The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Trophy Ninja Whore

by Pizzahead

Part 5

I think I kind of scared Tom this morning. There were dreams of sex with Stephen and in them I was talking dirty, saying things like, “Ram me with your huge meat!” and “These tits are yours, make them cum!”

I don’t think I shouted any of that out loud but the energy was there and I was all over Tom, awakening him with hard hand-job jerks. And then the words did come out—I repeated the hardcore language from my dream, like trying to infuse his sleepiness with some portion of the boiling heat I felt. Then the most aggressive deep-throating imaginable, a cocksucking storm that I’m sure Tom could not have been prepared for. I was a fury of the yes and the no colliding, because I was pulling an explosion from out of his balls while abhorring the possibility that he could shoot cum into my esophagus, which must remain a husband-free zone. The Third Way was to go all super-speed, mega-blowing Tom’s dick with lightning quickness and then spewing him out before his cock quite knew what had happened to it. I wasn’t even touching him when he let loose, a delayed-reaction fountain with my husband uttering gasping “huh-huh-huh” sounds of vulnerability and shock.

I had thought the dream images of Stephen-sex would have me climaxing, maybe even climaxing spectacularly, and when it didn’t happen I poured lotion all over my tits and tried to resurrect Tom’s shriveled impostor, all to no avail. He wanted to help—he kneeled over me and tongued my jutting nipples, and then one of his hands going down my abdomen to the bare swollen volcano between my legs. I spread my thighs wide and tried to feel my clitoris growing, expanding in size as if I had a girl-dick, and the memory of it was clear as a bell but I couldn’t self-conjure the sensations.

I think I might have roared in frustration. I made some kind of sound that made Tom shy away, not having any idea what to make of my state. He gulped audibly and got the words, “Angela, honey, are you—“ out, and then I was on his dick again, sucking it more slowly and carefully this time, surgically teasing the underside of the crown with the tip of my tongue. I came up for air every now and then to say, “I feel like I was put on this earth to have sex with you”, which was a completely true statement up to the “with you” part. And the verbal seduction and my miracle tongue did the trick, Tom growing hard again, his dick a deeper shade of red than I’d ever seen before.

I switched him into my oiled cleavage, gliding him between my tits, getting him close to letting loose before going all boob-earthquake on his poor stunned thing, compressing my tits with my elbows and wobble-shaking a second load out of him.

He was completely drained with his eyes glazed, sprawled on the bed looking like tit-fuck roadkill. I made breakfast while he recovered and showered, and sent him out the door for work with a tongue-probing kiss and instructions to go straight to bed with his dick uncovered when he got home tonight, so he could spend some quality time inside my pussy.

Then, finally alone, I counted the minutes until Pauline might be in Stephen’s office, able to pick up the phone.

I reached her precisely at nine, and she was different with me than before—it was like she was speaking in secret code, assuming I’d understand. And I did understand when she said: “He wants me to schedule you for Saturday, starting at noon, with an intensive special session. I think you should make arrangements to be there for quite some time, perhaps as late as—”

“As midnight?” I finished, feeling like my pussy might find a way to detach itself so it could leap for joy. Twelve hours alone with Stephen—I had dominoes crashing in my mind from the implications of what Pauline was saying, implications that should be disturbing, but they receded into background noise when I contemplated that Stephen and I could have twelve hours to fuck!

There were fragrant trails running down my legs when I cleared my throat and said to Pauline: “He’s told you, I’m sure, that I’m no longer one of his clients.”

“Of course. Stephen would never grant a special session to one of his clients. It just isn’t done.”

“I’m a new letter, aren’t I? You’re putting me on your calendar as ‘A’.”

His calendar,” Pauline answered softly. “But yes, I see that you understand.”

“Am I an ‘A’ with three exclamation points, like M!!!? I think… No, I’m sure I should have as many exclamation points as—”

“As me?”

My breath caught, understanding pouring in. Not M!!! as in Mary or Margaret; Pauline wrote herself onto Stephen’s calendar as M!!! for Me!!!, meaning her.

“Please understand that those exclamation points, which you’ve obviously studied, aren’t code from Stephen; they’re a personal flourish expressing my… Yes, my true feelings,” she continued. “He says that every special session, each one of us, is just that, special, and I’ve believed that to be absolutely true. And you, in particular…” Pauline sighed lightly, and her voice had a friendly or even inviting edge, no trace of jealousy or the holding of territory. “I think I might envy the A newly added to the calendar. Stephen has had me plot out A’s special sessions for the rest of this month and all the next, and she’s in an excellent position, a unique position. Do you have something to write with? Because I can give you all of those dates if you’d like.”

If I’d like? Because I was already racing to the kitchen where there would be pen and paper. She gave me the dates—twice a week and every other Saturday, for the next six weeks, and always in twelve-hour blocks.

