The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Breast Way To Get the Girls

Part 9

Martin — June

It was in the first light of the last Friday of June that Dawn and I discovered that, while we’d slept, my sneaky cock had slipped out the bed to go online and respond to one of those ubiquitous grow-a-bigger-penis spam offers. I’d always had a decently hefty unit, and couldn’t say that I was particularly devastated that it was suddenly a few percentage points more hefty, and except for being freaked out about it, Dawn didn’t mind, either; she even expressed enthusiasm with her eyes and touch. The problem for her was in feeling responsible. Her explanation, about having mysterious powers that were out of her control, was completely wrong, but it made as much sense as the truth when the truth was that something in Bonnie, Laura’s yoga instructor, had caused the change from miles away.

I knew that for a fact, somehow, which made about as much sense as anything else.

I kept looking at my thing—the change wasn’t even close to extreme; even so I kept thinking it had to be somebody else’s. As Dawn and I marveled and tried to accept this new impossibility touching our sex lives, the dream from a couple of nights earlier popped into my head, the one with the two tornadoes that might join to create a bigger tornado. I knew I was right that it was Bonnie, somehow, who’d done this to me, but was there more to it, like Bonnie’s energy had been able to put more bang in my wang because I was already fucking Dawn? Like the two women’s energy had united on some other plane, and plump grew my weasel?

I wanted to give my extra bit of length and girth a test-run inside Dawn, but by the time our shock had lessened it was time for her to get ready for her last day of work at the school store. I could have pushed for continued sex by manipulating her tits; I might have, too, only she hopped in the shower before I’d made up my mind, and while she was in there I made the mistake of checking my email. The regular stuff except for one, an email from Bonnie Laight with the heading: Found you a sublet. Bonnie Laight, as in Bonnie the long-distance cock-grower. Now I had her last name, even if I didn’t have answers.

When I clicked and read it was all business, informing me that she had spoken with her neighbors and they were into subletting their loft while they spent July and August across the Atlantic. I told Dawn, and she said I should call Bonnie and try to set up a visit to the space over the weekend.

Dawn was kind of a mess before leaving, because she was supposed to go straight from work to a good-bye party in the East Village, thrown for her by her co-workers. I was invited and she tried to talk me into going, but I declined, using my trump card, the I’m-in-shock-over-my-cock excuse. She hugged me tight and said she understood what it felt like to need to get used to something impossible—what a sweet woman, truly, but as errant in her thinking as could be. Truth was, I didn’t know if I could behave around Dawn for an extended period of time with this new Bonnie Laight dynamic in play—what if Bonnie happened to have sex while I was sitting in a restaurant, and my dick did something utterly strange while I was surrounded by a whole group of people?

Dawn needed assurances that I was okay, that I wouldn’t get all jittery or fearful while I was alone all day. I figured she was thinking about how she had been at work after her tits had melted a piece of lingerie, her imagination racing about what might happen next. It’s natural to worry when events go bizarre, and we can’t say with any assurance what may or definitely can’t happen next.

I said the right things and she left in good spirits. And I was fine at first, busying myself with editing molten film of Dawn bathing, Dawn dressed as a hooker, Dawn vacuuming and using the vacuum nozzle as a nipple-sucking device. Waiting an extra three or four hours to have sex with her that night shouldn’t be a crisis situation, but it became one during the brief phone conversation I had in the late afternoon, with Bonnie. It was as if her tits, increasingly there in my awareness anyway, piggybacked hard on the phone signal and broadcasted a vibrancy beyond vibrancy, teasing my cock until I was in a desperate state. My voice cracked when I felt how her nipples were crazy swollen, and I got the sense that she was as horny as I was, like everything she fed into me on that otherness plane looped back and did a number on her, too. She had to be too far away to deliberately affect, but I shot a wave of excruciating need into her tits anyway, like a practice run for a yoga-sex time I could see coming.

