The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Breast Way To Get the Girls

mc md mf ma gr

Synopsis: A recent college graduate is given the ability to “commune” with some women’s breasts, and uses the gift to lure them in for sexual purposes. But is he in charge of the ability, or is it using him for its own unknown aims?

Pluto Knee Em’s note: This text was e-mailed to me by someone going by the name of GoddessUponGoddessWorld, who asked that it be uploaded to mcstories in installments. After reading the first offering of what I assume is a longer tale, I’m happy to pass it on but want to make clear that I take no credit (or blame) for any of what follows. Secrecy, it seems, is of the utmost importance to the mind(s) behind this, so if you have comments please send them to me at: and I’ll forward your message to the author(s).

Introduction

This is not your normal account, as it was written by different hands. I have compiled the material and provided editing where necessary, to give it a sense of continuity. Names and locations may have been changed; then again, a certain someone just said that no one would believe any of it anyway, so perhaps I didn’t bother, and it’s all being told straight. We hope you enjoy.

Cat—September

I thought I was doing my job, which started as disciplined research before it shifted into a quest for entirely different answers. As my project veered away from the intended subjects of study, it morphed into the solving of a mystery, and, like the mystery itself, grew again, quite literally. Though properly trained and filled with the best of intentions, I have to admit that I lost all objectivity quite early, because the mystery was actually more like a miracle, and it wouldn’t let go of me.

People talk about being “touched” by a miracle, language that can only make me laugh now. Miracles, or at least this variety of miracle, do much more than touch. To a moth, a burning lightbulb must appear miraculous, a shining light emitting delicious warmth when all should be dark and cool. Miracles incite fascination, a sense of wonder that begins to itch in the soul they way a wound that’s begun to heal itches upon the skin. You can’t resist scratching, just like the moth has to circle ever closer. It beckons, and there is no turning away.

For me, raised like any a good Catholic girl, it was almost like a miracle or two was supposed to take place during my lifetime, though probably out there to someone else. People I’d known and respected at an early age had spoken quite casually about miracles and “unseen hands”, presumably angels, but rarely did anyone claim to have been personally touched—it all remained in the world of faith, or even myth. They had never felt the guidance of one of those unseen hands, had never endured a kamikaze spiral into the light, out of control, inexorably drawn. They’d never felt, as I have, an indefinable interior itch that demanded it be scratched, which only inflamed the intensity until all focus was consumed.

I’ve been touched, even molested, and often it was me doing the molesting, completely out of control. Once within that spiral it was game over; or, rather, that game over and a whole new kind of game begun. A pawn? Pawns can be transformed, so yes, let’s say I became a pawn, and at the beginning the checkered game-board was the book I wanted to write, about the under-discussed effects of online pornography upon differing segments of society. I had a thesis with two main thrusts that I thought would open wide like a porn-star’s thighs, which went like this: easy access to x-rated videos siphon an incredible amount of energy—read money—out of other spheres of commerce; and males, who are more susceptible to porn addiction, are unknowingly ceding ground to women in the workforce because they spend so many hours of the week, which could be put to some sort of productive use, glued to their screens with their dicks aimed at the ceiling.

The first chapter, “I Wank, Therefore I Am”, was largely written. I was aware how over-the-top the language was; I hoped it set the tone for the entire book, edgy and confrontational. And, because there was no better way to get inside the experience for chapter two, “Lights, Camera, Suction!”, I began to watch hour upon hour of porn uploaded to the net. Sometimes it was kind of hot, though usually not, imhvo (in my humble vagina’s opinion). I learned the categorical terms for the players—sluts, virgins, plumpers, MILFs, teens, skinny chicks, athletic chicks, amazing chicks, squirting chicks, swallowing chicks... And a few male types, too, though they were mostly “guys” with small dicks, big dicks, huge dicks, ginormous dicks, etc. So they were essentially dicks, and it was impossible not to assume, whenever it was a production with a moving camera or an excuse for a script, that those not on-screen were probably a bunch of dicks, too.

There were also sex-act menu choices to learn, and I went so far as to reassemble the usual suspects into my own alphabetical system. The ‘A’s were appropriately active, but ‘B’ was bountiful, what with backdoor, bestiality, big-tits, bigger-tits, bikini-waxing, bimbos, black cocks, blowjobs, bondage, boobs...

