The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Griffin’s visiting nurse, Vera, left his front door unlocked that morning, anticipating the speech therapist’s arrival at ten. Griffin expected this newest aid to be an older professional like Vera, but Mary McGough turned out to be young and muy mcgorgeous, a certified Irish beauty. She was perhaps twenty-five, with a lovely mane of flaming red hair, pulled back into an intricately woven ponytail. The striking hair, fair skin and lithe figure were bad enough, but it was the mouth-watering legs in black stockings that really spelled trouble.

Spell trouble—that was it, exactly. He could spell that word or any other, but that didn’t mean he could say them. Ever since the accident, there was a disconnect between his mouth and the region of the brain that governed the formation of language. He’d mean to say “water”, and what came out might be “washer”, or “hotter”, or “watusi”. There was always a sound relationship between the desired word and the one that actually came out; beyond that, anything went. Or bent, more likely.

When Mary McGough arrived, Griffin was in the living room, reading in his favorite chair. His fractured right leg, surrounded by a hard cast as white as the morning’s fresh snow, was sticking straight out, propped upon a rolling hassock. Mary removed her coat and gloves before shaking his hand, then disappeared behind his field of vision for a few seconds. She returned with a dining room chair, placing her seat a few feet from the foot of his cast. As she fished a clipboard and pen out of her bag, he couldn’t help but watch every limb, every movement, and appreciate. She was springtime fresh, and perhaps unaware of just how stirring it could be when she sat and crossed those world-class legs just-so. Big trouble, if she liked being the woman she was. By all indications she did, which meant he had to get her out of there, fast.

“So, Griffin... I can call you Griffin instead of Mr. Stone, or The Incredible Griffin Stone, I hope.”

He nodded, trying his best not to want what sat before him. Not an issue with the matronly Vera, but how did one switch off the desire with a dish like this?

“I think I should tell you that I’ve seen your act before, last year in Las Vegas. What you did to that volunteer from the audience... I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life! That, and your illusions... I thought you were absolutely amazing.”

He smiled, remembering how he’d pulled out all the stops on that tour.

“I know you must be wondering how long this therapy will go on. They tell me four months before your leg will be properly healed; with this other issue there’s really no telling, but I hope it will go much faster than that.”

He hoped so, too. Then, able to vocalize complicated spells reliably, he could heal his leg by himself.

“Anyway, I think it’s auspicious that we get to begin right at the dawn of a new year. Did you make any resolutions?”

Resolutions. That meant resolve, the ability to decide upon a course of action and make it come true. He shrugged, because he couldn’t explain how he was suffering from another disconnect and another form of spell trouble, this time between his brain and his magic. His only experience with something like it had been in his early teens, when having wet dreams where he talked in his sleep. With his conscious mind at rest, his youthful dick had concocted its own spells, effective enough that his family had to move three times until he learned to control the nocturnal impulses. The magic still originated in his sex center, but he was twenty-six now, in full command of his powers. Or he had been, before a dump truck shoved his car into a tree faster than you can cast a protective spell.

“Please don’t be afraid to speak, Griffin. Let’s carry on a short conversation, so I can assess where your language is. So, New Year’s resolutions?”

Could he ignore the looks and just get through the session this one time, then have the agency replace Mary with someone old, fat and listless? “On the first of January I wanted you,” he answered, flinching at the mistake, and the currents of magic dancing through the air.

“On the first of January you wanted to,” Mary said, understanding. “But you didn’t?”

He hesitated, trying to read whether the magic was directed, or more like background noise.

“I insist that you speak, Griffin; it’s the only way we can proceed. So you chose not to make New Year’s resolutions, or you forgot?”

“I was so drugged on painkillers that I couldn’t think strange. What about you, did you mate any?”

“Relax, please. The mis-firings aren’t Freudian slips.”

That’s what she thought. Words had power in his world, and the flubs might be less than random, like verbal torpedoes concocted and fired into the room from his potent netherdepths. He was almost certain of it when he felt himself hardening and tingling in the wrong way, the trouble-making way.

“You’re turning red, you silly thing! Listen now, you don’t feel embarrassed about your leg being in a cast, do you? Your brain is just the same; it needs time to heal, and it needs support. I’m like that cast; I’m the support.”

The air pulsed between them, the currents creating a dangerous connection. “You should blow, Mary.”

