The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“And what does your boyfriend do?”

Nell knew that Priscilla, the forty-something woman sitting beside her in 31B, was mostly making polite conversation. There was a subtext, though, along the lines of: “What kind of man lands a spectacularly-breasted beauty like you?”

She had to remind herself that there had likely been other women in this aircraft, perhaps in this very seat, whose breasts were even larger. Two nights ago, over several glasses of wine, she had reminded herself of where she stood by spending almost two hours perusing the profiles of big-boob models on an adult site dedicated to the subject, too curious to not look. The numbers couldn’t always be trusted—one legend whose bust measurement was listed as sixty inches was believed, in reality, to be a more realistic forty-eight, that sort of thing. Her own bust measurement as of three nights ago had been forty-seven inches, and huge as that was, she could see for herself that a handful of the models she’d studied were even more abundantly endowed than she was.

Which did not tell the whole story, as none of those models had such a slim waist, for instance, and in some cases their boobs were fake. Plus she was still growing, seemingly by the day—she’d bet anything that a tape measure would show that an additional half-inch or more had been added in just theist couple days. But beyond any question of sheer volume, there were qualities to her breasts that no site on the subject would even think to provide measurements for, like nipple uplift and areola sphericity, and other descriptors that came from fields like architectural design or theoretical geometry. Or statistical probabilities or uplift ratios or even evolutionary science.

“Or witchcraft.”

A startled motion to her right, followed by: “What did you say? He practices witchcraft?”

“No, no,” she said, beginning to giggle, which got her boobs to shaking. She was reminded how her breasts felt and looked so immense in the confined space of an airline seat—they challenged the boundary between her seat and the next, and at take-off, with all seats in their upright position, she had wondered whether a deep enough in-breath would have her nipples brushing the seat-back of the passenger directly in front of her. From the beginning there had been sidelong glances from her right that made it plain how Priscilla, strapped in beside her, was trying to wrap her mind around the proportions of the beautiful young woman sitting at the window, and Nell knew the feeling.

Nell had introduced herself, being pleasant, but when the stewardess had come around offering a packet of peanuts and a beverage, one of those devilish urges to flaunt her treasures had surfaced, and it had taken so much willpower to resist showing off, by foregoing the seatback tray and resting her soda upon her natural shelf.

That’s not a rack—it’s a fucking continental shelf! She had heard that one whispered in the grocery store just yesterday, when picking out a flavor of ice cream as a post-exam treat. She normally would have ignored the remark—she’d heard so many variations on the theme for years—but very little was going normally these days, and she had turned instead, locating the two young men and, with a silent bit of concentration, she had turned her tits on, saying: “Tell your girlfriends that a pint of ice cream a day is all it takes. Every spoonful goes right here,” indicating where “here” was with a dip of her chin.

She didn’t even know if they’d heard her—she’d been wearing a tight pink t-shirt with a cotton sweater on top, and even through two layers it had looked to her like they guys had been affected to some degree, going mouth-breather with astonished eyes. When she’d left them with a quick, “You boys have a really nice day,” she could only wonder if they somehow would.

A similar situation with the TSA agent at the screening booth in the airport? The screener had been a heavy-set black woman, so busy that she hadn’t really noticed Nell until it was her turn to stand in the booth, facing the agent with her arms raised on the air. Aware that there was some disagreement as to just how revealing the pictures were from those machines, all she knew was that she had waited to hear that she could move on. She kept her hands raised, and kept on keeping her hands raised, and it took the intervention of another agent, startling the one manning the machine, to move things along.

Dazzled, or disbelieving? She had already proven to herself that it mattered how she dressed when she was out and about, so how to attire herself for being in public with John’s eyes at the end of her journey? Unable to decide between flaunting her figure or semi-obscuring how incredible she’d become in just the past week—God knew how all of that was happening, but it undoubtedly was—she had gone both ways, smooshing her treasures into a clinging white top with a deep scooping neckline that brandished a good eleven or twelve inches of her cleavage, but then an open-front linen jacket over that, which allowed the cleavage display from most angles while preventing a precise view of her full volume. Down below, she had chosen a distressed denim skirt, rather short, and heeled sandals that emphasized her calves and ankles, determined to dazzle John from moment one, and not only with her mega-tits but the entire package.

