lunch was nothing but an ‘M!!!’, with three exclamation points. Flipping back a couple of pages, I noted how ‘M!!!’ kept repeating, and even appeared on some weekends. In fact, all of the single letters, M!!!, R, S and V, repeated like that, on weekdays and most weekends.

I thought I heard heels tapping outside, and leaped away from the desk. I put on a scrunched-eyebrows face and pretended to be having trouble zipping my coat as Pauline returned, bringing in a blast of frigid air. Those traffic-stopping legs again, so much like my own, and me saying something about cold weather and faulty zippers. Pauline laughed with her toothpaste commercial teeth, shrugging off her parka and bringing out the boobs, telling me I should try cold weather and a faulty car battery sometime.

I’m certain she didn’t have a clue that I’d indulged some inner gremlin by nosing through the office calendar. I really don’t know why I did that; what did I even learn, other than taking the measure of Pauline’s crisp handwriting, and finding out that ‘M!!!’, whomever or whatever that is, consistently has more enthusiasm than other letters of the alphabet. And, if I understood the calendar correctly, that Stephen works less hours during the week than I’d assumed, making up for it on most weekends.

What I do know is that I have got to get my lovemaking skills up to snuff; like seriously, it’s a life or death issue for the health of my soul. Once at home I stood in front of the full-length bathroom mirror in my most jaw-dropping lingerie, a bustier that heaved up my all-you-can-eat tits, with garters and stockings showcasing my legs. I just let it all sink in, like the reflection of my sexy self could feed me somehow. I didn’t imagine particular sexual acts but I did keep asking myself: What would sex be like if I could be as sexy as I look? And it had an effect when—Tom must never read this—I imagined that it was my therapist I’d dressed so sexy for.

I ended up masturbating as I stood there—why have I never done that, get myself off in front of a mirror where I can see from multiple angles what an enraptured lover would see when doing me? As I watched my reflection stimulate and caress, one hand pulling and squeezing my nipples while the other spread my labia wide and teased and ultimately probed my interior right there just inches from the mirror, I pretended that I was doing all that on Stephen’s desktop, so close and in his face that, if he chose to help me over the edge, he’d find himself to be within tonguing distance of my wild wet heat.

Good God did I cum, vocally with my thighs spasming like they never have before, a stunned and gasping vibration machine. Never in my life have I thought of rating my climaxes—they’ve always been what they are—but this one, I have to say, was truly exceptional, five stars and mark it down on a calendar to celebrate with candles a year from now. I think it even had me seeing stars for a short bit, like I’d managed to rock the liquid coating my eyes.

I don’t think I recognized this point then—my brains felt scrambled—but it’s come to me now that that masturbation session had something completely unique to it: I had pictured an actual person while getting myself off, not an abstracted lover, not some vague Heathcliff. I can’t even say I’m ashamed that it was my therapist I imagined taking advantage of me—they’re thoughts, a completely private realm. It was therapist/client sex of the mind, and fuck anyone who’d judge me for that.

Such a change of atmosphere, calming myself down from a milepost like that to later, when Tom came home. He observed how I was humming melodies while sautéing asparagus, and the funny thing was that I hadn’t even been aware of it. He commented that I have a nice singing voice, and I just smiled until he left the kitchen, then muttered “lungs”, copping a delicious feel.

I sat with my husband on the couch while he ended his day with a glass of scotch in his hand, cheering and groaning at the big-screen as his alma mater’s basketball team lost another game. I was in a modest cotton nightgown, knees drawn up to my chest, pretty much covered from collarbones to ankles. And it struck me that my husband has no idea how I spent much of the night in sexy lingerie, finger-fucking myself like I never have before, thinking about another man. He has no idea yet that the breasts that excite him so much are already responding to being on the pill, growing a little bit fuller than he’s ever seen them. He has no idea that, deep in my heart or loins, I yearn for sex that would set the fucking sofa afire.