A lovely eyebrow arched as she tried to decipher his meaning. “Did you just say I should go?”

He nodded his head emphatically.

“Why?”

“The accident... My rock... All my flowers are there... Damn!”

“Flowers?” she asked, leaning forward and re-crossing her legs like she was trying to summon dick magic. “I’m missing some things, Griffin, but don’t let that discourage you. Later, after I’ve heard enough, you could write some things out that I haven’t understood. For now, though, I need to hear your voice.”

She might as well be wearing a T-shirt with I’m An Innocent; Do Bad Things To Me stenciled on the front. She saw a wounded puppy across from her, not a fire-breathing dragon. Or snake, which was growing in both size and heat, feeling like it might catch his clothes on fire.

“Mary, for the love of Gob... It’s probably all steady... You need to grow!” he shouted, pointing at the door.

But it was too late already. The atmosphere was filled with charged particles and he held his breath, not sure if the spell’s effects would become instantly visible or not. He had drug-hazed memories of an attractive nurse at the hospital, the one in the room when he first tried to speak. She’d pushed her bare tits into his face—they’d been so huge and heavy that he thought he might be smothered, and he was almost certain she hadn’t been built like that when she started taking care of him. He was also concerned about Angela, the lovely assistant for his act. She visited him in the hospital and he thought he might have given her a libido worthy of the contours of her body. If so, no wonder she wasn’t answering her phone.

“I’m not leaving, Griffin, not until our hour is done. You can call your provider after I leave and have them assign someone else if you want, but I hope you won’t. I’m good at what I do, you’ll see.”

He thought she was probably good, period. She almost oozed caring, and she was tenacious. He was far too attracted and so he only nodded, not wanting to compound whatever might have occurred by saying more.

“So we’ll forget this little hiccup and continue our conversation, then? I did make New Year’s resolutions, thank you for asking. Two resolutions, in fact. First, travel—my schedule makes it difficult but I want to go to some exotic place I’ve never been before, hopefully someplace warm and sunny. And second... The second one is...” Her eyes widened, but in that inward way, like she’d just remembered something. “I suppose I made more than two, as there’s the third one, and another...”

She re-crossed her legs once more, slower this time, with just the tiniest un-ladylike parting of the thighs. She was wearing a white long-sleeve pullover blouse, the outlines of her bra just visible, and he thought the shapes of her nipples had become more pronounced. She absently pulled up her sleeves, staring down at her legs, or lap. And then his lap, where she couldn’t fail to notice his state.

“Ummm,” she said, drawing the sound out, almost making it an appreciative comment. “I’m talking too much. I want to...” A hesitation, and reddened cheeks. “Switching gears, we’ll work with a simple sound and repeat exercise now. I say a word and you simply repeat it back to me, okay?”

Not okay, but he didn’t know how to stop her.

She placed the clipboard on her lap and clicked her pen. “Cat,” she began.

Griffin steeled himself. He would not say pussy, he wouldn’t. “Cat,” he said, letting his breath out when his mouth didn’t betray him.

“Good,” she said, marking with her pen. “Goat.”

“Goat.”

“Truck.”

Not fuck, not fuck. “Truck,” he said, smiling.

He could do this, and though Mary’s nipples looked like they had turned into missiles under her blouse—very full missiles from the looks of things—she had only had a few moments of disorientation so far, before collecting herself. Maybe, just maybe, they could get through this one session without too much trouble, and he could have her replaced without incident.

It was a terrible way to begin the year, but Mary McGough had to cancel her second appointment that morning. She felt completely off her rhythm, and flustered by the thoughts running through her head. There was a tightness in her chest, too, every time she took a deep breath.

She stopped at a tea shop to re-gather herself, and chose chamomile, which always relaxed her nerves. Her problem, she thought, had been in bringing up New Year’s resolutions to begin with. Her second resolution was all about improving her love life, but she had to make more resolutions because number two lacked specificity. And so she’d come up with additional resolutions, though she hadn’t remembered that until she worked with Griffin Stone. Somehow, just speaking casually, her additional resolutions had popped up from the back of her mind like spring flowers emerging from the dirt, instinctively seeking the heat of the sun.

Flowers—there was something important about that word, but she could quite grasp it. “Yet,” she said, remembering New Year’s resolution number three, to make love with the very first man to want her this year.

