The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Trophy Ninja Whore

by Pizzahead

Part 3

I spent half an hour trying to decide how to dress for my 11 a.m. appointment. There’s still some snow on the ground and it was in the forties outside, cold but not so bad that I couldn’t show off. I had the new black stockings, the pair with an intricate floral pattern, and they’re just sinful when paired with a short black skirt and the right heels. I looked so hot that I could imagine the snow instantly melting anywhere I stepped, but I decided to take all of that off and save it for another day, because an entirely different option had come to mind.

I was scheduled to play indoor tennis in the evening with Caitlin Forcade, and I couldn’t get it out of my head that I wanted to show up in Stephen’s office in my super-short tennis whites. There was no logical reason for this, but that wasn’t the point and I knew it. He’s admired my legs, but he’s only seen them in skirts with stockings or tights. And great as that looks, I’m one of those women where I’m at my very best when it’s just me, the full length of my bare legs in all their glory.

My skin doesn’t need lotion to look good but I glided some on anyway, caressing it in. And not just my legs—the top of my tennis outfit is essentially a tanktop, bare arms and thin straps at the shoulders with a whole lot of cleavage showing. I hadn’t worn the outfit since before getting on the pill, and all I could do was shake my head appreciatively when I tried it on. I would go so far as to say I’m looking divine these days, if that word can be inclusive of giant tits. Because face it, I’ve crossed that threshold now. I wasn’t just big before but really really big, and with all the recent growth I’d have to say I’m entering the giant zone, right there in the upper echelon of contemporary tit-marvels. And I love it!

It felt divine, gliding on some penetrating lotion, and making the smooth flesh of my breasts shine. They cast deeper shadows into the center now, and with light coming from the side, their curvature is described like planets, ones graced by single, majestic volcanoes. I keep thinking: if I can barely tear my eyes away from these things, then what chance will others have? I’ve got it—I’ve got them—and fuck anybody who gets in my way, I’m going to flaunt them.

So there I was in Stephen’s reception room, wearing my long middle-weight coat with bright white tennis shoes showing beneath. Pauline probably thought I was dressed in some casual warm skirt under the coat, and I was glowing inside when I shed my outer layer and hung it on the coatrack. I had my back turned but I could hear the intake of Pauline’s breath, and when I turned she was shaking her head like I’d done before, her eyes glued.

“I knew you were beautiful but…” she said, then stopped speaking and did something funny with her mouth. “Like an angel with… with…”

“I’m no angel,” I said, a standard response for when people tell me that. Although, this time, the non-angelic parts of me felt like they should be visible, like the intensity of my recent masturbatory therapist-sex fantasies would have marked me, perhaps by leaving a residue that made my skin shine a reddish hue.

“The first time you came here, there was no doubt…” Pauline continued, or tried to. “But you’re even more and… I think I could even, if you… What I mean to say is…”

I’d never seen Pauline hesitant or flustered before—had my outfit, or my figure, shocked her that much? I don’t know what else she might have added, because Stephen opened his door just then and beckoned me to enter. I saw Pauline shoot a complicated look in her employer’s direction, and then he and I were inside, alone.

Stephen was much better at taking me in with polite sips than my dance-pole installers, but even so I could feel him eating me alive. I liked that, a lot, and then it was me sitting straight in my chair, with my boobs feeling almost like rockets in a too-small hanger space, their new scale making the room feel cramped. I folded my hands folded faux-demurely in my lap—my tennis bottoms are essentially white underwear, and I knew that with every hand gesture when speaking, the thin veil of white covering my pussy would be on full view with the rest of me.

I suppose I expected Stephen to try to keep from overtly staring, the elephants in the room or something like that, but he surprised me by quite visibly running his eyeballs all the way from my bunny socks up my calves and thighs and lingering there for just too long to be appropriate for any rulebook-following therapist. My heart beat rapidly when he surveyed the strain I was putting on my tennis top, and then he said the most unexpected thing, or perhaps the most obvious thing but in an unexpected way.

“Life is complex and I’m often confounded by how some things can be both true and untrue,” he said, and I really had no idea where he was going. “But today I know one thing to be unequivocally true, and that is the fact that you have the most stunning combination of physique and figure that I have ever seen in my life.”

I laughed, and I flushed, and my heart started skipping some beats. I get everything from wolf-whistles to polite compliments all the time, and they usually roll off me like water from a duck’s back. But hearing those words from Stephen while a beauty like Pauline sat in the next room, and seeing the depth of the appreciation in his eyes… I sat silently for who knows how many seconds, unable to speak and feeling like I needed to recover, like his words had been a live wire that zapped me full of electricity.

I would say that Stephen is perhaps ultra-perceptive, but in this instance I don’t think he had any idea just how much he had rocked me. He looked over some notes while I just sat there trembling, and breathing in the scent of my quim. To my nose I might as well have lit a stick of incense labeled “Indecorous Desires”, and I had to be spotting my tennis whites between my legs. I thought about saying something, perhaps apologizing, perhaps stroking the moment with clever words that were playful or seductive, but I wasn’t even sure my voice would work. My nipples weren’t just stiff and tingly; it was like they were straining to detach from my body and go over there and attack my therapist!

I started to feel something like fight-or-flight adrenaline pumping through my blood, and I might have had a kind of mini-meltdown in that chair. I’m surprised I didn’t do something rash and perhaps irrevocable, like confessing that I’d masturbated and cum spectacularly while picturing therapist/client desk-sex, and then vaulting over there in hopes of demonstrating.

