The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mark was running into this problem somewhat often now—what did he do with himself right after being on the receiving end of a magical fuck that would be beyond his wildest dreams if it hadn’t come straight from a wild dream? It was more disorienting than ever after Natalia, because it had been like his life slipping from improbable porn film to outright science fiction scenario. Natalia’s body had actually glowed, and her boobs had truly grown in size right in front of his eyes. He kept thinking: if that could happen, what was there to prevent levitation sex, or orbital moon-sex, or orgasms that opened into other dimensions? Was he in a position where any wacky thing that appealed to his dick could enter into a dream, fucking with reality even more than fucking with hot women?

His pulse raced at those thoughts, and he realized he was more scared than excited. He took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to think things through from a trusting place, not from the territory of fear.

He hadn’t even known he could fuck with women for a time, and he hadn’t done any harm to anyone. Well, Susan’s job, but she hadn’t seemed too broken up about that. He might have ruined Natalia’s career if her tits had remained at their Thunder Woman proportions, but they hadn’t. It appeared by the time she left that her tits were only a cup-size larger, or possibly a bit more than that. Maybe they’d continue to power down, but even if they didn’t their increased bulk would only be a curiosity, not something that would bring an X-Files crew to the campus.

That was beside the point, though—the point was that it had truly happened. A woman had been affected by one of his dreams and the laws of nature had been supple enough to accommodate his sleeping fantasy. She had been changed, physically, in a way he would not have thought possible.

Truly impossible? Maybe he was grasping here, but had he truly witnessed the impossible? Breasts did grow; not fast like that, sure, but they did grow. His first real girlfriend, Paige, gained more than a cup-size when she went on the pill, and they got even fuller when she had her period. Water-retention, she’d said, and hooray for water, because they became fun-bags filled with even more fun.

So growing breasts could happen, and come to think of it, weren’t there all sorts of creatures that glowed? He’d seen a nature program on PBS, all these deep sea dwellers filmed by a submersible robot, and almost every creature living down in the depths could glow or even strobe in some particular way. It was called bio-luminescence, and hundreds or maybe thousands of species could do it.

“A latent ability,” he said, not knowing at all whether such a thing were possible for a human being, but calmed by the idea that maybe the two miracles Natalia had presented to him could be explained away. He didn’t necessarily have to fear complete sexual chaos, women giving head to pink elephants with UFOs flying up their vajayjays to colonize their wombs.

Natalia’s brand of miracles, explainable or not, were right there to see on his phone, and after showering Russian pussy off his body that became his focus, the transferring of phone images to his computer. The resolution was only so-so, but it was more than sufficient to serve as fabulous reference material for his last three paintings. The poses she’d struck, perfect down to the angle of an arm or the tilt of her head—either she was a genius at seeing the positions on his mock-up and translating those into her body, or an intelligence of an entirely different order had been at play.

Probably the latter, which might include what had happened with Natalia’s pussy when she came, or right before she came. It had wiggled, or warbled, some sort of crazy interior spasm, as though the woman’s vagina had become a dick-wash applying hot wax. He’d bet anything that Russian pussies did not do that every day; if they did, the whole world would have become Russian.

He wondered: Had Natalia had any idea of what had happened to her—the glowing, the expanding breasts, the momentary ripple effect inside her? She never freaked out about any of it, and the language barrier had prevented him from even trying to ask what she’d been aware of, or not. Could she be on the phone or Skype tonight chatting with some friend in Russia about how, when you do it with an American guy, your boobs grow with the speed of inflating balloons? And could she ever glow again, or would her boobs ever grow again? He could just imagine her in the middle of a dance rehearsal or even a performance, suddenly looking like a spotlight was on her when it wasn’t, with every leap resulting in a more significant bounce upon her chest.