How had she managed to forget a resolution like that, and wasn’t it an obvious problem when the first man was a client? She brought the hot tea to her lips, her hands trembling. She really did need to mate with him, with Griffin; she’d known that early in their session, but had tried to shove the strange knowing aside. Only it wasn’t strange; he was magnetic, sexy, and she’d seen how dexterous his fingers were during his magic act. He might think it strange for his speech therapist to want to fuck him; then again he might not, as he’d been hard as a rock back there.

“The entire session,” she told the reflection in her mug. Having such a large bulge like that, and staying hard like that for nearly an hour wasn’t the same as one of his magic tricks in Vegas, but it was still impressive.

She shrugged her shoulders, not as a comment upon her comment, but because her bra straps were digging into her flesh. She’d become hard herself, or her nipples had. They still were; she could feel them pushing at her blouse like nobody’s business.

“They’re thinking of my fourth resolution,“ she said, meaning the one to blow hard cocks so much more this year. “I could combine it with number three,” she thought out loud. It made perfect sense, giving Griffin a blow-job—hell, legions of blow-jobs—when she mated with him.

She spilled some of her tea, just picturing it. In her mouth she tasted chamomile, but also another taste, earthier and saltier, and she had no doubt what it was. It was like a pre-taste, an anticipatory taste, of gobs of Griffin’s stuff in her mouth.

“I know I’ll love it,” she whispered, licking her lips. “Hell, if it’s like this I love it already.”

Feeling like she could taste him in advance, and knowing with ironclad certainty that she wanted to do him—that didn’t mean she was falling in love with him, did it? No, that was another thing entirely. You had to know someone really well, and they had just met. Getting horny for someone was one thing; expecting something like love at first sight was too much, like a magic trick that couldn’t be pulled off.

She reached into her bag resting on the neighboring chair—damn, had her bra shrunk or had it been too small to begin with—and pulled out the sound/repeat test, which Griffin had only done so-so with. There were eighty words or short phrases in all, testing his ability to formulate various sounds found in the English language. Most of them he’d been able to repeat just fine, but not all. The thing was, she couldn’t see any obvious pattern to the misfirings.

Some of the words were deliberately difficult—”ululation”, for instance. He had no problem with that, but had messed up a simple one like “act”—it came back at her as “accept”, which didn’t even have the same number of syllables.

Wanting to know more about the man she intended to mate with and shower with blow-jobs, she scanned the test results, studying his mistaken responses. There were fourteen in total; not the worst score she’d seen, but not good, either. She read them in succession, looking for a pattern:

Accept. Gradual. Changes. Remain. Unaware. Exquisite. Sensitivity. Return. Tonight. Dripping. Panting. So hot. Sex my. Brains out.

Some of his gaffes were somewhat understandable—”changes” replacing “channel”, for instance, or even “sensitivity” for “pensive”. But “sex my” for “text”? And it wasn’t like he was trying to avoid any particular combinations; on the contrary, his responses sometimes contained even more complex sounds.

“It’s completely random,” she said, which made him all the more intriguing. More appealing, too, which made her nipples tingle, and that wasn’t all. “Houston, I think we’ve got some real desire heating up under the table,” she whispered with a giggle. All of which had to be taken as a green light for what she really wanted to do. “What I promised myself I’d do,” she corrected, meaning her resolutions.

She felt good, except for the awful pressure from her bra. A trip to the ladies’ room revealed the cause of her discomfort—she was wearing a 32B bra. She couldn’t remember exactly what size she was, but her beautiful breasts were definitely larger than that.

She marveled at how swollen her nipples were; her breasts were sensitive, yes, but had they ever looked like this? The surrounding flesh, so creamy smooth, was flushed a bit red—it went great with her hair—and the only nipples she’d ever seen that looked this needy had been on her older sister when she was nursing.

Her bra went in the trash—maybe her laundry service had mixed someone else’s underthings with her clothes. She gasped when she pulled her blouse down over her bare breasts—holy moly that felt good, although she thought her thimble-sized nipples looked obscene without a bra. Checking her watch she thought there was just enough time to run into the Walmart on the way to her next client, where she could grab something that came close to fitting.

She was ten minutes late for her one o’clock appointment with Gail Saunders, but at least her bra fit. Gail, whom she’d been working with for two weeks, was in her early sixties, and had suffered a mild stroke that had affected her ability to remember certain words. She was unusually animated during this session, staring at Mary’s chest much of the time.

