The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Trophy Ninja Whore

by Pizzahead

Part 4

Every woman should have the experience of greeting a new day the way I did this morning. It was five-thirty and I was dreaming (and I remembered again!) of super-sucking my therapist’s cock, which has to be the polar opposite of a nightmare, as the feeling was of pure deliciousness, like I was in Stephen’s office but also, in the deepest part of my being, in heaven. I was using my newly acquired cocksucking skills to their fullest, my nose grinding into his flesh like I just couldn’t get enough of his meat down my throat. I started making muffled sounds of joy, that changed tempo when I realized that I was going to cum really hard.

When I opened my eyes I knew six things without the need for thought: I am insanely horny. I am beautiful. I have a purpose, and all the physical and mental tools necessary for accomplishing that purpose. I’m going to have to make this dream somewhat physical by awakening my husband by sucking him off. By keeping the images and feeling from the dream swimming in my head, I’m going to fucking cum like crazy!

And most importantly—I am Stephen Striker’s trophy ninja whore.

And that’s what it was, Angela the beautiful trophy ninja whore sucking Tom awake with the game-plan for seducing Stephen fully blossomed in my mind. I switched to haunch-humping when I could sense Tom getting close—no husband-cum in this mouth, thank you—and I came, loudly and with my thigh muscles quaking as though electrified, just seconds after he did, all because of how much the lingering dream images excited me.

I’ve fantasized about fucking my therapist, and masturbated to those scenarios who knows how many times now. And by dreaming it, and feeling that as real, I can see how what used to be a fantasy is now a concrete goal, and a huge need.

My husband, after that wake-up hummer-humping, looked like someone in need of strong coffee or a strong drink—he had the silliest open-mouthed grin as he lay there beneath me, and I thought: This is what a man looks like when he’s been pussy-passified. Maybe I should have become a high-powered contract lawyer, because they’re nearly all men and with just one well-timed fuck, I could win every case, couldn’t I?

I let Tom shower first, and while he was shaving I stood naked in the bathroom door, hefting my breasts in my hands and looking at them, making the point that they’ve gotten so huge so fast that even I have to get used to how they look and feel. Tom watched in the mirror and he got hard again, and I sat down on the bathroom floor, facing his reflected gaze, lifting my legs and spreading wide.

“Did you even notice that I shaved myself bare for you?” I asked, and told him to put his razor down before he cut himself. And then—this has never happened in our relationship and I think he could barely believe it—I got him off for the second time before it was even six-thirty, with a soapy sudsy tit-job.

I liked seeing Tom slumped against the drawers of the vanity, with his head tilted up to the ceiling as if to thank the heavens for whatever had gotten into his wife. I had his cum all over my front and I pretended to swipe some onto my finger and taste it, licking my lips and smiling.

“You make me feel so…” he said, letting a contented puppy-dog grin say the rest.

I know exactly who my husband is, and what makes him tick. He’s a good man in a career-driven, overworked and somewhat myopic way, and he’ll live the contented life as long as he gets to show me off when the need arises, and I keep his dick happy. And, because I really want to begin a collection of sexy photos of sexy me, I told Tom to grab my phone and take some photos of his wife’s gorgeous cum-covered tits.

He did as I said. He’s no Ansel Adams, that’s for sure, but he did love his subject, getting several angles and going for close-ups of my deal-closer areoles and nipples. And as he snapped away, I almost absently told him that I thought I might be ready to wind-down my therapy with Stephen, just one or two more sessions to wrap things up. “Because I feel so happy!” I said. “Really, I can’t think of one thing in my life that I would change right now.”

It wasn’t a lie. I do feel happy, and so amazingly alive, and very, very focused.

Tom limped off to work by the time I’d showered the morning sex away. I was tempted to go down and get Tricky Dick, and engage in a good long therapist-dreaming-reaming, but I practiced my pole-dance routines instead, until the middle of the afternoon.

At five-thirty I drove to my therapist’s office, and parked in a discreet spot near the rear of the parking area, where I could keep an eye on both his office door and his car. The very first stake-out in my life, and never in any police procedural have I ever read that the interior of the stake-out vehicle was filled with the aroma of an excited girl’s quim.

He was in there today; I had no doubt of that. Sure enough, Pauline and her great big rack walked out the door at 6:22, and seeing her on the street made me shout: “I’m bigger than that? I must be huuuge!”

Stephen left the building thirteen minutes later, and I swear my nipples turned into heat-seeking missiles the moment I saw him. Other than feeling like I might need to finger myself while driving, it wasn’t too difficult to tail him at a distance, like people always do on t.v. He went straight home, and I have to say I was pleased with the home. It isn’t nearly as large or ostentatious as where I live, and the neighborhood is more earthy, the sloping topography encouraging homes of different sizes while leaving stretches of undeveloped woodland. But what really made me smile is that Stephen’s house is at the very end of a cul-de-sac. He’s surrounded on three sides by woods, and there isn’t another house closer than two-hundred yards. Meaning privacy. Meaning no one but birds or squirrels to hear any untoward sounds that might emerge from inside.

I suppose I could have knocked on the door and shoved my boobs in his face when he answered—special delivery for Stephen Striker—but the newly awakened ninja in me knows the value of the correct place and the correct time. There were no cars parked anywhere near the house other than Stephen’s, and that remained true for the two hours I remained watching. I have every reason to believe he’s alone at home right now, as I write this.

I will walk through that door someday and shove my boobs in his face, but I want the first time to be in his office. I know he’s gotten hard for me there, and I’ve certainly fantasized about it enough times. Like every day now, probably because I know I still have to wait. Of all the times to have my next appointment pushed back!

I need to be his final client of the day. I need Pauline to leave. And then I take what is mine, and give all I have to give.

* * *

I must have slept right through Tom’s departure for work this morning. I came awake remembering another dream, and it was exactly that, cumming awake, crying out and spotting the sheets.

The dream was this: I was walking down a spiraling footpath, going deep into the earth, only the earth was also, somehow, my brain. Finally I came to deep level ground, a round control center area with many adjacent rooms branching out like spokes on a wheel. Glancing in one, I saw Stephen sitting at a desk, tapping instructions into a computer. I wanted to say hello, or even go over and suck his cock, but instead I got curious about the next room, and I went there instead. Stephen again, and in the next room, Stephen again. I realized that every room had a Stephen, and every Stephen was inputting instructions into a great connected system. I didn’t worry that my therapist had so many reproductions of himself; if anything, it got me hot, thinking there could be an almost infinite supply to seduce and fuck. But I became curious about what they were working on so diligently, and I approached one of the computers. Peering over that Stephen’s shoulder, I saw porn on the screen, a sopping vagina being rammed by a magnificent cock. I groaned or cried out, because I knew it was my vagina, and that it was Stephen’s cock drilling it. I was so hot, so wet, but I staggered over to the next room, to see if I was being fucked on that screen, too. This one was different; it was something like the vision I’d had before, a living, wriggling Angela inside of a linear template of an Angela, like a depiction of the energy of a body inside the shell of it. The Stephen at this monitor was typing instructions that made the wriggling me, hidden under the skin of the other, pinch and roll her nipples while fingering her pussy—the speed at which she was going at herself was incredible—and you could see the effect it had on the outer shell Angela, with her brain and pussy and tits glowing redder and redder, almost like she was a power plant ready to melt down.