I took a break, and when I returned to the computer I thought to google the phrase, “a fire that does not consume”. I found quotes from the Bible and other religious texts, but nothing approaching the phenomenon of a woman’s breasts creating such a dynamic. And the heat from Dawn’s breasts did consume fabric, and turn water to steam. They just spared her flesh and my hands, my cock, my lips and tongue. And she felt no pain from it, only sizzling pleasure.

Wouldn’t that make for an intriguing film, a girl-girl scenario in close-up, of Dawn’s breasts being kissed and suckled by lovely female lips. An uncluttered background with some kind of straight lines in the frame, so that when Dawn’s tits began to burn in that special way, the heated air above would make the straight lines waver. The lips withdraw, and some light fabric is draped over the same tits, and the fabric catches fire or melts away. With no cutting, no break or cinematic trickery, the lips come back and touch those same fiery breasts again, unaffected.

It would go viral. It would create a sensation. Although it might draw more attention to Dawn than she wanted, as her disguise was only hair and make-up deep.

I pushed those thoughts aside and continued to busy myself with editing footage of Dawn teasing, Dawn stripping, Dawn hefting her boobs or mashing them or leaning down and twirling them like they were a new kind of carnival ride. I just got hornier and hornier, feeling like my dick was ready to burst out my pants and climb the apartment walls. By six-thirty I couldn’t stand it any longer, and left to walk the streets, hoping to burn off energy. But it was a steamy Friday night, and it didn’t take long before I knew I was doing what I’d done a few nights before, trolling to find several available breasts gathered in one space, hoping to affect them all at once.

I went straight to Greg’s Gin Mill again, but there were no broadcasting tits inside this night. I walked up Amsterdam, and at a high-rise with a doorman I stopped, sensing several pair of available tits rising into the sky. I’d always thought it was a special thing to live in New York, and what a fresh impression of that, to be in a place where breasts could speak to me from high above, not only side to side.

The doorman saw me standing there and I moved on. Seven blocks later I came upon an intersection with two restaurants and a bar all clustered on the west side of the street. There were five pair for me between the three spaces, and if I positioned myself just right, essentially hanging out on the street corner, I found I had access to all of them without even needing to go inside.

I sampled the five, right to left—big tits, medium-big tits, medium-big tits again, really big tits, big tits. It was definitely strange, having nothing more than that to go on, no faces or overall figures, no hair or eye color, not even a sure sense of ethnicity. The really big tits, much wider than Dawn’s, were packed tight into a bra with support, and the nipples were also wide. Every now and then they heaved up and down... Deep laughter, perhaps? The woman with the leftward pair of medium-big tits must be advertising hers in some sort of provocative top, because there wasn’t much covered except a small patch of flesh around the areolae. And what was up with the woman to my far right with bigger tits than that—I felt arm contact on the sides of both breasts, and they were being projected out, squeezed together to create extra cleavage. Her breathing was quick and her heart raced; I got this picture of a hot babe who’d seen some man or woman she really liked the look of, deliberately turning up the visual volume on her tits like a peacock displaying its tail.

My street corner observation post was a noisy place, with cars and busses passing, and pedestrians coming and going in tightly packed crosswalk waves. Every now and then a new set of broadcasting tits would approach, and I couldn’t resist looking to see the new sidewalk arrivals. It reminded me that in no case had I ever been able to tune into the breasts of a woman that I didn’t find attractive in an overall sense. That meant that all the unseen broadcasters inside were hot women to my way of thinking, not only tits to be admired or played with.

I closed my eyes and tried to tune out all of the street noise, and be inside five sets of tits all at the same time. It wasn’t easy; this time, though, it didn’t feel impossible. I kept being more in one pair of breasts than all the others, but then it would switch, and I didn’t have to lose the connection with the first to include the second.

I kept at it. I probably looked like Joe Stoner to the people passing by, and some wise ass called out, “Hey, take your meditation to a hotel room, faggot!”

Ah, the discreet charms of the NYC. I stayed with the tits, became the tits, three pair of tits, four. And hit my limit, unable to wrap in the final pair without losing contact with someone else’s. I tried again, failed and tried again. No matter what I tried I couldn’t keep all five pair together. I was like a juggler who could keep eight boob-bags in play, but throw in a ninth or a tenth and it was too much, and the rhythm of the others got all thrown off.