That was my head-space, or body-space, when Stephen put his notes away and asked if I’d been giving my homework the right attention, thinking about who I really am or want to be. He wanted to know what I’d discovered in that direction since our last session.

Maybe, if Stephen hadn’t asked just the right questions at the right time, I would be writing now about how I’d made a mess of everything, violating boundaries that mustn’t be crossed—I really did feel that I was about one heartbeat from totally losing control. But they were just the right questions, and they felt like a lifeline I could grab onto, to pull coherent thoughts out of my mouth, masking, somewhat, how much I burned deeper down. And the words that came out, almost before I knew where I was going? A detailed account of the glimpse or vision of the me vibrating under my own skin.

Stephen could not hide his fascination. I loved seeing him so excited and so I did everything I could to accurately describe that experience to him. He leaned forward as I spoke, his attention such that I wondered if he might be trying to see beneath my clothes and skin to catch his own glimpse of this sub-dermal Angela. When I was done he leaned back and thanked me—he thanked me—for making his day.

He spoke for a minute or two about the process of transformation, and how it was tied to larger systems like evolution. I was only half-listening because I kept replaying his expression of pleasure from hearing about the wriggling me; he was truly pleased and damn if that didn’t chime inside my nipples. Glancing down, they were turning my tennis whites into role-playing fetish attire, like I was a lap-dancer assigned to a tennis club

That thought got me literally squirming in my seat, right when it seemed that Stephen was ready to move on to some other subject. On an impulse, I rushed the news that I’ve had to buy new bras because my breasts are growing so much.

Stephen did look, pointedly. I mean come on, is there a man alive who wouldn’t?

“Two entire cup-sizes,” I said with a wicked drawing back of my shoulders. “I was already so big, and the amazing thing is that I’m not even sure if they’re done growing. It doesn’t feel like they are, not when they’re so amazingly alive. It’s like… I know this is going to sound like alight of fancy, but it’s like my boobs are cheering me on in my quest to be more sexually focused. Like the tits of the new me just love what they’re becoming.”

Maybe I’d gone way too far there, into my knife-twisting mode, which Stephen, being in the know, would easily see. But what I actually witnessed… Damn if his eyes didn’t smolder as they lingered on the near-obscenity of my tennis top, like he was counting the stretch folds and every single one registered in his balls as much as his brain. And for the very first time, did I have him not knowing what to say, reminiscent of Pauline from a few minutes before?

His lips parted and I sensed that he wanted to utter something, and I found myself balanced upon that anticipatory silence like a trapeze artist without a net. I think—it’s kind of crazy to believe this—that I might have done anything my therapist said in those few moments, anything. The exquisite pulsing in my nipples, like excitement could take the form of magma inside, bulging my boobs. And the white covering between my legs feeling so inadequate, like someone trying to cover all the life of a wetlands area under a completely inadequate patch of cotton fabric…

I could watch Stephen think better of whatever he’d been about to say, and what I was feeling made me a little reckless, because while I had him at a disadvantage I made certain that we talked almost exclusively about my need to become a consummate lover. It was kind of amazing, but I didn’t hesitate one bit in telling him about ordering a dildo for practicing my blow-job skills, and that I had been watching internet porn to learn how to suck-off cocks. Also no hesitation in telling him how I’d given my new skills a trial-run with Tom last night. He must have been able to see how proud I felt, and he kept repeating the word, “excellent”.

I had finished my check-in speechifying, and leaned back in the chair with my legs spread a little, realizing that I’d been gesticulating so much that I’d essentially flashed the crotch of my outfit for the past several minutes. I crossed my legs… I re-crossed them… It was like I didn’t know quite what to do with them because I liked them being open.

Then Stephen said: “This is all very good news, Angela. Great progress, and I want youth feel proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

“But?” I said, knowing there was one.

“Let’s just say… Now that you’ve crossed what we might call the fellatio bridge, how did you find the taste of your husband’s semen?”

There was too much excitement coursing through me to feel like I became a record with a needle scratching across; even so, it had me stunned because up until that moment, I hadn’t put two-and-two together. I had sucked Tom off, twice, a tremendous breakthrough, yet I’d made certain not to get even the tiniest taste of his cum in my mouth.

Stephen saw right into where I was, and he asked, quite softly: “Not quite oral paradise yet?”

“No, it isn’t,” I admitted.

“Angela, you can decline to answer this question if it’s too personal, but did you climax when making love with your husband last night?”

Too personal? We were breathing in my scent and I’d just described sucking Tom’s cock, and how deliriously happy he’d been about that. “I faked an orgasm,” I replied, and no one had to tell me how absurd that was, that a woman who looks like I look would find herself in the position of doing that. I was sooo tempted to add: “If I’d felt a fraction as turned on last night as I am when telling you about last night, then you might have read about my orgasms in the fucking newspaper!”

But those words stayed in my head, because it was clear that Stephen was on too much of a therapy-mission to give me a chance to vent like that. He wanted to know exactly what I’d been feeling when sucking Tom off but also holding back, and I tried to explain the complex emotions I came to recognize last night, that maybe I had a much better sense now of what I wanted to be, but I still wasn’t sure what it was for. And the thought I’d had, that it might not matter what kind of an answer I came up with, because what I had seen in that momentary vision, the newly transformed Angela wriggling inside… She would have the answers, not me.

I could see gears turning behind Stephen’s eyes when he said: “Do you want to hear what I believe this new Angela is going to show you?”

Of course I did.