I did melt down, perhaps beginning in the dream but then when awakening in my bed, cumming with sleep-distorted cries that made my ears ring. If Tom had still been at home he might have dialed 911, because I probably looked like someone having a seizure, all jerks and limbs flying. When the intensity finally subsided, I found myself tangled in the sheets, my back on the floor, one leg on the bed and the other braced against the front of my dresser. The dream had excited me so much that I’d cum right off the bed!

It took awhile to get my head together after that. Whenever I replayed any part of the dream in my mind I found myself lubricating, my nipples tingling. Over coffee I kept looking at the calendar on my phone, seeing that I still had five more days before my appointment with Stephen. I felt like I needed to know what the dream meant, what it was trying to tell me…

Was it a dream of the future, when Stephen would finally be inside me? Thinking of that, of his cock embedded in me, the man literally inside my body… No wonder my most sensitive places started glowing red-hot in the dream. Just remembering what it looked like on that computer screen, his girth stretching me wide, jamming in and out…

It was either spend the entire day masturbating, or work up a sweat perfecting my pole-dancing routines. But remembering how there is always a Third Way, I did both.

In the late afternoon I drove to Stephen’s office to spy on the rhythms, but his car wasn’t there, nor Pauline’s. It was one of those calendar days where he must be helping some letter of the alphabet, perhaps even the exuberant M!!!

Unable to resist, I drove to his street, dripping and brooding. His car was there, parked in front. No other cars, so was he alone? Just taking the day off? I opened my car door, thinking I might get out and snoop, even peek through windows… I just couldn’t do it. I closed my eyes and summoned the courage, the determination, the need to know… I got three or four yards away from the car and then it all fell apart, like my legs, strong as they are, just couldn’t take me there.

My legs were plenty strong when I pretty much attacked my husband tonight. I felt like I needed a warm and real cock down my throat or sandwiched between my tits, and I greeted Tom at the front door wearing absolutely nothing, hefting my huge juggs up like they were tonight’s dinner.

We didn’t make it up the staircase this time; I even found a good use for them, positioning myself several steps below Tom so his cock could be at tit-level, or throat level. And I didn’t think to recall the mornings dream; it just happened, and there I was eventually choosing some straight-on fucking, and with the pictures in my head of countless Stephens, room after room of them all there for me to fuck, I did not have to fake a damn thing.

Afterwards, Tom got to laughing, rather deliriously, that I couldn’t know how incredible it felt to have the concerns of the day drained right out of him like that. He said I was not only the most beautiful woman in the entire state, but I had to be the best in bed, too. “Or on stairs,” he joked, looking very content indeed.

We ordered out, and drank too much, and I sent Tom to bed with a languorous and boozy blow-job, making sure he came all over my tits. It was almost like putting a baby to bed, he was so happily drained of energy.

And then here, my wonderful private time. And it’s funny—we’re finally a happy couple. Sure, he’ll wake up tomorrow and be back at the grind, and I’ll wake up and still be driven to grind my pussy into my therapist’s face, but oddly… It works? Or possibly could work. Me and my husband, both fully engaged in the work we were put on this planet to do.

I hope I dream of an infinite number of Stephens this time. I mean, just bring that army on!

* * *

No great orgasmic dreams last night, but that didn’t stop me from having a purposeful day. I might even say I fulfilled a mission.

After showering and toweling dry, I felt compelled to put on white tights with no panties underneath, and with my bare pussy, one glance in the mirror had me saying the words “camel-toe” out loud. “Camel-toed whore,” I giggled at my reflection, as if I needed reminding.

The warm weather has been holding, and I almost took that as a sign from above to dress to slay—if “dress” is even the word for what I did. With nothing but the white tights and pumps below the waist—still no panties, fully embracing the camel-toe—I tried to match or even outdo that with my tits, by wearing a fishnet cotton sweater with no bra. The sweater is lightweight, the openings broad enough that every detail of me was visible, and what a sight! There they were, my huge bulging tits—huger bulging tits—distorting the geometry with their scale, my oversized nipples poking right through.

I have lingerie that isn’t as revealing, and I didn’t even have to think about playing with my therapist’s dick to find myself spotting the tights. My God what a piece of ass I’ve become! An honest assessment: I don’t just look like a complete whore, I look like a template for complete whores. Seriously, if the term “dripping wet bombshell” is in any dictionary, a photo of me should be there right next to it.

Being arrested for public indecency was not a part of that plan, so I played it smart with a lightweight raincoat that came down to mid-thigh, and I found myself laughing as I thought what the view would be if, God help the world, a spring wind started to blow.

It felt different, the early spring air caressing my pussy as I walked, and in the Audi I loved the sensation of my boobs jiggling over uneven pavement. They’re so firm, even with the increase in size, and maybe, just to know what it feels like, I’ll have to see how they vibrate in a car with bad shocks. More jiggle, more giggle?

The Chestnut Street coffee shop was humming that early in the morning, fewer people on their laptops, more in and out quickly on their way to work. I could have parked across the street, but drove the extra block to a parking garage. And it was strange, but it almost felt like second nature to spot the surveillance cameras mounted on ceilings, pulling my car into a blindspot behind a concrete pillar.

It was warm enough that I took an outside table, crossing my legs in such a way that I attracted a ton of attention, yet no one knew just how close I was to outright obscenity.

I didn’t have to wonder for long whether Oliver Clarke’s work habits were reliable, and there was no mistaking the instant when he became aware of me. A stutter in his step, with his eyes locking on and never leaving, following the bounce of my top-crossed leg as the white tights caught warm sun.

I stood to greet him for polite air-kisses, which I turned into a hug that compressed my boobs into him from under the coat. I don’t know if Oliver was really ever quite right after that; it was normal for him to be breathy and nervous around me, but his mouth kept twitching, and he held onto his coffee mug with both hands, and he seemed to be squeezing it.

I said something about the beautiful weather, which got his eyes questioning my raincoat. He asked if I wasn’t somewhat overdressed, and I just smiled, saying “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

I could see that one go in like an arrow. He couldn’t see through my coat but he did sense my mood, and he didn’t know how to be with it. I worried that he might compress his coffee mug until it shattered, so I gave him my best angel-faced smile—there couldn’t possibly be anything nefarious inside someone who looked so sweet. Then I told him the truth, that it wasn’t a coincidence that I was here; this was an interception. And I explained that I had a deal in mind, where I would tell him stories from my time as a dancer, but he had to do something for me in return.