Still, I’d only been able to juggle one pair a few nights before. Being fair, I eenie meenie miney moed my five targets, deciding which lucky—or unlucky, depending on one’s perspective—woman would escape any sort of tit-play. With one set of medium-big tits eliminated, I worked to regain my hold on four pair at once. They felt different from one another, had different dimensions and shapes, breathed differently, were different temperatures, were held differently by undergarments.

No matter, those differences. I let them merge into one pulse, a steady hardening of group nipples. One flow, a steady tide of excitement washing into every breast. One whispering wind, blowing in desire. A common heat, the same need growing inside nerves, stimulating glands, growing and spreading, igniting hormones all through their bodies..

I could feel the quickening pulses, the altered rise and fall of all as breathing changed. I focused on nipples, not one by one but as Group Nipple, stiffening, elongating, engorging them with tingling excitement, with the need to be fondled, flicked, twisted and pulled. I imagined their nipples as Dawn had described, clitoris-responsive with the sensitivity growing every second.

I felt the reactions, each woman failing to cope to differing degrees. I sensed vibrations that I took to be moans or cries. Suddenly big tits was moving fast towards the rear of her space, maybe headed to the ladies room. Medium-big tits had leaned down, gravity taking her boobs, and she was swaying, her exquisitely hot nipples rubbing against fabric, faster and faster. It was like gravity-assisted fabric masturbation, and...

Whoa. Really big tits was coming my way, the boobs bouncing and heaving from what had to be a full-on run.

I opened my eyes in time to see her burst through the door, onto the sidewalk. She looked full or part Italian to my eye, a late-twenties MILF in a blue business outfit and heels, flat-out yummy from head to toe. Her boobs were even larger than Dawn’s and she had a marvelously rounded rear end, like her ass had taken a cue from the tits, deciding it needed to be extra-curvy to compete. And legs, fuck look at those legs, all full and toned and tapered in dark blue heels. Even when navigating titworld I hadn’t lost my deep appreciation for well-formed stems, and this woman had to have a membership at a gym somewhere. I thought she looked like a fetish version of a TV weather girl, now with a high pressure system barreling through her tits.

Her dark brown eyes were wild and I flinched when I thought for a second that she was about to run with abandon into the street. She stopped, just a couple of yards from my position, and raised an arm to hail a cab, frantically flapping her wrist.

I couldn’t resist, not with her right there. A yellow Medallion pulled in and stopped, and before she could open the taxi’s door I gave her nipples huge thought-licks, and poured all the heat into those titanic tits that I could manage. She let out an animal growl as the door was flung open, and fell into the cab as opposed to stepping in, her beautiful legs sticking out, a heel dropping off. People on the sidewalk were gawking; understanding her need I stepped into action, taking hold of one of the stricken woman’s toned calves and pushing her in before shutting the cab door.

As the taxi sped off—could she even utter the directions of where to go—I realized that I’d lost my connection to the other tits. I didn’t really care anymore. Picking up the MILF’s lost blue heel, I held it in my hand, and found myself thinking of Cinderella and her lost slipper. This dark-haired beauty could live anywhere in the city, in any borough. It was unlikely I’d ever run into her again; then again, if I got anywhere close to her, I’d recognize the tits, even if I couldn’t see them.

I started walking west to Broadway, feeling horny as hell but also enlarged in another way. I’d already accomplished more than I could have earlier in the week, meaning I was learning how to wield the ability with more authority. Either that or it was growing of its own accord, like my cock.

I looked at my watch—hadn’t I given Dawn plenty of time to hang out with her work friends? I didn’t know what restaurant they were at, but I knew the general area, and if I got close I could go all homing pigeon on her tits, find her and steam her up from outside the restaurant until she was racing for a cab, to return home and play with my dick.