And that got me to thinking, silently while Tom sat there oblivious: What’s happened to me? How is it that the deepest questions I’m trying to answer about myself have become like the joke with fortune cookies, where you add the words “in bed” to whatever wisdom your cookie dispenses? Because haven’t I taken Stephen’s initial question in that direction, which was about my life, into a direction where it’s now, “Whom do I really want to be in bed?”

Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that. A woman who looks like I look would be a fool to turn away from the desire to be great in bed, and there’s no such thing as a law against psychic adultery.

Tom is upstairs in bed right now, sound asleep, and I’m finding that I really appreciate this quiet time at the end of the day. More and more this is my journal-writing time, and what began as an assignment is now closer to a passion. I like to gather my thoughts about events of the week, or even a single day, and commit them to paper. I like telling the story of myself, and how I can feel myself growing in so many ways.

And then, because it’s needed to assure my privacy, a few minutes of b.s. for the fake diary, where I can pretend I’m otherwise. How ironic, that I’m running as fast as I can towards the real while leaving breadcrumbs towards the false for my husband to discover. Stephen made an important point that I loved the performance aspect of being a dancer, and maybe this is a twisted substitute, but aren’t I engaged in a form of theatre every night when Tom comes home, playing the part of the woman he thinks he knows, while behind the curtains I’m finding out who I really am? And here’s that split right in front of me, one journal filled with burning questions, the other with sanitized musings on a life I feel I’m rapidly leaving behind.

Sorry, Tom—I don’t believe you’re ever going to know very much about this real Angela, this deeply engaged Angela. Enjoy the performance, even if the storyline isn’t one of your favorites. If you even think to you can applaud, and I’ll smile and have good feelings about you, but the reality is that you’ll remain there while I’m here, bathing in the glow. Only so much intimacy is allowed—you can throw as many flowers at my feet as you want, but not everyone gets invited backstage.

Today was a day with two halves, or perhaps two different Angelas.

The moment I awakened in the morning, I would swear I could feel cells dividing or expanding in my breasts, which, though surely technically inaccurate, is in line with what must be happening, because they really are getting noticeably fuller. I can feel the extra size in anything I wear, and I’m overspilling my bras. It’s past time to get new ones, but what if there’s more growth still to come? And, to be honest, I like the look of a too-small bra struggling to cope with these beauties. Cleavage becomes more like canyonage, and the stares and cat-calls I’ve gotten for years out in public have gone through the roof!

Tom was already gone for early meetings, and I just lay there in bed for a good long while. I wasn’t absorbed with idle musings; no, what I kept imagining was a not-too-distant me who was super-skilled at giving blow-jobs. It was a fantasy that almost felt like a mandate, and that carried into the day. There were times doing chores when I found myself speaking to no one, a conversation with the air, promising I’d get over my squeamishness and doubts to become an actual head-giving expert.

I guess it’s mostly crazy people who talk to themselves, but it’s a different thing when people speak or mumble into the void because they’re talking themselves into something. A gymnast ready to explode upon a balance-beam, a sky-diver at the door of the plane… Angela, deciding that having huge perfect tits does not mean she won’t strive to become a sexual phee-nom with every part of her body.

I knew it isn’t like snapping my fingers and ta-da, great at giving blow-jobs. There’s the taste to contend with, which I don’t even know what that’s like, and then how to keep from gagging from an object going down my throat. I’ve never had more than a tiny bit between my lips and I can’t even imagine putting an entire penis in there. But all those hours of ballet training taught me plenty—the things I could do with my body after years of practice would have looked like magic to my younger self.

I fell into the thrall of my laptop, where I did something I’ve never done before: I watched porn to learn. The sites all had search functions, and I typed “sensual blow-job” and “expert blow-job” and “deep-throat” and “astounding blow-job”. The best one I watched, featuring an adorable teen in pig-tails servicing a really fat cock, had the title, Freaking Amazing BJ, and it was. The cock she was pleasuring barely even appeared in the video—you saw it for a few seconds before the girl whale-swallowed it whole, and from then on its presence was visible through what was happening with the muscles around the girl’s mouth, telltale movements just beneath her cheeks. I thought this was probably a homemade video and the woman was just a neighbor or girlfriend, not a porn star, but my God did she know how to work that cock, deep-throating it to varying degrees the entire time. She also used her eyes, emoting like she was worshipping the meat in her mouth, as though blowing that tool was a form of prayer. Like being able to suck it the way she could got her off.

