The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

That morning, with his third-to-last pill dissolving in his system and his cock pleasantly aching from subconsciously orchestrated desk sex, Mark was more engaged in his Egyptian Art class than ever, largely because the teacher talked about something completely unexpected and suddenly relevant to his life—magic. Sorcery was introduced into the discussion because a number of figures in Egyptian paintings and sculptures were thought to be practitioners or diviners for the pharoah. Apparently, at the time of Ramses III, it was a common belief that certain individuals could cast a spell upon others and control their actions from afar.

Mark couldn’t help wondering whether any of these spells were conceived during sleep, so he directed a question that way, and was rewarded with a brief discussion of an ancient practice that came to full fruition in pre-Socratic Greece, a vision-producing ritual called “incubation”. He had never heard of it, but based on the way the instructor spoke of the rituals involved, it sounded very much like the fostering of powerful dreams.

And how about that; as the lecture proceeded it turned out that Ramses III met his end in what was called the “royal harem conspiracy”. Recent X-ray analysis of his mummy, combined with court records preserved on papyrus, confirmed that the pharoah died from having his throat slit, probably by one of his wives.

Under his breath, unheard by the classmates surrounding him, Mark channeled his inner Hulk and said, “Harem, bad.” Obviously, having a bevy of beautiful devoted women was a symbol of power and decadent pleasure, but a real everyday harem must be a total mess to deal with in a practical sense, with jealousies and infighting edging out the spirit of pure unbridled fucking. Let me never dream of harems, Mark thought. If I’ve ever learned anything in art school let it be this: controlling others’ sexual inclinations from afar, way cool; harems, so uncool it might as well be another word for death.

During his next class, Senior Project Seminar, time went into a slow crawl. This was the most self-motivational of his courses, where he’d proposed his project in January—turning a short comic book of his favorite character, Thunder Woman, into a series of large oil paintings. There were supposed to be five paintings total, and he’d more or less finished the first two. The panels in those first paintings were set-up; other than a head-shot of Thunder Woman in her alter-ego disguise as Michelle Morris, mild-mannered storm-chaser and associate professor of climate studies at a Tornado Alley university, the costumed star of his narrative hadn’t even made an appearance on canvas yet.

He was just a little bit worried how some of his female classmates would react once he had Thunder Woman, in costume, drawn and painted in. The character was meant to have a body with generous—some would say exaggerated—curves, not quite Karen Corso proportions but very much in that direction. He could just imagine the flack he’d receive from the more feminist types in final crits, if they hadn’t already smacked him down beforehand. In this hipsterism-chasing art department, comic-based art was frowned upon in general; it was almost begging for trouble to go way past that, presenting five four-by-six foot paintings where his character looked like she could create thunderclaps every time her boobs smacked together.

He used a T-square to map in the panel configurations on panels three through five, but withheld sketching the outlines of the figures, feeling too distracted to concentrate properly. His mind kept wandering back to all that had happened in Susan Jensen’s office, and how thoroughly her actions and even her attitude had been constrained by the details of the night’s dream. There was a sense of unbreakable bonding, almost like his dream had been turned into fate. And how did Susan process all of that now that he was gone? He was certain she wouldn’t be able to rat him out, but otherwise, did she feel that she’d become a dream-pawn? And did she like having become a dream-pawn, or hate it? Did she even have a choice about liking it or not-liking it? There were still so many things he didn’t know, and a few days of pills might not give him enough time to find those answers.

Finally noon arrived, and on the way to his locker he spied Cynthia Gilwood, standing with her arms crossed at the front, her back pressed against the corridor wall. Now here was a woman well worth burning into his retinas so deeply that he couldn’t help dreaming about her. Hell, he already had dreamed about her to some degree, and wondered how she might react when she saw him.

He slowed his approach and thought for the umpteenth time that she must look fantastic when naked. So tiny overall, but with that really wonderful hourglass shape. She always wore pants or jeans—had he ever seen her legs? Just once that he remembered, a very brief glimpse of her getting into some guy’s car, a boyfriend from last year. It had been ninety-five degrees in September that day, and she’d been wearing ass-hugging white shorts and a blue T-shirt, very simple. The bubbled roundness of her butt and the firmness of her legs had been remarkable, but his view had been so fleeting that he never felt he’d gotten a complete picture.

