The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mark was already running late for his Senior Projects class, so he went with the tardiness flow by making himself even more late. He deposited Susan’s check before a quick stop at the hardware store to have keys duplicated, and raced back home to place them under the mat for Karen. Then back the other way, wondering whether he could sneak into his class, or if he should just stroll in and say he’d been feeling queasy—queasy being code for the practice of getting a spellbound married woman off by merely fondling her nipples.

A few nights ago, with Karen Corso whispering in his ear in an art history lecture, leaning so close that she’d half-draped a giant tit onto him —that had been a turning point in his life, no doubt, the first signal that his dreams had oodles of dick-ensian persuasive power. But Mark felt as though this morning had been equally important, in that he’d just discovered an escalation of this potent ability, which held the promise of shaping events for his cock for weeks or maybe even months into the future.

One pill left—did it even matter that he only had two nights left for special dreaming, when he might be able to extend his influence far beyond anything he’d thought possible? If he mused the right way first thing tomorrow morning, couldn’t he extend the magic farther and wider than ever, in both distance and time? What if he thought of Karen tit-fucking him when they were forty years-old—would that vision have to come true? If he pictured Karen needing to tit-fuck him every single night until they turned forty, would she follow him around no matter where he moved after school, anything to be able to fulfill his wishes? Or what if he pictured the redheaded stranger licking the cum from his cock every morning for the next ten years—she didn’t even know him, but would she find some way?

Or what if he mused far beyond his campus life and pictured a famous actress or supermodel going down on his tool? There were several actresses he could see doing in a Hollywood minute—if he pictured one in his head, bonking him in his bed, would she be pulling up in front of his house within the next few days in a limousine? The scope of the possibilities felt a little overwhelming when he thought in these terms. There had to be limits, right? And how much trouble would get stirred up if someone famous tried to explain to their agent how, no, they’ve never met or even heard of this guy Mark Mitchell before, but who cares when they really really have to find him and fuck him or they’ll just go insane?

It was increasingly difficult to care about normal everyday schoolwork with so many opportunities, or pratfalls, beckoning, but even if it all went positive, he couldn’t throw his whole life into the wastebasket for sex, could he? There were art projects to finish and papers to write, and final exams were looming in the not too distant future. It, the structure of his life, didn’t just go away because his dick had gone from lamentably underused to deliciously abused pretty much overnight.

Racing past other classroom doors in the big arts building, he thought he got a glimpse of the Russian model, totally naked and holding a standing pose with one leg raised onto a stool or chair. Several paces beyond that impression he slowed down, stopped, and decided to backtrack to his locker, which would allow him to pass more slowly with the same view a second time, taking in more details of the school’s version of a supermodel.

Professors and female students were well aware of the tricks some of the male students employed to furtively gawk at the Russian girl’s awesome physique. His second time around, Mark chose a middle path between feigning indifference and being blatantly obvious, by walking by the door with a normal stride, not at a snail’s pace, but with his head turned to look right at her, not hiding his interest in the least.

It’s amazing how much information your eyes can absorb in something like two seconds. Russian girl—he had to remember that her name was Natalia—was on the model stand with perhaps twenty-five students scattered in a rough circle around her, engaged in tonal studies of her body in light and shadow. Mark had a clear sight line between two sitting students, where he could see Natalia from head to toe. She was almost profile to his position, but with her head turned in his direction, her gaze down as though in deep contemplation of the paint-splattered concrete floor. Her elbows were raised to the sides, hands clasped behind her neck, causing her entire ribcage to jut forward, her naturally perky breasts going even higher and prouder than normal.

She had gorgeous tits. She had gorgeous everything, actually, a physique where it really didn’t matter whether you focused high or low, on the front or the rear or the side—wherever your eyes rested on the woman’s body, they were instantly rewarded. Deeply muscled back, taut abdomen with a dancer’s six-pack, elegant toned arms, long and strong neck, legs that were like powerful coiled springs. In the two seconds Mark had to drink her in, he absorbed all these qualities of her body, right down to the almost astounding arches of her feet.

But perhaps the most stirring detail of the woman this day involved the color of her eyes, because in that last instant of passing the door she seemed to feel his presence, the way people often do when some unknown sense alerts them to being watched. Her head and neck never moved—far too disciplined a model for that—but her gaze lifted, and for much less than the space of one heartbeat, her eyes locked onto his.