I would have gotten a lot farther, I’m sure, except that my methodology called for more than listing a word and moving on. There were four sites I used, chosen because they were free, had rating systems, possessed minimal pop-up annoyances, etc. At each one, I liked—more like endured at times—to watch a minimum of ten examples from each category before moving on to the next. That meant forty backdoors, forty bestialities—you get the picture. Forty is a deeply symbolic number in the Bible, and there I was in the wilderness of the pornographic soul, tempted (not really) by Satan’s naked minions, doing what naked minions do.

The sites picked out the actual videos for me; I’d type “blowjob”, for instance, and the highest-rated blowjob videos would appear, chosen by, well, certainly not a Mensa blowjob study group. I was letting the worldwank web, as it were, show me what they thought a woman’s mouth should do, and do, and do a lot more, before the guy—in every single video, mind you—was overtaken by an irresistible urge to remove his cock and spew his junk on the woman’s face. I remember thinking: Maybe the suckees took the word “sucker” in the wrong way? In nine out of ten videos, the woman’s mouth was wide-open and the tongue was rolled out like a red carpet awaiting the essence from a king, and in seven out of ten, the “king”, with whatever-sized scepter, got more on the woman’s nose or cheeks or eyes than in the offered mouth. Crack-shots these guys were not, unless horrible aim was the whole point. I’d given blowjobs before, to a total of three different boyfriends—have I mentioned that I’d never been very promiscuous? Anyway, I’d never had a boyfriend pull his cock out to spew on my face; if it ever happened, someone was going to feel the wrath of the “F” category, meaning my fucking fist in his face.

I’m going on about blowjobs, aren’t I? It’s because the next category was “boobs”, and believe me when I say that nothing was quite the same once the boobs appeared. It was early on a Sunday morning; I was sitting cross-legged in bed essentially waking up to the continuation of the previous night’s research, which meant coffee and a raspberry scone over a couple dozen blowjob videos. When I finally moved to the next category on my list by typing in “boobs” and clicking on the very first example, the top-rated boob video on that particular site, there on my screen was my college friend Bonnie Laight, with boobs.

I spilled my coffee, and thank God I’d already downed most of the cup or “burned thighs” could have become a new “B” category. Her naturally blonde hair had been dyed red but it was definitely Bonnie, or “Bitty Bonnie”, as she said she’d been teased at age fourteen of so. She was of shorter than average height like me, and had eventually bloomed enough that we were remarkably similar in build when we met. In fact, the similarities in our appearance might have been a factor in drawing us together in college. She had dirty blonde hair to my longer and finer red-hued tresses, but otherwise we were the same height, had tiny waists and nice flaring hips on what would be described as “athletic” or “workout” bodies. And up top, more ‘B’s.

No longer for Bonnie Laight. “Bitty Bonnie became Brobdingnagian Bonnie?” I asked the image on the screen. The word was from Gulliver’s Travels, a land where everything was of huge size. And Bonnie’s boobs, astoundingly, were of huge size in every way except a fake way, meaning they were obviously natural. Huge in a way that made something inside me... want.

I didn’t know what wanting really meant, not then. And what I said earlier about miracles... I think I knew, even then, that what I saw on my screen was indeed miraculous. I’d recently been reading a biography of Charles Darwin, and imagined him coming home from a long voyage to find the regular turtle-sized breasts on his wife, Emma, somehow turned into Galapagos tortoises. If some people had a hard time wrapping their minds around the gradual changes of evolution, how would they react to a metamorphosis that was lightning-quick by comparison? I felt, just then, like I knew—they’d feel gone off the rails inside, their senses sending in information that knocked their ideas about reality for a loop.

I played the opening thirty seconds of that initial video, and even under clothing or, later, packed into a great white whale of a bra, there was no doubt that they were real. Somehow, real. And once the forward arrow was clicked again and she began to move more energetically, meaning they began to move with a dynamism that had me holding my breath...

The first three boob videos on that site were all Bonnie, recently uploaded and instantly rated numbers one, two and three. She was going by the name “Blossom”, and big bursting bra-busters had she ever blossomed! Think Miracle Grow and one of those prized pumpkins you hear about where some gardener in Wisconsin needs a forklift to even have the thing judged at the state fair. Not that they were that big, of course—it was all relative. But there was no denying that they were prize-winners, stealing every scene, compelling me to ogle my screen, and I had never ogled my screen.