Oliver went silent for a little bit, his eyebrows moving around. “Just don’t ask me to be your friend,” he said, looking extremely uncomfortable

I laughed, intrigued. “For real, you’re saying you won’t be my friend? I’m that horrible?”

“Not at all, it’s… Can I be completely honest? No repercussions for what I say?”

Meaning it wouldn’t get back to Kitten. “I can keep a secret,” I said, and meant that in a way I never had before. “I’m serious, Oliver; for me, the keeping of secrets is like a sacred vow.”

“Okay then. You are about ten miles too sexy to be friends with. You know that old cartoon trope of the wolf with steam coming out of his ears? That’s me, when I’m around you. It’s… I wish it weren’t that way, but it’s just not possible. You’re too… Especially lately. We all have weak spots, and I’m not…”

He faltered into an uncomfortable—for him—silence, and what I thought was: So the poor fool believes that by admitting that, I’ll turn my mighty prow and sail off to other waters, leaving him alone with his dick untouched and his conscience intact? “Oliver, what you’re saying is that you feel too tempted. Like around me, and if I allowed it, or if I went all temptress and encouraged it… You wouldn’t trust yourself. You wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.”

This conversation was making him extremely nervous. “We have this tutor for Mathew… She’s great, no complaints, but I’ve asked Kitten to let her go because… Almost the same thing. She’s friendly, actually very sweet, but she’s, um, curvy, and she wears these really tight sweaters. I think she’s a little too impressed by the fact that I publish with Viking, and I haven’t slipped, but I could. So it isn’t fair but I want her replaced, and of course I can’t tell my wife why.”

As if Kitten wouldn’t know why. But fuck Kitten, and fuck their stacked employee. What Oliver had just told me was that he had been able to resist temptation, and fuck that, too. Up until then I’d been delighting in the feel of having my boobs unholstered beneath the coat, and my pussy almost completely open to the air. Private pleasures, hidden delights. My mission required these delights to become much less hidden, and the temperature of this encounter to burn like the sun. So behind the angelic facade I switched on the office fantasies that always did the trick, and began to lubricate like someone had rotated a dial, the excitement flowing.

I saw the change in my prey’s expression, his head titling up—having caught my scent?—with his eyes meeting mine in an entirely different way. If I had a devil of a whore inside me, not the disciplined ninja, that Angela could have made Oliver squirm so hard in public that he might have to abandon his morning writing haunt forever. But I kept my head cool even though I’d heated up my body with therapist-fucking fantasies, and I made my surface appear angelic again, and I said: “Walk me to my car, Oliver. There’s something I want to show you.”

He looked perplexed but he didn’t hesitate. Then the walk to the parking garage, me palpably wet between my legs, feeling my breasts jiggling so wonderfully under the covering of the coat. Every click of my heels was an affirmation of the plan laid out in my mind, and to his credit, Oliver did not disturb that field of determination with useless small talk. Confused, yes, but perhaps he knew that the last thing to do just then would be to defuse whatever strange and sexy mood I was in.

I told him to get in the Audi, and he did. I took my position behind the steering wheel and had the seat slide back, giving me space. Contained now within the car, the scent of my arousal became part of the air we breathed, no mistaking it.

“Oliver, let’s stop pussyfooting around. I have no desire at all to be your friend in any profound way, nor you mine. You’re bewitched by my looks, by my boobs. That’s what draws you to me.”

He began to sputter a protest, but one “Oh really?” glance from me shut his trap on that. Almost as if to punish him for trying to squirm away from the truth, I power-locked the doors and pivoted my body to face my captive—and captivated—passenger, lifting and spreading my legs so one foot rested on his seat back, the other on the dash.

“Oh my God!” he whispered, staring the camel in the eye. The very wet camel, perfuming the atmosphere.

I said: “Oliver, I want you to note that I am in the driver’s seat. It’s going to be like that, always, do you understand?”

“Angela, what.. Are you and Tom… And there’s Kitten to—“

“Do you understand?”

They burned in a tortured way, his eyes. “You are in the driver’s seat, always,” he capitulated with a series of quick nods.

“Tom and I are fine, maybe even more than fine. He knew he signed on to a bundle of energy when he married me, only he didn’t grasp that he married a bundle of fucking energy, and I mean fucking energy. I need more than Tom, and lucky you, you’re on my list. But there are rules, and you break a single one and you’ll regret it. Number one, I decide whether we ever so much as touch, and when. Two, you never, ever, call me, or text me, or email me. No digital or audio trail, none. Three, it begins when I say it begins, and ends when I say it ends, no negotiations, no begging for more. Four, there will be no day in the future when you confess to Kitten, no silly fantasies that we’re going to end up together living happily ever-after. You don’t mope in font of your wife when you long for me; she’s my friend, and I don’t even care if you understand this, but none of what happens now is about hurting her. And remember—my husband is one of the most powerful lawyers in the state, and you’ll give him no reason, not even a telltale glance when you’re old and gray, to destroy you. Are we clear on all of this?”

I let it all sink in. Oliver sat there looking like it would take a crowbar to pry his gaze from my heat, and his Adam’s apple moved with a hard swallow before he said, “You make it sound like I’d be crazy to say yes. Why—“

“Because your ultimate reward would be even greater than you’ve imagined,” I interrupted, untying the belt at my waist and pulling open the top of the coat.

They weren’t completely bare, my huge bulging tits, but nothing was hidden from view, either, and I knew how to make an entrance, squeezing them from the side so they bulged extra inches into his personal space. I remembered what happened when men saw my areoles and nipples for the first time—it was like showing Mount Everest to someone who’d never suspected the earth had anything more impressive than foothills. They did double and triple-takes, and Oliver was no different. He did not say “Oh my God!” again—he moaned, and there was no doubt at all that the sound did not originate in his throat or his head; it came straight from his balls. And I knew from that sound, and the wild hungry appreciation in his eyes, that it was exactly like Tom joked—they were my deal-closers, and Oliver Clarke would be mine now to do with as I pleased.

He finally did speak, unconnected half-words at first that finally gained traction. “I can’t… It’s like… My God you’re…”

“Tell me what I am,” I helped to pull it out.

“It’s like you’re made of sex! They’re… You’re… You are sex!”

I Am Sex—leave it to a professional writer, even when his mind feels scrambled, to come up with three words that could just about compete with my ultimate reality of Trophy Ninja Whore. It was perfectly clear to me how changed I am—if I’d been in this same situation only a few weeks ago, and Oliver had said those same words, I would have squirmed inside with the hidden lie, that I only looked like pure sex. But he was also right with his poetic comment about being made of sex. I don’t believe there are such things as sex cells in the body… But who knows, maybe science has yet to understand that every cell can become devoted to sensual pleasures, if they all line up and submit to that greater purpose.