“It isn’t everyone who gets so much concentrated therapy,” Pauline said. “And I want you to know… I’ve never said this to anyone, anyone at all, but I happen to know that Stephen could be persuaded to combine two specials into a single time slot. It’s never happened before—I think it’s a question of chemistry, of his… And for myself I was never even tempted to try, but with you… Let’s just say that I admire you, greatly. If you feel the same way, or wish to feel that way, he can… You see, you can feel anything you want. I won’t… I won’t ask him, or you… But all you have to do is tell him that it could excite you. Then, he’d know exactly what to do.”

That was it for our conversation, though it was more than enough to have me reeling. There were dominoes arranging themselves in my brain, and they were telling me certain truths about my situation, far-reaching truths that had the potential of mapping out the entire shape of my life. And you’d think I would sit quietly or pace back and forth in an effort to think it all through, to face the truth of it and decide how to be with all that must have happened, and still be happening…

But when the doorbell rang and it was Fedex delivering the Bondage N’ Lace open-cup shelf bra I’d ordered, an entirely different idea swept in. It came from Pauline’s words there at the end, that I could feel anything that I wanted. I was beginning to suspect that I knew what she meant, but rather than recoiling from the implications, I found myself grinning, and plotting.

Because I already knew what I wanted.

I put on the new bra—it doesn’t really cover anything, acting more like an under-harness delivering my beauties as though they’re a new kind of horizontally aimed missile technology. My thinnest silk blouse went over that, and a tiny black leather skirt, and black diamond-patterned stockings with my tallest pair of calf-enhancing heels. I turned for the mirror, checking out the impact from all angles, and I thought I pretty much looked like a pair of growth-rayed nipples walking around on the finest and strongest legs in town. Really, I had to shoot some quim-scented footage of me jiggle-dripping as I walked around, just to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I looked that spectacular.

I drove straight to Stephen’s office for another stake-out, observing when a client went in just before the top of the hour, and my heart pounding into my tits when the previous client left. And there it was—I knew the rhythms, and I had a forty-five or fifty-minute window to go in there and press fast-forward by eating Pauline’s pussy.

I had the sense that I swept through the outer door more like a hot tropical wind than a human being. I locked the door and pulled the shade down over the glass, and it was only then that I really looked at Stephen’s beyond-gorgeous receptionist. She was behind her desk as always, but positioned in her chair like my presence, or my mood, had pushed her tight to her seat-back—I’d swear I even saw her hair sweeping back from the force of my entrance into the room. Only her mighty tits appeared able to surge forward under the circumstances.

She opened her mouth to speak, but by then I was already beside her chair, grabbing her shoulders to swivel her in my direction while planting a heel high between her stocking-clad legs, pushing her skirt down with the tip of my shoe, which was touching pussy.

Her eyes were so big; she hadn’t expected me to show up like this, and she wasn’t sure what to do. “Angela, he hasn’t… I haven’t had the chance yet to—“

And I thought: Fuck you right between those marvelous legs for being so slow at getting with the new reality. I bent to plant my lips on her and pushed my tongue inside, and she resisted for a couple of seconds, a half-hearted “Mmmm!” into my mouth with her hands on my arms to push me away. I was having none of that, and smothered any further resistance by straightening just enough to make her face disappear between my tits.

What a magical feeling, the moment when Pauline’s instinctual resistance turned into desire. Her small hands grabbed at my breasts, her head thrown back to gulp in air, and it was when she found that her hands had to keep moving around to actually have touched the whole of my tits that she moaned her surrender. My hands glided past her neck and under her blouse, probably destroying a button, perhaps two, as I dug into her bra and found her nipples, rolling them in my fingers and feeling them harden with every rotation. Pauline’s hands left my tits to unbutton her blouse, and she heaved her big breasts out into the room with an audible whomp.

They were so full and so beautiful, pale and creamy with very pink areoles, and perfectly centered button nipples. I had to touch, to compare… So firm, despite their size, and right there in the zone between round and torpedo-shaped, similar to mine. I guessed her bra size to be similar to where I’d been before my growth spurt, a double-H or so, but did any letters matter other than these being A+ breasts on an A+ woman, with the scent from an A+ pussy caressing my nostrils? No wonder Stephen wanted her, and had had her.

What I wanted was for her to understand the enormity of what she was dealing with, and that there were tits in this world that made even hers appear diminutive by comparison. And so I pulled off my blouse and let my under-harnessed wonders thunder into and halfway around her personal space, my oh-so special deal-closers staring her right in the face.

Pauline seemed to forget to breathe. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a fish, then she made a little sound that I heard as a cry of exasperation. “I knew… I didn’t… Good Lord!” she got out.