“You’re right to believe that this new you will know exactly what to do. The emergence of this new Angela marks a change of purpose and scale that would have been inconceivable to you back at the beginning of these sessions, and it’s this lag in your conscious awareness that has you believing that a separation still exists between what you are and what it’s all for. You wish to be highly skilled as a lover—I believe the new Angela has the potential to be supremely skilled. You wish to have a purpose for those skills—the new Angela’s purpose will ring clear as a bell. And, as your vision showed, you are so close to being right there. Just one more session, or perhaps two… I know you can get there Angela. You’re on a collision course with meaning, perhaps even destiny—do you know what a rare thing that is? The next time you enter this office… Let’s just say that I believe in you, completely.”

Stephen believing in me completely—I would swear that if he said that enough times, undressing me with his eyes as he said it, I could erupt right there in my chair with the orgasm that had to be faked for Tom. And there would be no holding back, none. That fear or distaste for semen—it wasn’t the substance that held me at bay, it was…

“Oh my God!” I said, and of course Stephen could tell that I had just had some sort of ka-ching moment. I had, and it could be summarized this simply: I’m going to need to have an affair, or affairs. The Angela I’d glimpsed under my skin never consented to marrying Tom. She had never chosen Tom’s cock to the exclusion of all others, and she didn’t feel right at all that my husband’s semen would be the first I’d taste. The newly emerging Angela would want to grant that honor to a different lover, as she engaged in wild ecstatic lovemaking where the idea of faking an orgasm would be like some kind of sick joke.

I confessed all that in a rush, then squirmed in the chair. “I know what I just said is one-hundred percent true,” I said. “Maybe it’s even destiny, like you said. Only…”

“Only? Tell me what makes you hesitate like that.”

“I’m not an adulterer,” I whispered. “I mean, I can already tell it’s what she’s going to want, the new Angela. The freedom to explore, to… You know, get off! I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied enough with Tom, it’s just not… But the alternative, if I really examine that… I might not know myself entirely but I know men, and I know Tom would be devastated if he had to try to move on from me. He has everything he ever wanted in me, especially now that I’m even more… And if—no, when—I get great at sex, really great at it, then… He would fight, litigate, go apeshit, not wanting to give me up. Maybe he loves me but he’s definitely infatuated with me, with my body, and he’s never going to want to give me up!”

It was like I was pleading and bragging all at once, and who knows what any other therapist would have said at a moment like that. Stephen brought a profound perspective, a way of looking at things that is already helping to guide me through these turbulent waters. And that was: “Whenever the ‘yes’ and the ‘no’ in us arise in heated opposition, there is always the possibility of a third choice that is far superior to either one. We might even call it ‘The Third Way’, a path forward that satisfies the whole of us.”

Was this the kind of knowledge he’d acquired in his Himalayan shaman training? I sat there pondering, and then it came to me how it’s really so simple, and unquestionably true. The tiger could eat the goat and the goat must accept that it is to be eaten, or—I saw a video of this just recently—the two creatures could, confounding nature’s dictates and everyone’s expectations, become friends. In my world, Angela needs a different cock in her mouth but Angela is married, so she must accept that extra-marital cock-sucking will only be a fantasy, or a sordid affair, or…

Almost unbelievable to me, I stated that problem out loud, and Stephen never filled in that space, never answered my questions for me, which is another reason he’s such a great therapist. But he did go off on a bit of a tangent, about the history of ninjas. He asked if I knew what they were and I thought I did, but it turned out I knew very little. He described their skills and their mindset just a little, and then I looked them up after our session to learn more. Ninjas were even more highly trained than samurai warriors, almost like the secret agents of their time and place. Rather than fight directly they were masters of stealth and misdirection, their bodies so finely trained and senses so attuned that they could slip inside an enemy’s fortress and perform silent assassinations, and then slink back out, never seen nor heard. Samurai warriors condemned the tactics of the ninjas as improper, their methods dishonorable. For a ninja, focused upon the success of a mission and individual survival, these questions of honor held no meaning.

I wonder whether, in the history of all of Western psychology, the way of the ninja warrior has ever been used as a tool for positive transformation. Because, somehow, Stephen’s seemingly unrelated musings worked. I’d been headed into a place of emotional turmoil and with just a few words he changed that into a head-space where determination rose to the forefront, and I could think, without any fear or sense of grievance at anybody: Fuck being married. Fuck being restrained. Fuck anything that stands in the way of the Angela that is emerging. No restraints on her, and she is me.

“I get it,” I told him. “Whatever I do… Whatever I’ll need to do, do it intelligently, in a way where others won’t even know what’s happened. I’m free to be real, but being so doesn’t have to mean that I make a mess of things. I can be observant, and cunning, and—“

“Supremely skilled,” Stephen interjected. “In training your body to achieve your goals, in keeping your emotions under control when they need to be controlled… At playing the role of one Angela, while behind the mask you remain in touch with your true self. You can be supremely skilled at anything or everything, if it means enough to you.”

“And If I do end up having an affair, or when I do…”

I let the words hang, tasting again how it felt to say them. After a few seconds Stephen gave further shaping to my thought, almost as if mind-reading abilities were part of his repertoire: “It might be said that the most remarkable skill the ninjas possessed—in a way the goal that superseded all other goals—was their ability to not get caught. They were given high-risk high-reward missions, and they fulfilled them so flawlessly that they were available for the next mission, and the next, and so on.”