Ice blue those eyes, like those of a Siberian husky. He continued to walk towards his own class, slowed as before, stopped. Something at the back of his mind, like the tail of a snake wriggling, only now with the rest of the serpent remembering that it had a tail. Russian girl, Natalia. Modeling. Blue eyes. Blue.

A dream, almost. Natalia and something blue. Her in something blue? A blue negligee? Blue dress? Maybe looking up, and seeing her surrounded by a blue sky?

Mark stood there in the empty hallway for a few more seconds, unable to go any further with it. It wasn’t quite blue déja vu, or a memory—more like a half-flash of a dream snippet, a thin slice of his sleep in the night. His thought about blue clothing felt the closest to it, whatever it was, but now it was all gone.

But he’d dreamed of Natalia, the Russian model? His heart quickened into a rhythm that was close to hubba hubba, hubba hubba! His friend Jorge didn’t call her Russian girl; he referred to her as the walking anatomy lesson. And please, oh please, might he have dreamed of all that living anatomy fucking his dick so hard that it turned blue?

Couldn’t fucking remember! There was nothing to do, then, but move on with his day and hope more solid memories would eventually shake loose. Or, even if he didn’t remember the source of the magic, that Natalia would make a move, any move, that led to the two of them joining hands, joining privates, engaged in an energetic pas de fuck-deux.

Cynthia waited at the end of the third floor hallway until the coast was clear, only feeling a little bit guilty about entering into Karen’s dorm room without permission. She and Karen had exchanged keys to each other’s places in sophomore year, for the watering of plants during vacation time, or a security spare when getting locked out, whatever. Cynthia had been in Karen’s space a bunch of times, but never with her heart thumping like this. She needed... She wasn’t sure what she needed. Just to be in Karen’s world, perhaps. Getting inside it. Penetrating it.

The place smelled like Karen’s shampoo, and Karen’s body lotion, and... baby oil? Yes, and something more earthy, too, an almost feral scent. She stepped deeper into Karen’s room, close to the bed, and leaned down. Pussy. The room smelled like Karen Corso’s pussy, in heat.

Cynthia became tingles and shivers and quickened breath. It was almost like a love potion, Karen’s scent. The bed wasn’t made—that was unusual, because Karen was a stickler for making the bed first thing every morning, and neatly, too, with textbook hospital corners. Cynthia peeled the bunched covers back, bending over until her nose was almost touching the bedsheets.

“Oh yesss,” she sighed. She was no expert, but some things are plain to know, like the difference between pussy and pussy. This wasn’t casual everyday Karen pussy on the sheets; this was Karen desire, leaked right onto the bed.

It was tempting to get in bed to breathe in Karen lust while doing something about her own desires, but Cynthia remained focused, even when she didn’t know where her focus should be. She looked around the room—the drawer where Karen kept her bras and panties? She’d snooped in there once before, the curiosity killing her, and knew the improbable numbers and letters she’d find on Karen’s bras. She special ordered them and so they were sized in European configurations, some 75 K or 75 I, which meant who knows exactly what in U.S. sizes. 75 was thirty-four, she knew that, so 34-HHuge, no doubt.

She opened the drawer and took one out, a big white lacy thing with a back strap three inches wide and cups that looked like they could be worn as Conehead party hats. For a trim woman to be able to fill those things, unbelievable. She had held one of Karen’s bras in her hands before, and she had marveled at what it said about Karen’s size, but handling the thing hadn’t felt all electric like this. The longing, the wanting...

This bra smelled so fresh, maybe just washed, like it was innocent or unspoiled. There was no thought that preceded the action in response—Cynthia simply unfastened her jeans and pulled her underwear down her legs, then stuffed Karen’s bra between her thighs, rubbing the fabric hard against her sex.

“Uh! Oh God, oh yes...” It felt so good she could get lost in it, keep rubbing and rubbing... “No, too much to do!”

It was so hard to stop. Almost as a reward for this temporary self-control, she brought the bra back up and to her nose. Yes, there. Marked, her scent all over it, her need soaked right into the fabric. With great care she placed the bra back amongst the others just as she’d found it, and shut the drawer, trapping her smell inside to waft over all of Karen’s underthings.

“Wherever she goes, whomever she’s doing, a piece of me will be there, too.”

It was amazing how right that felt. Not so much marking Karen’s underthings but being wrapped into her sex life in some way. She blinked her eyes, getting something like a half-glimpse of a dream, her and Karen... Doing something together. Conspiring, maybe, or coordinating to... Gone. Damn.