I felt like Oliver deserved a little reward for being so clever, though I wasn’t going to give him a taste sitting there in a parking garage; I’d known that from the beginning. And I wasn’t going to get myself off in front of him, not yet. But that didn’t stop me from pulling at my big hard nipples for him to see. It didn’t stop me from touching my wet slit through the translucence of saturated tights, and pushing in an inch or more and sighing a complete whore’s sigh. It didn’t keep me from extending that glistening finger across the space separating us, and wagging it right there in front of his nose, giving the poor man sights and sounds and smells that would haunt him until I was ready to use him. Maybe haunt him forever.

“What I want from you is actually very simple,” I said, drawing my finger back. “And I promise that as long as you can follow instructions and keep your mouth shut, it will cost you nothing.”

His eyes were flat-out glued to my nipples, going back and forth in the way of someone watching a tennis match. The bulge in his pants was unmistakable, and his tongue kept worrying his lower lip. “Anything, I swear! What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve been dancing again, quietly, privately, in my home. It’s not ballet; far from it. It’s pole-dancing, very athletic, and it’s all about sensuality. All about sex, actually. There’s a maneuver I need to perfect, and it requires a partner.”

“Me? But I’m not a—“

“I need a hard cock, Oliver, not a trained dancer. And don’t even think of bringing up my husband again; he’s getting plenty of me and couldn’t be happier, but he doesn’t get this. I need someone just standing there, in a pre-arranged spot, hard and aching while I dance. I’ve chosen you, and all you have to do is await me. I’ll make it worth your while, believe me. You might start out with your cock jammed inside my pussy, but you’re going to end up cumming between these tits, every time. I’ll fucking swallow you with them.”

Oliver vented a small animal sound with his ass shifting on the seat. Then, several quick nods of his head. He was totally mine—I think I could have had him eating the leather seats for me if I’d wanted.

“You’ll come to this coffee shop every weekday morning, and if I want you to come to my house the next day, I’ll put a notice on the message board about having some obscure item to sell. The time I’ll want you will be the last four numbers of the fake phone number on the notice. I’ll use the name Hope, because I’ll want you hoping, every day, that a new notice will appear. Again, are we clear?”

He nodded, and we were done. Although he did ask, just before I unlocked the doors and shooed him to leave: “Angela… Why me?”

I could have answered in so many ways, or not at all. What I said was this: “Because I read your first novel, and I thought the female protagonist, Miranda, was too goody-goody, with no hidden agenda peeking through. Every woman has a hidden agenda, Oliver; that’s why we’re such a mystery, even to ourselves. I’m going to be your tit-fuck Muse, and I’ll want to read about those tit-fucks in one of your novels someday. And you’d better fill that character with complexity, to show me you’ve learned what a woman really is. To get there… I’ll try really hard, for Kitten’s sake, not to break your dick, but no promises.”

I don’t think I’d ever seen a face go white and red all at the same time, like blood-flow schizophrenia. But the sight I’ll remember the most vividly was Oliver’s awkward erection-affected walk, viewed through my side mirror as he pressure-limped towards the sunlight. I found myself laughing about his boner-gait on the drive home, but once there I got down to serious business, masturbating and cumming for my camera, and further perfecting my dance routines.

I’ve ordered a vibrator—I want to know what that feels like, having my clit high-intensity hummed. And I’ve begun using the training plugs for my ass—there’s one in there right now, reminding me of my end-goal as I make this journal entry.

I found a video this evening that I really loved, of a huge-titted babe configuring her boobs into different shapes with the use of a long, thin strap. When they get to this size they really are like water balloons, and why not have fun with them while getting off?

I wrote about that in my fake journal, that I’m completely enamored with how incredible it feels to have even bigger tits to play with and make love with. That was a first, writing the fake entry before getting to this one. I have the sense that it marks some crucial shift; the fake journal’s primary purpose was to cover the tracks of this real one, but now I see how perfect it is for controlling what Tom believes about me. Since I know now that he’s not above peeking, he’ll believe he has a window into my most intimate thoughts, never knowing that I’ve completely distorted the glass he sees through.

This is what I wrote at the end of my fake entry tonight: I wonder if Tom has any idea how sensual it feels to have these absolutely huge breasts. I wonder if he’s aware of how thankful I am that he wanted me to go into therapy, because I’ve opened in so many unexpected ways. One of the benefits—I could never tell my therapist this kind of thing, it will have to remain my own private knowledge—is that I can cum so much harder than before, like my orgasms are on steroids or something. I’ve found that I thrive on freedom—I don’t know how I could ever explain this to Tom, that all the time I have alone is feeding my soul now, and I know that’s connected to wanting to have sex with him more often. I don’t want to say, outright to him, that the more space he gives me, the more I’ll want to suck him off or overwhelm his wonderful thing with my tits, but there it is. Hopefully he’ll intuit that on his own. In fact—I love how this all fits together, like we’re two complimentary puzzle-pieces—maybe Tom will do better at his contract lawyering than he’s ever dreamed, all because his wife’s sexual bliss will be like the wind in his sails. I think we’re going to have such a splendid future together.

Some of that entry was true, and what isn’t would just hurt or deflate my husband. But I love the idea that when he reads an entry like that, he’ll be on cloud nine, happy in his work and deliriously happy with the sex I give him. How often I do or don’t have to fake wracking orgasms won’t even be important, as long as I get the freedom to explore the limits of my true sexual potential with others.

You know, it’s actually feeling quite delicious having this plug opening up my rear. I’d say I have a perfectly-shaped and perfectly inviting ass, but it sometimes gets overlooked because my legs are so dynamic, and people get so hung-up on the superabundance beneath my collarbones.

A third hole for giving pleasure—it wouldn’t surprise me at all if that’s where the fixation on a holy trinity got started.

I’m really not an angel, am I?

* * *

Newsflash Mr. Stephen: I’m going to hypnotize you! Not the way you can—fuck knows how you do the voodoo that you do so well. But I have voodoo of my own. It turns men’s heads and rivets their eyeballs, and turns dicks to stone. I’ve been turning dicks to stone for years and I’ve set my sights on you.

You’re going to get so hard that you’ll be afraid your cock might crash through your office ceiling, but I won’t hurt you like that. I’ll be a humanitarian and heal you.

Heal you with this tight dripping pussy. With this enthusiastic, knowing mouth. With my virgin ass, which I swear, if you want it, will be yours alone.