I made my way to the closest 1 train, and halfway there I had to stop and grab hold of a lamppost, because I got a sudden and extremely intense hit of Bonnie’s tits getting excited. She was either having sex or masturbating, and Jesusfuckingchrist was there ever a connection between her tits and my dick. I felt her heartbeat going wild, her nipples begging for attention. Fingers pinched them, rubbing at the undersides.

I was so hard, so raging aching hard. I rode her passions, felt them escalating, felt them climbing to a place where there would be no escape but through orgasm. It was hitting me so hard that it was like an invitation, perhaps a plea, to participate. I did, going inside her nipples and turning them into lightning rods of sensitivity, her nerves and glands into demons of deliverance.

How fucked up was it that I could feel a woman’s shattering climaxes from miles away? Her orgasms rode the winds, traversed concrete canyons and found me, shooting in and fuck-slapping my cock from the inside. I held onto the pole, my cock feeling like one of those dream tornadoes was churning through its length.

I pushed on, more determined than ever to cut Dawn’s party short and pound her pussy all night long. I went down the subway steps at 79th, and as luck would have it, there was a lovely broadcasting blonde sitting on one of the benches waiting for the same train. It would have been too dangerous to play with her if she’d been standing near the platform edge, but seated as she was, with those really great legs in red tights...

I was in her breasts in a heartbeat, teasing her nipples hard and not letting up, just invading her tits and turning them into mammary missiles needing to blast off. She was more a leg thrasher than a shrieker, and it was enough commotion that others moved away from her, not sure what was going on. Someone said she must be having an epileptic fit, but when a hand went into her shirt to heave a big breast out the scooping collar of her blouse, and another hand probed into legs spread as wide as a ballerina’s, opinions changed. A middle-aged woman shouted for her to stop; a black man with a big gut cheered her on. I ignored them all and just kept sending in heat, giving Blondie no chance to think, to be ashamed or feel exposed or anything else. Just heat, just need, just an explosive final destination on the slippery subway, the tit and pussy express.

I’d always loved that sexual metaphor of a train entering a tunnel, and it’s funny how things work out sometimes, because just as the real subway came, so did she.

Bonnie — June

I’d already become a different kind of lover when I set up the meeting where Martin could see the unit in my building. That didn’t mean everything was perfect because there was tension with Mirabella—she was not happy that I’d bought a new dildo and liked to use it, and we weren’t in synch when it came to the frequency of having sex. I’d read in a women’s health magazine that few relationships can survive when the partners’ libidos are very different, and suddenly mine was off the charts compared to before. I needed more sex than Mirabella could deal with, and she let me know in not so subtle ways that I was demanding too much of her time.

That issue would be moot for two or three weeks at least, because she was flying down to North Carolina to be with her mother, who was having hip-replacement surgery. I kept having fantasies of taking on another lover to fill the void, and much as I tried to reject the idea for any number of reasons, I kept thinking the lover could easily be male.

Although not necessarily. I’d been monogamous with Mirabella ever since meeting her, but I’d strayed in the past. There were people of both sexes who looked at me and heard the words, “yoga instructor”, and saw dancing visions of pretzel sex. And every now and then, especially at a party or out at a club after having too much to drink, I’d brag a little about how super-flexible my body was, and how that could be used in bed. It was wicked, being such a deliberate tease, but I loved seeing lips unconsciously puckering in response, or eyes boring into mine, silently asking, “Could I please have a go?”

I was a sexual being, sometimes a overly enthusiastic sexual being, and that had never felt like a problem until just recently. Twice now I’d awakened late from a night of otherworldly masturbation, needing to cancel early morning private yoga sessions. It wasn’t that I overslept; I was exhausted, or my pussy was, and I couldn’t imagine stretching wide so soon.

It sometimes felt like my breasts were the culprits for disrupting my patterns, because they were crazy sensitive so often and had even become swollen. It was enough of a difference that I had to buy new bras, which led me to visiting my doctor about the changes. She counseled that it wasn’t unusual for breasts to fluctuate in size within a certain range. I was reassured about the growth of my breasts; she, I thought, became envious when I described how different my climaxes felt from those I’d had before.