I kept starting and stopping that first video, seeing them in motion and then freezing the action in an attempt to take in the beauty of the form. And they were beautiful, so uncannily beautiful. One of the ‘A’ categories, anime, had wide-eyed Japanese girls with stupendous, idealized breasts, kind of like these. They looked sort of silly in the animations, a fun idea that would be ruined if come to life, with the oversized boobs having to conform to the laws that governed reality. Only Bonnie, or those things on Bonnie... They weren’t silly at all, and it looked for all the world like anime enthusiasts should let their art imitate life, or imitate this particular life.

“Fuuuuck,” I slowly breathed out, unable to wrap my mind around it, or them. They just looked fucking fantastic, no matter which angle she faced or whether the camera went below them, or rose above to peer down, or closed in and holy shit, halfway through this first video she held out a jar of clear jelly and crooked a finger at the camera, and the viewpoint skewed and shook as, yes, the sides of the lens were being greased, and the camera itself came in closer than close, and she hefted them up in her hands and forearms, and into that parted flesh-canyon the camera slid until wham, pinkish darkness fell because she was tit-fucking the fucking camera!

I’d gotten in the habit of watching porn with the sound off, because I believed that brain cells winked out of existence after listening to only a few minutes of any video that pretended to have a story. And don’t get me started on all the fake orgasms—I’d learned what a fake orgasm sounded like from Ellen Blunt, my first roommate in college, who screamed like a banshee every time a guy got his thing in her. Every time, right, but only if that meant faking it every time. False notes had been all over Ellen’s sound, kind of forced the way any bad actor forces even the best lines. I never knew what the men thought—I assumed they heard what they wanted to hear, and believed what they wanted to believe. But I knew. We just don’t feel it that way buddy, so get over it and just be happy that you got your eager thing inside some pretty girl’s pants.

Astonishingly, Bonnie, or Blossom, was not faking it. Behind the Bwap! Bwap! of her huge tits upon and around the camera, cries could be heard that were almost otherworldly, yet undeniably true. They were discontinuous, like a touch of ebbing that was nothing more than the prelude to a fresher, more intense jolt of need. I wanted to see her face, and just then the camera slipped out, as if attuned to my need to know. Though greased and blurry, I could make out Bonnie’s expression, her lovely features twisted into something like an agony of building bliss.

I gulped, and was aware that my nipples were hard and achy as she choked out, “Oh God yes, oh God yes my, ohhh Gawwwd...”

A male hand with a cloth quickly rubbed the lens filter clean, the better to see Bonnie on her back, legs in the air and spread wide, her boobs’ volume harnessed within her arms. Her mouth couldn’t even be seen past the immensity of the compressed breasts, yet her voice told a vivid story as she inhaled and let out deep gasps, the magnificent breasts quaking and heaving upwards with every quick inhalation. She was like a kettle ready to scream with steam about to escape through her opening, and I would swear from all I saw and heard that the woman had a skilled tongue eating her out, or a cock or dildo plunging into her at a frenetic pace.

Only none of that was happening; she was doing nothing, touching nothing. It didn’t make sense unless she was faking it, but you could see her nipples rising almost hurtfully full and hard, and her wide-open pussy looked swollen and colored a deep pink, catching highlights like it had been coated with glycerin.

The woman was in heat in a way I didn’t know that I’d ever experienced—no, it couldn’t be more obvious that I had never even come close to experiencing anything like this. And then she came, an explosion of sound and a liquid venting that... I couldn’t even believe it, yet I had to because the camera didn’t lie; my own senses in watching that filmed detonation did not lie. Nothing unreal, nothing false, yet what my old friend Bonnie Laight was doing there, wasovertaken by there, was like an orgasm taken to some higher power, unbelievable in its force.

Unbelievable, unbelievable, only I did believe it. “Squirting”, a not so pretty term for female ejaculation, was yet another porn category, and if there were ever a porn Olympics where squirting force and distance were measured, I was sure I had just witnessed a future gold medal winner’s performance.

I closed my laptop, and just sat there in bed, dazed, astonished, shaken up.

And, wonder of wonders, terribly horny. Because of porn.

* * *

It had only been three months since I last saw Bonnie, at graduation. We’d been draped in cap and gown, and the upper part of her gown had fallen from a shape still similar to mine, meaning no prodigious breasts. We exchanged a few words before the ceremonies began—she would have her BFA in sculpture; I was destined for the world of journalism, which to me meant writing something brilliant and noteworthy about women’s issues. It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I think I wanted to be a more serious Carrie Bradshaw, writing about sex so I’d have an audience, but going deeper than the right boots or “how men are”. I envisioned a book where I peeled away the layers of sexual attitudes and addictions, leading to acclaim and even awards—what kind I wasn’t sure, but awards. Plus, being an attractive—modesty keeps me from saying beautiful—and photogenic woman, it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility to have my talking head waxing eloquently on TV or computer screens, about what it was to be a young single woman in globally-connected America, now.