“You got a... a...” Gail stammered when Mary removed her coat. “Brand new, your... your...”

The only thing new was Mary’s bra, but surely Gail couldn’t know that. “Relax your diaphragm and take a few seconds, Gail. Don’t force; let the word ease its way out.”

“A pooch job. No, I mean a... a mooch job.”

There was no telling what Gail was actually trying to say, not unless her brain could make the connection. That was the thing with her speech difficulties; she could intend to say, “bring me my slippers”, and it would come out as “bring me my friends”, or some such. Trouble was, “pooch job” brought images of Griffin Stone’s hard cock into her head, and her pulling it out of his pants to give him the first of his many blow-jobs.

She began to feel breathless, her nipples aching to be touched. And dammit, this new bra’s straps were almost as uncomfortable as the last one.

“Mary, I’m just asking how your tanks got so much bummer!” That said with an expression like she, Mary, was the clueless one, the one recovering from a stroke.

“Let’s just concentrate on your exercises,” Mary advised, which was easier said than done.

She wasn’t at her best working with Gail, and couldn’t get her three o’clock, Mr. Estes, to concentrate on his therapy at all. He was an affable man, a contractor who’d fallen and injured his head at a work site. One of his favorite phrases was, “Hey, mistakes happen”, and he was right about that, because she had been wrong in believing that a 32D bra was the right size. She had to make another hurried run to the Walmart after leaving Gail’s, and what an idiot—she wore a 32E, close but not quite.

Mr. Estes looked confused when she announced herself, and was unusually quiet as she set up for their session. Then: “You got gazongas!”

She did have big breasts, yes, but she wasn’t used to people announcing the fact quite so brazenly. No one had ever ogled her breasts quite so hungrily before, or called them “gazongas” for that matter. She did have to give him credit, though, for annunciating “got gazongas” so well when part of his problem was in forming a hard “g” in his speech.

He remained difficult, distracted by her figure and the way her blouse clung to her curves, her nipples even more prominent than before. They were positively screaming to be played with, which brought to mind an almost laughable possibility: what if Mr. Estes had been the first man to get hard for her this year? Thank Gob... God, that the visit to Griffin’s house had come first, otherwise she could have been mating with Mr. Estes. That, or feeling like a loser for leaving her resolutions unfulfilled like most years.

Full. Filled. She felt crammed full with sexual needs, and she was almost desperate to be filled with gobs of Griffin’s cum. She tried not to think about it, not to picture it, but it was impossible when every in-breath made her want to scream from the amazing sensation of her nipples against fabric. She was certain she felt dampness inside her panties—why hadn’t she thought to buy fresh panties at the store, too? She didn’t know if Mr. Estes could smell her excitement, but how could anyone miss the signals being given off by her oversized nipples? She found herself twisting her torso to create more friction inside her bra—it was torture, yet she couldn’t stop. How had she gone through life without ever realizing how her tits could ache so good?

She had to take an extended bathroom break midway through Mr. Estes’ hour, just to keep from fondling her tits right in front of him. Though she was dying to, she didn’t strip her top away and knead her ample breast-flesh, or even reach under her skirt to assess how soaked her panties were. She feared that doing either might get her going uncontrollably, enough that he’d be able to hear her moaning, or even screaming out an orgasm.

The snow had tailed off, and through the curtained bathroom window she could see the light beginning to fade outside, the sunless winter sky turning a dark grayish blue. Her pulse raced at the thought of the day ending; there was something about the night, something that made her pant with anticipation. In the mirror above the sink, the imposing shelf of her huge breasts made its deep shadow on the white of her blouse, teasing her with how easily something bright could turn dark. She would have reached out to the sun and pulled it below the horizon if she could—winter days were short, but why couldn’t it just hurry and get dark now?

She never fully cleared her mind when she returned to continue Mr. Estes’ session. He kept staring at her chest and no wonder, with her throbbing nipples advertising her need so blatantly. She couldn’t keep her legs still and she had to twist her torso or adjust her shoulders every few minutes, because this bra, too, dug into her shoulders and back, completely inadequate. And she was so terribly wet; under her skirt she felt a heated throbbing like her vagina and clitoris had taken lessons from her nipples, learning to swell, to stretch out for sustenance like a beggar’s hands.