The stranger sitting next to her was awaiting an explanation of her unintended witchcraft utterance, and some words about her boyfriend’s actual profession. “John is a student, too,” she said, knowing that the other woman would assume she meant college, not high school. “He’ll graduate in just a couple of months, and after that… Well, we’ll see. I might have had enough of this life of living a thousand miles from one another.”

We’ll do far more than wait and see, she had the sense of her breasts communicating back to her. We’ll overwhelm him. We’ll have him just the way we want him.

Nell lightly squeezed her breasts with her biceps and forearms, acknowledging that she had heard their voice in that new place in her mind. They were speaking to her more frequently with every passing day, and there was no doubting what their agenda was—John’s cock completely smothered in the depths of her cleavage. Every night now she had those dreams, with an uncanny vividness where it was more like it had really happened, and she was remembering real events, not wishful fantasies from the subconscious. Dreams where her heart wanted to melt when she saw the head of his cock emerging and coming at her from the tight flesh-chasm made by her breasts. Dreams of copious amounts of semen jetting into her face, tasting of a fine dessert. Dreams where upon the moment of awakening, she longed to slip back into the world of believing she was already with him, relentlessly going at him with her tits.

They weren’t just dreams, not always, because here, too, she believed her breasts had devised a means for communicating with her. Some dreams were normal, with normal themes like having to turn in thesis papers, or other day-to-day stuff. But in others, she was convinced that her breasts were in charge, creating stories that were meant to be instructional.

She smiled, remembering how a month or so ago she’d overheard a frumpy woman in a coffee shop snarking behind her back that she probably had tits for brains. The joke was that what had been meant as a hurtful comment might actually be true, only the reality was the opposite of what that phrase implied, as it had become obvious that her breasts knew far more about what was happening each step of the way than she did, her regular mind needing to catch up.

Mostly, her regular mind had thought: This can’t be happening, this can’t be true! Yet her dreams had already predicted the capabilities. She tested them out, and when, every time, she experienced the impossible while awake, the messages of her dreams proving to be as real as anything else in the light of day, she finally had to accept that she had a line of communication into and from her breasts, that they were conscious in some inexplicable way.

Acceptance did not mean she was over her struggles to fathom everything that was happening. In some ways it was reminiscent of her adolescent years, when so many changes were packed into such a short space of time. The development of her breasts had been the star of the show even back then—her mother had predicted that she would be similarly endowed, which had proven to be true, until all the subsequent growth that left any similarities in the dust. Hers had kept growing and they had kept getting better, so much so that she kept having her breath taken away when she stripped naked for bed, or lifted and fondled her breasts while showering. “They can’t be this ideal,” she would sometimes remark, yet they were, and she would get so wet and achy between her legs while running her fingers all over them, and especially when rolling or pulling on her nipples.

They had been so sensitive even back then, and her first sexual experiences had been of the auto-stimulation variety, when she’d stood in front of a mirror feeling a little guilty that she was getting so turned-on by the form of her own body, and the exquisite responsiveness of her nipples. She’d looked online at big-boob models, some of them legends, and through comparison she’d understood that her breasts were truly extraordinary. The pragmatic part of her personality had wrestled with an obvious question—did she want these glorious breasts to define her path through life, or should she concentrate on the goals she might pursue even if she weren’t so bodaciously built and all-around dazzling to look at?