* * *

Oh Stephen, if only you could see what I look like in this lingerie version of a nurse’s uniform. It’s a one-piece number that doesn’t really cover my ass at all, and the strain I put on the poor buttons in front has the force to make it all come undone if I inhale too deeply. I filmed that, the sudden costume failure with my tits heaving forward, and when watching it I feel like that’s just as accurate a depiction of the new me as that wriggling Angela was a little while back. I feel that I’m ready to burst with sex, like I could get on top of you and ride you for days.

I attacked Tom’s cock with my tits again last night, but today, and I think until I see you again, no sex, and I will not play with myself. No orgasms, not when my appointment with you is so close now. I can feel that energy building inside me—it feels like when I do cum, I’ll be a levee crumbling, a vast reservoir of my juices just charging out. You’ll never know how fucking hard it is to keep myself from easing that pressure even just a little, but I’ll wait, and keep it all inside. For you. For gushing all over you. My appointment with you is the day after tomorrow at six p.m., and I know the office rhythms now, the tactical field we’ll play in.

Pauline will go home between 6:15 and 6:25, same as always. You and I will be alone, not only in your office, but in the entire suite. The outer door will be locked. The business spaces immediately to the right and left will be shuttered.

No one to hear. No one to know.

I’ve gotten so fucking good at working with Tricky Dick with my mouth, with my legs, with my tits. I won’t say there aren’t still things to learn, ways to improve, but I am one hell of a self-taught whore now. I look like a zillion bucks and I believe—no, I know— I can fuck that way, too.

Wasn’t that the change in attitude in that children’s train story, where “I think I can” becomes “I know I can”? Well I know I can fuck my husband into a state of incoherence, his batteries drained out through his cock, and he’s not even the man who excites me.

Like two catalysts bonding, transforming one another, sizzling… I really believe that’s what Stephen and I will be together.

God, I want to go at myself, with my fingers, with Tricky Dick, with my new wonderful vibrator…

I want time to speed up!

* * *

What will my journal entry be like tomorrow night, afterwards? Triumphant; I’m confidant of that. Happy, too, I believe.

But today… It’s almost a form of torture, how all day long I’ve felt like a teapot with steam shooting out, and there’s no way to come down from a boil. About eighteen hours now… I just have to get through eighteen hours, somehow, without going at myself or Tom or anyone else.

I’m saving all my energy for you, Stephen, even if that means I show up with lust-trails running the length of my legs, leaving spots on your office floor. I’m going to gather all that unspent energy and fucking rock your world.

Promise.

* * *

Tonight a new chapter began, and Oh. My. God.

It’s late right now, very late. I’ve been drinking wine to bring my heart rate down, really to come back to planet earth. Tom is sound asleep upstairs completely oblivious, whereas I’m still about fifty miles from feeling I could sleep. And Stephen? I hope he’s the same as me, vibrating from it with his body literally aching.

I need to write this all down, but for the longest time my hands have been shaking too much to even try. And now that I can hold a pen without feeling like I’ll snap it in two, where to begin? Maybe with dressing for today’s appointment. No, even before that, when I bathed in preparation. Not a shower but a long bath, my hands gliding all over my body, lifting and squeezing my breasts, making sexy shapes of them and carefully soaping and cleansing my feet, my toes, my calves, anything that might later be in contact with my therapist’s hard cock. And making certain that my pussy was as bare as a newborn’s, ultimately soft and inviting.

I could say without exaggeration that I was pretty much crazed with desire, the anticipation and need to get off like a drug in my system. It took so much willpower to keep from playing with myself, but good as that would have felt, I wanted all that energy saved up, just layer upon layer of need, lust stacked to the moon.

I didn’t even have to choose what to wear, it was so obvious. My ka-boom outfit, the outright dangerous one I only wore once when clubbing in college. The one my girlfriends rebuked me for, saying that stepping out in it was like wearing a neon sign flashing the message that I wanted to be raped. It’s in the style of a ’60’s go-go minidress, white with black target-like circle designs right where my tits go, and it zips up at the front, giving me the choice of how much cleavage I want to show. The length is so short that the underwear I choose becomes a part of the whole effect. With my new black patterned stockings and fuck-me heels, and the panties I bought that leave my slit exposed…

Just right. Beyond killer, and probably not even legal in many states. So wanton, so completely whore.

I thought I knew exactly how devastating I’d look in that ensemble, but I was wrong. My breasts are so much fuller now, their projection so amazingly horizontal, that the dress had stretch-folds that went all the way to the bottom. It’s almost like I’m wearing nothing but stretch-folds trying to fight the impossible fight.

It took my breath away. I took my breath away. I wore a long lightweight coat for concealment out on the street and I kept the coat on in Pauline’s presence. I think she knew something had changed in me—there were complicated glances in my direction, and several times I had the sense that she wanted to say something to me, but checked herself. This is weird, but I had this intuition that we were like comrades in some sort of way, though I never came close to expressing that to her. I really didn’t even want to make eye contact; I’d caught my reflection in the rearview mirror just before getting out of my car, and there was a wildness in my eyes that would have to be obvious to anyone.

This time when I stepped into Stephen’s office, I kept my coat on. Then into my chair as always, but I made it obvious with my positioning that I was never really settling in.

Stephen had quick eyes and I could see him taking everything in. He asked whether I was alright and I said no. And I followed that by saying that I’d like him to refrain from asking me any further questions, because I had some important things to say and he needed to listen.

Before he could even indicate agreement, I told him that I had been giving a great deal of thought to his assignment, and that I’d solved the puzzle, the three perfect words coming to me from a dream state. Stephen’s mouth opened, but he had the presence of mind to refrain from asking. He was looking at me very intently, with his hands steepled in that fucking sexy make-me-drip gesture he has. Such long capable fingers on those hands—I wanted them inside me so badly but I kept my composure. Layer upon layer, I thought. Just let the lust keep piling up. Let it pile up to the fucking stars if that’s what it takes to seduce this man the right way.

Next I told Stephen that the new Angela was very much on the scene; in fact, if he preferred to look at it this way, we might wish to re-introduce ourselves, because the woman sitting in this chair was not the same woman who’d been coming all these past weeks. “I am Angela Hightower,” I said, “and I am beyond thrilled to finally be making your acquaintance.”

My God the emotion in his eyes, like comets colliding with suns.

“I thank you for everything you’ve done for the previous version of me,” I said, standing. I had adrenaline coursing all through me and without my strong ankles I’ll bet I would have needed to sit and try again. “You have no idea how rewarding these sessions have been. I feel that my very existence, all the power and passion animating this body…”

I stopped speaking to gulp in air, the anticipation in the room as thick as a pornstar’s cock.