It could happen, but he doubted it would. Now that he remembered the dream, he knew it had taken place right here in his apartment, and there had been no sense of continuation. She only glowed because he needed that light source for the Thunder Woman modeling, and the same went for the bigger boobs. To make it happen again, he’d have to dream a similar dream again. Or, if his theory was correct about the power of his imagination first thing when he awakened in the morning, then he could make it happen again by thinking the right thoughts with sleep in his eyes and his dick all ultra-rigid.

That part, the sex-musing while half-awake part, needed to be considered further. If correct, then Karen Corso was his to fuck for the rest of the semester, and she’d be close to being a real girlfriend. More romantic, more blowjobs, dressing sexy sometimes... He could live with getting hot romantic sex from Karen every single night for the remainder of the school year; hell, it would be a dream come true. That would mean magical tit-job blowjob fucking until early May, and what a way to go out of college in style.

“Although I should also focus on what comes next,” he said out loud. He couldn’t say with one-hundred percent certainty that he could dial up particular scenarios by the way he thought when first awakening, but...

Awakening. Damn if Karen hadn’t been shoving it right in his face, probably without even knowing that she was doing it, by talking of awakening and how he must be awakening, too. For her, whatever; for him, those first seconds or minutes in the morning were crucial. In the right frame of mind, with his cock raging and sleep still half-cloaking his brain, he could choose to make things happen.

“And I would make Cynthia Gilwood happen,” he said. “I would make her happen all over my dick until our parts were ready to drop off.”

It was her looks, of course, that peachy best-looking-ever girl-next-door quality she had. Mark had always had a soft spot for the sexy good-girl look, and she’d gotten under his skin, especially the skin in his pants, from the first time he’d seen her. Since getting to know her a little bit it had just gotten worse because of how solid and sincere she was, a sweet girl, and brilliant, too. As far as he knew she hadn’t had a boyfriend in a long time, which had to be her preference because anything else just didn’t compute.

So he could think of her first thing tomorrow morning, as long as he was hard when he awakened. Which didn’t seem like a problem, because when didn’t he awaken with an erection? He’d never thought to keep track, but he was pretty sure he had morning wood nine mornings out of ten, or more.

But how to work this, if Karen was going to want sex every night until the end of the semester. Should Cynthia be a daytime thing? A one time thing? A post-college thing? Should he try to make her want Karen and him, with Karen getting hot for threesomes?

It was time for more brainstorming, so he made a new list in his sketchbook:

One: No glasses of water before going to bed. Set alarm? Yes.

Two: Imagine doing it with Cynthia first thing upon awakening. With Karen, or alone—undecided, revisit.

He was about to write something concerning sex thoughts with the unnamed redhead, but stopped when an entirely new thought came into his mind.

Three: Think of my cock as bigger.

What did he think about that? No telling if it could happen, but why not, considering that Natalia’s boobs could expand right in front of his eyes. If it could happen, how big was just right? Give himself a sixteen-inch monster and balls the size of ostrich eggs, or only change things a little bit? But why change his schwanger at all? He didn’t have any size worries to begin with—he remembered his father’s brother, Uncle Jack, joking around with him when he’d been ten or eleven years old, saying that God, or the devil, had compensated for the Mitchell clan’s lack of money by giving every male member’s member an extra two inches, har har. Funniest thing, Uncle Jack had been exactly right.

“And if I had any more, how would I ever fit inside Cynthia?” He didn’t know for a fact that she had a super-tight pussy... She did. He just knew she did, the way he knew the dark side of the moon was dark, without having seen it.

He drew a big question mark at the end of number three, and circled it. His dream-mind had gone there on its own with Natalia, the expanding boobs and all that, but it had been for a specific reason, for her to model as Thunder Woman. If he had a dream about his dick being bigger, or Cynthia or anyone else changing in some way, then fine, he couldn’t stop himself from dreaming it anyway. But deliberately messing with his own anatomy...

He scratched through number three, and replaced it with: Think of sex with the redhead second thing, after Cynthia. Wait, why stop there? He scratched through again and replaced it with: Think of the leggy redhead and the blonde barista needing to do me at the same time.