Pragmatism had won out for a few years, but she might have chosen differently if she’d known she would blossom all over again, not only in form and size but in… in… What should she even call it? Her breasts were gathering mass by the week but not only that, and here she was again, often staring at the reflection of her naked body in open-mouthed wonder, getting hot while not really understanding how her tits could look the way they looked, thrusting out from her torso with even more liveliness and grace. Only this time there was an entirely new component that made her mind reel; they were alive, like semi-independent presences. She wasn’t so much Nell Brockton now, the little beauty queen all grown up and possessing massive immaculate breasts; she was a “they”, a triad. It was no less than a complete reorientation of the conception of the self—she, Nell, was no longer one; she was three-in-one, with one part, her habitual mind or head-brain, needing to cede some space and submit to the fact that her life, or their lives together, had forever changed.

“We sure can agree on one thing already,” she whispered out loud.

“What is that?” her seated neighbor asked.

This was a problem she needed to learn to avoid, these instances where it must look like she was talking to herself. She was, but she would never admit to anyone that the voices in her head were emanating from her breasts. I’d end up in a straightjacket, she thought at her tits, to which they replied: Just let someone try to fit a straightjacket around us!

“I’m in love,” she said, deciding to reply honestly to her travel neighbor. Though the correct way of saying it would be, “We’re in love.” Extremely in love. Maybe even terribly in love, to have her heart cracking open to such a degree, right when so many other changes were occurring.

“I’m so happy for you,” Priscilla responded, and she was smiling. “You really have been blessed, haven’t you?” And then after a pause: “Your boyfriend… I certainly hope he can appreciate…” And here she glanced at Nell’s chest, and seemed to sigh without making a sound. “He must be quite extraordinary.”

Subtext there again, and she, they, wanted to laugh together at the comment about being blessed—If she only knew the half of it! her breasts chimed. As for John, they weren’t entirely sure whether he was extraordinary or not, but that was completely beside the point. It was the feelings they had in relation to him that were of an extraordinary nature—those feelings had been creeping up on her week after week during their phone conversations, and then, just days ago, boom!, an explosion of desire and attraction so strong that the passion literally could not be contained in her body.

“I hope you don’t mind…” Pricilla started to speak again, then stopped herself. Her mouth moved silently for a few seconds before she continued, and Nell was pretty certain what the question would be. “Your, um, figure… Did you… I mean, are they natural?”

“One-hundred percent all me,” she shrugged. Not fake, not plastic, is what she had just conveyed, but to say more, so it was the truth? That would mean going down a rabbit-hole that she wasn’t about to discuss, and no stranger would believe. “No,” she would need to answer if she went there, “I’ve recently concluded that my breasts are actually supernatural.”

She had tried to convey some of this to John the other night on the phone, to prepare him, which was probably impossible. That conversation with John, for the first time, had been almost entirely centered upon her tits, and how they were growing so fast, and how she felt differently about them. She told him about Dr. Antonetti’s reaction to them, and in revealing to him some of how her breasts were changing she had kept feeling hotter and hotter, and not only in the ordinary way, her pussy getting so wet while her nipples grew hard and firm, aching with something that approached a fury of need. There near the end of that conversation, with her desire for John gathering force like it had become a substance injected into her body, it had felt to her like her nipples were almost exactly the same as her clitoris, trigger mechanisms ready to explode.

And once off the phone she had exploded, and they had exploded. John would have thought she’d gone insane is she had managed to keep talking, keep confessing, and in retrospect she was thankful that her tits had waited just long enough for her to have total privacy before they revealed yet another astounding reality, that they could cum.

Milk? It seemed like it was, only that was impossible because she wasn’t pregnant. Yet something had been possible because she hadn’t hallucinated that whiteish fluid jetting from her nipples during her orgasms.

The proof was in the tasting. Her breasts were shiny with it and there were big drops still beaded upon both nipples, that she gathered on her fingertips to place upon her tongue. Yes, milk, only… Not just milk. She had never tasted another woman’s pussy, had never even thought to sample her own secretions that way, yet she knew. What had come out of her tits was like a mixture of the two, some kind of lactose-y girl-cum. She tasted it again and her mind whirled. Lactose, if she remembered correctly was made of glucose and something called galactose. And there she had a name for it—galactocum, and it was delicious.