The atmosphere in that video was the opposite of sleazy or sordid. Maybe the girl loved the guy, who can say, but it was perfectly obvious that she loved sucking cock, to the point that she laughed adorably at the end when a big goob of his stuff escaped and painted her nose. And I can do all of that, I thought. I can’t do it yet, but eventually, maybe even soon. The right cock at the right time, and with me in the right mood… I think I could astound myself. I think I could be freaking amazing, too. Although, Tom’s stuff ever on my face like that… Probably not.

Next I looked up sex toys, because I can’t just think my way towards becoming a cock-sucking expert. It’s a marvel how realistic they can make fake penises look, the miracles of latex or maybe 3-D printing, and you can pick out sizes just like buying shoes or clothes. Tom is just slightly below average I suppose, but I thought I should try to be better than that, so I put an eight-and-three-quarter inch bulging beast in the shopping cart. And, what the hell, two pair of patterned black nylons that will look absolutely sinful on my legs. And a little red baby-doll ensemble. And some wicked looking thong panties, one called Leopard N’ Lace and the other, crotchless, called See-Through Open-Minded Mini.

I chose expedited shipping because really, I can’t wait. I want this like I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. Just clicking the buttons on my computer to send the sex items my way had me feeling all squirmy, and thinking about having a good long go at myself in the bath.

I waited to do that, so I could call around and find out how to get a dancing pole installed into my downstairs dance space. I got Tom to have that basement room converted for me, so it has a smooth wood floor and a long wall that’s all mirrors, and a ballet bar for leg stretches. Tom almost never goes down there; it’s my personal space, just like the upstairs office is his. And after getting a phone estimate and setting up a visit from a small father/son team, I think that’s going to be where I learn to pole-dance.

I did get myself off in the bath, with a lot of nipple-play—maybe it’s another side-effect of being on the pill, but my nipples have gotten so sensitive, like whoa! It was hard to pull my fingers away for even a second, but I also wanted to heft the delicious extra mass on my chest. They aren’t just growing; they’re growing beautifully.

I was feeling pretty well-satisfied at seven-thirty, when it was time for book club at Kitten Clarke’s palatial home. The secret truth about book club is that at least fifty-percent of the conversation has nothing to do with books at all; it’s catty talk about how sweet or aggravating men are, how clueless, how exasperating. Celia Downes was not in the best of moods; she and her fiancé, Antonin, were not seeing eye-to-eye on whether to move to Miami—he wanted to, and she didn’t. And Kitten said she and her husband Oliver had been having fights about one of their son’s tutors, a young woman named Sharon whom Kitten described as being “dangerously attractive in an endowed sort of way”. She shot me a complicated look when she said those words, which got me to wondering: has Oliver ever expressed to Kitten that he has something of a crush on me? Because I’ve seen that in him. He’s chatted me up in a breathless way at parties, and there’s no mistaking when his eyes lock onto my tits.

For Kitten’s sake I’ve never poured it on too thick with Oliver; he’s a writer, a romantic, and I get the feeling he could bring out the worst in me by being one of those men who’d endure any amount of merciless toying if I hinted that he might, someday, gain the experience of getting hold of my rack. He called me out of the blue about six weeks ago, explaining that one of the female protagonists in his latest novel had a background in ballet, and he wanted to pick my brain about the particulars of warm-up routines, and how a ballet master spoke to the dancers during rehearsals. Maybe Oliver was on the level, and it truly is nothing but professional research, no hidden agenda. But he has access to plenty of others for that information—his wife is a board member of the ballet and could connect him to at least a dozen dancers for the same kind of insight. Mostly, though, I’ve seen the wolf peering out from behind Oliver’s eyes, enough that Kitten might be right to have concerns about her husband spending time with any pretty girl who’s “endowed”.