I took that as my cue to roll her chair back and sink between her legs, roughly pulling her panties down to her ankles and pushing her thighs apart. Exposing Pauline’s completely bare pussy went without a hitch, like I’d practiced undressing a hot, horny babe for half my life, but in truth I had not prepared myself for eating a woman’s pussy at all—in all my video watching, I’d never focused on girl-girl action, being so obsessed with ways to conquer cocks. But I felt no fear, no performance anxiety; the opposite, really, because we were stereo quim, so thick that one could only hope she had a can of air freshener in one of her drawers.

I know what feels good to me, and what kind of trophy ninja whore would I be if I couldn’t figure out, right off the bat, how to have Pauline enthusiastically hiking her skirt away and spreading her thighs even wider. Her high-heels were pointed at the corners of the ceiling as I used my thumbs, really all of my fingers, in opening her gateway, hot pink folds receiving stimulating caresses before I got to the liquid candy center. Even on this most intimate scale I saw beauty and voluptuousness; the woman’s pussy had curves, and her clitoris was fucking built. It was there pulsating with anticipation—I would swear the woman’s clitoris made a humming sound. It was a sex organ literally cloaked in mystery, whispering to me that if I could grasp its deepest secrets, it would be my life that was forever changed.

I ate pussy. I ate pussy with enthusiasm, even greed. I went slowly and gently at first, but there was an inherent rhythm calling to my tongue, which gradually grew bolder in speed and intensity when my tongue-tip fell in lust with Pauline’s luxurious clit, visibly engorged now than when we’d started. Once that drew me in I couldn’t stop bathing her in saliva while discovering just how many directions my tongue could move, and how fast. Her flow changed—I was drinking her down while eating her out, with Pauline gasping and whisper-urging me to tongue her even more furiously, and I found I could, until the clit/tongue contact took on the energy of any good bed-rocking fucking with a headboard banging against a wall, all intentions of gentle teasing falling by the wayside as woodwind touch fell away and the need for kettle drums and crashing symbols came to the fore. I felt the muscles in her thighs vibrating like a bird’s wings in a high wind, all the signs so easy to read, to anticipate. It was so beautiful, knowing exactly when to provide sudden, more deeply pressured swipes, my tongue darting inside. Where I caught the eruption, the wave, right there to tasting Pauline’s body on climax.

She cried out and the sounds carried on for a good bit of time, but it was all muffled somehow, and it wasn’t until I leaned back on my ankles to take in the whole scene that I saw my blouse wadded in her mouth as a makeshift gag. Her head was thrown back, features pointed at the heavens, and her huge jutting breasts were flushed scarlet, her big button nipples doing a halfway decent job of impersonating the heat-seeking projection of my own spectacular pair. I found that my hands were gliding all along the backs of Pauline’s legs, appreciating the musculature beneath smooth silky skin, feeling for myself how she must be a workout warrior when not sitting composed and efficient behind this office desk. Eventually I brought the back of my hand to my mouth, wiping female sex-juice from my face for the very first time. I licked my lips and still felt wetness all over my nose—I licked at it and she was so fucking delicious to me, as in “Why have I not been consuming Pauline-quim my entire life?

I stood, pulling my damp blouse from her mouth to reclaim it, wet T-shirt style. While making myself semi-presentable to the outside world I said, “You schedule me to join with you on half of your days with Stephen, and we go at him together. Turn M!!! into M&A!!!—I don’t care how you sell it to him, just do it. And once that’s arranged call me and tell me what that schedule is, and I’ll add those days to the rest.”

I didn’t linger, unlocking the door and stepping out into sunshine with Pauline still gazing at the ceiling, looking like a sex puppet waiting for someone to move its strings. In the Audi I took deep breaths, delighting in how quickly new car smell could become a quim wonderland, the M!!! and A!!! scents completely intertwined. Being all over my nose and chin hers was the stronger aroma, but the way I felt, I knew that wouldn’t last long. I re-parked at the farthest edge of the lot, under the shade of a dogwood tree in early flower, remembering as I did so that flowers are sex, too. I leaned my seat fully back with my heels planted on the dash, thankful for tinted privacy windows as I finger-fucked myself to a shock-rocking climax, with pictures of therapist cock and receptionist pussy dancing in my head. Unlike Pauline, constrained by circumstances, I screamed my release at full volume, the Audi stuffed to the roof with the sounds and smells of victory.

Because—and I had no doubt about this—I had just gained several days a month where I’d be at Stephen’s house, and being at Stephen’s house meant otherworldly fucking. I had experienced a real thrill in there while going at Pauline, but there was no confusion as to what my ultimate goal was—the ninja in me had accepted the challenge of doing all I needed to do to get as much sex from my former therapist as possible.