She had to laugh, if a bit hysterically. Somehow, impossible but real, there were three detonation points when she came, an inverted triangle of getting off. “More like three fountains,” she had said, because that had not been a shy multigasm at all. And even through the shock of having to accept something like that, she had found her hands spreading all that lubrication into the vast chasm between her breasts, her full acre of cleavage feeling like a soft enveloping hangar for John’s cock to taxi into. Like if she made it all slippery for him, he would cum.

We will definitely make him cum, she had heard her breasts say, the first time that feelings of communication and common purpose had appeared as distinct language in her head. And when she had hesitantly responded in her mind: I can hear you! But what do you want?, she had known the answer before they had a chance to confirm it. She, and they, wanted John’s cock between them. She, and they, knew that her cleavage was like an overscaled indentation in a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that John’s cock was specifically meant to fit into. Their joining was right. Foreordained. Drawn together by some kind of uncanny design.

And by mutual love? She knew she was in love—every heartbeat, every breath, told her that. How John felt in return would be revealed when the plane landed, and he met her, and they spent the next week together. On the phone she had deliberately fished for indications that he might be feeling the same, going so far as to tell him that she had known all about his fascination with her figure back when they were neighbors. And then his reply, that had warmed her heart and made her need to touch herself, setting up the frenzy of masturbation that had ended their conversion: Nell, you want total honesty, and that means telling you that I think you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known in my life. I thought so then and I do now, so yeah, you’re right. Is that a problem for you?

The only problem would be if the changes proved too much for him, or if he only felt lust, not love. The intersection between those two, lust and love, had driven her into re-reading her favorite Rilke poems, and listening to songs about romantic longing. She felt it so deeply and she needed to hear it, and she knew. This was no temporary fancy, or crush. This was the stuff of literature, her heart so filled that what happened between them had to end in either ecstasy or tragedy. And it wasn’t just in her heart and mind—her body was in love, the kind of love where she hoped they barely even saw the beach or the ocean, both of them completely consumed with the pleasures of the flesh all week long.

And then, like a revolution given at just the right time, a vivid dream last night that had made it clear what she needed to do, and say. She’d almost come to expect them now, the special dreams. The first had come the night after that phone conversation, the one where she had to get off the phone so she could get off. In the dream, she had discovered how she could think “More!” at her breasts, like regular car headlights switching to high-beam, making everything about them surge in intensity, with the effect that…

Not possible, she’d thought upon awakening, and yet the way to prove it one way or another had been right there in the dream’s narrative, the part where she made an unscheduled visit to Dr. Antonetti’s office. It made sense that she see her physician again—there was freaking milk-cum shooting from her nipples when she climaxed! But in truth she’d already reached a place of peace with that impossibility. The true purpose of an additional doctor’s visit was to follow the dream’s script and confirm while awake what the dream predicted, yet another strange evolution, with life-altering implications.

Awake in the morning and remembering every detail, she knew she had to do exactly as the dream had shown. Walking straight to Dr. Antonetti’s office to arrive as the doors opened, the specific details were somewhat different than when she’d dreamed them—the receptionist was not the same, as Sylvia was out with the flu, a temp filling in. And once inside the examination room, her doctor had uttered somewhat different words, like it was a play where the two actors knew their roles yet were free to ad-lib some sections of the dialogue. But when the critical moment arrived and, no hesitation, she removed her blouse and bra just as she had in the dream, she found that her doctor behaved exactly as had been predicted, no variation at all. Already given the words to say to conduct her experiment and leave no trace of it, she had left the office almost crackling with energy, adrenaline pumping and both her panties and bra-cups damp with lust by the time she got home.

It was real; it was true! She was desperate to relieve her excitement, but did it the right way, drawing a bath with bubbles, getting comfortable, and setting the stage in her mind. She saw herself standing in front of John in her sexiest lingerie, her tits fully on, her nipples aching to mimic dynamic fountains. And the change of his expression when she brandished her new tits, her nipples already beading like a cock leaking pre-cum…

She squirmed in her seat, gazing absently at cloud-tops and the patchwork landscape below. The dream she’d had—received?—last night, had been somewhat different than that masturbatory fantasy, giving her the playbook for how she would deal with John today. She was confident—why shouldn’t she be—but also feeling like a fallen tree being carried downstream by currents she couldn’t quite see or understand, because there were at least two fundamental questions that continued to go unanswered: What am I now? How is any of this even happening?