He sat there looking at his list, feeling like it wasn’t right somehow. From a “whom would I like to fuck” standpoint it was right on the money, but that was the problem—he was still in the mindset of listing great-looking women to screw, with no added depth. What about continuance, say the redhead needing to show off her legs to him in a different pair of stockings every Saturday afternoon until he turned thirty? What about the barista showing up for a cum-latté every Sunday morning for as long as he wanted that?

He jotted those two ideas down, numbers four and five, and saw that, as written, he’d have more women to deal with than could work on an ongoing basis. If felt silly to assign an avoidance schedule to all the possibilities—Karen only at night, a redhead/blonde threesome only in the afternoons, Cynthia first thing every morning. Should he abandon his anti-harem stance? His dick said maybe, but a cautionary tension in his gut said no, no and no. Harems, bad. Maybe it was wrong to let that Ramses story scare him away, but he could feel in his bones that if he let go of his harem aversion, he’d need to empty his place of all sharp knives to sleep at night.

And Susan, not even on his list so far? No clue what to do with her, if anything. She had a great body but he was reluctant to consciously draw her back in with the husband and all that. Unless she decided she wanted it. Which, fuck, she might on her own, or he could maybe wood-wink her into believing she felt that way.

Woodwink—he laughed, liking the term. He had two mornings left where he might be able to direct events through morning woodwinking, and two nights where his subconscious mind could call the shots, coming up with its own plans. It truly was a shame that he couldn’t figure out a way to pill/dick/mind-bend dozens of women into wanting to be like Karen or Susan or Natalia for years on end, but then most choices in life are that way—limited by nature and you could either lament that you didn’t get more or be happy that you got what you got. If he could just manage to get Cynthia into his bed, and the same with either the redhead or the blonde barista, possibly both, and still have one more morning for any last minute woodwinking or to clean up some mess or anything else, then he’d be very, very happy.

Done with brainstorming, he had an afternoon to kill before his evening class, followed by another night with Karen. He figured, why not Photoshop the pictures of Natalia so they couldn’t be identified as as un-manipulated snapshots—good luck explaining the glow and the boobs—then spend the afternoon drawing her onto his canvasses? And screw it if anybody gave him any crap about his superheroine having a body born out of sexist stereotypes or adolescent wank fantasies or whatever. All of that might be true, but at least he’d have the anatomy correctly nailed down, everything in perspective and proper proportion.

Like the professor had said in freshman year figure drawing class: “Draw what you actually see, not what you believe you see”.

Could he help it if he’d actually seen Natalia with honeydew-sized breasts, glowing like she’d swallowed a package of lightbulbs?

It wasn’t unusual for Cynthia to be able to read a chapter of a book and retain the information without much effort. This was different, though, because the information was meaningless in the abstract—it had no value to her unless the techniques entered her body just as much as her brain.

How wonderful that vaginal manipulations had been invented with names like Hungry Orchid, or Roiling Volcano, or Glacial Caress. She had thought she’d practice just one technique, not with any hope of having mastered anything in time, but at least she could be on the way. But so far the dildo practice was exactly like her experience with the beads—her body was eating it up, the muscles that could create interior love movements much more accessible and controllable than anything described in the books. According to the chapter on vaginal tightening exercises, what she’d done with the beads should have taken weeks of dedicated practice to fully perceive, much less achieve. Yet she’d gotten a good sense of the muscles in there in what, a couple of hours? And before even thinking of manipulating those muscles to any particular effect, it was as though they’d huddled together to call a pass play, and had begun to move of themselves.

These dildo exercises were no different. The first, Hungry Orchid, was especially demanding on what they called the pelvic floor, which was described as a small handful of muscles that could be sensed and eventually manipulated. It was hard for her to understand—only a few muscles to contract there? Then why did she feel... She focused, and counted, moving each in turn, either separate muscles or smaller sub-muscular variations within larger units. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... sixteen. Sixteen possible contractions where the books only accounted for a few? What was she, a vaginal mutant? A Kegel savant?