That, I can honestly say, is my ultimate goal in life. And I know, in a basic way at least, what must be going on for me to write a sentence like that. After my introduction to Pauline’s workout pussy, my thoughts kept swirling in the direction of collecting recent data, an inventory of experiences and memories for the building of a timeline, a timeline that shows me how I got from there to here. This very journal is a kind of timeline—when I re-read the thoughts of the Angela at the beginning, the naive and trusting Angela who felt bored and aimless, and I see how quickly that began to change, and the direction of the changes, like sex became the central pillar that holds my life together, and Stephen’s cock somehow became the brick and mortar the pillar is made of, there infusing the very marrow of my bones, the nucleus of every atom that makes me me…

It isn’t like I’m not aware how the conclusions are right there if I want to concentrate on them, but that’s just the thing—I can’t really do that, not yet. It isn’t that the thoughts are blurry—they’re there, but not yet at center stage, because that space is occupied by a task even greater than the need for truth. What I really really really need first is to nail my cock-landing pole-dance routine before I see Stephen again. There are only three days to practice before my first “special session” at Stephen’s house, and I don’t know why but I have to get that landing on a hard cock perfected, I just have to.

To get there, I pinned my first notice onto the message board at the coffee shop this evening, a camouflaged summons for Oliver to show up tomorrow at one in the afternoon. I’m sure he’ll come, and he’ll need to go back home no later than four; he is a father to a young boy, after all. That gives us the right amount of time to practice the pole routine, get it right, and then I can fuck him with my tits, which will no doubt make him my sex-slave forever—if I want that. Maybe, if I can perfect the landing onto Oliver’s erection without too many attempts at hitting a bull’s-eye, I can even fuck him with my tits twice, just to get him reeling half as much as I am.

The feelings I have about having sex with Kitten’s husband tomorrow—this wouldn’t have made any sense to me weeks ago or even a few days ago, but can you be thrilled and excited and afraid of something all at the same time? I’m not afraid of fucking Oliver or cheating on Tom—I’ve already fucked my therapist and eaten his receptionist’s pussy, so any adultery concerns are receding rapidly in the rear-view mirror. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have awareness of just how ramped-up my sexuality has become. And the timing… It’s book club night tomorrow, and unless I’m a no-show, that means I’ll be sitting in a room with Kitten just hours after having tit-fucked her husband. I know I can be completely disciplined, no special knowing looks, no double-edged comments that are the equivalent of rubbing my scent on her face…

Why, what do you know, I just got a little thrill from writing that, the idea of my scent on Kitten Clarke’s face. There’s too much going on to pursue that right now, but who knows. Maybe I’ll soften the blow of cheating with her husband by cheating with her, too, and evening their score, the balance of the universe restored.

Balance—I was looking in the mirror tonight, cupping the undersides of my breasts, studying their breadth and how they actually reach so far towards the mirror, and it hit me that they’ve not yet stopped growing, that the tightness I’ve felt in my new bras is a real thing. And sue me—I couldn’t stop smiling at how framing vast they’ve become, and just how symmetrical they are, the perfect twins. On a certain scale this symmetry can’t be true—close-up the tiny folds of one nipple, for instance, can’t be identical to its opposite, just as no two snowflakes are ever alike. There is disorder within order, and perhaps a greater order that encapsulates any disorder…

I feel both so deeply inside. Every time I think about my upcoming special session with Stephen my body just about has a meltdown, my nipples begging to be played with, an incessant leaking between my legs, quim everywhere… It’s almost a feeling of body hopelessness, an itch that can never be fully scratched, a need with no prospect of ultimate and total fulfillment. And yet if I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, and I let my memory drift back to where my tits are pressed together around Stephen’s pulsing cock, not a fantasy of what could happen, as used to be the case, but a memory of what actually happened, and how I felt when it happened…

It’s like soul-quim, a warm wetness flowing in my heart. And in there, just a glimmer of the feeling that my clitoris is growing, fattening, reaching out, becoming so much more. I can’t quite catch it, can’t sustain it, but for just a second or two it starts to happen, and when it does I can feel the systems coming online, the channels or pathways or whatever it was that made the experience of orgasms go thermonuclear. I need that again and I can get there again, I just know it. It only needs Stephen as the catalyst.

I was in such a state of need when Tom came home tonight, and he remembered what I’d said in the morning, to go straight to our bed with his dick waiting to receive me. I think he was astonished by how horny I was—I was in the red bustier he bought me for our first Valentine’s Day with matching gartered stockings and heels, and the bustier, poor overmatched thing, couldn’t no longer come close to containing the immensity of my tits. There was spillage both upwards and sideways, a side-boob show like no other, and Tom’s eyes were riveted to that costume failure, his dick twitching its own commentary. When I spread my legs, and my labia, for him to see, he breathed out, just before I drew his meat into my hothouse: “Good God, Angela, you look like you’re in heat!”