Bonnie Laight was a young woman in America now, and look at what happened to her in only three months. Three months, a third of the duration of a pregnancy. In the videos her waist was still about as big-around as mine—a mere twenty-one inches in my case—which made an ongoing pregnancy out of the question. So she had blown through cup-sizes like a model blows through shoes because she, what, only drank imported Chernobyl water? Only ate soy, which some people believed could make men grow tits? I did bra math in my head—I couldn’t even guess what size bra would fit the woman now, but she must have been growing something like a cup size a week, or every ten days? That was impossible, wasn’t it?

And her orgasms... I didn’t even know what to think of what I’d seen, but no wonder the videos went straight to the top in the ratings, with a pay-off like that. Enthusiasts clicked to gawk at the huge and utterly compelling boobs, and got blindsided, as I was, by the orgasms that had her dainty shaved vagina blowing like a geyser. It was like going to a movie and being met with an entirely new kind of special-effect, but it wasn’t a special-effect—I replayed her orgasms on my 42-inch TV screen just to be sure, and was convinced that my first instincts had been correct, that in Bonnie’s brain-teasing explosions, there wasn’t one false note or droplet.

There was another aspect to this that I couldn’t understand—Bonnie, from all accounts, had either been a full-on lesbian, or she was technically bi-sexual but way more into women than men. The hand cleaning the lotion from the lens in that video had definitely been male, and something about that didn’t sit right. A guy films her, and after tit-fucking his camera she just lays back, not even touching herself, and her crack goes fucking Krakatoa? How? Why?

I needed to know; I really needed to know. My name is Cat, by the way, and while curiosity hasn’t quite killed me, it sure did redirect my research from wanting to write about porn and its effects on male behavior. I needed to know how Bonnie Laight had become something that could affect me.

The cell number I had for her was no longer valid, and the mutual friends or acquaintances I called weren’t of any help. She was either from money or had money—she didn’t live near the rest of us, and we always assumed she had a social set of likewise wealthy friends we never got to meet. Also, it wasn’t unusual for Bonnie to disappear for weeks at a time, going underground or into “monk time” as she liked to call it, ignoring texts and emails and switching off her phone. She was an avid practitioner of yoga and meditation, and I’d seen for myself that it wasn’t unusual for Bonnie to sit in the lotus position for two or three hours at a time, tuned out of normal life as she attempted to tune into something else. Bonnie also claimed that she made her best sculptures during these extended periods of radar silence, so even those who’d been closer to her than I’d ever been thought nothing of it when she dropped out of sight. The most I could get was that she had stayed in her Williamsburg loft right after graduation, and she had said something about eventually moving to California, presumably to join some ashram.

I don’t give up easily. I called the loft building and spoke to management, but she had sold her unit and they didn’t have a forwarding address. I googled “Bonnie Laight”, checked Facebook and eventually sent out feelers via a searching-for-old-friends service a friend subscribed to. Dead ends, which led me back to the obvious: checking who’d uploaded the videos of her to the porn site. GoddessUponGoddess was the name given, and when I clicked on that my email program came up, ready to send a message.

I didn’t over-think it, writing quickly and straight to the point:

Hi, I’m a college friend of Bonnie Laight’s, aka “Blossom”, and I’d really like to catch up with her. My name is Cat Moran (for real, no joke), and I saw your videos of Bonnie and, well, she sure has changed! I don’t usually like these sorts of videos, by the way, but found yours remarkable in several ways. Anyway, if this is Bonnie then hi, and please give me a call. If this is the videographer or Bonnie’s agent, could you pass this email on? I can’t stress how much I really do feel the need to speak with her. My info, blah blah blah...

And out it went.

* * *

Autumn is the best time of year in New York City, and I had a routine. I worked as a barista most days, power-biked in the evening and either got together with friends or watched porn at night. Though it was tempting, I didn’t tell anyone about discovering an old friend online, so dramatically changed. I’m not sure why; it might have been the way I’d gotten excited, which kind of bothered me. I liked breasts in an abstract way, I suppose—if given a magic wand and no hassles I probably would have been fine with making mine a couple of sizes bigger, what the hell. But I looked really good just as I was, no complaints, and I was not someone who was going to obsess over boobs. Only I had entered into the territory of obsession, hadn’t I? And try as I might, I couldn’t make it go away.