Cynthia stepped away from the dresser and wandered around the small space, looking for something, maybe clues. There were notebooks and papers spread all over Karen’s work table, and she stood there peering down, touching nothing. She had to adjust the tilt of her head to see different texts upright—a ton of notes about Frida Kahlo, and... What was this? Poetry?

Cynthia studied the first of many, handwritten on simple lined notepaper.

To the tune of White Christmas:

I’m dreaming of your thick penis

Unlike the ones I’ve know before

I just love to lube it

And goob-a-tube boob it,

As I do you right there on your floor

Should she laugh? There was more, five verses in total, but Cynthia went to the next poem, and the next. Sitting there with all of this was a small book on the basics of musical notation, like Karen was learning to read, or even write, music.

She knew her friend. There were computer programs or apps that allowed you to compose tunes without really grasping the how and what of it, but Karen would start at the beginning, getting in at the foundation so she could know.

So Karen Corso was writing freaking sex songs, or odes to being horny, complete with original tunes. She’d said she was falling head over heels, or loins over brains, but how ridiculous was this?

Cynthia read another one, the lyrics even sillier than the first:

Double double baby oil trouble

Lather these breasts and make me bubble

On your lap with friction heat

Baking my loins

Searing your meat

Meat meat with a crown

Feeling me up

As I go down

On you dear Mark

And suck your seed

There in the dark

Tasting my need

Mark? Cynthia drew in a deep breath and scanned the other songs. There, this one, titled, “Marked by Mark.”

I’m here for you baby, on all fours

Spreading my legs to open my doors

And once you enter me you will see

Gyrations of my hips in ecstacy

So mark me Mark as only you can

Cock-paint your name all over my tan

We’ll rub that cum deep into my tits

And I’ll turn ’round and blow you to bits

There was more to that one, too, but she couldn’t read it. Mark me Mark. Mark, as in Mark Mitchell? Karen had fallen in lust or love or both with Mark fucking Mitchell!

She pictured him as she’d seen him just yesterday, looking like a spaced-out version of himself. She kind of liked him, nothing approaching an attraction or infatuation that would break her no-relationship vow, but still. And she’d said he looked tired and he’d said he was sleep-deprived because of two enormous projects.

Projects—the fucker had been speaking code for Karen’s fucking bazookas. And Karen at lunch, saying it was so good with him that she came just from having his tool between her tits. Saying she feared she’d become addicted to the sex. The guy turning her resolve or her boy-toy habits inside-out, giving her sex that she called an awakening, was Mark fucking Mitchell!

She groaned, not know what to think about any of that, or about these bad-poetry infatuation sex songs, or about Mark fucking Mitchell being the one with his thing getting molested by Karen’s titanic tits. She didn’t need to think anything when she was breathing so fast with her pussy so terribly wet, but also chiming inside, knowing right from the depths of her loins that she had to sex him or sex her or sex them both but also train her pussy and her ass and her mouth to be fucking sex prodigies.

“Prodigy,” she said, tasting the word. She had thought it or said it earlier in the morning, and now she could see how it almost glowed with meaning. Because that was the direction, the impetus, the urgent need. Not even fully aware her mouth had opened, she softly recited the word’s meanings as if from a dictionary: “One, a person with exceptional talents or powers; two, an act so extraordinary as to inspire wonder; three, a portentous sign or event, an omen.”

Prodigy, a nice gift-wrapped word for being one holy hell of a special fuck. For striving to become a lover with exceptional talents and powers, so good in bed that what she could do inspired wonder. Or maybe awe. Awesome in bed, never just a tiny tight lay but a fucking sexual event, that was the only way she could outshine the Karen Corsos of the world.

She looked at her wristwatch—very little time before her one class of the day, Art In the VIctorian Era, only she didn’t think she’d even try to go there now. She hadn’t missed a single class all year so one wouldn’t hurt, and her prodigy training had to start a.s.a.p.

She read through a couple more of Karen’s bizarre sex verses—many of them sounded like they could have been written by a sex-obsessed thirteen year-old, but they did manage to convey that Karen was totally head over heels in lust, like in a fever or something. It was so unlike her, but might be a good thing, because if they were in competition in some way, this had to be a competitive advantage.

“She’s obsessed,” she said, and people gripped by obsessions could be easily manipulated. “Go ahead and spend your time composing silly porno songs,” Cynthia said. In the meantime, she’d be practicing the way a Ninja practices, developing and honing some mad sex skills. to... She smiled.