“I’m no longer the Angela who made vows to Tom Hightower, but I’m going to remain in that marriage, at least for now. But I’m not his. I’ll never be his. I’m going to cheat on him, but since I’m not the one who made the vows, it’s really not even cheating, not in my eyes. He believes that I’m his trophy and he’ll keep believing that; actually, he feels he’s the luckiest man in the city these days because I’ve been fucking him so vigorously. And I’ll keep being clever and stealthy as I do what I need to do, like the ninjas you spoke so highly of. And what am I, and what is it all for? I am sex, and for sex. Those could be my three words—I am sex—only there is an even truer triad that sums me up: Trophy Ninja Whore. That’s me. And as of right now, I am your trophy ninja whore.”

I have no words to describe the conflagration beaming through Stephen’s gaze as I unfastened the waist belt of my coat and shrugged out of it. The coat fell to the floor and there I stood in my most va-voom out-of-the-bedroom outfit, complete with a bared pussy secreting days of pent-up desire.

I could write that time stood still, but it couldn’t have because the scent of my excitement filled the air, and kept getting stronger. I have no idea how long Stephen took in the sight of me—three seconds, ten, thirty? I could feel myself being eaten alive, no contour missed, every form-revealing highlight or shadow devoured. I was not yet naked, and once I was, I had not one ounce of a thought that he’d find anything about my form less appealing than he’d imagined.

“Angela, a therapist and his client cannot—“

“Then I am not your patient anymore!” I silenced the awful words. “Therapy, finished! Angela, unbound! I’m… free!”

He nodded, and licked his lips, and he did an unexpected thing, reaching to his left and apparently tripping a switch, because the overhead lights blinked off and a warmer and gentler light at the side of his desk came on. Very softly Stephen asked, “Are you absolutely certain you want this? I want your clear assent, your permission, because believe me, there will be no turning back. Once we—”

“Fuck yes!” I cried, leaping out of the chair and onto his desk. He began rising out of his chair as I hopped down, and we met in a standing embrace, my hips thrust forward so just like that we were dry-humping, or semi-dry-humping because I was so damned wet, my pussy not blocked by any garment. I was taking no prisoners and trapped his wrists and forced his hands onto my tits, and then time wasn’t standing still at all, his hands opening to cup the enormous gifts I was offering.

“Oh yes!” he breathed, and then bent, a hot eager tongue thrusting its way into my mouth. The feel of his tongue against mine felt so right that I almost wanted to scream, and it would have been an entirely different sound than had ever escaped my mouth. His tongue was electrifying me, the contact creating an energy that made my nipples feel like they might rip right through the dress. And my pussy, my clitoris… I did cry out right into his tongue because it felt like my clitoris was growing, a sudden surge of heat and mass like it had been stung by a dozen bees, and wasn’t feeling pain as it swelled, but bliss.

One of his hands found the zipper of my outfit and quickly yanked it down, and wearing no bra, out surged my massive miracles. Stephen mashed my right breast and our mouths remained locked as he rolled and pulled at a hard fat nipple, while his other hand jolted down and pressed hard against my pussy, two fingers digging into the sopping wet crack before withdrawing to touch my overgrown clit.

I might have gone a little crazy for a few minutes, enough so that it’s hard to write with any accuracy the exact sequence of what happened next. I know I screamed and jumped up, wrapping my legs around his back and squeezing with enough strength that the message was delivered that I could keep us coupled no matter what he decided to do.

Stephen staggered back and we more or less planted against the back wall, and then it was me frantically working to free his cock while Stephen pulled off my dress, his mouth immediately all over my tits. I was going wild and I have never lost myself like that in any kind of situation, wanting to say fifty things at once but unable to form words, tearing at Stephen’s pants with the wild fury of a caged animal, feeling my panties literally being ripped away and growling or perhaps hissing with satisfaction that my wanton rabid growing-like-a-weed heat could fully vent its fury into the open air.

And then—I have no idea how he even found the footing to accomplish this—I was lifted and spun and firmly pressed against the wall, and he dropped to his knees and kept me pinned with strong pressure from his big hands against my thighs. When he brought his head between my legs his hot breath felt like a lightning storm hovering above a roiling volcano, and the shudders that rippled through my body at the initial touch of his tongue had my hands and the back of my head banging against the wall.

No more tongue because he kissed my pussy instead. It was totally unexpected, uncommonly gentle and even loving, and he kissed it again and again and I was gasping from it, just from those simple closed-mouth kisses that had no business doing what they did to me. It felt like my pussy was reinventing the meaning of wet, and it was crazy but it felt to me like my overgrown clitoris was unfolding or unfurling outward at tremendous speed, an organ seeking life-giving sustenance like in time-lapse footage of flowers opening to the sun. It could not be real; the sensations coming from down there had to be some kind of misperception…

I was crying out, gasping choked-off sounds because I couldn’t seem to take in a full breath without gasping out again halfway through. What was this man doing to me? With nothing more than repeated kisses my clitoris was being opened like a complex lock in a master criminal’s hands, opened to reveal a vast untapped vault, a chasm filled with unsuspected weaponry. He started pulling triggers, or pulling pins, and I wailed in response, unfamiliar sounds escaping that were akin to some desperate form of singing. Was it even me?

My legs were shaking so badly that I thought I might collapse at any second, even with Stephen’s hands forcing me to stand. And then his voice, so familiar but with a resonance that I would have sworn reverberated into and down the length of my vagina, an echoing presence with the power to paint sexual pictographs upon the trembling walls of a living cavern: “You are strong and you will stand still and you will take it!” the voice demanded.

And my God, his hands went away and I did stand, somehow, like his voice had gone in and strengthened my bones. I may never understand where the willpower or solidity came from, especially when the kisses were joined by a hot devil’s tongue that flicked at what I felt had to be a clit that was ten times the size of my throbbing nipples. The intensity was such that I wanted to jump up and down and beat my fists and the back of my head against the wall, but instead all of that the energy contained itself inside, coalesced and became a center of gravity that allowed me to just stand still and fucking take it.

Until ultimately, biologically, there was no such thing as taking it any more, and the center crumbled and all the layers of wanting I’d saved up rolled themselves into a giant flaming fireball and ka-boom, it all fucking detonated.

How can I possibly write about how my body, how I felt right then? Almost any words fail miserably at describing those orgasms, which I would swear tied themselves into a long string to become a necklace of detonations. What happened inside me was not cumming as I’ve ever known that to be; it was one and another and another and then so many almost at once that it became a massive wave, and it didn’t slam into me because it was inside me, coming out. My fucking soul came and might have left my body entirely; I could put it that way but it still makes what I experienced sound too small.