I’d moved on alphabetically to bubble-butts and bukkake, cam-girls and casting calls and cheerleaders and cheating-wives and cum-swallowing... But I kept taking breaks, surfing off-topic to other sites, many of them more in the direction of soft-porn or pin-up, checking out the models with really big chests. You probably know the names of the women I found if you’re into that sort of thing—there were Polish girls and party girls and busty Japanese babes and every other kind of mammary-marvel, plus all the fakes, from girls who’d undergone surgery to clothed women who must have had prosthetics or water-balloons stuffed under their shirts. The range was lovely to ludicrous, quality to quasi-grotesque, and I didn’t quite know what I was looking for until I realized that I couldn’t find it. I was looking for someone, some model, who could put Bonnie Laight into context. There were women on the web with bigger boobs, but not better ones, at least to my eyes. I learned a term to apply to the captivating shape of Blossom’s rack—torpedo tits—and the miracle was that her breasts retained so much outward thrust despite their size. But most importantly, nowhere did I find a model who’s breasts had gone from a whisper to Whoa! in a matter of months, not without the intervention of a plastic surgeon.

I kept returning to Bonnie’s trio of videos, which astounded me every time, and got me feeling stressed between my legs. I stopped being embarrassed about that reaction, deciding it wasn’t an attraction to Bonnie or Bonnie’s breasts that turned me on—it was the story that had to be there. A much bigger story than I’d been seeking before, because if someone had invented a drug or device that could help turn a woman’s molehills into mountains...

What effect would that have upon society? How productive or unproductive would men become if they turned around and, presto-whammo, their flat-chested friends or girlfriends were suddenly sporting triple-D’s or beyond? And what if—I’m pretty sure I licked my lips here, an unconscious gesture that expressed the tingle of excitement I felt in my nether-regions—what if that presto-whammo change made a woman feel very differently about herself, psychologically or physiologically stirring her up in a way that created blasting-cap orgasms like those in Bonnie Laight’s videos? What if female orgasms that intense became the norm? It wouldn’t be men losing productive time from watching porn; it would be women, wanting more sex from their partners. Either that or masturbating a hell of a lot more.

I’d envisioned a chapter in my book dedicated to so-called “mommy porn” and other literary genres meant to arouse female followers, but I, personally, was not someone who masturbated to fantasy scenarios. I’d done the deed before, sure, but something about being the giver and the receiver all in one didn’t work so well for me. But I couldn’t get the image out of my head of the way Bonnie’s vagina seemed to dilate and become visibly superheated just before she exploded, as if her body was pressure-gauge sensitive and understood that its plumbing needed adjusting when all hell was about to jet loose.

I’d never experienced anything even close to that, by my own hand, with a boyfriend or with the one girl I’d allowed to go down on me between high school and college. Even with a fairly unadventurous sex-life, I’d been penetrated, fingered, tongued, and had tried a dildo twice, which I later threw in the trash. I’d cum... Hadn’t I? Yes, definitely, only nothing like Bonnie’s Vesuvian venting. And, I reminded myself, she hadn’t even needed to touch herself. She just lay there, hanging on for dear life until...

I watched it again. And again. I was fascinated, and perhaps a touch jealous. Like I said, I had entered the territory of obsession. I didn’t like it and didn’t know what to do with it, but there it was.

Martin—June

My turn now, and it only makes sense to wind the narrative back three months from Cat’s first entry, and begin at my supposed death and rebirth. I’ll never know whether the Yantejo tribe’s brujo was right or completely full of crap when he insisted that my soul died to make room for another force—I’m still me, I believe, but the same? Definitely not.

Like many questionable adventures, all that transpired started in a bar, a Tex/Mex joint partly owned by Anthony Whitley, one of my advisors. I had four Guinnesses in me when I overheard Anthony and two sculpture professors making plans for an ayahuasca vacation in the Amazon rainforest in Peru. The ayahuasca vine is reportedly in a class of its own in terms of hallucinatory vision-power, and the professors, lured by reports of vision-quests among celebrities like Sting, all hoped for transformational spiritual visions, who knows why.

Something stirred inside me, enough that I asked—more like insisted—on coming along, and I kept at them until they agreed. I rationalized it as a graduation present to myself—my closest school friends were leaving New York for jobs or to live with mom and dad for a time, so why not have an adventure, something like a ritual of transition from school life to whatever came next? That made enough sense, yet deep down I knew it had more to do with being dumped by my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—Laura, early in that final spring semester. I needed a ritual of transition from that, too, and maybe some healing of the soul.