Now, approaching, it was the narrowness of that waist and the lively thrust of her perky tits that hit him where it counted. And the face, of course. Freaking inspiring, that face; it almost wasn’t fair how her features were built to go all gorgeous one second and so cute the next, all while looking like the whole package had been special ordered from cheekbones.com. or sexyeyebrows.com. Really, since when did a woman’s eyebrows make him go weak in the knees? They were furrowed now, and one of her sneakers was tapping on the polished floor, the body rhythm of impatience. Of horniness, too? The eyebrows evened out as he drew closer, and she smiled, all perfect white teeth, full lips and ridiculously attractive dimples.

“You waiting for someone?” he asked.

Her head nodded in the direction of the door a few paces to her left, the office where students met periodically with a panel of advisors. “And I’m next,” she said, making waiting-forever eyes. “I’ve been next for the last twenty minutes.”

Mark drew in a deep breath. And I’m next—hadn’t those been the very words he’d heard her say in yesterday morning’s dream? Then, he’d interpreted that to mean she was second in line behind Karen for a crack at his hard cock. Here, the words were right, but nothing else was. He stopped right in front of her and said something, probably “Oh, I see”, or an equally meaningless bit of nothing. His sixth or seventh senses were on alert for that breeze of change, the invisible magical air that would take her to a place where lust sprang eternal.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“Sorry. So I, uh...” Was wondering when you’d want to take off all your clothes and sit on my face. “Sooo...” he drew out. “You’re next, as you say.”

The eyebrows indicated that he sounded like he was becoming a nutcase. “Are you on something, Mark?”

“Huh? No, no.” Magic penis pills, that’s all. “I just, uh, didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Hardly any.”

“Aha. Night life or study?”

“A project. Two projects, actually. Two really enormous projects.” My dream of Karen changed Karen, and you were in the dream too so why aren’t you changing? Because someone else—Susan—took your place as the “next one”, breaking the spell? Or because hearing a voice in a dream isn’t enough? Does it have to be hardcore, explicit?

“It’s getting like that, isn’t it?” Cynthia said. “Everybody’s got projects lined up like airplanes—they’re beginning to stress about finals, graduation, what comes next once we’re out for good, all of it. Meantime, they, the people making me wait out here, don’t let up on the gas at all. I’ve got a huge paper due next week and I should be working on that right now, not standing here getting the short end...” She paused, her eyebrows giving away how she hated shortness jokes or metaphors, even when one of them had tumbled inadvertently from her own lips. “Having to put up with this,” she finished. “Not you! I didn’t mean putting up with you. Them, I mean. In there.”

He laughed, really utterly charmed. And, not wanting to leave, he said, “Your thing is art history, right? Professor Belleweather had some really interesting stuff to say about Ramses the Third today.”

She laughed. “Like never give your any of your wives a knife for a wedding present?”

“Yeah. And he went on about magic and something the Greeks were into, a thing called ‘incubation’. I’d never heard of that before.”

“That was an ancient ritual, the ancient Greeks and very early Jews, though some researchers believe the origins came across the Middle East from Tibet. People identified as being gifted in a particular way would sleep in a prepared space, supposedly a holy location, with the expectation that they would have a divinely inspired dream.”

“For the purpose of...”

“Telling the people what to do, I suppose. When we say the word ‘oracle’, the idea probably started way back with the incubation practice.”

“That’s fascinating. Dreams that told people what to do.”

“Why so interested?”

“Just, I don’t know. An odd thing to come up in an art history class is all.”

A few seconds of silence followed, a little bit awkward, like they didn’t know what else to say to each other. Who knew what went on in Cynthia’s mind; in his, her words had gotten him thinking about how much he’d love to see her cool demeanor break down until she was drooling for oracle sex.

“Good luck with it all, Cynthia. With your paper, with them in there, with, you know, everything.”

“Thanks. Go home and get some sleep, okay? You really do look wiped out.”