“You’re going to mark me, Mark.”

Really, he might as well already be written all over her in invisible cum.

Walking in a few minutes late to class was bad enough, but an hour, plus? When Mark opened the door to the independent projects class, his teacher, Joe Raskin, was standing right there giving comments to another student at her easel. So busted, and it didn’t help that it was impossible to look ashamed when he’d do it all again in a second.

This studio room was a large open space that appeared chopped-up because so many projects were going on at the same time, students seizing chunks of territory to work in. He cautiously stepped around painting areas and three-dimensional constructions in the process of being assembled, sat on a metal stool in front of his five vertical canvases, all leaning against the wall, and tried to care.

This was his self-motivated project, an abbreviated comic book adventure given scale and physicality, complete with his favorite character to paint. Funny how an adventure with a superhero didn’t feel all that impossible when he’d been living the way he had over the past couple of days.

The story of Thunder Woman barely held together in the condensed form of these five canvases, the result of being warned away from his first idea, an illustrated narrative where Thunder Woman went on a rampage against corporate-sponsored climate change deniers. Political art was encouraged in general, which left Mark thinking his version of political creativity had the potential to irritate a sensitive target, namely a heavy contributor to the school’s science department.

He’d needed the course credits, not a fight, and so these five paintings were the Thunder Woman origin story, no politics involved because they were all about personal transformation. The bottom panel in painting #2 got a lot of favorable comments, because it did look pretty cool, Michelle Morris’ storm chasing van getting sucked into the dark churning mass of an F5 tornado. Painting # 3, still barely sketched in, was probably going to be the most difficult painting of the bunch because it contained all the transitional elements, from Michelle’s death by tornado to her resurrection as Thunder Woman, able to wield the power of wind, rain, lightning and any other atmospheric variables.

Mark brought out his mock-up, a sketchily painted study of all five paintings, and focused on the positioning of Thunder Woman upon the remaining three canvases. In the depictions of her change from an ordinary woman to superhero, three panels in all, he liked how he’d drawn her clothes being scoured away by the winds, transitioning to the briefest bit of nudity before Thunder Woman creates a costume for herself made of fog and ice pellets suspended in air. The basic layouts were all there, and effective in terms of overall design; the problem, he thought, was one of believable body positioning and anatomical correctness through the entire sequence.

He got out a fresh sheet of paper and worked at re-drawing one of the Thunder Woman poses, correcting the proportions as best he could. No, that was a lie, because it was really a half-effort, just going through the motions while his thoughts went elsewhere.

It seemed tricky, what he’d attempt to accomplish the following morning. He hadn’t known that idle thinking while lying in bed with morning wood had been charged with energy, and could he do the same thing with more deliberation, or would too much focus or premeditation subvert the whole dynamic? He would want to think about Cynthia Gilwood first, when the sleepy quality of his thoughts might be at their purest. And after that? Maybe not sex at all, or sex but also money. Susan, wanting to buy more of his drawings, or even these five big paintings. Susan, the rich neurosurgeon’s wife, turned into an avid art collector, or even better, his patron, a champion for his work. With the occasional secret super-sensitive nipple fuck behind her husband’s back, what the hell.

He got lost in these and similar thoughts for more than an hour, his cock’s size and degree of hardness ebbing and flowing, depending on whether he was thinking of Thunder Woman or some real live woman, say the ultra-leggy redhead, drawn into a vortex of needing to fuck one particular stranger.

At one point he had something like a flash or image of a forgotten dream when studying Thunder Woman’s form, but didn’t pursue it because he also had the feeling that somebody was watching him. It was a sudden body awareness, the kind that had raised the eyes of Natalia when he passed the door down the hall. He figured he was going to finally receive a scolding for arriving to class so late, but when he lifted his head from his mock-up and looked around, he saw that it was Natalia staring at him from about fifteen paces away.

The Russian model, in here? She was all wrapped up in her white bathrobe, on break from her modeling duties in the other classroom. She met his eyes and hers were so blue, and troubled. She approached him, nearly gliding over and around buckets of paint and wet canvases that other students had laid out on the floor, her steps agile and assured, the placement of her bare feet a known thing even though her eyes never left his, never looked down.

“I model,” she said, holding still now, very close. In her accent it sounded like, “Iya muddle.”