One more ka-ching, and I’d swear I felt the vibration in the whole of my body, like every cell had just heard the call. I’m no ninja, not in form, not in my place in history. But in spirit, in practice

Do it, if it needed doing. Don’t get caught, so as to do it again, and again and again…

Talk about supremely skilled—what a masterful therapy session. I’d begun it as a dripping mess, and though I couldn’t say I’d stopped dripping, that energy was more focused now, towards a more complete goal. No moment of uncontrolled passion that spins me like a wobbly top into a chaotic affair; I could be assured in these things, moving with deliberation and stealth so that Tom would never know. No one need ever know, unless I want them to. I’d be unstoppable.

“I want to give you one last bit of homework,” Stephen said, “that is in the spirit of supporting this need for a Third Way. It might sound too simple to be effective, but I believe it’s all that’s required for you to fully find your way home in yourself.”

I felt like a starved wolf awaiting a hunk of steak in the short pause before he gave the assignment. And it is simple, probably deceptively so: I am to find three words that succinctly describe the new me that I really am. Not the me that I wish I were, or would someday believe I could be. That I am. And according to Stephen, I will know without question when I’ve gotten the three words right. They’ll come from a very deep place and I’ll no longer need to ask what I am for. Reality and purpose will be one.

“Piece of cake,” I joked with a nervous laugh, and then laughed again when realizing that, right there, I had three words.

“Your laughter is back,” Stephen observed, which made me laugh again, in relief.

“More than that,” I replied. “I was even singing the other night, just for the joy of it. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Miracle working therapist,” he joked with three words.

I saw that he glanced at his watch; we had run over our time. I told him that I didn’t care if I got charged a thousand extra dollars for ten extra minutes, whatever it took to have our customary end-of-session hypno-therapy.

“Your wish is my command,” he said, and then that velvety voice taking me down stone steps and along a path through the woods, and down further into a damp hidden grotto where fears and hesitations could not follow. There was warmth there, and a feeling of wetness everywhere, and I could smell the excitement of untold possibilities. I would swear there was a part of the story where we built a fire together, carefully tending kindling so it could turn into a roaring blaze. But all of that… I’m not even sure that I’ve gotten a single bit of it right, but I did know when I snapped out of it, there in my chair feeling amazingly energized with my nipples turned into molten bullets, that something significant had happened.

I am changed—three words again. I could feel it in my bones, in the core of my being. And in my straining nipples, my God they felt incredible.

I stretched when I stood to leave, stretched in a way that I knew would accentuate my calves and all the other muscles in my legs, and also showcase the mighty strain of my nipples against the poor fabric of my outfit. And I said, “God I feel sexy,” not like I was speaking the words for Stephen to hear, more like an under-the-breath remark where I was just commenting, to myself, what was true.

But I knew he’d heard me, and that he’d been looking at me, probably trying to decide whether I was good at tennis from my athleticism, or terrible at it because of the scale of my tits. He was back behind his desk and he didn’t rise to walk me to the door as he had in the past, and from his expression I knew, knew, that I’d given him an erection.

The image of his cock hard in his pants, hard for me, had me nearly hyperventilating as I approached Pauline to confirm my next appointment. Where I got the awful news—Stephen has an overload of appointments next week, so mine needs to be pushed back by a few days. I tried not to show how much that upset me, and I really don’t think I’ve ever experienced a cascade of conflicting emotions and body sensations like I did just then—my body felt all tingly and expansive from how I’d left Stephen, yet I almost wanted to scream with horror at the very thought of a delay in my next appointment.

Pauline’s gaze went to my chest several times, her interest enough that I glanced down and saw the degree to which my nipples were tenting the tennis outfit. I was wearing a sports bra underneath, but really, I don’t think they’d ever been this stiff in my entire life. She had to be able to smell my pussy, too; I was so drenched that anyone could. I might have worried what she fought of my excited state, only I had such a bigger problem—having to wait longer between appointments.

I wanted to get closer to her desk for an upside-down view of the appointment calendar, but held back, not wanting to shove hyper-quim in Pauline’s personal space. I tried not to sound too desperate when asking if Stephen might be able to fit me in on the weekend, and I don’t know what to think about how she replied, with a big laugh, that Stephen never sees clients on weekends. I’d seen for myself, on the calendar… But perhaps I hadn’t. I really didn’t know what the layout with it’s assortment of single letters meant—I’d only assumed.

I felt so shaken, and also so hot and bothered, that I had to call Caitlin and cancel our tennis time. I said I wasn’t feeling well, and in a way that was true because I couldn’t walk ten paces without mumbling my vexation at a delayed appointment, then succumbing to an irresistible desire to brush my nipples with the flat of my hand, keeping my deal-closers aching and straining. It’s like I was both shriveling and bursting with vigor at the same time—am I going a little bit crazy to be so torn in two directions like that?

I never really calmed down on the drive home, touching my tits and inhaling quim scent, and all the while trying to calm things down with word trios that buzzed like hornets through my mind. “Bored trophy wife”—that was me up until recently, though at that moment I was more like a “naughty nipple nymphet”. “Or a ‘leaking horny mess’!” I said out loud.

Hornets, horny… Whore? I found myself giggling at that, a quick cure for the ache of having to wait extra time to return to my therapist’s office. As Stephen so keenly observed, my laughter is back, and I found delight in playing with other carnal or pornographic words combinations, like “confused cock-tease” or “underutilized boob goddess”, or “eventual blow-job savant”. Blow-job—was that one word, or two? Similarly, what about tit-job, or pole-dancer? That made me think of the virgin dancing pole waiting in the basement of my house, and my foot became heavier on the gas with the wish to work that thing.