I was in heat. I am in heat. Hell, let’s just go for the ultimate truth: I am heat. I was heat that boiled cum out from my husband’s balls and later on I was heat buzz-killing my malleable clit with my new vibrator, and I was a blast wave of interior heat just ten minutes before beginning this journal entry, after getting a text from Pauline that had nothing but four calendar dates as content. Because I know what those dates signify—they’re additional special sessions at Stephen’s house.

I can’t write any more tonight. I need to get off again, and I think… Yes, I’m going to wake Tom up, jump on top and fuck him until he just can’t fuck any more. Kill him with kindness as I fantasize about using my killer body on Stephen, and seeing just how much fucking he can take before his dick gets to the breaking point.

* * *

I had sex with yet another man today. Oliver showed up at my door at exactly the appointed time, nervous to the point of being hyper, shifting his weight from one leg to another like a kid waiting for a promised ride in a Lamborghini. I hadn’t planned, it, but seeing his state I knew I should tit-fuck him immediately, just to get the adultery behind him so he could relax.

I wasn’t wearing very much, a white tank-top being stretched to high heaven with no bra underneath, and a poor excuse for a denim skirt. I was barefoot with my hair arranged into pigtails, going for the effect of the farmer’s daughter with the Miracle-Gro whoppers, and Oliver’s reaction was one of silent, open-mouthed worship; he even sank to his knees when I stripped the tank-top over my head, muttering incoherent sounds that I eventually recognized as speech. He was saying, “Oh God I can’t even believe they’re real!” over and over.

He knew they were real, but I loved his reaction and an idea came into my head to make him earn being fucked by them. “Don’t just gawk like they’re unicorns and mutter, Oliver. You’re a writer; describe them to me.”

I could see from the changes of expression that he had to gather his wits. “So round but firm and forward,” he began. “And your… I mean my God, your areolae…”

Leave it to a fucking writer to bring Latin pluralization to my tits.

“You’ve got absolutely perfect projecting roundness and… I mean your areolae must be five inches in diameter at least, and… They’re not just puffies, they’re fucking volcanoes! I mean… Jesus!”

Literature-wise, I’d have to grade Oliver’s descriptive effort as a solid ‘F’, a letter of the alphabet my tits surpassed way back when I was fifteen. But the wonderment in his eyes was worth a thousand words, and he wasn’t just hard in his pants—he was spotting them with pre-cum.

”You’re the one whose volcano is going to do the erupting,” I said, striding forward. He was still on his knees and I used our difference in height to begin the tryst by ditching the skirt and shoving my hot wet pussy right in his face, which he definitely had not been expecting. He gurgled, but got with the program by grabbing my butt and squeezing both ass-cheeks like he could plant a wet-tongued kiss all the way through from the front to the rear, and when he pulled his head back to marvel at the view of my projecting tits from underneath, the lower half of his face all shiny, coated with my quim.

Most men in his position would have been captivated by the musculature of my legs and the degree of heat right there at tongue’s length, but I knew what Oliver’s weak spot was—he was staring right at them, completely riveted. He was a tit-man through and through, and I pushed him flat to the floor and climbed on top with a bottle of oil in my hand, and had him lubricate every inch of the fleshy wonders that would punish his cock into cumming. I let him take as long as he needed—his touch wasn’t about efficient oil distribution; rather, it was fingers and palms having their dreams come true, his hands taking my measure in countless ways, reading the vast contours like a sculptor inspecting fresh masterpieces.

He seemed particularly entranced by how much they could bounce and wobble, and he actually made me laugh by motor-boating them, again like a kid given living sex toys to play with. I had never found a lover to be cute like this, and in the spirit of play I stroked his dick with my tits in every way I could conceive of before wrapping them around him and abusing him into cumming with a relentless cleavage-fuck.

He was a different man after spewing that first load onto the objects of his desire, completely obedient to the point of making me think more of a puppy-dog than a child. I didn’t have to worry about him getting hard again for my dance-pole target practice—I showed him my dance space and went over his role in my cock-toss routine, and while letting him watch me make the costume change into my open-crotch Vegas-like sheathing, there his pole was again, eager and waiting.

I did something like a thirty-second standing meditation before going into my routine, and in it, I convinced my pussy that it was Stephen’s cock waiting there for me, and that got my nipples on full alert with hothouse quim leaking onto my thighs. I’d marked the spot where I wanted my target standing, and with Oliver the Stephen stand-in positioned there, naked and pulsing, I was ready.

It took three tries to slam my pussy onto his cock at high speed, but once I did it that first time, I knew I could nail my target with close to one-hundred percent efficiency. And I surprised myself by clamping on with my legs and arms and outright fucking Oliver once we were on the floor, satisfying his huge-tit fetish by leaning down to smother his neck and face with them while I rode him like bronco. At a certain point I closed my eyes and went full Stephen make-believe, and my pussy went a little crazy, releasing extra juice and spasming with wild contractions that got me gasping and Oliver crying out in surprise, and—what other way is there to put it—I fucking punished his dick to a degree he was not ready for. His legs kicked involuntarily as I loaded his balls beyond any known capacity, and when the poor man came his eyes were bugging out almost frightfully, his mouth contorting but no sound escaping. I did all the vocalizing for the both of us, and came all over his dick in a great gusher, the contractions making me rise and fall at the waist, beating at him hard with my boobs.