Kitten seemed to have that on her mind when I helped her bring out wine and snacks. As soon as she had me alone, she commented that I was exuding an extra kind of oomph, her word, that she’s only seen with women in the early stages of pregnancy. She asked if my boobs had grown, and I told her they had, enough that I needed to buy new bras. That drew an exasperated laugh, and her conclusion that I had to be pregnant.

I am definitely not pregnant; I just saw my gynecologist and know that for a fact. Then how? she wanted to know, and I said I think my breasts just haven’t stopped growing yet, which made her throw her hands up in the air and say that sometimes life just isn’t fair. That from a woman who inherited more money than God three years ago.

We had chosen fiction in our last meeting, and in discussing last month’s book, The Girl On the Train, I felt somewhat out of the loop because I never quite got to the end, and what’s the point now since it’s a mystery and the others spoiled all the twists for me. I only half-listened sometimes, but my attention perked up when the conversation went to the section where one of the female protagonists falls in love with her therapist. Carinda Smallwood admitted to falling for her therapist when she was twenty-one; she had even followed his car when he left the office one evening to see where he lived.

Carinda had been the one who insisted we read that book on Greek goddesses, and she’d been the most vocal about an attraction to the Persephone archetype—had she actually gone “underworld” earlier in her life, getting into a relationship or affair with her therapist? Everyone wanted to know that, and what it felt like to practically become a stalker. She became a little evasive, and so I asked her point-blank: Did you or did you not make love to your therapist?

“No, I chickened out in the end. I was so attracted to him; it was insane how insightful he was, and I especially loved his voice. Sometimes I felt like—“

“What was his name?” I asked, chills rising up my spine, because she might as well be speaking of Stephen.

“Oh no, no names,” Carinda laughed. “And really, this was years ago. He’s married now, I think, and he has a practice in Seattle. And…”

She said some other things, but my interest faded when it was clear it couldn’t be Stephen; that and she had wimped out, no juicy details to tell. The only thing I still wanted to ask was whether Carinda believed her therapist would have broken his ethical vows to be with her, but the conversation had moved on.

The last twenty minutes of book club was all about what everyone planned to wear to the upcoming Historical Society fundraiser, a perfect opportunity for the discussion to devolve into talk of evening wear and jewelry. I got Kitten alone again while cleaning up, and I got her to talking about the problematically attractive tutor again. Apparently she’s an exotic Japanese/Irish mixture, a wiz at math and far too cute and busty to be left alone with a man—that was her description. “All women with huge boobs are a public menace,” she said, elbowing me to indicate she was half-joking.

But then I did run into Oliver right as the group was getting ready to leave. Kitten’s husband walked in the front door just as one of the servants handed out coats, and we all exchanged air-kisses and pleasantries. I don’t know whether the other women caught this—Kitten sure did—but there was no mistaking Oliver’s boob-enthrallment as I let their servant help me into my coat.

Funny, how that little incident at the end was like a reminder that, even when it’s an exclusive group of women, the male sex is still there, invisible yet inescapable. The book we’d discussed was like that, primarily focused on several female characters, but the danger element came from the men. It seemed to me like all the underlying themes of the night had so much to do with men, and what their sex-driven natures made them capable of.

On the drive home, I kept thinking about Carinda’s story of not quite having an affair with her therapist. That kind of thing is never supposed to happen, but surely it sometimes does. I pictured how it might have played out if I had been in her shoes—Carinda’s a lovely and vibrant woman, but enough that her therapist wouldn’t be able to help succumbing to her charms? I wouldn’t think so, not in her case. But in mine…

And what would a therapist be like in bed? Analytical, looking for concealed motivations within every preference? Self-aware to an extreme degree about their own motivations?? I could say that Tom usually fucks like a lawyer, which is not a compliment, but surely there are some people whose professional selves drop away in their private world, and in bed they just fucking cut loose.

And what about me? I’ve been fucking like a bored housewife since becoming one, thus the need for therapy. Because, screw that future, what I really want is to be more like a wild animal in heat.