Mr. Estes switched on a floor lamp. He needed to because... “I have to go! We’ll... I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise,” she said. She was nearly hyperventilating and when she raised an arm to slip into her coat, she feared for a few breaths that her bra’s clasps might give way.

“Mary? Holy Jesus, are you... growing?”

“Going, yes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Estes. And excellent work with those hard ‘g’s’ today!”

Hard “g’s”. Like gazongas, as he’d said. Going down. Giving head. Gulping gobs of glorious Griffin goo.

Or gripping the goddamn steering wheel like she wanted to break it off. She needed to turn right at Route 40 to head to the office, as she was supposed to do. Or to the Walmart, although she doubted they kept bras her size in stock. That must have been the problem all along, thinking she’d find a bra her size hanging on a rack.

“He loves my rack,” she told the windshield, and the moisture-laden clouds beyond. At the intersection she didn’t even have to think about which turn signal to engage—she was headed left, meaning west, meaning back out to the dead-end street in the middle of nowhere. “Only I’m going somewhere,” she said, picturing the hard bulge at the base of a hard cast.

She nearly had someone run into the back of her car when she locked up her brakes beside a florist shop on the outskirts. “Flowers!” she realized, though she wasn’t quite sure why. As a peace offering, or a mating ritual? Or a sign of undying... well. Whatever the significance she wanted roses, two red roses, one to represent each of them.

She was breathless and must have had a wild look in her eyes from the way the salesgirl reacted to her. Her scent was undeniably strong, even with her long winter coat, and she was almost certain she caught the salesgirl assessing her shape through her coat, as though wondering just how big those things really were.

“Freaking huge,” she said to no one, confident that Griffin already loved her figure. He’d been hard for her nearly his entire session, and soon, so soon but not soon enough...

“Hurry!” she shouted at the salesgirl, unable to stand the wait any longer.

Mary groaned and pounded her fists against the steering wheel when she pulled up outside his house. There was a car in the driveway, with the special parking sticker for the visiting nurse service. They came twice a day, mostly to help him learn to get around and perform household tasks on his crutches.

“What if he’s already in love with her?” she screamed her deepest fear at the flakes of snow beginning to fall out of the night.

It was torture, resisting the urge to rush in and claim the prize she needed. She squirmed like she had to pee, and tried pressing her boobs into the steering wheel to relieve some of the pressure from her aching nipples. Like scratching an infection it only made the need grow stronger, inflamed. Finally the nurse came out—an elderly woman, thank God—and drove away.

Mary grabbed the two red roses, not even caring about the sharp thorns, and ran to the front door, her heavy breasts bouncing. It felt like her tits had finally done it, either broken her bra or simply surged up and out of it.

The door was unlocked and she burst in, not so much breathless as gasping with need. He was sitting lengthwise on his long leather sofa, with a tray on his lap. As she rushed over, she saw that it wasn’t food on the tray; rather, tarot cards.

“Oh Griffin!” she groaned, saliva actually flying from her open mouth. The roses fell from her trembling fingers as she stood there, finally in front of what she needed like a lioness needs raw meat. “You have to help me! My resolutions...”

His eyes were wide, and fixed on the area of her chest. She took a deep breath to get control of her hands, and worked the straining buttons at the top of her calf-length coat.

He was the one to gasp when she let it drop to the floor. Her breasts, unhindered by the useless bra, heaved towards him of their own volition, her rock hard nipples severely tenting her blouse. She pulled the blouse over her head, hissing at the exquisite friction.

With his mouth hanging open in silent appreciation, his eyes raked in her body top to bottom, from the fine red hair to her black stockings in heels. She pulled away the tray concealing his groin; the bulge fighting to be released from his pants was obscenely obvious, meaning it was perfect, absolutely perfect. She bent to remove her heels, but he waved at her to stop. “I love stockings,” he said, getting every word exactly right.

Which was the same as letting her know which of her resolutions would be fulfilled first. She gathered the presence of mind to pick up the two roses as she got down on her knees, and placed them upon the white of his cast, the deep ruby red just like the blood coursing into her breasts, into her pulsing pussy, plumping her lips and tongue. She gently undid the simple tie that held his pants up, slid them down and found his cock the same as her tits, huge and swollen and already sticking out from his underwear, like the garment had never really been meant to contain its size or energy.