If she confided to anyone what was happening, she had no doubt she would be seen as having lost her mind. But a truly crazy person, she believed, would just accept these new realities without questioning how they could possibly be occurring. She wanted to tell John—they had been sharing so much in their conversations, and her feelings for him…

Well, that was another thing. If she placed recent events in the context of a larger arc of personal history, she could see that she had probably fallen in love with John on Christmas Eve, either walking with him in the snow or shortly afterwards. On the surface it had just been a peaceful stroll in the cold night air, but she had been feeling a warmth inside that she’d never known before, quiet but insistent. Soon afterwards, under the covers of her bed, an entirely different intensity had emerged when her neighbor had been front and center in her mind as she’d masturbated. Just picturing his strong hands, and letting her mind conjure his melodious voice, and fantasizing that she unbuttoned her blouse in front of him, his eyes glued as she unfastened her bra, slowly lowering it with the soft material sliding against fully erect nipples straining to meet his tongue…

We need to stop thinking like this, she silently spoke to her breasts, remembering her surroundings. She took a deep breath to calm herself and took heart in the evidence out the window that the plane was slowly descending. They were still flying above puffy clouds, but the ground appeared less distant now. She felt her nipples jutting from what she’d been thinking earlier, the first of many times she’d masturbated while fantasizing that she was smooshing her huge breasts all over John’s face and body and especially his thing.

She squirmed her legs into a new position. No sex at all in months, other than playing with herself. She’d never consciously made a vow to save herself for John, but deep down, that’s what she’d been doing. She didn’t want anyone else. It would even be like cheating, which made no objective sense yet the feelings were there. The fact that they hadn’t fucked yet didn’t mean they didn’t already belong to one another that way.

A double-ding sounded on the intercom, the signal that they had descended to ten-thousand feet, and the captain made a short announcement that it was sunny and eighty-two degrees in Fort Lauderdale, and that they’d be landing a few minutes early.

Thank God, she thought, feeling her breasts making a similar prayer of thanks. “Because we’re all in love,” she whispered.

“We’re what?” her seated neighbor asked.

“We’re… I can’t wait to land.”

“He’ll be there at the airport to greet you, I’m sure.”

More subtext, that any man would have to be crazy not to be there for a woman like her. To greet her, to witness her, to feel the pillowy enormity of her front as she threw her arms around him and pressed in.

“I’ll kill him if he isn’t there,” she said.

There were so many eyes locked onto her chest during the deplaning process. A young male voice letting out a sharp, “Damn!” when she reached overhead to retrieve her carry-on bag. And a few seconds later a soft, “What’s going to happen to sea level if she dips those into the water?”

She’d fill the fucking ocean with galactocum, that washer wish. Which made it John’s duty to suck it down, or else.

Her shoulder bag was such that she could either loop the strap over one shoulder or have it cut diagonally across her chest, and she chose the latter, even though she knew the effect that might have. Sure enough, there were pointed stares from the flight crew and an audible gasp exiting the mouth of a tall man in uniform, presumably the pilot. From his expression, maybe they shouldn’t allow him to fly for a couple of days.

Once striding through the connecting passage, there was a briefly disorienting moment where it simultaneously felt like she, Nell the woman, became aware of the jiggle of her breasts, while from the perspective of those breasts it was more like they sensed how the legs beneath were carrying them towards their objective. It was more than two viewpoints of a single physical action; they were ahead of her, knowing more than she knew again. As the interior of the airport came into view, with a number of people gathered to greet friends and loved ones, it didn’t really shock her that her breasts seemed to angle her body to the left, aware of where John stood several seconds before her eyes could pick his face out from the crowd.