I remember that I re-emerged into a semblance of thinking with the question of whether I’d climaxed so hard that I had blinded myself, but later I understood that I’d jerked or jumped or flailed in such a way that I’d pulled the desk lamp’s cord out of the wall. There in nearly complete darkness it felt to me like the orgasms or Great Unearthly Orgasm I’d endured would have to have altered my appearance, like I’d have Bride of Frankenstein hair or strange lightning bolt-shaped blood vessels visible under my skin. Or even my brainwaves would be unrecognizable, like if I’d had my brain scanned a week ago and I got re-tested tomorrow, the two pictures would only match up in the most rudimentary ways. A different person all over again—that had to be me now, because who could have their body, their nerves, their being, explode like that and not be forever changed?

All that, and I still had not seen nor touched his cock. A force rushed up in me from that thought, because there had been one focusing element boiling my drive for days, one overriding imperative—I had to get Stephen’s hard cock in my hands, in my mouth, between my legs, between my tits, or I would never be right.

That was what galvanized my stunned muscles and joints towards action. I flailed, found him and grabbed on. And then I found it, and again I might have gone kind of crazy, because it was exactly as I’d hoped it would be and it was finally fucking mine.

The sequencing of attacking his cock is still a jumble—it will probably always be a jumble. Perhaps I had thought that all of my practice would lead to smooth virtuoso lovemaking, a cock-popping progression from skill A to B to C, and there, mission accomplished. I had never conceived of feeling so ravenous and so undone, and in that zone it was more like A to C to A to B to C to A or God knows what. I do know that I sucked his cock, deep-throated his cock—if I close my eyes and open myself to remembering, which I won’t do right now or I won’t be able to write another word, then it’s like the muscle-memory is there, of needing every bit of what I’d accomplished to take all of Stephen’s cock down my throat—he’s the exact size of my dildo, as if I’d measured him beforehand and ordered the perfect stand-in to practice with. I also know I climbed on top of him at some point, and jammed my pelvis down until he was buried to the hilt inside me. I rode him hard with my boobs gyroscoping and my pussy clenching, interior muscles firing almost as if by themselves, and he must have exploded inside me, but I think I went somewhat blank, or so pussy-undone that I can’t quite be sure.

With sex before tonight, I would worry about myself for not knowing such a thing, but it really is more like trying to remember a vibration than an obvious sequence. I remember definite pieces of it, not a definite sequential story. Like I must have gotten my phone in my hands somehow, because I turned on the flashlight function and bathed his cock in the glow, getting my first breathtaking illuminated look. I had felt its size and its shape in my hand and inside my tunnel before that moment, but to see every detail, glowing right before my eyes…

And then I became sort of wild, and had his cock in my mouth and in my pussy but he was also wet and squeezed between my tits, my hands pressing all those soft acres together and the crack between my boobs wobble-polishing his pole, and maybe we rode that merry-go-round every which way until—and I do know this for a fact, because I got the taste of Stephen in my mouth, and also on the tip of my nose and above my left eye—he came in a fucking gusher, his cum slapping at me, the force of it was so strong. Pools of it, of him, and I couldn’t let go of his cock, I wanted it, wanted it forever, the perfect cock and me to help make its life perfect, and happy…

Shit, where was I going with that? It’s so hard to connect the cum-dots in my thoughts. Like I don’t know how Stephen worked it but he had who knows how many fingers in my pussy when he came a second time, I think, and as soon as the heat of his seed was in my mouth and on my face I was cumming again, more wracking detonations that felt like they were rewiring my senses all over again.

I wonder if I passed out. I wonder if I gave him a more thorough tit-job without being able to remember all of it afterwards, because I had his jizz, lots of it, all between my tits.

The taste of Stephen’s jizz—I could down it like a sports drink after my most vigorous workouts. It nourishes It heals.

Maybe I passed out, or maybe not. The correct order of things gets clearer with later events in his office—the desk light was on again, and I was sitting completely naked on the floor with my back against the wall, and Stephen was dressed and kneeling in front of me, offering me a glass of chilled white wine. When he’d gotten dressed and where the wine had come from was a complete mystery to me, but I took it and I didn’t sip but slugged it down.

“Your dress is ripped and your panties are unwearable,” I remember him saying, and I could only giggle when he showed me.

I said it was okay; I had my long coat. And then, with images of home beaming into my head like transmissions from what ought to be an alien world, I clutched at his shoulders and brought his face right up to mine, and said: “This cannot be a one-time thing!”

I don’t know what I would have done of he’d responded flippantly, but then I didn’t throw myself at an idiot. “The new Angela has the sense to know I’m just as addicted as you are. You really think I could walk away from you?

Of course not. I’m a living walking cumming wet dream. I’m his trophy ninja whore.

“Call the office tomorrow,” he said. “Just say to Pauline that you’re to have a special session, at my home, and she’ll take care of everything.”

“But I don’t know if I can—“

“Your husband?”

“No, it’s not Tom, it’s me! I think I need… I think I might go insane if—“

“It won’t be long, I promise, just a day or three. And when we have the day and the time all set, make whatever arrangements you need to make to be certain we can stay together for a good long while. I mean that; this was an ideal first taste, but there can be even more. Make it so no one expects you home before midnight.”

There was confidence in his eyes, confidence in me. Or perhaps it was confidence in the ninja in me, given a mission I would perform. “I know exactly where you live,” I admitted, not feeling shy or guilty about that at all.

Stephen pulled me up, and his eyes never stopped roaming over my body as I got into what was left of my clothes. My feeling right then was this—in a perfect world, I would be fucking him again already. In a perfect world, we would never stop fucking. I could do it every day, and every night. I could do it for the rest of my life.

We stood together with my tits pressed against him, and then a long sensual kiss, the kind trusting lovers can have without it having to turn into sex, because they know there will be more. My hands were like wild creatures dying to touch Stephen’s cock through his pants, but I didn’t have enough trust in myself to do that, because if I made that contact, or if we started anything at all while parting…

I could tell that Stephen understood that. He said I should clean myself up before leaving—I had dried cum on the tip of my nose and an eyelid and beside my mouth, plus who even knew how much all over my tits, and I looked at the clock and I said no, I think I won’t be cleaning myself up. It wasn’t that I needed to hurry home; the later the better, actually, so Tom would be asleep. I just had no intention of washing away Stephen’s cum anytime soon. It belonged on me, for as long as that was possible.

Out in the parking area under the amber glow of streetlights, I stood beside my car and watched him drive away, and I tried to understand all the emotions moving through me like complex traffic patterns in a city built for sex. I thought I might be in a giddy kind of love, closer to the infatuations I had in middle school than the civil or mature feelings I’d experienced with Tom. And there was a churning in my core, a relentless internal racing that I can only describe as body-awe, like my organs and nerve-endings were experiencing their own kind of delirious admiration for Stephen, and what Stephen could do to me. And loss—the sight of his tail lights disappearing into the night made me want to chase and have, in the way of an adoring dog chasing after its master. In the way of knowing that I’d found something I could want forever.