It happened sometimes, that a person could go through part of their life without suspecting they possessed a pronounced ability in some particular direction. Like Henri Matisse, who’d labored in a law office and only began painting when recuperating from an illness, or Paul Gauguin, who was a stockbroker before the art bug bit him. Or that goofy kid in grade school, Bobby Wharton, who got picked on all the time until some adult sat him down at a piano, and he awed his classmates by taking to music like a duck to water. Some talents, like running fast or jumping high or far, get identified very early, but others remain subterranean, lying there untapped until life circumstances bring out the need, which exposes the talent.

Cynthia wasn’t about to give up her dreams of becoming a museum curator, only to pursue a career as a professional sex worker. Still, what a wonderful surprise to discover she had a pussy with so much talent. It was possible the same might be true of her mouth and ass and everything else; there would be plenty of time to work on all of that in the future, but for now her focus was front and just below center.

Which, right now, had a portion of the six-inch dildo inside it. There was a handle at the back of this dildo, the whole apparatus almost like a cockcicle stick with a handle for grasping, designed to help plunge the phallus in and out or otherwise move it around. Cynthia, however, was determined not to use her hands. She was on Vaginal Exercise Number 4, Conveyor Belt, which in theory could allow her vaginal walls to move the dildo in deep and then back out, all without the need of any external manipulation.

She closed her eyes, two inches of the dildo penetrating her pussy. Lying on her back with her knees raised like this might not be the position she’d choose once it came time for the real thing, but she had to start somewhere. She did as the instructions indicated, relaxing every muscle in her body so all of the tension and force could go where she directed it. Inside even deeper now, her attention connected to the muscles of the pelvic floor, the pubococcygeus and all her vaginal and anal muscles.

“Fffffff!” A sudden gripping in-thrust, much stronger than she’d expected right off the bat, and it felt so good. She gripped again and moved the dildo outwards, slowly, oh yes slowly, similar to Glacial Caress, all the way to the edge where it threatened to pop out. Grip harder, pull back in, in slowly, deeper, deeper, oh fuck yes deeper, deeper still, oh sweet Jesus it was deep, deeper than she’d ever been touched, she was sure of it.

She didn’t need her hands to move the thing at all, but she reached just to check how much more before she’d be sucking in handle. Her fingers searched and she didn’t understand for a second or two.

“Already in.” The six inches and some of the handle, too.

She withdrew her hand and slowly drew the phallus in deeper still, deeper, deeper...

“Ohh!” Contact with... She wasn’t sure what, her uterus? It, that place, liked the contact, the feeling that she, or it, was all-in on this, completely filled. She reached with her hand again—really all the way in now, the top edge of the dildo’s controlling handle flush with her opening.

“Seven and a half, or more likely eight inches,” she said, before hissing again as her muscles slid the dildo back out, out...

Her phone was right there on the bedside table and now in her hand, dialing Karen’s number. Multi-tasking again—was there any reason she couldn’t say a few words while keeping control of her interior muscles? Was there any reason she couldn’t have eight inches filling her up as she ate dinner at the cafeteria tonight, or wrote notes during a lecture afterwards?

“Karen, there’s something I need to know.” In slowly, deeper and deeper... She wanted to cry out from the pleasure of it, from the rightness of it. She kept having brain-flashes of being filled like this, only with it being the thick hard warmth of him.

“Don’t you chicken out!” Karen shouted into the phone. “I don’t think I could bear it!”

“It’s not that, believe me. I just need to know... How big is he? I mean, I’m rather little, everywhere. Get my drift?”

“Oh. He’s kind of big, and really thick. Not King Kong or anything but...”

“How many inches long if you had to guess?”

“More than seven. Probably closer to eight, but I’ve never measured. I don’t really care because it’s how I feel when I’m doing him, even with my tits.”