Emotion and energy and her outward thrust surged all at once, and, ignoring how others gawked at her, she ran the few steps to John, nearly knocking him over before kissing him with her tits molding into his chest and abdomen, her arms around his neck. With that contact she could feel all systems switched to “on”, a threefold aching with her nipples feeling like they might cum all on their own this time.

Feel us again! they were saying in their way, and there really was an uncanny familiarity in play, like in some other lifetime she and they had done everything she ached to do, this time not being the first time.

Wanting battled with couldn’t—her tits wanted his cock between them, but she couldn’t cause a scene where she just gave in to the wet electricity coursing through her body, which would end with the two—or four—of them being arrested for indecency. She would be separated from John and she didn’t know if she could endure that, so she just held on as tightly as she could, coping with the emotions and physical desire that mixed together like some kind of soul-wrenching cocktail.

She heard John whispering her name, “Oh Nell,” and the emotion in his voice almost made her heart cum. Through an effort of will she just held on, though she ached to pull the man she loved to the floor, where she could get on top of him and aim her tits at his face from above, overwhelming him with the scope of their size and weight.

You two behave! she silently instructed her boobs, feeling for a couple of seconds like a ship being tossed by a mighty wave, struggling to right itself. She and her tits were of one mind when it came to the basics of their wants, but for that she needed a private space, which meant getting a grip and waiting.

She wanted to get to his car as soon as… And just like that she had him by the hand and she was tugging, hard.

“Your bag!” he said, pulling out of her grasp to retrieve it.

For a few seconds she couldn’t make her feet stop walking—it was like she’d become an unstoppable motor with daylight and his car as her destination. She wanted to stop and turn and next she knew she braked, suddenly, pivoting back towards John so forcefully that it felt like her boobs were catapulting sideways. Breathless, facing him, she realized that her left breast had pushed the lapel of her jacket to the side, and there were people staring at her, open-mouthed, including the man she loved.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, drawing her jacket back in place, then grabbing John’s hand again.

His hands… They were strong from rock climbing and skilled from his carpentry work and she thought she was probably in love with them all on their own. She tightened her grip, an unspoken signal of how she needed them squeezing into her tits, sensitive fingers interrogating her pliant flesh, trying to understand.

She turned and tried to smile at him without showing the desperate urgency she felt. She didn’t want to frighten him and she didn’t want to have trails running down her legs or two big wet spots on her blouse as she screamed out her terrible need. He asked if she had another bag to retrieve and she couldn’t stop a groan of frustration from escaping her lips. Did he see the way she had to grit her teeth and force her body into a time-out, like someone needing to pee, desperately, but willing themselves to hold it in just a little longer?

Tapping one foot with her breathing not right, they mostly didn’t speak during that short wait at the baggage carousel. She knew they could find that rhythm again, the ease of sharing they’d had for months now from a distance; now, though, with her body feeling like a kettle on a stove, everything swirling and bubbling, she felt like she couldn’t trust her own mouth. And sure enough, the second she bit down on teasing words that wanted to come out, it was just the way she had been a few days ago, the need to speak her mind turned into an unstoppable force.

At least she managed to whisper the words into his ear, rather than making a declaration for all to hear: “We… My boobs I mean… It’s crazy but I’m pretty sure I’ve grown another cup-size since we last talked!”

His head tilted and turned to stare; in a way he had no more control over himself than she did. Standing close as he was, and being taller, he had a view down her cleavage with no mistaking just how far they projected out in front, even with the jacket doing its job of veiling the details of her masterpieces.

“Oh my God, my bag!” she exclaimed, because like an answered prayer hers was the very first one to appear. At her direction John grabbed her suitcase from the carousel, and it trailed behind him and he trailed behind her, her tits and heeled sandals aiming for the closest set of glass doors with an exit sign above. “Get us to your car!” she said, wondering a second later if that had sounded too snappy, like she was in charge. But she was in charge because by far her pace was the quicker of the two. Why did he seem to be dragging his…

She tried to keep from turning her head and looking down before the thought had fully surfaced, but she lost that battle, too, her eyeballs immediately locking onto the bulge between his legs, turning his steps awkward and slowing him down. That evidence in his jeans that he desired her made her nipples want to scream even before she felt the moisture level rising under her skirt. Oh God, was she going to cum right here at the curb, with taxis and cops all around?