Three weeks later we were in jungle heat, receiving instruction in what to expect from the ritualistic vision-quest out in the jungle night. The sludge-like potion, called “an herbal tea” in the online brochures and yaje by the natives, had been prepared for us by the women of the tribe, as female spirit and care were critical ingredients in the correct preparation of the concoction. But women were not allowed to enter the jungle during the ceremony itself, as that same feminine energy was considered antithetical to the nature of our journeys once the potion was consumed.

And right there, probably, is where everything went wrong. One of the women preparing the yaje was a pretty girl, probably no more than thirteen years old. My guess was that she had only recently transitioned into womanhood, and this was the first time she was allowed to take part in the potion’s preparation. Her name was Atatje if I heard correctly, and her energy really was more girl than woman. She developed an instant crush on me—I probably looked like a prince next to three overly-white professors nearing retirement—and in a rare private moment she presented me with a tiny figurine made of some dark green stone, so small that I had to borrow reading glasses with magnifying power to see it properly. It was similar in some ways to the ceramic and stone figurines we had seen at the Larco Museum in Lima, of pre-Columbian natives with enormous penises or over-sized breasts, most often engaged in sex acts with women, animals, themselves. This figurine was broken, headless, and what remained was the torso of a naked woman with trim hips, a tiny waist and absolutely gigantic—proportional to the rest—breasts.

The girl had motioned in front of her chest when handing me the tiny thing, as if indicating that her little breasts were still growing. I didn’t know how to respond and just nodded, and was rewarded with a broad smile, and what might have been a wink.

I forgot all about the figurine when we were led into the jungle for our sacred vision-quest, and so the carving was inside the pocket of my pants all that night, hiding unseen within the protected vision space. Afterwards, considering the nature of my hallucination, I wondered whether the girl could have known what would happen, and had intended it. That motion in front of her chest... I’ll never know, because I never saw her again.

So, my vision, the moment when everything changed. As the others retched all over the tropical foliage, the insect hum and calls of the night fused into a roaring whoosh, the sound growing beyond all expectations until I realized it was the tumultuous rush of air blowing past my ears as I fell from a great height. Before I could even scream in fright I landed softly upon a smooth, pliable surface the color of a coffee stain. After several small bounces I stood, and felt the ground under my feet give a little, the earth firm but strangely supple under my weight. Just being there, wherever there was, gave me an erection that was like a hallucination unto itself, my cock straining with so much energy that it felt like it could power a city.

The excitement grew stronger, the energy jamming up inside until I could only picture it as billions of gallons of river water pressing against a dam, threatening to burst through. I looked down at my erect cock and it was larger than it had ever been, longer and thicker and almost frighteningly fierce in its need for release.

“Feel the form and the energy within the form,” a sultry female voice spoke from behind. “Feel inside, the pulse and power, the sensitivity, the desire.”

I turned, and had to crane my neck to look up at a statuesque woman whose head was partially obscured as her neck thrust through high clouds. Her body was every bit as sumptuous as it was tall, strong and curvy, powerful yet sensuous, in every way an ideal of female form. And the astounding scale—her feet were each as large as a suburban house, the light of the sun blotted out by the immensity of her swelling breasts.

She cupped those bare breasts from underneath, lifting and squeezing them, each jutting nipple probably longer than my body. She moaned with pleasure and the sound was like a hum of high thunder, the low vibrations penetrating my body, my skull, making my cells dance and my blood bubble. I could feel my insides being rearranged, the me that was reshaped into the me that would follow.

In a flash it was as though I could feel something of her inside me, like the weight of her gigantic breasts had entered my being. They coursed, they pulsed, they buzzed, they were. All that I knew became tissue, glands, the pulsing heat of life coursing through a divine tangle of cellular pathways, all leading to a destination called female desire. I became lost in it, permeated, further changed.

I found myself falling again, but falling up, climbing high as if drawn by reverse-gravity from above. With an exquisite thump my backside landed on the underside of one of the giant woman’s titanic breasts, its curving warmth heating my flesh from the back of my neck to my heels. When I looked down I saw for the first time that I’d been standing upon an unbelievably large breast all along, its curving surface so vast that the coffee-colored landscape I’d originally fallen upon was nothing but a prodigious aureole stretching nearly as far as the eye could see, even from up here. Off in the distance, its edges softened and color blued by the atmosphere between, towered a nipple higher and fatter than any skyscraper. Something happened in my mind when confronted with this scale—a vision within the hallucination appeared, in which I could see one goddess standing upon the breast of another goddess, with that goddess standing upon the breast of a yet another and greater goddess, goddess feet upon goddess breast, on into infinity.