In deep, out, in deep, out, in deep, out, in, out, in, out... “That’s... That’s perfect!” she managed to say without shouting, or crying out. “I’ll meet you there!” In out in out in out oh God, oh fuck, the friction, the coordination and thinking of doing him just right, just the right size to stretch her wide and be inside with thick liquid hot contact all the way in and the tip of his cock tapping at the door of her fucking uterus or whatever that was...

She hung up before she completely lost it, her pussy spasming so intensely the dildo had essentially become a vibrator. What she was doing, fucking the dildo the way a hummingbird might... Somewhere at the back of her mind she understood that the problem was one of language—if Eskimos had so many names for snow, then why were there so few to describe the penetration of a vagina by a phallus? There was fucking, and bonking, and flesh hammering, and pipe plumbing, and poking or porking, or deep diving with the ol’ sausage submarine, or...

Oh God, incredible, so fucking shaky and trembly, so fast and strong, not the dildo fucking her but her liquidating it. How could she have never known she could... Oh God, oh fucking God.

“Ah Gaaaaaddd!”

Mark remembered a night at a bar with some of his school friends arguing how they would do much better in their course work if they got laid more often. Of his closer friends and acquaintances, Jorge probably had the most luck at charming the odd girl or two into the sack—and, sadly, some of them truly were odd. But the others envied Jorge’s successes, and believed him when he said he always tested better after getting lucky, presumably because he wasn’t thinking about sex all the time.

Was it supposed to work that way, that by getting sex you didn’t think about it so much? With only two nights left where his dreams or morning wood thoughts could affect his sex life, Mark wanted to keep thinking about sex. He hoped his cock would not become self-satisfied, even when all worked out right and he had Karen in his bed tonight, making that a record three lovers in one day.

Was he self-satisfied right now? He didn’t want to be, to any extent that might mess up his tiny bit of remaining “out in the field” dreaming or morning musing. At the same time, he did feel some comfort in knowing what the night would bring. Up to this point it had been one surprise after another, with no idea whether sex would arrive or what form it would take. Tonight, he could be reasonably sure it would be Karen doing the rack-rubbing of his cock as only she could do, along with a lip-smacking blowjob or two. Maybe not satisfied, especially when all of that was yet to come, but it did feel good to know it would come.

Mark wouldn’t have thought it possible for any human being to concentrate on schoolwork during the day with the knowledge that Karen Corso would be available for lovemaking at night, yet here he was, focused and working productively on his big canvases. It was free studio time, no class in session, and a loner stoner guy, Eddie Gunthers, was the only other art student working on his project way on the other side of the big space. Mark had the figures of Thunder Woman charcoal-sketched onto both the third and fourth canvasses, and was just beginning to position the first figure on the last painting when he heard a soft cough behind his back.

“Looking really awesome, man,” Jorge said. “The anatomy, the foreshortening... It’s a giant leap.”

“Thanks. I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere.”

“Your references,” Jorge said, leaning in close to peer at the print-out in Mark’s left hand. “Holy fuck, it’s true. You shopped the hell out of this photo, but that’s Russian girl!”

“Turns out her name is Natalia.”

“She modeled for you?”

“She modeled for me.”

“The walking anatomy lesson, in your apartment, naked? Jeeeeeez!”

“What’s the big deal? We’ve all seen her naked before.”

“I know, but in your fucking apartment? My God, man!” Jorge squatted on the floor, picking up various print-outs Mark had dropped there after being done with them. “Really great B.E., although why use all that filtering? You made her go soft.”

“It covers up the flaws in my morphing. Soft like this, I can almost believe the boobs were actually like that.”

“Really cool effect with the light, almost like it’s coming from inside her. Where was your light source?”

“Just the windows and a lot of fakery with levels. But thanks, I worked hard to get that effect. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it years ago, that the character should be her own light source.”

“Fucking Mother Russia melting the tundra, look at that body. And if her tits were really like the way you’ve changed them? I’d fucking die.”

“You do like the big ones.”