I was feeling flat-out horny when I got home, and poor Tom—I would have made him feel lucky but he was out with colleagues, the revenge of boys’ night out. I decided to wait up for him and relieve my tensions with an after-midnight quickie, so I poured a glass of wine and sipped it while skimming through the section of The Girl On the Train that involves therapist-sex. Not too much there; it was more like a red herring in the mystery, not a main plot point. And nowhere near as graphic as the images darting around my brain.

I recalled the focus in Oliver Clarke’s eyes as my arms had reached back to accept my coat sleeves, my tits thrust forward. Had I needed to thrust my tits out that much, or had I been, without quite deciding upon it, rubbing a little salt onto Kitten’s anxieties? Not to wound her, I’m sure of that. More just the thrill of shining a spotlight on my rack when I can be pretty certain that Oliver has an outright boob fetish. He remained more or less composed—on the outside. But in some matters I have X-ray eyes of my own, and Id say that beneath the mask, the man was practically whimpering.

Tom still isn’t home, and I wonder: Would he ever think of having an affair? My ego says it would take quite an extraordinary woman to lure anyone away from me, but is that true when I’m not as potent a lover as my packaging suggests?

I checked the shipping details of my sex toys and lingerie—they come tomorrow.

A few fake paragraphs to create before turning in for the night, and I think I’ll write in there that I came home from book club feeling horny, with the intention of seducing Tom in some of my sexiest lingerie. That’ll teach the fucker, assuming he reads the bogus journal sometime.

Maybe I’ll even leave the fake journal on my bedside table some night, right in plain view, tempting Tom towards the dark side. It never really occurred to me until just now, but I could probably manipulate him in all sorts of ways like that, by writing things that would provoke predictable responses from him. I could stroke his ego, or make him believe I’m worried about some things that I’m perfectly fine with. I could steer him into believing whatever I want him to believe.

I wonder if I’d be able to see Tom’s attitude getting puffed up if I wrote sometime, after lovemaking, that he’d given me the most amazing orgasm of my life. It would be a total fabrication, but how could I feel bad about writing a lie for my husband’s eyes when he’d have to be a jerk to read the entry in the first place?

There is certainly much to tell about today.

First, miracle of miracles, I had a dream and I remembered it, and it was no ordinary dream. The storyline had to have been inspired by the talk and book last night, about making love to one’s therapist, because that was the dream, me and Stephen having sex. Not much plot to the dream—I was in his office sitting in my chair as always, and the need to know what Stephen’s cock was like grew until it felt like the question could open its mouth and devour me. So there I was climbing over his desk on my hands and knees with my boobs in his face, so wet between my legs that I had to be dripping on his paperwork. I reached down to unzip his pants and pulled it out, and his cock was exactly the size of the dildo I just ordered. Everything about its appearance was like finding hidden treasure, and I sucked the whole thing down my throat with no hesitation, feeling so excited that I cried out in my sleep, having an orgasm.

Tom must have heard; he was lying beside me and he murmured something incoherent, and then curled the covers more his way, going back to sleep. I lay on my back panting—a wet dream? I had never climaxed in my sleep in my life, and didn’t even know I could.

I thought about fondling Tom’s thing—I may have cum in my sleep but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still excited by the images and feelings lingering in my head. But Tom smelled like liquor and cigars from his good ’ol boy’s night, and I hate cigar smell. So I just lay there with one hand between my legs and the other pulling at and kneading my nipples, replaying the images and feelings from the dream. I could feel for myself that my breasts really are significantly larger now; no wonder Kitten asked me to explain them at book club. And my nipples were so exquisitely sensitive, almost crazily so, and it might have been mostly the nipple-play that set me off again, quaking the mattress with cries that I stifled with a nightgown sleeve.