That was hours ago now, and enough sanity was in place that I didn’t follow Stephen to his home; I texted Tom and said I was out with a couple of girlfriends and wouldn’t be home until late. He’ll never check on that—in a way I’m protected by the fact that he has very little curiosity about how I spend my days, and then with my fake journal entries shaping his reality, he’ll give me my privacy just to reap the rewards.

My hands felt like they could vibrate the steering wheel right off its column when I drove, and, mercifully, Tom was snoring upstairs when I got home. Since then I’ve been drinking wine, needed to down this wine to have any chance at being able to write this account.

So what are my feelings, my emotions, now that I’m more firmly planted in the afterglow? In my last journal entry I wrote that I anticipated feeling triumphant, and happy, but that was before I knew a fucking thing. It’s astonishment, that has to be the big one. A month ago I would have been astonished that I would cheat on my husband and have sex with another man; tonight, all of that is yeah-yeah and what I can’t wrap my head around is how bonkers I went when fucking and getting fucked by my new lover. And the sensations of my own body, swearing that my clitoris was growing like some runaway science experiment…

What was all that? When I got home I locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and stripped naked, and I used a hand mirror to confirm for myself that no, my clitoris did not undergo a massive growth spurt tonight. I’m a little red down there—I’ve been fucking like crazy—and I lotioned a finger and dabbed at my clitoris and it felt good, very good or even very very good, but not astoundingly rapturous like it was when Stephen brought his skills upon it. I obviously have a capacity for pleasure or imagination that I never even dreamed about, and Stephen’s mouth knows precisely how to stimulate me until the sensations are so electrifying that he has me half-believing in the impossible.

Or something. All I know is that I got a taste, or many mixed-together tastes, of passion and its rewards taking me into a realm of pleasure that I could not have conceived of until experiencing it. That wasn’t sex; it was SSSEEEXXX. And I don’t think I could brag about it or try to describe it to anyone if I tried, because what would I say? If they don’t know it in the way of having experienced it, they’d never have the slightest chance of understanding.

There’s another emotion that I’ve been blanketed in tonight: gratitude. It isn’t all directed at Stephen, though naturally he deserves the most. But I can’t help thinking I should thank the fates for bringing me to him, or those same fates for bringing me to Ashley Holloway so she could lead me to him. What had she said later, that she wished she could have had more of the experience of him in a romantic way? Jesus Christ girl, if you only knew!

Stephen cannot be completely unattached, no other lover in his life. I never even thought to ask if he had a girlfriend, I just cornered him and ground my privates into his crotch. Maybe the next time, I’ll get the lay of the land. Or maybe I don’t even want to know, and it’s better to just live one day at a time.

I still have his cum on my face and tits, and I really am the opposite of anxious to wash it away. This would have sounded crazy to me before, but I love having some bit of Stephen’s sex on me. I can lean my head down and lift up my tits and there he is, a good nose-full. In fact…

Oh yes! I just got some on my tongue, the taste of him, how could I have forgotten to write entire paragraphs about that? I want more again, already. I want it fresh, and warm. I’ll drink it or bathe in it, and he can fill any hole he wants or even dick-write graffiti on my face, it all sounds like heaven to me.

I have an idea—I won’t wash Stephen from my tits, I’ll lick him away, over time, yum. Give myself a little dose every now and then to help me while I wait to find out when he has an opening to be with me.

An opening, ha! The next time I want him inside all my openings. Black patterned stockings, I know I want to show up in those. And a too-small bra with my tits bulging up to my neck. I’ll figure the rest out. I looked up the weather and we;re having a warm early spring, almost seventy degrees for days and days. I could wear a short skirt or a dress, and no coat. Or nothing at all, using the coat for cover. It’s good to have options.

After the sex, and those roargasms—what else am I supposed to call them—it’s amazing to me that I can sit here and write all this down, as opposed to running out to my car to be knocking on Stephen’s door, begging him to let me in. Is he at home in anywhere near a similar state, feeling thankful for me, feeling similarly astounded by me?

Didn’t I used to complain that the clock sometimes moved too slowly? Well, here it is again. I feel like I need sex with him again already, and now that I know what that can be like, it’s as if time itself is stuck in mud.

Universe, please go faster!

* * *

A rare middle of the night entry here, just hours after the previous one.

I was asleep for no more than an hour before it all came flooding back in, the sequence and details of fucking Stephen in his office. And I came, silently, in bed, from the memories. I mean I really came—not to the degree that I had when his tongue was on me, or his cock inside me, or when he spewed all over my tits, and onto my face… But still, an orgasm of an order I’d never experienced until yesterday. An orgasm I wouldn’t even have believed in before yesterday.

It’s only now, downstairs and safely away from Tom, that I’ve found my voice. I have thoughts about that, but they pale in comparison to memories of the size of Stephen’s hot cock in my hands, and what it felt like to slip a huge warm cock between my lips, and taste my juices on it, and feel the pulses when I knew he was cumming, and I didn’t pull my mouth away. Or Stephen whispering in my ear in grunted hot breaths that my tits are incredible, and feeling them rock and sway as he pumped inside me. The first few seconds of his cock disappearing between my boobs, the friction of the head of his cock sliding up my sternum. The moment the spurt of his cum hit the side of my mouth, and I did the reverse of flinching; I opened wide and nearly prayed he’d hit a bulls-eye and send a load straight down my throat.

Maybe I’m in love with him; I’m definitely in love with his cock. He’s in the same position, with strong feelings, and then he’s in love with my tits, and my legs, especially my calves—he said those exact words into my ear. And he got me so hot by saying, over and over again, that he could make me cum anytime he wanted just by uttering the right words. And then he did it, his hands hugging my tits from behind as an explosion went off at a certain spot deep inside my pussy, like he’d planted a charge there and all he had to do to set it off was whisper: “Cum, my beautiful whore”.

And he hypnotized me again—how could I have forgotten that, being propped like a rag doll against the wall with my legs splayed out, my pussy alive and thrumming as his words transported me to a different land. And then back with nipples afire, and on top of him on top of his desk, his cock fucking me so deep as my boobs jiggled all over his face.

I’m not stupid; much of what happened in Stephen’s office tonight should not be possible. I’ve never been prone to hallucinations, nor semi-amnesia. And climaxing that hard in bed tonight, soundlessly and out of nowhere… I think I couldn’t cry out with that orgasm, like my vocal cords were not mine to control.

Again, I’m not stupid, and I can see there is a connecting thread that unites the impossible things I experience as being true, and the control that Stephen had over my climaxes. If I grab that thread and start pulling… And there isn’t just the one thread; there are several. Special sessions at his home, Pauline arranging them…

I will not pull in a way that unravels my happiness, at least not yet. I’m still in the glow, and perhaps after a night to sleep on it, I can look at all of this with newly awakened eyes.

To match my newly awakened go-go pussy, rowwrrr!