That was hours and hours ago. Oliver hobbled out the door looking like he’d survived an F-5 tornado, and in the evening I was sitting across from Kitten in our book club meeting, this time at Carinda Smallwood’s lovely home. I hadn’t read the Einstein book and I kept quiet most of the night, passing my responsibility of choosing the next book to Heather Hill.

What was notable to me was how I could look around the room at the others, all trophy wives or single women who could be trophies if they wanted that, and it hit me: I am no longer anything like them, at all. They’re essentially the same as they were when the book club was first formed, whereas I’m nothing like I was back then; even my physicality has changed, as I’m so much more fit than I was and when I sit cross-legged on the floor with the others, the undersides of my boobs are essentially in my lap. With the kind of gawking looks they were giving out, I think they know I don’t belong there anymore. Kitten would never say such a thing out loud, yet there she was in a private moment between us in the library room, asking what kind of vitamins I was taking and making a weak-smiled joke that I must have to buy my bras from parachute makers.

We were standing fairly close together and I turned to her in such a way that my left breast swished against her right one, a blue whale momentarily overshadowing a dolphin. Our eyes met and who knows what she was thinking; for my part I pictured Stephen’s cock swallowed between my tits and that got my nipples jutting forward, and she saw the change. She looked mesmerized, drawing in a breath, and I couldn’t help it, I said: “I would, Kitten, if you ever wanted to. I think I’m ready to explore that with someone.”

Her mouth rounded into an ‘O’ as she stared at the exceptional projection of my nipples, and I added: “Please don’t tell anyone I’m, you know, thinking of expanding my horizons.”

Probably for the best, we got called to rejoin the group just then, nothing more said, and Kitten acted completely normally with me the rest of the way, like she’d absorbed that bit of information and had catalogued it into the proper slot for such things. She’s probably sleeping beside her husband right now, believing that she holds the secret that I’m feeling the need to explore the world of women. Meanwhile, I’d bet anything her sleeping husband’s dick is still sore from earlier in the day, having been half-pulverized by me.

I’m the one who’s the night owl tonight, wide awake. And it’s not Kitten or Oliver on my mind—certain thoughts that felt inaccessible have gathered force to break through, keeping me wide awake. And they go like this:

What does it say about my situation that after a day in which I tit-fucked a friend’s breast-obsessed husband into the realm of cum-spewing Nirvana, all I can think about is how, somewhere along the way or all along the way, perhaps from the very first session with Stephen, I’ve been… I’m not sure what word to use, but a nagging suspicion has solidified into a conclusion: I’ve been mesmerized. Programmed. Controlled? It’s the hypnosis; I know that.

Why couldn’t I put the pieces together earlier today, or yesterday, or right after having sex with Stephen in his office? Because the evidence was all there, and I wasn’t blind to it. I just couldn’t… What, focus? Assemble pieces of information together so they could create a larger picture?

That, too, must be the hypnosis. I think he’s changed the way I’d normally function, making me feel things and do things I never would have done. Some of them are even beyond belief, like making me cum so hard that it rattles my brain. Or that impossible sensation when we fucked, feeling like my clitoris was growing like a weed, with all the erotic ramifications that would accompany such a thing…

Not real—an event like that can’t literally take place; it isn’t humanly possible. Yet real—I felt it. In my brain it happened, and when the brain believes it, feels something as true…

I can conjure a tiny piece of it when fucking Tom or Oliver, and that’s when I go a bit berserk, and the fucking becomes almost feral. The body responds to the memory of going as far into the climax-zone as it’s ever possible to go, and that has me wondering—that thing about humans only using a tiny percentage of what their brain is capable of—has Stephen found that, and it’s all about having godlike climaxes? Because that’s how it felt, making love to him, and even retrieving a sliver of that on my own drives my body into some sort of fuck-monster zone.

I think I described it right before, earlier in this journal—Stephen has planted charges in me, only they aren’t physical, they’re… I don’t know what they are. Mental, or emotional. Or fuck it, they’re magical. I mean, didn’t Pauline tell me on the phone that I could feel anything I wanted?

One question that arises—could I even suspect this or draw these conclusions, if Stephen didn’t want me to know? My theory is that everything changed after having sex with him. I passed some test, and what was hidden before has, like truth slowly emerging out from a heavy fog, become visible.