I won’t claim that I had the focus and determination of a true ninja warrior as I trained with my new dance pole, but I sure did try. Five hours—that’s how much time I put into learning basic maneuvers. I used tutorials and professional performances I could watch online, and it felt marvelous to be in leotards using my dancing skills again, this time for a greater purpose. “Huge-titted pole-dancing marvel”—that has to be too many words to be acceptable. And I’m not naive—it will take hour upon hour of practice to master some of the more complex transitions between positions.

But I’m super-limber, and really strong. I can see in the mirrors that my body looks the part at least as much as anything I found online; I can point my toes and flex my calves with the best of them, but then the huge tits for the win. I even practiced my facial expressions in the mirror, from wide-eyed innocence to sultry-smokey to laser-beams that say: “I’m just dripping sex”. Every bit of me needs to be spot-on with this, because being good at pole-dancing isn’t even an option—I need to be supremely good.

Tom still doesn’t know there’s a dance pole in my space. He’ll undoubtedly stumble upon it at some point, and that’s fine. It doesn’t take much effort to turn him into a contented puppy dog, which I proved tonight by sucking his cock from under the dinner table. That was fun—I began the seduction by dropping beneath the table and stripping my blouse and bra away, then rising to rest my juggs onto an empty dinner plate, or what the poor plate could handle of them. Second course, dear, and what a helping! Then some creative use of the cream all over my nipples, and back under the table to finish Tom off with a butter-fingered hand-job.

“Devious husband pacifier”—that’s what I felt I was when having sex with Tom tonight. It wasn’t about passion on my part, although I do think there was more than a trace of that in a tactical sense. It becomes like an equation: Tom is super-rich and he has an almost unbelievably sexy wife, me, and he’s at his happiest when his wife goes all sex-bomb and fulfills the carnal dreams he had when he asked her to marry him in the first place. I, the sex-bomb, want the freedom to explore the new me, which is all about taking sex to an entirely different level, and in unknown directions. I give a small sampling of my abundance to my husband, and he’ll be so happy that he’ll never care or even notice if…

There’s the blank to fill in, and of all things—Stephen’s musings on ninja warriors have undoubtedly taken root—I found myself researching more about the life of ninjas to find perspective. They were often farmers during times of peace, serving the needs of a chosen master during times of war. From a Western perspective they weren’t pure of heart—affairs were common, sometimes with boys, and they could change masters if one became weak, another strong. But behind all of that a greater purpose directed their actions, an ideal, very Japanese, where the behavior of the individual was subservient to the stability of the community.

So much I could admire there. Leading a simple life when the times called for that, and having the skills to do so much more when needed… And serving the needs of a strong master for the greater good… I can’t say why, but I get all tingly when I think about that.

As a Westerner, I don’t have that mindset about being subservient to the needs of the community; too much rugged individualism. And yet…

Something of an “aha!’ moment, just right now while writing in my journal. It’s time I admitted to myself that I know how to finish that sentence up above, about being married to Tom. It goes like this: Tom will be so happy that he’ll never care or even notice if his almost unbelievably sexy wife is fucking someone else’s brains out.

My individual needs met, and yet there’s no need for their fulfillment to cause disharmonious ripples in my marriage, or out in the greater community. It’s not enough that I’m so fucking gorgeous—I need to be a fucking machine, and that’s never going to happen by remaining faithful to my husband. I branch out, intelligently, and I get what I need, and stability is maintained.

Win/win.

I just love it when everything comes together like that. Now, if I can only get things going with the right lover and we cum together…

What a wonderful world that’s going to be.

* * *

The day began with a chance encounter that got some tactical wheels turning in my head.

My usual coffee shop is closed for renovations, so I drove to the one on Chestnut Street, where I ran into Oliver Clarke. He sat alone at a round table, fingers hyper-clicking on the keyboard of his laptop, and because of that concentration he didn’t see me until I stood right over him. When he finally looked up he did an almost comical double-take, like “Hey, it’s Angela,” and then a second later, “Holy shit, it’s Angela’s new bursting boobs!”

It was unseasonably warm and I’d intentionally dressed to be devastating, black stockings and a short skirt, and a wide belt that accentuated the slimness of my waist. Above that, a straining cashmere sweater that I really should consider outgrown, because I don’t know how long the seams are going to last. I hadn’t intended for this outing to take up much time—my dance pole and Tricky Dick awaited me back home—but I decided it might be fun to sit with Kitten’s husband for a little while, soaking in his obvious boob-worship.

I asked what had Oliver’s attention so absorbed—on his computer, I added, but I think that one went over his head. He told me he was working on his novel, the one he’d mentioned before. Apparently he writes for several hours almost every day at this coffee shop. Which, because that’s the way my mind is working these days, I filed away for future reference.

I got him to describe the plot in more detail, and he had me laughing a couple of times, which I hope wasn’t insulting. But I did find it amusing, a time-period murder mystery that mostly involves ballerinas. He even called it “a Degas pastel with pistols and poison”, which got me to laughing again.

Oliver asked what book our reading group had been assigned—it’s a biography of Albert Einstein, which I’ve barely cracked open. “Let me guess,” he said. “My hyper-intellectual wife chose that one.”

“It was her turn. Next month it’s my turn, and I’m thinking something entirely different. Something more challenging.”

“More challenging than a book on Einstein? What could that be?”

“Maybe the Kama Sutra.”

Oliver burst out laughing, and when I imagined the looks on the book club women’s faces, I got to giggling, too.

Something like a pained expression brought Oliver to silence. “Do you know how incredibly lovely you are when you laugh like that?” he asked.