But the two rounds of orgasms and the remembered dream weren’t even the most remarkable part of the night. I got out of bed to wash up and when looking at the reflection of my body in the doorway mirror, I swear I had a vision. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it; it was so fleeting that it almost might not have been there, yet it was, and it left me feeling so incredibly tingly. I was totally naked and what I saw was like me vibrating inside of me, as if my flesh became transparent for a millisecond and there was a newer Angela wiggling just underneath the skin of the Angela everybody knows. I had a few heartbeats of shock but it wasn’t frightening at all; again, it was just a flash, and then all was normal again.

I was so excited that I thought of awakening Tom again, this time to tell him of it. I didn’t; if I could have roused him at all, he probably would have thought I was crazy. Stephen wouldn’t, though; I’d bet anything that he’d be happy for me. Will be happy for me, because of course I’m going to tell him at our appointment tomorrow. I’m just surmising here with no training, but I’d say the wiggling me inside was the real me that we’ve been searching for together, and it was so close to the surface, and wriggling like a butterfly’s pupa. Or is it more right to say an imago, which is the final stage of a caterpillar’s transformation into a butterfly?

Imago Angela, all fresh like a newborn but with these sex-goddess looks—now that’s an image. And then to have a dream right before that about seducing and sucking Stephen’s huge cock…

Tom had important meetings in the morning, and despite looking hound-dog he was out of the house like lightning, whereas I lingered in bed after my miraculous night. I showered and got the day going, and during coffee I had one of those experiences where you aren’t sure whether you’re actually smelling something real, or if it’s a memory of a scent that’s tickling at some part of the brain. It was my pussy smell, my heat smell, there like an undertone beneath the coffee aroma, and it was a real thing, because I was dampening my panties whenever some part of the Stephen-sucking dream would surface in my thoughts.

I’ve never thought much about the scent of my arousal. I took the time to look up the terminology and I’m not even sure there’s an accepted word for the aroma of a woman’s heat. Pheromones, possibly, but that sounds too vague to me. I remember an out-dated term for a woman’s sexual secretions, which is “quim”. That term was in an historical novel, but apparently the term got generalized or changed over time until it became another word for the vagina itself.

But my journal my rules, and I’ll say that I kept catching whiffs of my quim throughout the morning, and I found myself, several times, sneaking a hand up my shirt to insert a finger, then bringing the smell to my nose to take its measure.

I might have given in and gone at myself just like I had in the night, only I heard a vehicle pull into the driveway, and remembered I had someone coming to look at the details of installing a pole in my basement dance space.

I will confess here that I was either very kind or very wicked to the father/son work crew. I was still in a short bathrobe and I met them that way, the father a forty-something balding man in jeans and work boots, and his son perhaps nineteen or twenty. To my own nose I smelled like pussy, and while the father was almost all business, his son looked like he might cream his jeans if I un-cinched the robe to flash more cleavage. They had the tools and materials to install the pole right there in their truck, so I gave the go-ahead and they got to work.

I lingered after shutting the downstairs door, and wasn’t at all surprised to hear the son’s muffled exclamation: “Jesus Christ, did you see those tits?” I left them to do their work and I showered upstairs, with the feeling that as my body became more clean, my thoughts got dirtier and dirtier. I had the pole workers come up to the kitchen for fresh coffee, which they appreciated, and they also appreciated how I wore nothing but panties and a long white cotton T-shirt that clung like a tight mini-dress. And I just couldn’t resist—my wet hair made some areas on the tee go translucent, and I was braless. The father made an effort to not stare too much, but again the son had less experience. It was like he had never seen anything like me before, and perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at that. Even when I’d been sifting through the images on those nipple and areole fetish sites, I never came across tits as dynamic as mine.

Why did I do that to them? At least I didn’t go any further, parading my new lingerie and sex toys once they arrived.

Installing a permanent dancing pole did not take nearly as long as I’d anticipated. I was dressed in a button-up blouse with skirt and heels when being shown the finished work, and my only disappointment came in the advisory to wait twelve hours before putting any stress on the pole. I shook their hands and I know I had a grin on my face because somebody needed to inform the son that hovering behind a woman to marvel at her legs and ass is not such a stealthy maneuver when one wall in the room is all mirrors.