“I’m right over there,” John said, his voice pinched. “The blue Corvette.”

Blue Corvette? The car was undeniably sexy, probably a classic, and yet she had to stifle a groan because it was a convertible, with its top down. She hadn’t thought the thought in so many words—maybe it was her tits doing all the planning—but she’d abandoned her romantic vision of John showing her around the supposedly fabulous beach villa he’d scored, and then overwhelming him in his bedroom. Until seeing the openness of the convertible, the new plan had been getting him inside his car where no one would see them, and stripping out of her jacket, blouse and overstuffed bra right then and there.

Hang on! she thought at her tits, not even sure if it was her idea or theirs to get out her phone and ask Siri for the location of the closest hotel. John overheard as he loaded her luggage, and he began to say that he’d thought they’d go straight to the villa, which was only forty-five minutes… But then he stopped in mid-sentence without her having to say a word, and he seemed to get it, that she couldn’t wait forty-five minutes. She didn’t even know if she could wait ten.

“First one we come to,” she said, when they were moving. “It looks like… Over there, the Crowne Plaza. I’ll pay, just… Hurry, okay?”

She couldn’t say she knew what John’s state of mind was during the brief drive and the few minutes it took for them to register. He was dressed casually in bluejeans and a silver-colored athletic t-shirt that said “MAGIC” on the front, which she knew was a Florida basketball team. His hair had gotten a little longer and though he couldn’t look like anyone special to the staff, they seemed to be inspired to break records for providing a suite—the special honeymoon suite at no extra cost, how was that possible—and getting these new guests up to their room.

The elevator to the tenth floor was mirrored on three sides and she was startled by her reflection, feeling nearly as dazzled as the bellhop, who was ogling her reflection. John was doing the same and she joined in on the sideways surveillance, holding in emotional and physical floods from the sight of his bulge.

He looked like he might be really big, and… We know he is! her breasts seemed to say. Just you wait and see!

She shook her head—her breasts couldn’t know what they couldn’t know, but she couldn’t deny the strange sense she had that deja vu was yet another passenger in this elevator, like she had lived this or something like this before, with wispy memories tickling at her brain, or her tits’ brains.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, the bellhop didn’t move; he was still fixed on a reflected view of her body, and either lost in thought or outright lost. She looked again at her reflection—the light jacket was a help, but even so she looked like a gorgeous young woman who’d had a ray-gun aimed at her that was dialed to its Super-Boobs setting, and then left on too long.

With a physical nudge on his elbow and a few words from John, he got his feet moving and they went to the right, all the way to the end. Once the keycard had opened their door, she absorbed the details of their room in about three seconds—the walls were painted a tropical blue and the curtains to a balcony were a sea green, very Florida. The bed was in the next room and it was humongous, and beyond that an additional room was all about the jacuzzi.

She heard the bellhop say something about a complimentary seafood dinner any time after eight. Her tits wanted to leap out and hug John when he pulled a twenty from his wallet and aimed their attendant out the door with hand at his back, and the sound of a lock locking and a chain-loop sliding was like church bells in her ears, privacy finally descending so she could bare her tits and her soul to the man she loved.

Her jacket was on the floor by the time John had fully turned around. His lips were parted to speak, but whatever he’d intended to say flew to another continent as his eyes went wide.

“I tried to… to warn you,” she said, knowing it was a lie before the last word was out. No warning; no mercy her tits said inside, which might be an attitude or a plan or an order.

John gulped more than once before managing: “Nell, you’re… I mean, I knew…”

Just that much, and no, he hadn’t known—how could he? And she, they, wouldn’t have wanted him to know, if that could possibly have meant preparing himself, erecting some defense.