“Oh Gob, oh Gob,” he breathed as she leaned forward, taking his pulsing tool in her hot hands.

She couldn’t agree with him more, and hoped he was filled to brimming, because this was going to be a very long and very hot winter’s night.

Griffin could go many times, and it was a good thing because Mary McGough, in her altered state, could be nicknamed Never Enough. She was nearly inexhaustible, sucking and fucking non-stop, the variety only limited by the fact that his right leg was immobilized.

No wonder his mischievous cock had chosen her. He wasn’t good at assigning numbers and letters to large breasts with any accuracy, and thinking in those terms wouldn’t do them justice anyway. Magic showed up in different ways with different people, and with her the results were as much about magnificence as amount, both with the changes to her body and the way she made love. Once she got going, her hunger approached madness, their fucking stoking her wild need the way a brisk wind stokes a wildfire. He didn’t understand how someone could be so out of control, yet remain cognizant of his injured leg, doing him mercilessly while mercy seemed to define her very core. He hadn’t made her that way, that balanced; he couldn’t. The exquisite mixture was hers, revealing what she was made of deep inside.

Sometime in the night she finally exploded in a lights-out way, falling asleep at the foot of the sofa. He struggled to rise onto his crutches, and got a small fire going in the fireplace to keep her warm. After another twenty minutes of awkward one-legged bending, he had collected all of his scattered tarot cards. He’d been intending to ask a very important question when Mary blew into the house like a hot wet wind; now, feeling as he felt, that question had become critical.

Naked below the waist, he made his way to the kitchen, eased into a chair and shuffled the cards. His kind was forbidden from causing deliberate changes, but could what he’d done with Mary be considered “deliberate”? The others, through the cards, would render their swift judgment about what had to happen next.

Something caught his eye as he shuffled. It was a delicate red shape, at the top of his cast. He was confused for a few moments, then knew. The roses Mary had so touchingly placed upon his cast had been pressed into it at some point, leaving an imprint of red that looked remarkably similar to the shape of a kiss from a woman’s lips.

“Let it be a good woman,” he said, screwing-up the word “omen”.

Hoping, perhaps even praying, he laid out five cards, face up. And smiled, giving silent thanks. There would be complications—he needed to find his stage assistant, Angela, and find a way to repair whatever he’d done to her. And if Mary chose to remain as she was, he’d have to devise a very difficult and far-reaching spell, to make the changes seemingly normal to those close to her. And that was what the cards had divined—Mary did have to make the decision after he explained things to her. His powerful dick had turned her into a super-stacked lust machine but he couldn’t make a woman love him by any means; that, unique among all human emotions, always had to come of itself.

There was a yellow legal pad nearby, and a pen. Taking a few minutes to think about what he needed to say and how to convey it, Griffin began to write what his mouth could never hope to express just now. He explained his past, his abilities, and how she had been drawn under an irresistible spell by sort-of accident, unless one believed in destiny. And most importantly he let her know that she was free to choose. Reversing the spell would not be easy with his verbal mechanics messed up, but his speech defect was not a permanent condition; with guidance and practice, he would be able to speak normally again. In a sense, her skills as a speech therapist—or the skills of a colleague if she wanted distance, and could manage to stay away—would be the ticket to being once more as she was.

If she wanted that.

Mary awakened with the aromas of sex teasing at her nostrils, her nipples pulsing, needing. She was so hot and wet between her legs, a fingertip teasing at her clitoris. It turned out to be her own finger, and she was curled up on Griffin’s living room floor. It was still night, the room glowing warmly from a fire crackling in the fireplace. Griffin sat in the chair she’d first seen him in, his broken leg propped up. His eyes were soft as they regarded her, but not his delicious cock. Though he’d gone through the ridiculous trouble of putting his pants back on, they’d never been able to hide what his magician’s wand thought of her.

She scooted over to him, her mouth filling with saliva. But before she could free his cock to suck him off, he clamped a hand in the way, and pointed to a pad of paper on the nearby table.

“Oh you silly man!” she chastised, reaching to pull his hand aside. But he was adamant, pointing at the pad with a pleading grunt.

She’d told him to do that, to write out what he couldn’t say. She took the pad, and though it was awful to wait with her nipples so stiff and her pussy so red and swollen, she read.