“I’m sure going to try.”

“Sweet dreams, then.”

“I’m definitely going to try that, too,” he said, continuing on.

It was even brighter and sunnier outside than it had been, and warm for late March. Spring had officially arrived a week ago, which was why school workloads were getting so intense. Only five and a half weeks of college left for him, for Cynthia, for Karen and thousands of other seniors. The clock was running out nearly as fast as his supply of pills.

With the sky so blue and the air so crisp there was nothing in the look of the environment that even hinted at the possibility of dream-altered realities, of sexy young college girls’ personalities being overwritten to include the need to gnaw on his bone. Like Cynthia, in the hallway—nothing, not one trace of runaway excitement or changed perceptions. She was pleasant, friendly, but she was always like that with him. A sweet girl, a good girl type, probably going to take her museum studies degree and move wherever she landed a promising curatorial job, where she would be one of the most petite—and most beautiful—women in wherever she ended up. Husband, job, probably two kids and a dog, the works.

And, truth be told, he envied whomever she ended up with. Imagine waking up to that face every morning, and imagine what it could be like in the bed with the face, the body, the eyebrows. He pictured how her eyebrows might rise and tilt when in the throes of passion, an orgasm welling up inside. He stopped walking, breathed out and almost felt like he was venting steam. So sexy to picture, but it did him no good here, upright and in the sunshine with his eyes open. He needed to dream that, tonight or tomorrow night or the next night. Three chances to line up three Cynthia’s in the invisible casino of the dream world.

Was she good in bed in normal times, an enthusiastic lover? You never really knew what a woman was like that way until you were there—he’d learned that with his third real girlfriend, Allison, who looked like an underaged Vegas stripper but had the wooden demeanor under the sheets of a Shaker. But Cynthia, gorgeous as can be but not stuck-up about it because she felt so self-conscios about her height—he’d bet anything she could cut wild sometimes.

It hit him as he walked home that this was exactly the way he wanted to think today about any sexy woman he knew or sort-of knew. Yesterday he’d felt sex-obsessed because his dream of Karen Corso had put him in that frame of mind; now, cart before the horse, he wanted to be in that frame of mind to summon one or many sex dreams. And he’d already committed Cynthia Gilwood’s name to his sketchbook, last night when he’d brainstormed on the question of “who’s next”.

At home he ate grilled cheese and tidied the place up a bit. He could still smell Karen’s pussy in the air, and reluctantly mopped the hardwood where they’d fucked and she’d dripped. After that he wasn’t sure what to do; he’d told Cynthia he was sleepy, but that had been a lie. Besides, it might be best to stay awake and try and sleep normally tonight, since the rhythm he was on had given him such good results two nights in a row.

At the same time he felt like he should be making plans of some sort, concocting various means of stimulating the part of the mind where dreams come from. Were there things you could do to channel dreams in a certain direction?

On his laptop he googled, “How to encourage dreams”, which just happened to bring up the related search, ‘how to encourage wet dreams”. He went straight to the latter, but it was mostly forum talk about how natural it was to masturbate, duh. So back to encouraging regular dreams, or the very act of dreaming. The advice he found seemed pretty spotty—eat peanut butter or chocolate before sleep; get sick so you have a fever; drink a bunch of water so you wake up early having to pee; smoke tons of pot; always set an alarm so you’re awakened in the middle of dreaming. He liked that last one; wasn’t that exactly what had been happening by having to get up so early? But there was nothing about how to create certain kinds of dreams, except for lucid dreams. But he didn’t think he even wanted that—it was too close to daydreaming.

On a whim he googled “incubation”, and damn if there wasn’t a practice called dream incubation. It wasn’t complicated—think really hard about some problem to solve before going to bed, as a way of preparing the mind to focus on finding solutions in the dream state. Simple, and what he wanted was also so simple at its core: “Get dream-horny and they will come,” he said to his computer, before adding, “And then they will come,” meaning the women, whatever women he dreamed about.