Such fine blonde hair, pulled back as always when she modeled. She had a broad mouth with lips that looked like they’d received some form of plumping treatment, yet you knew in an instant it was just the way she’d been made. All he could see of her body was her neck and her hands, and just that much looked like it belonged on some ancient Greek statue. And those eyes—not only eerily blue but warrior-like, or predatory.

Mark had a feeling, a very strong cock-stiffening feeling, and it had something to do with the atmosphere accompanying the woman, like she existed within the same kind of intangible/tangible promise-of-sex zone that had characterized Karen and Susan. “Yes, you’re a model,” he finally muttered, not knowing what else to say. It had to be a dream that had pulled her here, presumably a dream he’d had last night that he couldn’t remember. What had happened, which was probably the same as wondering what would happen?

“No, no. I model for you.” To his ear: “Iya muddle for hayoo.”

She pointed at his mock-up, then at the three unfinished canvases leaning against the nearby wall. Stepping closer, really close, he stool-sitting and she standing, she turned with an efficient dancer’s pivot, leaning down right next to his face, the white of her robe actually brushing his cheek.

She pointed at the layouts of Thunder Woman, even her fingers looking sculpted and strong. “I will be,” she said, voice low and very intense, with a forefinger right on the nude version of Michelle Morris turning into Thunder Woman. “You need model, correct?”

“Correct,” he said.

Then, undoubtedly in Russian, words whispered into his ear that sounded like, “Ya hochu tebya.”

The outpouring of sound held no linguistic meaning for his ears, but to his dick it might as well be an exotically flavored handjob/blowjob glaze she’d just drizzled over the whole length of him. He had to keep from making a face or moaning as his pocket-rocket went from tingly stand-by to prep-for-launch, and it didn’t help that when his eyes slid just a tiny bit to the right of the drawing pad on his knees, they found Natalia’s robe unexpectedly parted below the cinched waist, most of her right leg visible through the slit of fabric all the way up to the pale, neatly trimmed hairs crowning a different kind of slit.

Could other people see that? Mark’s silent question came with an inhalation of breath, which in turn brought the scent of female desire. It was as familiar as the scent of a rose, yet also different, exotic even, like this particular flower had been raised in the nutrients of an unknown soil, watered by rains birthed in faraway seas. Russian pussy—you don’t fuck it; Russian pussy fucks you.

He glanced around the room. Only a few of his classmates could see him past the forest of paintings held upright on easels. Those who could see were looking, and undoubtedly wondering.

Mark turned back to Natalia, which brought his face into a hand that had been placed to intercept him. Her middle finger went right to the bit of flesh between his nostrils, smearing the spot with pussy-scented moisture. That finger had been inside her, and now a touch of her insides had been dabbed onto his outside, right where it would stay and remain unforgettable.

When he looked up he found her eyes smoldering, her full lips parted with a wet tongue-tip glistening. He knew what was up, only he also knew nothing of what was up, because he still couldn’t remember any details of what had to have been a dream involving this girl. Something blue, like she might go find a container of blue paint any second now, and use it as lubrication for a hand-job right in front of everybody. Or anything else, the possibilities endless.

“Wait for me out in the hall,” he said, hoping like crazy she’d understand the words. “I’ll be right there and then we’ll go, um, model.”

She didn’t respond for a couple of tense seconds, then bent at the waist to whisper something in his ear. She was very close, almost enveloping him in the big robe. One of her hands took his and swiftly brought it inside the draped slit, and right to her fiery wetness. With the contact came a pouring of heated breath into his ear that sounded like a hundred Slavic words for “impending orgasm” all at once.

He could so easily have moved his fingers and slipped any number of them inside her pussy right then and there. The only thing that stopped him was fear that once he did that, she’d jump his bones without regard for position or place until they were knocking over easels and going all dick-détente with thirty people watching.

“In the hallway,” he insisted into her ear, pulling his hand away. A moment of fury or impulsive insistence made her nostrils flare, but then she smiled, and straightened, and quick and light as a cat she’d spun on her toes, skipped past easels and gone out the door.

He felt like he should be able to remember the dream that had gripped her, now that he had the girl and the place... Did he have the place? He searched what he could find of memories hidden in the crevices of his brain that must contain that knowledge, and nothing floated up, no scenario where he and Natalia banged their butts against cinderblock walls or metal locker doors.

Mark felt hot in the face as well as feverish in the pants, and gathered his mock-up and a few stray sheets of paper with deliberate awkwardness, creating something of a paper-shield to hide his erection. He got up and navigated the various students and their projects, and was almost to the door when his professor intercepted him.