“On that, did you hear about Karen Corso? Brad and Demian said she was out last night in a tight top and no fucking bra. Like, epic movement, can you imagine? They said they almost creamed themselves!”

“Wow. I’d give anything to have seen a thing like that.”

“Big party at Kevin’s tomorrow night, and both Karen and Cynthia Givewood said they were going.”

It was Gilwood, not Givewood, but he couldn’t argue with the nickname—he sometimes thought of her that way himself. And he wondered whether Karen had it in her now, to go to what amounted to a beer party when she could be in his bed having dream-inspired orgasms.

“So,” Jorge continued. “Hook up and go around ten?”

“I might be studying. I feel like I’m really falling behind.”

“Don’t do this thing, man. Don’t become a potted plant when we only have weeks to go in our college lives.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Think and then go. You’ll be okay with your classes. I mean, just look at what you’re doing right here. These paintings are going to be awesome!”

Thanks to Natalia, or his dream that harnessed Natalia. “No promises, but I’ll give you a call sometime tomorrow.”

“You’re going,” Jorge said, leaving the room.

Most of Mark’s friends had no Friday night classes, but he’d been a couple of elective credits short in his final semester and had enrolled into an introductory course in ancient Chinese poetry. That meant Wang Wei, Li Bai and Du Fu, and a very healthy dose of Lao Tzu, really more of a philosopher. He always enjoyed the class, Lao Tzu’s writing especially, and it was an added treat when the professor read different English translations from the original Chinese. The variations between one translation and the next were really quite astounding; Mark got a sense the elasticity of language, how words could be playfully stacked like children’s blocks one moment, and sharpened into dangerous points the next.

His cock was an elastic thing, too, because it changed its length and circumference whenever he thought too much about later tonight, and the effect his early morning musings should have on Karen. She was already so much less bossy than at the beginning, and that made a difference, where he could enjoy her presence almost as much as her body. And just like that, one of Lao Tzu’s most famous lines came to him: “The softest things in the world overcome the hardest things in the world.”

Lao Tzu had been speaking of hard stone being worn down by the suppleness of water, or hard attitudes being upended by the gentle voice of compassion, but Mark couldn’t help thinking of Karen Corso’s gargantuan glands, so soft and pliable, overcoming his hard cock. Their baby oiled actions were the very definition of softness, and their softness fueled his hardness, eventually turning him soft again. Tongues were soft, too, and how many things were better in life than to have a talented tongue overcoming a raging hard-on. But in his case, wasn’t Lao Tzu’s philosophical observation also not-true, in that it was his morning hardness that had gone out in the field to get inside some soft things, not so much overcoming them as coming over them, or in Karen’s case in particular, leading to his cumming all over them?

This was useful philosophy, meditating on riddles like: Which came first, the physicality of his hard-on outie, or the non-corporeal, soft and supple energy of his dream-life innie? The pills were in there somewhere, too, either as an engine or a catalyst, right? Making it a triad, a trinity.

A threesome. That chimed, and differently than his plan to woodwink the blonde barista and leggy redhead into his bed together. Just then his phone vibrated in his pants pocket, the signal that Karen would soon be leaving her class, and Mark’s dick reacted with a speed that would have made Pavlov feel proud. He’d been pretending all through class to have a nagging cough, and now that Karen had set his dick abuzz he manufactured a hacking fit that propelled him up from his seat and out the room. His cock said run, but he thought it more dignified to just walk fast as shit, down the stairwell, out and under a twilight sky whose color he hoped he’d forever think of as blowjob blue.

Off the edge of the campus grid, onto his street. As he approached the building he wondered if he should stay outside and meet Karen at the downstairs door. Or, since she had the keys now, maybe he should go in, strip naked and lie in bed with his cock raised like a flagpole. He wondered if she’d have any fresh sex songs to sing tonight. He wondered if there were any conceivable way she could croon a tune and play the throat organ all at the same time.