I wasn’t entirely satisfied with her completely Western perspective, however, and they do say to get a second opinion. I did so by calling Ram, the yoga and acupuncture master I’d studied under. He was in his fifties, and our relationship was such that it didn’t feel strange at all to describe how my breasts felt, and the way my sexual appetite had grown. Checking with him was a great move, because he provided an explanation that my regular doctor could never have arrived at and wouldn’t even understand: My body was changing because my spiritual body was changing, and all that I was experiencing was the result of raised kundalini energy.

I knew my body; I made a point during my twice-daily meditations of taking an inventory of the body’s interior rhythms, assessing the health and vitality of the spirit in its incarnate form. But I knew from Ram’s teaching that there are changes that sometimes occur due to the meditation itself, the movements in other spheres opening channels in the physical body through which new energies can flow. Kundalini energy is described in the texts as being like a coiled serpent of subtle energy that resides at the base of the spine, and when activated it can surge up, driving spiritual change with the side-effect of disrupting the normal rhythms of the physical body. If I was opening up inside, perhaps even changing levels, then it was perfectly right for my body to respond with increased sexual drive. My body was strong, flexible—years devoted to yoga had the benefit of preparing me to withstand the energies raised inside, so there was little reason to feel concerned.

It was my usual practice to meditate early in the morning and again before I went to bed. The night before Martin was due to arrive to look at the loft down the hall, I tried to meditate with an attitude of acceptance towards whatever might arise in my body. I crossed my legs and brought my spine into vertical alignment, and immediately felt a shiver of pleasure from the brush of my nipples against my tanktop.

“The body is never the same from day to day,” I reminded myself. It was part of the practice to accept change, knowing that nothing stays the same in life from the moment we’re born to the second of our death. “I am only a vessel,” I whispered, focusing the attention of my mind past the body’s distractions, getting in touch with the passage of energy inside.

I knew the nature of the body’s energy by feel; tonight the energy was exceptionally strong and seemed to be getting stronger with almost every breath, pulsing with unusual vitality. I followed those pulses, feeling their effect in my fingers, my hands and wrists, my breasts…

God, my breasts felt good. Other places, too. I was used to fighting desires that tried to grip my consciousness—my meditations were a letting go process because the mind and body always desired something. Any attachments or desires were a distraction, even the desire to have a successful meditation. Anything could be a trap when the aim was to simply be, here, now.

I breathed in; I breathed out. I saw the racing thoughts and the whirl of emotions that kept me from being one with my center. Mostly I became aware of this body, a feminine vessel traveling tranquil seas. It was feeling extremely feminine, so much so that I could smell my sex scent even through the sandalwood incense burning nearby.

My overexcited pussy was yet another distraction. I breathed in; I breathed out. I followed the energy flowing from the hands, up the arms to my breasts and on to…

The breathing had completely changed when I’d reached the breasts. It quickened considerably; after several seconds I thought I understood why. The sex centers are the engine of transformation—I’d felt that reality many times, but never as clearly as today. I tuned in more deeply and felt the pulsing in my breasts like an echo of a deeper wavelength, a throbbing desire emanating from…

“Whoa!” I spoke out, eyelids springing open.

I wasn’t supposed to judge, but speaking and opening my eyes in the middle of a meditation was completely improper. I wriggled on the cushions trying to get the gnawing throb to lessen, and closed my eyes again, sighing.

No, no sighing, what was wrong with me? Breathing. Deep even breaths. I needed to become attuned to the throbbing… breathing, keeping my body relaxed. Reaching a state of non-desire was challenging, possibly because it felt so good having this little bit of extra weight on my chest. There was no friction, no movement, yet I could feel my nipples pressing even harder against the cotton of my tanktop. I took a deeper breath and had to stifle a gasp—just the littlest bit of electric friction caused shivers of delight. I wanted to breathe more deeply and faster to make the friction stronger, and when the friction was stronger I couldn’t help breathing more deeply, the sensations running straight to…

“Jumping java beans!” I cried out. Before my mouth had even finished moving I found myself standing, eyes wide open.