He turned his attention to the names, when he knew their names, of the women he’d listed in his sketchbook the night before. Cynthia was first. Like hundreds of classmates over three-plus years in art school she was a Facebook friend, and he found a series of candids of her around campus, plus an album of her skiing with her family over winter break. With more internet digging he came up with one somewhat blurry image of her on a sailboat, in a bikini, and hubba! He felt like shooting the idiot who’d auto-focused on the background, not Cynthia as a bikini-babe, and he also felt like shooting off, right inside her somewhere. Her breasts were a good size, nothing like Karen’s but plenty nice. They also had good... whatever it would be called, mammary momentum or funbag fervor, like all that she had projected straight out. The tits looked all the better because they were merely the upper story of her hourglass body. Her hips could make him hard all by themselves, and how big around was that waist, anyway?

He prayed he would dream of her, but kept covering bases by moving on to the next babe on his list, the Russian model. He didn’t know her name, but key words in Google came through for him. Natalia Gorodina, twenty years old, trained in Moscow and now a “featured artist/student of dance” in the school dance department. There were a handful of photos of her, two head shots and three high contrast full-body performance pictures where she flew through the air, legs stretched and flexed, her arms both powerful and elegant, all of her muscles defined like crazy. He didn’t know enough to say how brilliant her dance form was, and didn’t really care when she looked like pure female fuck-muscle.

He had no idea how to search out two of the women he’d jotted down last night, the nameless blonde barista and the beautiful redhead he sometimes passed at mid-day. Gentry Massey he found, but she’d apparently dropped out of school, relocating to Hong Kong of all places. Watch him dream of her, where if the magic took hold it would take days for her to even show up.

He didn’t know what else he could do to infuse sex into dreams he wouldn’t have for hours, other than surf hot-babe sites and watch porn. He did that for half an hour, but started to feel like it was all useless. He was looking for tricks, for guarantees, only because there were so few pills, and it would be heartbreaking to wake up remembering no dreams, or only some meaningless no-sex dreams. Maybe, in the end, he just had to trust in the partnership that had been created between his subconscious mind and his cock. He was two for two, after all, before he’d even known what was going on.

But shit, three pills, including the one he already had in his system. “It’s like three wishes,” he said, thinking of so many fables where someone receives three wishes, and has to use them wisely. Often the story is about the opposite, a study of the wasting of precious opportunities. Even a story like “Casey At the Bat” was the same, a morality tale about carelessness or cockiness. Waste your limited opportunities, your three opportunities, and you’re a fool.

He was hoping for a different kind of cockiness. Two well-played chances were already in the bank, so to speak.

“In the sperm bank,” he said, thinking hot thoughts about Karen and Susan.He checked the time—still three hours before Karen Corso showed up again, assuming she truly would.

And if she did... No telling, but he took the precaution of hiding his two remaining pills under his kitchen sink, back behind the drain opener and scrubbing bubbles stuff. If Karen brought the cops, or what he’d done with Susan brought the drug research CIA to his door, no point in making anything easier for the bad guys.

If they were the bad guys. Because the “bad” label might apply more to his subconscious self, wicked thing. Or to his dick.

Earlier that day, in fact all through the day, Karen tried with all her might to not-go, to call and tell him she’d changed her mind. Yes, the unplanned sex with him had been like orbital sex with the Aurora Borealis flaring from one boob to another, but it was a wild hair, she hadn’t been herself, good-bye and good luck. She knew she could break off a sexual relationship like a twig because she’d done it before, bunches of times. Any time a boy-toy got too obsessed with showing her off, or too demanding of her time, or even just too tit-crazed like what was his name, Joey, back around this time last year, constantly pawing at her boobs like they were big juggs of honey and he was a bee, yuck.

Anyway, it was easy to call a boy-toy and just end it and move on. Didn’t matter how good-looking they were, how popular or how rich or any of that. She was in college to get perfect grades and earn her degree, and anything else could wait. She had some fun, too, went to parties, had friends, even enjoyed a really wild couple of days over spring break last year, complete with first prize in a wet T-shirt contest. But guys at this stage of her life served a limited purpose, which was uncomplicated no-strings sex when she felt that needy itch up her thingie, telling her she needed some action.