“And at all the other times?”

“Only so-so,” he said with a facetious grin, glancing at my tits before meeting my eyes, and with an expression that was all too easy to read. The man might possibly be in love with me, though I thought it more likely that he was simply in lust. Oh Kitten, your entire makeup is geared towards practicality and smooth sailing, and yet you married a fucking writer. What were you thinking?

“I’ve been writing some, too,” I said. “Nothing for public consumption—the opposite, really. It’s a private journal where I’m finding out… I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t say.”

“Shouldn’t say what?”

That was just the response I’d been hoping for, wasn’t it? And this is weird, but I found myself surprised that I could say, if I wanted to. “Most of what I write probably reads like porn,” I confessed. “I find myself musing on themes of transformation, and these days it’s getting… You see, I didn’t understand this until recently, but I am an extremely sexual being. When I say transformation, I mean I’m discovering depths, or capacities… And drives, my God. They say that men are the ones who think about sex all the time, but I don’t know. I think I’m becoming kind of…”

Was that sweat above his eyebrows? “Kind of what?” he asked, his Adam’s apple in motion.

“Kind of nympho, Oliver. Like I’m becoming a walking sex bomb, and I’m always ticking. Always.”

They say the eyes are windows to the soul, but his were more like telescopes pointed right into the center of his dick. He didn’t intensify his staring; if anything, his vision went more inward, like he was dialing up scenes, involving me, that made the corners of his mouth tremble.

l can’t say my nipples stiffened to full capacity in response to his rather obvious descent into desire-land—after what happened in my therapist’s office, I know now what supreme nipple-engorgement is, my oversized anatomy becoming so pronounced that it looks like I must be pregnant or lactating. And bad girl that I can be, I wanted Oliver to see them at straight-out full-mast, so I went inward, too, tuning him out and seeing myself on Stephen’s desk with my hand wrapped around my therapist’s hard pulsing cock. Pop!, out came fully-loaded sweater punctuations that would be a sensation in the online porn world I kept revisiting. A small gasp escaped me and it wasn’t put-on; apparently, I have a go-to way of making myself instantly horny.

For a few seconds, I thought Oliver might have a stroke or something. He believed my body-response was tied to what I had confided to him, like in sitting here chatting as we had, a barrier had been crossed where we were at least sexual partners in a verbal sense. The poor man breathed through his mouth like he couldn’t get enough air; I think just watching me breathe in and out, from so close a distance and with the reality of my nipples staring him in the face, was close to making him groan out loud.

“Stacked husband stealer”, I silently thought in threes. And then, catching the vibe that Oliver wasn’t the only one in the shop catching the show: “Caffeinated crowd tease”. “Overpowering hooter whore”.

Oliver didn’t disappoint, clearing his throat and then asking once more, in that overheated way he has, whether we might go out for a drink some evening so he could pick my brain about my past experience with dance instruction. The request could have been innocent enough… But no, innocent thoughts were nowhere near either one of us. We could have talked about my dancing past right then and there, but he wanted a more intimate atmosphere, with some of the trappings of a date. And knowing him, that meant a date with my tits.

I could have done so many things to torture Oliver even further. I recalled all that Stephen had shown me about moments just like these, where I became a ruthless tease just for the sexual thrill of it, but I never followed through. And what was amazing was how I could feel, deep inside, that the landscape had been reconfigured, like self-awareness had give me powers of decisiveness that I had lacked in the past. I could go through with seducing Kitten’s husband, and a whole menu of mental images flashed behind my eyes, like sucking Oliver off in his car, and taking his cum into my mouth and opening wide to show him the seed in my mouth. Or—with his boob-fixation this would probably yank the hugest load out of him—just violently mashing his cock between my tits, and wobble-fucking him until he cried for mercy.

I wasn’t going to do that, not here and not now, but it was no retreat into safety like in the past. Without another word I decided to stand and make it obvious I was leaving, and Oliver simply lifted his eyebrows in regards to his proposal of a hook-up. “I’m going to give this some real thought,” was how I left things in a zone of ambiguity. Where that left him, hearing my words of “perhaps” after seeing my nipples jutting out a “hell yes!”, was his problem.

I’d like to write that I left like that because I had thoughts of Kitten, and how depraved it would be to hump her husband. But the truth? I could do her husband and would—no freezing up or backing down—if it served my purpose. But nothing so sloppy as being seen together on a public semi-date just for the fun of it. I had ideas—maybe plots would be a better word—swimming in my mind, that weren’t fully formed and would require careful planning.

After that, I went from eleven in the morning until seven at night on my dance pole, with just enough of a break to purchase a sheer sequined outfit online, then a quick trip to a box store for a GoPro camera. The mirrors are helpful but so much of the time I’m gyrating around the pole, facing sideways or away, and I needed a better way to spot errors in my technique.

Maybe I should be amazed at what I can already do on that pole, only I always was quick to absorb difficult dance maneuvers, and my arms have gotten really strong. I found myself copying less and inventing more—it’s true choreography, with the sexual aspects of dance dialed so high that it blows through the roof.

Towards the end of my practice I couldn’t stop thinking about the one missing ingredient—an audience—and I got the idea in my head that I should be able to incorporate actual fucking into one of my routines. So much of the time my legs are spread as wide as legs can be—if I had a lover stand at a prearranged spot, couldn’t I find a way to twist myself down to score a perfect landing, meaning a perfect insertion? Or hanging upside-down with my back arched in reverse, which might be an ideal way to swallow a hard cock. Tricky Dick has a suction base; I can adhere him to a mirrored wall and practice fucking while in all sorts of vertical positions. But the dance pole, by necessity, is in the middle of my space, nothing to adhere the dildo to.