In and upstairs, he decided. And that’s when he discovered Karen had cheated on the rules of the game, because she’d already been there a little while. Candlelight was the first clue—at least twenty candles had been placed around the big room of his apartment, up on tables and windowsills, down on the floor, yellow light winking and casting weird shadows. His mattress had been pulled out of the tiny bedroom and neatly positioned right in the center of the floor, and Karen stood behind it, a glass of red wine in one hand, a bottle of baby oil in the other.

“Welcome home, lover. And happy Valentine’s Day.”

Mark’s jaw dropped instinctively, like it and his rising dick were hooked together, forced into moving in unison. His lips were not the least bit tempted in pointing out that Valentine’s Day had been weeks ago, not when Karen, fucking bodacious Karen Corso, had stuffed her curves inside a little nothing that might be called a strap teddy with hearts.

In design it couldn’t be simpler—a black leather collar, and a vertical black leather strap, about three inches wide, that ran down the center of her body between her breasts, ending in the tiniest of coverings for her pussy. Horizontally there were two black straps, one at her hips, like a belt, and one going across her chest. At the center of both tits, and adorning the area of her pussy, three red hearts, like her sensitive zones were all saying, “We heart Mark”.

“Some wine?” she asked, not waiting for an answer to slink over to the kitchen area where a glass sat by a bottle on the counter.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her when she moved, or when she poured, the candles raking her from many directions, giving her enhanced 3D form. The straps that were the outfit covered almost nothing; what was before him was all Karen Corso and her skin-smooth torso. But the straps did serve a visual function, not only the message of the Valentine hearts but the way they emphasized how feminine her structure was, from the long firm legs in heels, up to the swell of her hips, higher to the trim waist and then, holy hooters in heaven, the way the poor straining upper strap was trying to flatten her boobs—mission impossible. Even so it applied pressure at the center, hiding her nipples but not the whole of her areoles, the attempt at containment causing all that creamy flesh to bulge out in every direction at once.

“I...” he said, faltering at where to go next. He wanted to tell her she must be the sexiest woman on the planet. He wanted to fall on his knees and give thanks to science for pills, the Brits for Guinness and his own dick and morning musings for a job well done.

“You like what you see,” she said, coming forward, four boob-Jelloing steps that would be burned into his retinas forever. She handed his glass of wine and brushed his neck with her nose, stepping to the side but still facing him, her body close, a hand running through his hair, the brush of something very soft and large against the back of his arm.

A hand stroked his chest, a hot whisper in his ear: “You make me feel so romantic!”

His cock twitched ferociously in his jeans from the truth of it. He had made her feel so romantic.

She licked his earlobe, tongued the side of his neck. Her hair was freshly washed; he smelled strawberries, and lavender, and the sweet musk of wet pussy.

A boob brushed his back as she stepped behind, a hand on his ass, moving down to the back of his thigh, in until it warmed his balls. “I know what I said the other night about boy-toys and all those silly rules,” she continued, her breath now in the other ear. “That’s in the trash now, lover boy. Now, I’m your woman, and you’re my man.”

It sounded like the set-up to a country song, and he wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she paused to belt out a love ballad. She came back to front instead, her eyes like hot coals as she raised her glass of wine, inviting a toast.

“I can’t decide what I love more, you inside me, or between my tits,” she said, and he wondered if that was the toast, here’s to your sopping pussy and fucking huge tits, time to clink glasses. “But there’s something else I’ve been dying to do since the moment I opened my eyes this morning.” She licked her lips, perhaps knowing she did it, perhaps not. “We started there and I’m all about curves, and circles,” she whispered, the index finger of her free hand tracing a circular journey around her left areole, cut across the center by a leather strap the way a thin cloud can cut across the moon. “But somehow I never circled back to the beginning.”

The tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her lower lip. Mark had the sense that Karen’s nipples, hidden underneath the strap of her so-called garment, were pushing at it, the crackling sound of stretching leather imminent.