When a guy stopped being right for the purpose it was no big deal, simply pull the rip-cord and parachute out of there and fly away free. Landing was always easy because they were practically lined up like lemmings, all of them, the whole of the straight male species. What she’d learned is that some guys will say they prefer smaller breasts to big ones, but no guy will turn down the really big ones if they become available. All it took was batting her eyes, showing a little cleavage and ta-da, new boy-toy.

So calling Mark, or even texting him to let him go, no sweat, nothing she hadn’t done before. But every time she thought about actually doing it, entering his number and saying or writing the words, calling it off quickly before he got ideas, or she got ideas... Different reactions, scary reactions, that’s what happened. Everything from hyperventilating to her hands getting tremors, and always with her nipples hard, like they were pointing the way again, speaking their mind again.

Once, when she’d come thiiiis close, with the phone in her hand and the words all lined up in her head like a prepared speech, she went into some kind of panic attack with palpitating drum language for heartbeats and this wild feeling, totally crazy, insane to the max, that her big babies were the ones beating the bongo drums into her heart, like some kind of protest or glandular body-sabotage. It stayed that way until she put her phone down.

When she next picked it up, it was to call Torey the Toy, and tell him she no longer needed his boy-toy services. He sputtered, of course, and being that he was more the argumentative type than a whiner, he tried to debate his way back into her vagina, which was just pathetic. Somewhere during his lawyerly monologue her arm began to ache, the bruised part from knocking into something last night when she’d just completely lost it with what’s-his-name, Mark, and there was the counter-argument to all of Torey’s talking points right there.

“You never made me hurt myself I wanted you so bad,” she said, interrupting him. “You never made me just, you know, ache.”

“You wanted me to hurt you?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Like, sado stuff, that sort of thing? Why didn’t you say so? I could...”

“No, you can’t. See you around, Torey. Don’t be a pain and beg or anything, okay? I hate that.” Click.

She needed to dump Mark Mitchell, too. With Torey it was probably just time for a new leaf, but Mark was thornier, because she’d been awake half the night thinking about their sex together, and that was all wrong because she never replayed sex in her head, just had it when she needed it and went on to the next thing.

But she did think about it, a lot. She kept wondering what had come over her, that initial impulse to find him and offer her big babies to him like sacrificial mamms. She was a planning type, not usually prone to spontaneous off the wall flights of lotion lust with her tits or whatever. It had been a little bit like a fever, or a delusion that had also felt real, or... She couldn’t think of the right way to look at it because she’d never experienced anything like it. She’d known what she was doing, even had something like visions of what she’d be doing next, and seeing what she’d seen had been like following breadcrumbs that made her feel excited, like incredibly excited and wanting more breadcrumbs, and all the breadcrumbs led to Mark Mitchell and his thing.

How freaky was that? It all became outlandish, the way her actions proceeded without there being any rational reason to act that way. And then the way so much of it had felt so right, even when she could see for herself that it had to be wrong. She liked getting guys off with her boobs well enough; do it once and in most cases they became as subservient as slaves. But with Mark she had craved it, and it had nothing to do with strategy, with using her body to train him to be a certain way. It had been need, pure and simple. She needed that man’s cock between her tits. If it hadn’t happened, if he’d turned out to be gay or something, or if he’d had a girlfriend and said no and meant it...

She couldn’t even contemplate that, because it was fundamentally inconceivable somehow. It was like wondering what would have happened if the earth had been too far from the sun support life, or what if she’d never been born, all nonsense questions. It just was. Had to be. Her tits, his cock, end of story.

Only the story didn’t end because that was yesterday and today she kept seeing Mark’s thick hard thing right where it had left off, disappearing between her big babies again. She kept thinking of it as replaying last night in her mind, but it also felt anticipatory, more breadcrumbs she needed to follow. That bothered her, the whole breadcrumb thing, but what bothered her ten times more was how she’d been with him all naked and so passionate and she’d never once gotten him inside her.

He had to be inside her. She needed his cock inside her. Which had her freaking out, that sense of need. It wasn’t like her; it wasn’t the way she did men. It was preposterous, in fact, the gnawing single-mindedness of it.