I thought there might be solutions I could find online, but I didn’t find much help from any porn videos. There were a surprising number of outright contortionists curling themselves into pretzel shapes, giving head or gaping their pussies in extreme ways through ridiculous flexibility. But these women behaved more like static blow-up dolls than athletes; they assumed extreme sexual positions and then didn’t really move. Am I asking too much of myself by envisioning actual pole-fucking? Is it not there because it requires so much strength and precision that it can’t be done?

Supremely skilled—that’s the goal, and I’m not going to give up on this. I see that pole-dancing is really more of a teasing art, not a venue for actual fucking, not a gleaming sex-aid, but I can picture the deed in my mind and I want it. I want to be the best, like I can fucking taste it.

And I’m in a mood to get what I want.

* * *

My muscles were sore when I awakened this morning, in a way that made me greet the day with a big wide grin. I’m pushing myself hard, and that’s the way I grow stronger.

But I’m going to retain my soft side, too, and I knew exactly how to do that without even giving it much thought. That had me spending extra time in the bathroom after Tom left for the day, shaving my pussy completely bare.

I’ve never had much pubic hair to begin with, so keeping myself tidy has always been a breeze. But that’s not the same as now, without anything there. All me—I need my pussy to be like it was on the day I’d been born, only all grown up, experienced and purposeful. And beautiful, and tight—I suppose that’s the upside of never having made love to a man with a really big one, in that my pussy, I would say, is really tight.

I put that pussy and the rest of me into the costume that arrived by FedEx in the late morning. It’s between translucent and transparent, and fits like a glove. Sheathed in it I look like something out of Las Vegas, and I love the way the material helps me glide along my dance pole. I love the way my bare pussy feels against the pole, too.

Stephen couldn’t have known where I’d take his comments about training my body to be supremely skilled at achieving my goals. I’m getting really good at working the pole, and I don’t just feel a sense of achievement from what I can do—I get hot. Which, I have to say, is fertile ground for my favorite fantasies, of vaulting my therapist’s desk and essentially raping him.

I’m not quite sure when it dawned on me that I can stiffen my nipples and pretty much lubricate on demand, just by going inwards and dialing up some variation on these therapist-sex fantasies. I did that to torture Oliver Clarke, and how did I know, even before the mental pictures came, that it would work so well? And if I continue the fantasy, Stephen’s hands squeezing at my tits, and pulling at my nipples, and my hand pumping his cock and feeling its heat, and me wanting him all over me, every possible bit of his flesh against mine, my entire body turned into a giant erogenous zone…

I don’t cum the way I used to; it’s so much more. I keep feeling like the orgasms of yesteryear were suppressed without me even being aware of it, climaxes swathed in cotton. Now they’re raw and crisp, unfettered, whole.

I found myself laughing in the bathtub this evening, thinking of “whole” sounding just like “hole”, and just one letter away from “whore”. “Whole whore hole”—I love the playfulness, but that’s still not it, my magic three words.

Close enough, though, that I got myself off with some exquisite finger-fucking, made astonishing by conjuring my therapist’s cock plowing into my hairless whore hole. That body-vibrating climax could go down in history—literally—because I thought to film myself playing with myself with the new GoPro. I’ve never even come close to thinking to do that, filming an orgasm to be watched later; I’m not even sure where the idea came from. Probably how much porn I’ve been watching, because without others filming their sexual exploits, no porn for me to learn from.

They just fucking rocked me, those climaxes in the bath, and they became like lighting with echoing thunder when I watched myself onscreen. Inspired to see other views of my body in action, I tried handheld close-ups while fingering my pussy, or floor-level footage of me haunch-humping Tricky Dick, and I loved seeing the way the muscles in my legs bulge, the way my boobs heave up and down… I could be a pornstar, no question, a multiple-fetish idol with a name like Toni Titdream or something like that. Because seeing my tits in action like that…

I’ve taken selfies before in sexy lingerie, but this evening I got a little manic that way, giving myself close-up photos and footage of my bare tits lit in various ways. The view from below, where you can truly appreciate the volume of these things, and how much they project outward… I thought I knew myself, but they’re so much bigger now, and with my shaping and the scale of my areoles and nipples… They’re kind of amazing or mind-boggling, like I don’t even look real, even though it’s obvious how natural they are.

“Nuclear nippled nymphet”. “Perfect private pornstar”—titillating, but still not it.

But there is something important in that pornstar idea, and it’s this: I’m going to need an audience to progress as far as I need to progress with my dance pole. Watching myself getting off in various ways drove that point home—it’s different when you do something and you know there isn’t a soul watching, versus performing. And that’s what I need to be—a miracle of a performer.

I have some ideas about that, and they do not involve Tom. Why should they, when so much of my relationship with him is a performance to begin with?

It’s very late now, the wind blowing like crazy outside. It’s gotten unseasonably warm and humid, and there was some actual thunder in a line of storms that came through. Tom came home late tonight, talking about the volatile weather, and I gave him a tiny taste of the tempest I can be by pulling his pants down in mid-sentence and giving him a quick and almost violent hand-job. He went to bed as contented as could be, not even aware I was punishing him by not giving him a blow-job. His crime? I’m about one-hundred percent certain that he’s been a bad boy, because he said something about a late spring trip to Paris, a seed I planted in my fake journal.