And marveled, wondering at first if it was a joke, like some bizarre parlor trick. But the words rang so true, the emotions informing the words on the page so sincere. Real magic, mind-altering and body-shaping magic...

When she had finished she lay the pad on the floor, and hefted her right breast in both hands, feeling its weight, assessing its contours. It was real, extremely tangible and so big. Had she really not had all of this before? Not just the proportions, but had her nipples not felt hard and heated like this, not been capable of sending her into such heights of excruciating need? Beyond even that, had she never before experienced the ultimate fulfillment of those needs, and how much joy that could bring in the heat of unbridled passion?

No, never anything like it, ever. It took several minutes for it all to sink in, for the spell’s parameters to become fully separated from her former reality. Her third and fourth New Year’s resolutions—they had never happened, never existed. Her belief that she needed to fuck and suck Griffin, to mate with him like her life depended on it... And no wonder nightfall had loomed like a promise of bliss just over the horizon. All because of a few misplaced words, his cock using him like a ventriloquist’s dummy. He’d spoken—or it had spoken through him—and she had changed.

But she did make the first two resolutions; they had been all her. Travel to someplace sunny and warm, and improving her uninspiring love life. She’d made that second one for a reason; she was attractive and could get dates with no problem, but it always felt like something crucial was missing. She absolutely loved helping people regain their language skills; she was passionate about her work, no question. Sex, somehow, had never felt quite that important, that intense.

Until today, and tonight.

She looked up at Griffin. He was trying to make his face appear neutral, but this time the master’s illusion failed. She knew now that he would never volunteer another word to her, not until his mouth/brain connection was fixed or his cock had been completely drained of need, its power to alter reality through desire temporarily defused. But it wasn’t like that now. As it had in the morning, his cock spoke the truth for him, no need for words. It was obviously hard but not as she knew it could be, like it was showing her exactly what decision was desired, while not pushing.

She liked this turnabout, with him waiting and coping with his desires for a change. She could do whatever she wanted—leave, or fuck him and leave, or fuck him and stay. The latter would mean days like today, and learning to navigate her career while she ached for sex, not quite aware of how or why she could be so worked up. Then, reminiscent of vampires or other creatures of the night, her needs would lead her to where she had to feed, with the dark hours turned into magical mystery rides of blissful release.

He was waiting, uncertain. But really, with the way her nipples pulsed, with her pussy so swollen and hungry, her pungent scent conveying the emptiness she felt without his cock inside her in some way, was there really any doubt? Even at its worst during the day, when she thought she might die if she didn’t get hold of Griffin’s cock, hadn’t she always ached so good?

She crawled over to the sofa on hands and knees, her immense breasts dangling, and picked up one of the roses. It was the opposite of her in that it had lost some of its shape from their encounter; no matter, because even though plucked from the life it had known before, it was still beautiful, still bright and full of scent. It was still a rose, and everyone knew what roses stood for. The urge to get flowers had been inescapable, imposed, but the specific choice of flower had been hers.

“I want you to say my name,” she said, going back to Griffin, the truly incredible Griffin Stone. “Just my first name, nothing more.”

His cock was fully hard again and she took it out, squeezing, lightly stroking. Griffin sighed and the sound turned into a drawn out, “Marrry...”

She liked that sound, and she probably would marry him if he asked. He would ask, too, if she wanted it that way. She’d blow him until she was blowing right into his heart if it took all that, but pronouncing her name as he just had, correct but drawn out, lacking precision... She couldn’t be sure, but she’d bet his voice made their union as firm as his cock, as firm and inescapable as fate.

As she brought her lips down to his swollen crown, dropping her jaw and opening her mouth like she intended to let all possible sounds come out in a heated wave, she realized that she was more than intensely horny. She was intensely happy, too. She slid her lips around, down, twisting her jaw, making him cry out. Full and filled, right here, just like this. A good beginning to a new year, and a whole new way of living.

There was only one thing she could think of that she still wanted, one desire unaccounted for. But his magic was extremely powerful, from what he’d described. For her part she was very good at what she did; it might take repeated attempts, but there had to be a way to teach or trick this gorgeous talented cock into making Griffin flub out the word, “Hawaii”.

She pictured hot sun with her big tits oiled and glistening, and longer days aching to be fucked... And presto-change-o, they probably wouldn’t even need to pack bags.