There were no non-desires tonight. Only desires, fierce desires, and they glowed afresh when an image blew through my mind, a sudden vision of being fucked by an enormous penis.

Ridiculous, no penis would ever be like that. It wouldn’t even be functional, not unless a man wanted to have sex with whales.

How big was a whale penis? Wasn’t there something about size in the Kama Sutra, something about male and female sex organs needing to be proportional to each other, like the male hare couldn’t satisfy the female mare, or something like that? If a man’s penis was too big for a woman’s vagina, it was said to be a high union, whereas if a woman’s pussy...

“I’m going to fucking meditate!” I vented, chasing away the categorizing nature of the mind.

But I made no move to return to the lotus position. It was a complete perversion of my usual practice, but I knew I couldn’t meditate without fucking something first.. I left the private room and my phone was instantly in my hand to call Mirabella, but then I threw it on the couch. She’d stayed late at work and it wouldn’t be right to beg her to come running for sex. Belle was already upset by how demanding I was becoming, and we’d just end up fighting if I didn’t keep my cool. I wanted to know how it was that two people could have the best sex of their lives, only to argue about how to fuck each other after that. Thoughts of my girlfriend gave way to thoughts about the new toy my girlfriend didn’t like, which brought the scent of my overheated pussy up like an anxious cloud of steam.

I ran to the bedroom to pull my phallic companion from the dresser, sighing when I grasped it’s hard form in my hands. It had been far from the biggest dildo I’d found in a West Village sex shop, but it had the advantage of looking incredibly real. It was real, sort of—the company was called Porn Parts, and the cock in my hands was supposed to be a cast of a certain “vampire” actor’s thing, complete with his huge balls.

Having handled one only once, it felt odd to have such a real looking cock in my hands. I brought the phallus to my lips, holding it sideways and running the tip of my tongue along its length, thinking of how it would feel to a guy to have me doing this. The texture was both irregular and exquisite—apparently, all the little variations that made up a real cock were there. It may have taken me twenty-two years to realize it, but a penis was a very beautiful thing.

I stripped off my shorts and panties, lay on my back and brought the lifelike monster between my legs. It seemed to me that my tits didn’t flatten out quite as much as they used to, and the sight made me gasp with delight. I held the dildo’s balls in both hands and I was so freaking wet that I needed no lotion before shoving the thing in. As it entered I wished the balls were real and could be fondled and stimulated, making the dildo twitch with excitement.

I got lost in the fog of it, in the fantasy that this was a real cock burrowing inside me. It was easily the largest object I’d ever put inside my body, but I had no difficulty with it at all. My pussy loved being stretched so wide; if anything it wished I’d gotten an even larger toy.

Something incredibly powerful began to catch fire as I plunged the phallus in and drew it out. It was a sensation deep inside, a place calling out that had never been touched—still couldn’t be touched, not with the dildo. I twisted and angled the dildo so it could reach further and it was true—there was a spot or a zone or something, I just knew it.

What I could feel already was so fabulous, more fabulous than anything, yet I still wanted more. Somehow I knew it wasn’t only a size issue—it was an alive vs. not-alive issue. The real thing, I needed a real thing pounding inside me, a huge thing like this with someone attached to it. My hands kept driving the hard beast in and out and the pressure was building, my voice abandoning me as my body succumbed to the energy set to burst from within.

I knew it couldn’t be total because there had never been touched; even so it was incredible. My mouth opened and my vocal chords tensed but all the energy was elsewhere, almost there, almost everywhere.

Other than my body bouncing on the bed, it was a silent orgasm. I came and came, full body awareness demanding even through the bliss that I needed a real cock, a huge cock. Anything else was just pretend by comparison, dancing around the edge of there, that secret place, lighting my body like a rocket but never giving me the thrill of the full boosters I knew I had to have inside.

It seemed to take forever before my pulse became something other than wild horses running through my veins. The dildo was in my hands, glistening, calling. I teased my clitoris with it again, felt embers catching fire when the fire should have gone out completely.

A real cock. This dildo helped, but I needed real cock!