One last thing before writing some additional b.s. in my other diary—I’m never going to taste Tom’s cum. Nor Oliver’s, if or when I turn him into a sex pet. Maybe their stuff tastes like gourmet chocolate, who knows, but no, none for me. It’s not about fear or anything like that; it’s boundaries. Some things for my husband, the territory that’s already been established, and I’ll probably give Oliver more than he can handle of my tits—I’m pretty sure he won’t complain if he never even grazes my pussy, as long as I fulfill his fantasies of oversized tit-fucks. But anything that breaks through known boundaries? Oh no—those explorations are for Stephen, and no one else.

Oh my God, did I just write that?

I did, and I might as well add: It’s about fucking time. I’m always thinking about him in relation to the calendar, like how many days until my next appointment, when I can be in his presence again, ever-present questions like that. And every single time now when I want to feel sexy, or when I masturbate, it’s Stephen I picture.

I fucking want him.

How long have I known that, just a couple of minutes ago, when writing it, or days or weeks ago? Does it even matter, as long as I know now what all my pole-dancing practice has been for? What all my sex-skills practice has been for?

What I am for.

If only Stephen could know how I’ve taken his instruction to become supremely skilled and real, only to boomerang those insights right into his pants. Stephen—I’m going to fuck Stephen. There, I just wanted to see it in writing again, and to feel the truth of it.

I’m going to fuck my therapist into oblivion, if it’s the last thing I do.

* * *

She’s here, the new Angela.

Tom shook me awake at three-thirty in the morning, concerned that I was having some sort of nightmare. He said I was talking in my sleep, or more like trying to shout words out. When I asked what they were he said it sounded like “toffee ninja” something.

We both had a laugh, but inwardly I was buzzing. I thanked Tom, and I meant it, because hearing that helped me to remember everything. I didn’t go back to sleep; I went downstairs and into my pole-dancing space, and stripped out of my nightgown and stood there staring at myself in the mirror, knowing exactly what I am now.

“Trophy ninja whore,” I said, repeating the three words over and over. Each syllable was like an inner caress, like Popeye’s spinach to the blood in my veins, fortifying every cell that participates in sex.

And though they are the perfect three words, mission accomplished, it didn’t feel wrong to break the rules by adding one more word for good measure: Stephen’s trophy ninja whore. Because that’s the absolute truth about this new Angela, isn’t it—I want to fuck rules nearly as much as I want to fuck my therapist.

Trophy—I am and will remain a trophy wife, and I’d say I’m about as trophy-ish as it can ever get. Ninja—I believe I can train my body to do almost anything, and do it superbly. And stealth… I’m going to be all about stealth and hidden agendas now, my true feelings and desires as invisible as the wind. I’ve already found myself doing that, being that—I worked that parking garage seduction of Oliver Clarke like a pro, and I was even wearing a raincoat like some actress from a spy movie.

Whore—now this, more than anything, is what fills the heart of the newly arisen me. The dictionary informs me that a whore is a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money. And I say: Webster is ill-informed about what motivates a woman. Money? I could pay him, I have so much. And that word “promiscuous”—it’s like Webster thinks a woman’s sexual nature is a shotgun, whereas I feel it as a rifle with a scope, very precisely aimed. Yes I’m a whore, because I intend to be the ultimate seducer, and the ultimate fuck. I want hot sex like a starving person wants a heaping buffet table, and I’ll keep studying and practicing until I’m so good at it that I’d be able to fuck the entire world blind.

But I am no shotgun; I’m contained, concentrated. And anyone I target won’t stand a chance.

That was the start of a day that was full of events that Tom will never know about. This trophy ninja whore did two hours of naked pole dancing before her husband even woke up, and when he did awaken I was standing over top of him in bed, totally naked, fingering my pussy. I pulled the covers away and lowered myself onto his awaiting cock, and gave him an Academy Award-winning fake orgasm performance that I swear pulled the cum right out of his testicles. I even made him pancakes afterwards, and I’ll bet there isn’t a husband in this entire country who went to work in a better mood this morning.

Three hours of watching porn and absorbing techniques. I got it into my head to search for “leg-jobs” and “foot-jobs” and “calf-sex” and “nylon sex”, and there were examples of all three, and I watched, and practiced. Tomorrow, I’ve already decided, I’ll dedicate the entire day to practicing different forms of tit-jobs on Tricky Dick. And then anal—what if Stephen likes that? There are butt-plugs, a way of training that opening to gradually accept even the biggest of cocks, and I ordered a set.

And latex. I have no idea where that idea came from—it was almost like another vision, only this time much quicker, in the split-second with my eyes closed while blinking. I got a flash of what boobs like mine could look like when sheathed in shiny black latex, and there was immediate leakage down below, the erotic equivalent of hitting the jackpot. Latex bra, latex catsuit, latex open-crotch leggings… I ordered it all.

From that world to the domestic one in the evening, presto-change-o. It’s not even stressful—I love wearing different hats. Or is it different skin, the outer layer for my husband, the inner for my soon-to-be lover, or lovers.

With warm weather here I grilled steaks and asparagus out on the back deck, and had a fine full-bodied Barolo to go with it. Full-bodied—that’s me, if you can be that while having a twenty-three inch waist. And juicy, sooo juicy whenever I think of setting my therapist’s cock on fire.

Tom said those steaks were the best he’s ever had, and I can’t stop smiling about that. Because again, that’s me—I’m going to be the best that Stephen has ever had.

I’ve got a game plan, and tomorrow I begin the execution.

I’ve never felt so excited in my life!