“In an hour late and out fifteen minuted early is not acceptable, even in an independent projects course. Is it?”

Mark liked Professor Raskin, a rotund giant of a man who’d probably be a perfect Santa Claus once his salt-and-pepper hair went all white. “Natalia has agreed to pose for the remaining three paintings of my project,” he said, keeping his voice calm and the jumble of drawing pad and loose papers firmly in front of his straining cock. ”This is when she can do it—I can’t even believe she agreed to it. You said yourself the anatomy in some of the figures was suspect; I can’t miss this chance!”

Every word was pretty much true, especially the part about not missing this chance. Mark turned an left, not even giving his teacher a chance to say it was okay or not-okay.

Natalia was not waiting outside the classroom door. He looked right, then left... No Natalia. His cell rang—had she gotten his number from somewhere? Only the name on the phone was K. Corso again.

“I just picked up the keys,” she said, among sounds like she must be out on a street. “And I miss you.”

Damn. “I miss you, too.”

“You know, I get all tingly when I hear your voice!”

He wanted to say that he got all tingly from hearing how she got tingly, but she went on.

“It turns out I’ve been told I have to attend a lecture tonight starting at seven. I’m tempted, very tempted, to just ignore that...”

“When will it be over?”

“Not sure. What if you go to your class and leave your phone on vibrate? I’ll vibrate you when I’m done and we can rendezvous at your apartment.”

Not “I’ll call you,” but “I’ll vibrate you.” Fuck this woman could be sexy. “Good plan,” he said.

“I can’t wait until we can...” Her voice turned to a whisper: “My tits are so hot for you!”

With Natalia not there, Mark could feel the tug of those tits. “What are you doing now, Karen?”

“Lunch in a few minutes. Only it’s you I want to... to drink, so badly. Oh God Mark, I’d better ring off.”

And she did, leaving him standing in the middle of an empty school hallway with an erection that had just gotten an erection. He stood there dumbly for several seconds, no idea of what to do next, then caught motion to his right. Natalia emerged from the classroom she’d been modeling in earlier in the morning, still in the white bathrobe with a canvas bag hanging over one shoulder. She saw him and walked a few paces forward, then stopped, letting the canvas bag drop loosely to the floor. Standing there beside it, she looked him in the eye, untying the belt around the robe, slowly stepping out from it altogether. The robe collapsed onto the bag, and Natalia just stood in the hallway, weight evenly placed on both legs, hands at her sides, completely naked.

She was breathtaking, a living breathing monument of feminine structure. He could see her breathing heavily, the polished floor beneath her feet reflecting a smeared and softened version of all that dance-honed musculature. He had seen this girl without her clothes on before, but it had never been like this because it had never been about him.

He slowly walked towards her, simultaneously afraid and hopeful that she might be driven to noisily hump him right here in the hallway. When he was still several paces away she repeated the Russian words from before, only the “Ya hochu tebya” was more like a firm declaration now, said more loudly and with more force.

Mark had no idea what the words meant, but that hardly mattered. She squatted down and he thought for a second that she intended to lie back on the cold hard floor and spread her legs for him. Instead she fished into the canvas bag, pulling out a pair of grey jeans. He watched as she stepped into them, and it took exceptional balance because they had to be the tightest fitting jeans in history, requiring ample arm strength to stretch the denim up over diamond-hard calves and developed thigh muscles. She looked into his eyes as she clasped the jeans tight, but his gaze was drawn down, to confirm with a forward stare what his peripheral vision had suggested. It was true—with no panties in the way, and with her jeans stretched tighter than small rubber gloves fitted onto large hands, you could see the outlined shape of her pussy right there in the denim.

A thin pullover blouse came next, coral green and almost as form-fitting as the jeans. Her breasts swelled and her nipples jutted, and Mark’s assessment was that she might look even sexier with the clothes on than when they were off.

“Model,” she said. “We model.” Sounding like, “Muddle, huwee muddle.”

He’d never heard the act called that before, and considering that she must be gripped in the vise of a forgotten cock-fed dream, he had reason to believe they’d do much more than muddle through this situation. His pulsing dick was more than recovered from his early morning bout with Susan, and there was something in Natalia’s eyes that said she was built for “muddling” like no woman he’d ever known, her hard body twisting and bending every which way.

“I live just ten minutes away,” he said. “We’ll model there. Let’s go!”