Was she going crazy? Maybe she was. Or was it a sort of body intelligence coming to life, or even a form of sexual awakening? She got caught up in thinking all these thoughts during her morning class, and consequently didn’t hear most of the professor’s lecture. It was about the Italian masters using warm and cool color combinations to create visual tension between static figures in crowd scenes, but it was hard to care about those tensions when she had so many of her own, pulsating in different ways in different areas of her body. She’d put on a bra that shoved her boobs together and the breast to breast contact felt especially good today, but with a wistful edge because she didn’t have something else between them, something hard and hot with Mark connected to it. Her tits had felt so amazing—she had felt so amazing with his cock crammed down the middle, a fleshy snake parting the crack of her oiled flesh like it lived there and was coming home. Her bruised arm ached, too, but that was nothing compared to the way her pussy ached, her vagina actually feeling empty, physically empty, so in need of having him plow his way inside.

She slipped out of class twenty minutes early and found a private place to go to the web on her phone. The idea of a sexual awakening had stuck with her and she looked up the term. Lots and lots of stuff and it was all about women, like men were sexually awake from the moment they opened their eyes every morning. She clicked onto several sites—most of the talk was about transformation and discovering the inner goddess and all that, and the tone was always celebrational, like wasn’t she or anyone else lucky to be visited by such an awakening. On the fourth or fifth site she found a description of the term, and damn if it didn’t tie-in perfectly with what she was going through:

On a woman’s path towards sexual awakening, the woman comes into a previously unknown state where she admits how much she loves cock. She loves to hold a man’s cock, or stroke it, or suck on it or engulf it. Some women report immense pleasure from merely staring at a cock, but for most it must be a tactile experience. This is a moment in a woman’s life that cannot be feigned—she is in a state of overflow, and knows she is so full of orgasm that she becomes like a river overspilling its banks. In nature, flooding rivers sew destruction while simultaneously feeding distant soil. A woman in overflow is exactly like this; no part of her life will be untouched by this flood of realization, the realization that she has opened into a new stage of womanhood where she will give and give and give of herself, her sexuality spilling forth because her need to receive has become so great.

“That’s me,” she said, relieved to know what was going on, but anxious, too, because of the point about the flood going into other parts of her life. And come to think of it, none of this explained why her awakening was tied to a guy she really didn’t know.

She found herself alternating between fretting and being excited, and when she ran into Cynthia at lunch, she pulled her friend over to a table where they could talk without being overheard, and confessed that she was going crazy because she’d had the best sex of her life the night before, an entirely new classification of sex and now she was afraid she might be addicted to it.

“My God, who’s the guy?” Cynthia asked. “I mean, it was it a guy, right? Or...”

“Of course it was a guy.”

“It’s just that the way you were talking about it, like it was completely new...”

“I don’t do women, especially now. I mean, the way I felt when I... And that’s the thing; I was getting off when I was doing him! We didn’t even do it, not the full do it. If I’d been a virgin I still would be, technically, but what was happening inside me, the way I kept getting... off!”

It was obvious that Cynthia didn’t know what to say. She tried, rather clumsily, to float the idea that Karen might be confusing lust with love, like If the guy hadn’t done anything special, no new technique or dramatically bigger equipment to explain the difference, then maybe Karen had never been in love before and the sex seemed really incredible this time because it was grabbing her in her heart, not only in her loins.

“That’s hogwash,” was her reply, which shut Cynthia up pretty quick. Inside she was less certain. None of the sexual awakening sites had said anything about being in love, but how different was that to being in lust? They could both become obsessions. And the pull in her chest, similar to last night in the auditorium, that weird sense that no matter which way she turned her body, her boobs would resist the change of direction unless they happened to be pointing in his direction, showing her the way...

“Karen? You’ve gone kind of quiet.”

“I need to fuck him with my tits again!” she blurted out, loudly enough that heads at the closest table turned.

Cynthia was momentarily shocked, then started to laugh. “So who is this lucky guy?”

“He’s mine! I know you think you’re next but...”

“Whoa, Karen! W-t-f? Have you gone insane?”