Erecting, her boobs chimed inside, liking the sound of the word, or the concept. And loving the bulging that his erection had erected in his pants, bigger now, inspiring.

She didn’t make a production of it; she just lifted her blouse, pulling it over her head and not even pausing to gauge his reaction to the sight of her boobs overspilling the cups of yet another outgrown bra. She reached behind and worked the clasps free, and slipping off the shoulder straps she was going to pull the bra-cups away, but it was almost like her boobs found a way to jettison the undergarment, so that it fell onto the carpeting not at her feet, but right on his shoes.

What followed was not deja vu, though in a way she had lived it before, in the special dream from last night. The setting now was different, because in the dream it had been her idea of the villa where they’d stood, with white walls and maybe even some marble surfaces around them. The choking sound John made, though—it was precisely as she’d heard it, like a gasp caught in midstream, and she knew exactly when it would die away, a strange silence falling upon them.

Not complete silence, though; her heart was pounding into her tits and she was panting, the anticipation killing her. Maybe she should be feeling shock or dismay that John just stood there like a breathing statue, not blank but…

Titnotized, they said, and it was true because her tits were switched fully on, even more than they’d been when she’d confirmed the dynamic in her doctor’s office. Dr. Antonetti had been exactly like this, her senses overwhelmed, awaiting input. Which, when given and the other returned to normal, she had incorporated into her being.

In the dream, this was the point where she’d lightly cupped the undersides of her breasts, amazed and nearly stunned herself by their transcendent design and presence, their thrusting dimensions with missiles for nipples, and she had whispered to herself: “I am MindMilker.”

She let out the words for real, fully embracing them, even if they were a bit ridiculous. She didn’t have to understand the “why” and “how” to know what she knew, and see for herself how real it all was. She, or she plus they, were MindMilker. It was an ability, or a power.

It felt to her like the power to fuck for days was coursing through her glands, causing her nipples to be wet with a trail of damp running down her right thigh. She slipped out of her sandals, and stepped out of her skirt and panties, facing the bedazzled John completely naked, her nipples just inches from grazing the MAGIC lettering on his t-shirt.

It was like magic, all of this, including what she felt in her heart. It was like love could be a vast underground oil-field of attraction that had always been there under the surface, and now it had been tapped, flooding her with feeling while just beginning to gush forth. She felt even more every time her eyes went to his hands, and when they slid down to the bulge in his jeans…

“Strip naked for me,” she said, or commanded. “Shirt first, shoes and socks next and then pants and underwear.”

As with Dr. Antonetti, his compliance was matter-of-fact or even fluid, not at all robot-like. It looked like it was his own idea to pull his shirt over his head just then, and she gasped out loud during the few seconds where the jeans fell away and she got to see that his boxers were like her bras, not quite equipped to handle what they were meant to contain. And then some other sound escaping her lips when he was fully revealed, that… that cock…

Somehow her tits surged even more, drawn as her eyes were drawn, as her soul was drawn. Fuck the hands that got to her so much—this was It, what she craved, what her tits craved and had been meant to love and abuse forever.

We are three they said in her head, and she understood, even if she couldn’t really understand. Her tits and John’s cock—in fitting together physically, and getting off energetically, it would be sex but also something much greater than sex. Some sort of… collaboration? Transformation? Culmination?

He stood there, the man she loved, awaiting. And her feelings were everywhere, her nipples beading with galactocum and her pussy on fucking fire, feeling like a silent countdown was taking place, the pregnant moments before lift-off.

She knew what to say to him, the command to give; it had been given to her in last night’s dream. She licked her lips, her heart racing, and said them, annunciation so clearly that she might be auditioning for the role of a broadcaster, who uttered words that might affect the whole world.

“John, you will love me precisely as much as I love you. You will desire me precisely as much as I desire you. No escape from that, for either of us. We are even more special, together.”

And then, the words from the dream delivered, she added one last command: “Come out of your stupor and fucking fuck these tits with all you’ve got!”