The sky beyond the breast horizon turned a midnight blue-black, and somehow the stars began to move. I’d seen time-lapse photos of the night sky with stars moving in an orderly rotation, but this was entirely different, the stars growing tails like comets, whizzing and undulating and... Fuck, it was like the stars had become celestial sperms of light, horny for goddesses.

“Know this,” the female voice spoke from above, and I could feel the vibration of that voice through the soft breast-flesh pressed against my back. “You will see, and feel, and know. Grow and make grown, and you will know, you will know...”

And then, mumbling how I would know through parched lips, I awakened upon the damp jungle floor with the others. Around us, wearing fearsome masks with their bodies marked in stripes of white and red, stood the same guardians who had formed a protective perimeter the evening before. Our ayahuasca guide pointed out how, though we had been naked and deliriously clawing at the earth much of the night, our bodies had not sustained a single insect bite, our protectors’ presence fending off even the most vicious of representatives from the insect world.

Part of me was swollen, though, as my erection from the vision had followed me back like something from a wet dream. We were given our clothes and the state of my penis caused me some embarrassment as I dressed along with the older men. Their minds were elsewhere, speaking of their shared vision, something with a giant talking parrot and floating down the Amazon in prehistoric times. I didn’t want their talking to wipe away my memories of my vision, but there was no need to worry; I remembered everything, and knew I could never forget it.

When asked, I claimed the opposite, that I had a vague sense of an alien landscape, but could recall few details. My subterfuge was more instinctive than premeditated—they might think me mad if I described what I’d experienced, and I needed time to think.

Miguel commented that he had never seen the vine’s magic touch a white man so peacefully, with no vomiting or other physical rejection. He seemed to be studying my erection from afar, and when I met the brujo’s eyes, his were bright, as if he knew.

“Powerful female energy, here inside the circle,” he said, his nostrils flaring as if he could smell it.

I didn’t say anything, but remembered the tiny figurine in my pants pocket. I casually put my hands in my pockets, but when I felt around the minuscule sculpture was no longer there. Miguel might have taken it, or it could have fallen out when I undressed or put my pants back on. Or, what he seemed to believe.

“Female energy, strong magic,” he said, still sniffing, Then his eyes on me, penetrating. He glanced down at my hands in my pockets, smiled half a second before meeting my eyes. “What you seek is inside you, white man. You can search forever and never find something if you do not accept that it has become a part of you.”

“What has become a part of me?”

Another quick smile, and narrowed eyes. “You died on your journey,” he said in a low voice, beyond the hearing of the others.

“I’m standing right here.”

A hearty laugh. “The white man can only see the world in the language of this or that. The old you is dead. What you are now, you would not have said is you only yesterday.”

“What am I, then?” I honestly wanted to know.

“A servant. A conquerer. A brujo.”

“I’m no brujo.”

“Again, this or that. The brujo makes magic, follows and commands forces. Even when he believes he acts for himself, he is led for his energy to serve higher purposes. You are a brujo, you will see.”

I let go of arguing. At least he wasn’t saying I was dead.

Miguel served his own purposes then, sending a contingent of tribesmen to fetch our things and take them directly to the riverbank to be loaded upon the boat that had brought us deep into the jungle. We were supposed to return to the small village to be ceremonially bathed and given a feast—it was all right there in the brochures.

“You will not be near our women again,” Miguel said to me under his breath. “Leave in peace, brujo. Your journey’s nature is in your eyes, and you will work your magic. But do it far from this place, far from our women.”

* * *

The anticipation was hard to bear, because it was as the vision goddess, or goddesses upon goddesses, had said—in some sense I already knew. In my bones, in my boner, in my guts and everyplace else, I could feel that they were out there in the world, breasts. It was weird as hell because in the old breast, thigh or leg joke, I wouldn’t have said I was a breast-man so much, no more than any heterosexual guy is. I still thought of myself as a leg man at heart—on the street, if two women approached side-by-side and one was showing perfect shapely legs, the other perfect full tits, my eyes would vote for the legs, as though that preference was hard-wired into my hard-ons. But now, sensing all the great breasts of the world out there, I just wanted. I wasn’t sure what the wanting was about—possession, manipulation, a jungle-like lure of the hunt? Whatever it was, it was in me like the need to breathe.