“I thought... I don’t know why... I have no idea why I said that. I’m sorry, I’m not myself right now.”

“No, you really aren’t.”

“It’s stressing me out, the way I want... You know I’ve never been very romantic or anything when it comes to guys.”

“You mean the way you treat them like tissues, a blow or two and then into the wastebasket?”

Cynthia’s words stung because they were true. It was a good line, too, one she’d have to remember. “I told him I’d come over at five-thirty and I can’t... I’ve thought of calling it off but I just can’t seem to make that happen. I’ve been reading about sexual awakenings and I feel like I need it to happen, that I need more sex. ”

“So go and have more sex, problem solved.”

“But don’t you get it? I need it! And my boobs are still sore from last night! I went crazy last night and I... I molested him with my tits, Cynthia. I fucking molested him!”

Karen had always thought Cynthia’s face was uncommonly beautiful and uncommonly expressive, and a range of emotions passed by before she said, “Looks like he molested your neck in return.”

Karen’s hand went to her neck. She could remember his mouth there, sucking on her flesh, marking her with a hickey. She hadn’t allowed that since being fourteen, and wouldn’t have tolerated it last night if she’d been in her right mind.

“I think I’m really in trouble,” she said.

“Karen, come on. Go and do this guy, whomever he is, and get it out of your system. Or if you can’t get it out of your system because you’re into him, like really really into him, or he makes you feel a certain way that you’ve never experienced before, then go do that, too. I mean, it almost sounds like you just had your very first...”

“No, I’ve had orgasms before. But these were... I’m almost afraid to have more, like I’ll never get enough!”

“Well you could always, you know, to take the edge off. Everybody does it at some time or another.”

Masturbate; she meant masturbate. Which meant she didn’t really get it. Yet after their conversation Karen went straight to her dorm, drew a hot bath and lay in the tub, her big babies lifted by the water, her nipples and vagina feeling like they might be able to heat the bath water all by themselves. And she masturbated, delicately at first but more and more forcefully when she shut her eyes and remembered what she had done to his cock with her oiled tits, and what she would do to him today, molesting his hot rod again but also making sure he drove it pedal to the metal inside her tunnel, screeching forward, shifting into reverse, forward, reverse, forward, re...

She came. It was the rolling hills climax she was most familiar with, not the steep climb and flying leaps off Everest that had broken her so beautifully last night. But it was an orgasm, a moment’s respite, and now she could stop all this damned obsessing.

Which worked for maybe twenty minutes. The afternoon hours ticked away in her dorm and she was probably as overheated as before the naughty bath, and frustration with being horny again changed into wondering what to wear, how much to wow him, which became whether to wear a bra or not, and whether to buy more baby oil for tit-fucking. And then, feeling a little bit like a sexual awakening doll determined to meet her maker, she was on her way there with everyone staring because she’d put on a tight sweater, very thin cashmere, and had let her babies swing free for the night, going braless for the first time ever in public.

That felt like a choice, like she could wear a bra or not. And what the hell, why not just go all out and look like a sex doll when she was on the verge of being a sexually awakened tit-fucking lunatic anyway. The oil seemed like a choice, too, but other things didn’t, like the way she felt compelled to chew on her lower lip of all things. She did that sometimes when she got nervous while taking an exam, but this was unreal, this compulsion to just gnaw on it non-stop.

“I’m going kind of craaaazzeee here!” she singsonged on the way to his building. Something about that felt weird, too, but good, or right, or necessary. She hummed under her breath, a simple tune she made up on the spot. It needed words, words to the music.

“Got big babies swinging free,” she lightly sang. “So stuff your thing inside of me.” And like background vocals supporting the main track: “Do it, do it, do it, oh wow; do it, do it, do it, cum now.”

And then she saw it, his building, and ran the rest of the way, so anxious to... to... “To fuck him this time, too. To fucking fuck him raw.”

Oh yeah, all of that was on the song list tonight. She silently mouthed a new tune as she stepped onto his porch. “Fuck my tits, here’s some oil, fuck ’em hard, make me boil, please don’t stop, time to ride, make me pop, cum on inside!”