The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tit Slave

Chapter 7

I invited Greg into my apartment, closed the door and fell back against it: I was mentally drained. What the hell was going on here? Physically, I felt fine, so far as I could tell; but my brain seemed to be AWOL at times and that was profoundly disquieting and disorienting.

“C’mon Hank,” Greg said, taking my arm and guiding me into the living room. “Do you have some whiskey? You look like you could use a stiff one.”

I overlooked the double-entendre.

“In the cabinet there,” I said, indicating my antique ice-box that I kept my liquor in.

Greg surveyed my inventory and poured me a double portion of Crown Royal.

“No sense drinking single-malt right now,” he said, as he poured. “You’re in no state to savor it.”

I took the glass he proffered and took a swig. It burned and brought me back to my senses.

“God,” I said, “I just can’t figure out what’s going on here. I told you, it’s just too weird. Somebody, and I don’t know who, is turning me into a tit freak. All I can think about is men’s tits; growing ’em, hurting ’em, growing mine, hurting mine. When I touch them, I just lose it. My mind goes blank and when I come back to reality, my tits hurt like hell. But I can’t help myself; I still touch ’em and I love the pain. It makes me hard.”

Greg had a concerned look on his face and reached over and touched my arm.

“I can see this is really upsetting you Hank. Will you let me help you? Can you trust me?”

I looked at him and felt a rush of warmth. In all my life, no one had ever spoken to me this way; no one had offered to help me in this way; no one had been there for me in this way.

“Thank you,” I said, putting my hand on his. “I’m really touched that you care. And I do trust you.”

“Good,” he said. “Good boy.”

“Boy”? Why had he used that term. But somehow it seemed comforting. It was just a term of intimacy, right? And it felt good to feel intimacy with someone. All my life, I’d been aloof, distant. I suppose that comes from growing up in a world where you know you’re different and, when you figure out what that difference is, understand instinctively that this difference is not a good thing in the eyes of those you interact with every day. So you suppress it, you hide it and you put up walls so that no one sees what you are. But Greg was like me; he’d known what I was for a long time and had accepted that, because he was, is, the same. He understands about walls and intimacy. I did feel comfortable with him; I trusted him, and I wanted him to like me, because I didn’t want to lose this new sense of intimacy. I suddenly realized I wanted to please Greg; to do whatever I could to keep this new-found sense of belonging. I belonged! I belonged somewhere. I wasn’t a stranger in a strange land any longer. And I suppose this must’ve shown on my face. It also showed in the strong tenting in my crotch. The idea of belonging made me hard as an oak tree.

“Good boy,” he repeated, placing his hand on my face. “Good for you. Now, you mentioned a web site: why don’t you show it to me.”

I led Greg to my laptop and booted it up. The URL was there in my history and I clicked on it. Greg gave a low whistle that expressed wonderment at the photos that appeared on the website. Then he pointed at a link with the heading “Tit freak induction”.

“What’s that?” he asked.

I didn’t remember seeing that one before, but what the hey? I clicked on it. The by-now familiar kalaidescope appeared on the screen.

“Wow Hanky, look at that!” he said.

My mind went blank.

To be continued.