She raised her wine glass and clinked it to his. “Here’s to sucking you off more.” The areole circling hand went down and found the bulge in his jeans, giving it a tender squeeze, a romantic squeeze, while she drained her glass of wine, head tilted back with her throat working like a preview of cumming attractions.

Mark did what he wanted to do, which started with having a sip of the wine, then taking her chin in his hand, and bringing her mouth to his. Their lips and tongues exchanged hints of tobacco and blackberry, and rich tannins with a long finish.

Without breaking the kiss he curled his chest back to make a sliver of space, all to get his free hand in on her left boob. She had so much there that there was no such thing as copping a one-handed feel—with Karen you could only choose what zone of her breast you wanted to engage at one time, reminiscent of choosing which part of a pie looked best for your slice. Mark went underside, cupping part of the bottom curvature, the tips of his fingers sneaking in under the leather strap, fingertips brushing the hard nipple.

Karen tongue-groaned into his mouth and the groan sounded strange, like in stereo. They disengaged their lip-lock to put the wineglasses aside, but her hand never let go of his bulge, and he never lost contact with her nipple. Stumbling sideways and slowly sinking onto the mattress, her tongue roamed all over his neck, hands working at his jeans.

When his dick came out from hiding, springing with gusto and feeling so energetic he could easily picture it giving off comic book-style lines of heat or force, something changed in the quality of Karen’s kiss. Whether it was a matter of technique or attitude or even structure, he couldn’t really say, but something happened in there, her tongue feeling fatter her saliva wetter, the cavity of her mouth hotter.

When her head drew back, the passionate kiss ended, she was drooling, not like a simpleton blessed with knockers but in what he’d have to describe as a good way. Her hands had already been warming and lightly stroking his cock, but when her gaze went to it, he could almost see an invisible spark connecting his dick to her face, like he was the plus charge and her mouth the negative, bridge the two and zap.

The huge boob and stiffened nipple he’d been playing with had spilled towards the center of her body, held weirdly in place by the leather strap, creating a line of cleavage against the other boob with the line off-center, kind of like when she’d lay on her side and gravity would drape the top boob over the lower one.

This artificial configuring of her tits was both stirring and slightly comical, but there was nothing funny in the may she was looking at his cock. The desire written all over her had none of the simplicity of. “I want to give my boyfriend, a blowjob, wouldn’t he like that.” Though not yet touching the mouth and the dick were already connected yet begging for a deeper melding, like they wanted to bond chemically, or atomically, or hell, even quarkically.

Cock wanted mouth; mouth wanted cock. And when they touched, a soft kiss at first, with just the lightest dab of tongue-tip, Mark could immediately feel the qualitative evolution between this blowjob and the one that had come right at the beginning of their sexual history. Her lips felt more inviting, cheeks rounder and tighter somehow when she drew a few inched of him inside, and once inside it was the difference between taking a bath, then, or being in a heated whirlpool, now.

He was breathing heavily before she’d even taken the length of him down her throat. She kept looking him straight in the eye as she twisted and bobbed and compression-sucked, and in her eyes he saw fuel for blowjobs and tit-jobs and her drenched pussy going at him some way every day for weeks.

She played his climax like a fisherman with a feisty catch on the line, reeling him to the edge, giving him a little slack, reeling again. The difference was that she wasn’t tiring him out, and he wasn’t fighting, and he could tell from the moaning that accompanied her sucking that the almost excruciating yes-but-not-yet-total-yesness of her pacing was having the same effect on her that it had on him, boiling them both but never quite killing them. Every deep pull down her throat brought mutual groans of almost, ah-ah-ahlmost, so close, balls aching just right, here, so close that it had to be a total yes this time, but no, her relaxation giving him that slack, down deep again, ah-ah-ahlmost, of fuck so close, that slack...

No slack, deep in, swishing and sucking, pulling and whirlpooling and Karen screaming a full-throated scream...

“Ahh Yesss!”, right into her mouth, so deep into her throat that it almost felt like cumming into her pussy from the inside-out.