I see Stephen for my special session tomorrow, and I’ve known all along what that means—a sexual marathon. But I can’t just stroll in and start humping him without saying anything, without asking questions and demanding answers. Only… What if that somehow ruins things, and keeps us from fucking again? Keeps me from feeling those things again? Because get real, I cannot or will not do anything to upset that applecart. I don’t think I could bear that. I’ve even arranged things with Pauline to get extra, and to jeopardize that with the wrong questions, the wrong attitude? Ha.

I believe going at Pauline as I did was all me—she wasn’t expecting me to just march right in and attack her shapely cunt like I did, I’m sure of it. Which means I do still make my own decisions, maybe not where Stephen is concerned, but elsewhere.

Is Oliver my idea, too? Would it even make sense for Stephen to allow me to fuck other men like that? I saw for myself how ferocious a lover I could be when attacking Kitten’s husband with my tits today—I never left a mark on him, not one scratch, yet I could see in his eyes and hear in his groans that I was clawing the insides of his testicles with a force and fury that he hadn’t even known existed. So incredibly soft, these immense weapons of pleasure, but so haarrd, Oliver’s cock and the jet-stream I made launch out. He was like a drunken man there at the end, and like any dedicated drunk the lure of more will bring him back whenever I crook my finger. What I do with a satellite project like Oliver, or anyone else… I want to believe that’s all up to me, that my thinking hasn’t been infiltrated there.

And yes, even in writing that thought, I understand that continuing to dally with someone like Oliver will hinge on what happens with Stephen tomorrow. I’ll either get everything I want from my former therapist, or, if not, I might need other outlets, other fronts to suck.

Just eleven hours before I show up at Stephen’s front door, his home door. I start lubricating every single time I think about that. Did he make me feel that way? Is the man a freaking pussy whisperer?

I think the thing I worry about is this: Is almost everything up to him? How deep did he go inside me, not with his beautiful cock but with his voice? Like, if he pointed at my vagina and commanded, “Pee!”, would I do it, not being able to stop?

God knows what my journal entry will be like tomorrow, afterwards. I’m not religious at all but I almost feel like it’s time to pray. The thing is—pray for some sort of escape, or for as much of Stephen as I can possibly get?

* * *

Dear Stephen—it’s two days now since I came to—and in, again and again—your house for the very first time. I’ve had time to process what happened there, and all along the way to getting there, and as you know, this will be the final entry in this journal. You want these pages in your hands, as part of your collection and away from any possibility of ever being discovered by Tom or anyone else. And you want to read this journal, probably over and over, to get hard from it when I’m not there. Or the others, when they aren’t there. Your alone time, your private or resting or cock-stroking time, in-between making me and the others feel like we’re fucking a demigod who throws orgasms for thunderbolts.

I had so many questions to ask when I knocked on your door, though some of them were already answered by the fact that I could not make myself drive all the way to your house. I had every intention of pulling my car right behind yours, but the resistance I felt, my heart racing and something like a booming voice deep in my bones, commanding “NO!”. I turned and drove to a little dead-end street with only a couple of houses there, and how could I even know about a place like that, never having seen it before?

But I really knew the lay of the land somewhere around six o’clock that day, when my brain came back online after you gave me that series of titgasms. The feeling that each nipple contained its own clitoris, and your tongue all over them, somehow feeling like two tongues, everything you did to the right breast resounding in the left, too, my huge tits like conjoined twins feeling identical and impossibly intense sensations at identical moments…

What were those, my tenth and eleventh orgasms? I wouldn’t even have been able to gather the strength and awareness to fuck you with those same tits afterwards if you hadn’t somehow put hypno-stamina into me, I’m sure. To climax like I did, over and over, and have the ability to give back without pause, knocker-quaking you into shooting, quite literally, to the ceiling…

I used to worry that I wasn’t all that great in bed; now I believe I’m like the Terminator of lovers, because of the superior things I can do and how I can keep on doing them, relentlessly. I’m your fucking super trophy ninja whore, but also, if I’m reading the tea leaves correctly, something like your sex slave. You can literally make me climax, hard, with nothing more than a simple uttered phrase, and if that is not control, what is?

So you were telling me, when I still had a mind to hear, that you can give me previously unimaginable pleasures, and you insisted that in the end, I really am free to do as I please. And yes, I admit you have given me everything I asked for from the beginning—I laugh, I feel wonderful, I get up in the morning with a great purpose in mind, and Tom, perversely, is beyond happy, in better spirits than at any time since we met. He benefits, every time I suck him off or giant boob him half to death, from the change of knowing who I am and what I am for. And I cannot deny that you did ask me, several times along the way, if I really wanted what I said I wanted. You’d made me pause, and consider, and then you asked: was I sure?

I said yes every time, but was I already altered, not really fit to decide my own fate? It all comes down a very practical question of free will, and whether I have that. For others that’s a question of a cosmic order; or, for the religious, whether gods or a God hold sway over human affairs. In my case it’s all about whether I make my own decisions, or if I’m merely your plaything, your perfect-10 humongously-hootered living breathing dripping sex-toy, not only in the arena of my body, but also inside my mind.