Waiting for my first go at pole-dancing might have been interminable, if I hadn’t had sex toys waiting upstairs, and a mission to fulfill. That’s the way I felt about it, too—it was like I had a quest and the clock was ticking on it, to be great at giving head.

That was my late afternoon and evening, intensive practice sessions with my new lifelike dildo, that I’ve now decided I’ll call Tricky Dick. I watched seven or eight blow-job videos for inspiration, and I tried out all sorts of mouth-maneuvers, from slow and feathery to outright rapid throat-sucking. I kept expecting to deal with a gag reflex, but either I don’t have one—is that even possible—or it would take something longer or thicker to trigger it. Almost nine inches, and really fat, and I could take the entire thing down my throat like a pro!

I was so excited by my progress that when Tom came home at eight-thirty, I was waiting for him in my new baby doll attire, with garters and stockings and fuck-me heels. Tom set his briefcase on the floor and just stared with a hard lump in his pants, and he finally asked: “Angie, are your boobs still growing? I thought they might… Jeez, they’re…” And then his head slowly shaking, like how did his brickhouse of a super-gorgeous wife become a bolderhouse right beneath his nose?

I pulled Tom up the stairs, shoved him onto the bed and yanked his pants off before kneeling on all fours over top of him, taunting his erection with my dangling boobs, flicking and slapping at him with them and making him disappear in-between. Normally I’d just get on with it, oiling my boobs and tit-fucking him or rising onto my haunches to slip him inside, but the day’s practice had me curious and I shocked him by trailing my tongue down his middle, and once my mouth was there at his cock, not even hesitating before wrapping my lips around him and drawing him in deep.

I won’t say I gave Tom the best blow-job any husband has ever had, not by a long shot, but I did give him one, and he was beyond thrilled. I would never say I loved giving him that blow-job—it was less inflamed passion, more science experiment, and I I think it was a very successful undertaking, job well done. I could sense when he was going to cum and I brought him out into the air, directing him to spurt all over my boobs. My bigger and better boobs.

Tom did his best, after awhile, to return the favor with his head between my legs, but I could tell I wasn’t going to reach a climax with him tonight. So, naughty me, I faked one. I was really more interested in seeing what I could do to him, my technical progress, so after some time just lying there together, I got Tom all hard again by playing with my tits, and telling him that I think they’re going to grow even larger. No argument at all when I slipped in the news that it was the pill that was having that effect on me—he’s a contract lawyer, and he knows that you don’t fight about receiving the benefits from a great deal. I gave Tom a second blow-job using an entirely different technique, and he grunted almost like someone in pain when he came again, those two loads making it the most semen I’d had on my tits in a very long time.

Tom is upstairs asleep now, and he told me when he was drifting off that this might be the happiest he’s ever been in his life. And why not—his wife has gone from a perfect ten to something beyond the scale when it comes to having a sexy body, and she pulled unsuspected blow-job skills from a magic hat.

For me it’s more complicated. I wondered if I’d shown too much improvement too fast, but then I remembered how I can patch up almost anything by writing the right lines in the fake journal, and tempting Tom to read them. What I feel the most is a deep sense of accomplishment, but it’s also like I’ve opened a door and on the other side is an entirely different world, and I’ve had an unexpected reaction to that. I’m gradually closing the gap between looking sexy and being sexy, and I can feel really good about that, a penetrating sense of satisfaction. But now that I can see the improvement, another question has come to the forefront, with almost terrifying implications: What, or to whom, is this for?

I could go the easy route and say it’s for myself, but that’s ultimately incomplete. It takes two to tango, right? And I’m just not sure how thrilled I’m going to be in always doing this tango with Tom. I loved seeing how much I’d learned in a short time by humming my husband, but there wasn’t the same enthusiasm for actually doing him, and that’s a big difference. I want…

There, that’s the rub, as Stephen knew from the beginning—what do I really want? Maybe another way to look at all of this: I got a glimpse of a new and transformed me wriggling inside of the familiar me, and what does she want?

Thank God I see Stephen tomorrow, because I really need his help.