It had me worried some, because that wanting and awareness and need—I could almost picture myself like a bear right after emerging from hibernation, ravenous because it had been so long since I’d fed. The hunger had me wondering if I’d become a new kind of vampire, forgoing throats to suck on women a little bit lower.

I got little tastes of how it worked in Iquitos, the only city in the jungle, and a real education hours later at the Lima airport. I expected, once in the proximity of females, that I would just know it all, like the goddess had promised. And I did, sort of, but it wasn’t like I’d expected.

It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to calculate the exact odds—one in every thirty women’s breasts were available to my senses in a special way, or one in fifty, or more? I didn’t know whether to be elated or disappointed with that—in an airport full of strangers it hardly mattered anyway. With my imagination racing forward, what I wanted to know was whether certain women would be on this new form of radar. Like Laura, my ex, who did have the biggest and best tits of any girlfriend I’d ever been with. Or that slim girl who worked at the university supply store, the one whom I’d never seen wear anything other than tight jeans and a plain colored T-shirt that clung to her really outstanding tits like glue. Unless the goddesses of the forever-breasts or whatever were cruel beyond imagination, a woman like that, with the most impressive tit-to-body ratio I knew of, would have to be on this new kind of radar.

I didn’t wait that long to try it out, just to get the sense of it. In the boarding area for the flight back to the states, there was a thirty-something Latino lovely in business attire, a curvy beauty whose generous breasts were connected to my insides like we’d shared time in the womb together. I felt them, without even trying, and the feeling was so strong that it made me restless in my chair, and gave me a hard-on that I couldn’t make go away.

I had all sorts of associations in my head—what is it like for a serial killer the first time he slays someone, or again a vampire, the first time he punctures and sucks on a tasty neck? Did they feel something like this desire?

I got up and left my older companions and walked to the big glass windows, pretending to look out at the runways. The woman was visible to me as a reflection in the glass, but I didn’t think I even needed to see her with her breasts broadcasting their presence on wavelengths that felt connected to every organ in my body. I closed my eyes, and it was the most natural thing in the world to separate a piece of my consciousness and let it enter her flesh there. What I’d experienced in the previous night’s vision, being in a breast, completely at one with it, was pretty much the same. These particular breasts were larger and heavier than any I’d ever held in my hands, with olive flesh and dark broad aureoles, and fat nipples that had... Definitely, had been sucked and pulled that very morning, traces of a man’s tongue and hands on them that lingered for me to sense. Opening more, I could get an impression of how it felt to the woman, how they felt to her, when her tits were played with, her nipples squeezed and rolled, the surrounding flesh wanting to be kneaded, fibers and glands and nerves flaring, the pulse of longing filling her cells, with blood and energy racing to...

“Uhh!”

Did it really surprise me to see, in reflected form, the woman’s mane of dark hair tossing as the man in the next seat leaned in as if to console or help her? Her breasts weren’t as they’d been only a minute before—they were alive with need, like the need that had made me pace and squirm and enter them in the first place was hers to deal with now, all centered in her tits.

I tried to clear my mind, to snatch back the piece of me that had been inside or had been her tits, but the commotion only worsened. I turned to see it directly because everybody else was staring, too—she and the man, probably her husband, were standing, and an older woman and a uniformed woman from the airline had gathered around her. I’m not fluent in Spanish and it was being spoken far too fast anyway, and the woman I’d been inside kept shaking her head and was gasping something out, unintelligible breathy moans that sounded...

She was cumming. I had eyes to see it and had ears to hear it, but there was more, even without me trying to get inside. The shocks of female orgasm were connected to her tits and I could feel, as the song almost went, how the breastbone’s connected to the cunty bone. And her cunty bone, for better or worse, was having a grand old time.

Holeeeee shit. Do I need to say that I’d never felt harder in my life? Do I need to say that what she was going through was already feeding me in some way, even without me having an orgasm, too? Do I need to say that I could not fucking wait to get back to the city, to my familiar surroundings to find out just who was or wasn’t a candidate for a similar experience?

Laura. Please let Laura be one. I didn’t want to get back together with my ex, not in a committed or monogamous way when an arrow like this was in my arsenal, but an encore performance in bed, with her excellent tits as clear to me as polished glass? Fuck yes, so please, please, what kind of goddess-upon-goddess universe would conspire to give me a talent like this, and not let me take at least one good shot at the girl who’d dumped me only a few months before?