Because really, where did it all begin? When I go back to the earliest pages of this journal, and see just how quickly my thirst for a meaningful life became an unquenchable thirst for high-potency sex… And the journal itself—I knew I was writing it more like a story than was warranted, and I believed I was doing that for self-satisfaction, simply because I like to write. But if I read the entries a different way, thinking of you as the sole audience… Does it all read like a personalized stroke story because you put that mission into me from session one? Was I, all along, doing my best to make you hard when writing down my most intimate thoughts and feelings? Did I write all I’ve written hoping to make you cum?

You say you didn’t try to form me, that it was all about leading me to the real me, and I can believe that to some degree. That felt authentic; I feel authentic, mostly. But along the way, what I chose to wear, what I couldn’t stand to wear, finding out that my gag-reflex had miraculously disappeared… I mean, how much of what I’ve wanted and accomplished to make myself an ideal sex partner came from your wishes, not mine? Did I even get on the pill for you, making my tits even more gigantic, because that was what you wanted? Can tits even grow this much from the effects of the pill, or did your Himalayan training include mastering the art of hypnotized breast tissue running wild? Because it’s insane—they’re still growing! I needed to buy new bras yet again, and of course it’s special order, and when I told the woman on the phone my measurements…

I’ve gone beyond what you’ve been able to accomplish with the others, haven’t I? You tell me you’ve done the same or similar to a handful of the most beautiful and personally appealing women you’ve ever met, including, as I already knew, Pauline. She and her bombshell body keep that detailed calendar of which lover comes to your house when, keeping it all straight and tidy for you, and both she and you say that you’ve never once fucked more than one treasure at a time. You tell me that Pauline is perfectly happy with her arrangement, and how can I challenge that when I’ve seen the exclamation points added to her initial for when it’s her turn. But didn’t I sense that she wanted to reach out to me early on, perhaps to utter a word of caution, and her voice kept catching, or maybe her mind skipped like a scratched record? Could she have confessed her situation, or my upcoming situation, to me then if she’d tried?

I just wrote that Pauline schedules your treasures... You’ve collected me like I’m a living work of art, an ideal fusion of form and function, and I’m not infuriated by that; neither am I jealous of the others, your other whores, and is that natural? I know from the calendar how choosy you are, and you say there is only one other woman who is married like I am—S for Svetlana, whom I can only assume has hair the color of a golden sunrise, and a rack the size of all Siberia. You claim her husband suspects nothing and never will, and he has never been happier—exactly like Tom—because his wife is fifty times more vibrant in her duplicitous situation than she ever would have been without you. And you claim that she can put an end to either her marriage or to you any time she wishes. Like you’re a subscription she could cancel, with no penalties. Like we’re all truly free.

Every human being wants to believe they’re free. I want to believe that cheating on Tom, and feeling so perfectly content about it, that these are my true feelings, my honest assessment of the life I wish to lead. I want to believe that the aching I feel for your cock, for your love of my body, is from my heart and my loins. But so much evidence points to a different conclusion. Kitten, for instance—she’s a spoiled and imperfect woman, same as me, and why can’t I feel a shred of remorse about fucking her husband? I try to look at Kitten and Oliver as people I should care about, in a marriage I should care about, yet the feelings won’t come. I know I’ll need sex with others to help me get through some of the days when I can’t be with you… It’s all tactics, like your hand moves my mind and pussy around on a board and the aim of the game is to do whatever I need to do to be in optimal shape and spirits when I return to fuck you again. Seen like that, I’m a pawn that someone carved epic tits onto, with my deal-closer nipples acting like spinning hypnotic wheels to turn the smitten Oliver into my own sex slave.

Control is the theme, isn’t it? I’ve been revisiting my earlier thoughts about women who fit into the Persephone archetype, because isn’t that right where I am? As I wrote in this very journal back near the beginning, some women are predisposed to being attracted to controlling men; or, they can go the opposite route and choose pushovers, men they completely dominate. And I have to ask—isn’t that me, in both cases? I’m controlled by you, and I get off on that, and then when I can’t be with you I control both my husband and my other lover with the allure of my body, and I get off on that, too.

I feel like my mind is clear right now, to a degree that I’m going to tell you what I believe happened from the beginning. I believe you saw that I was fertile soil for the implanting of your hypno-seeds, a woman beautiful enough to be worth your while, with tendencies already there that could be bent or magnified, making trophy ninja whoredom an inevitable outcome. I can see how that played out when I revisit the earliest entries of this journal, like when I had the urge, the determination, to strengthen my upper body after only my second session with you. From there, with the strength and flexibility to accomplish the task, the pole-dancing fixation bloomed inside me, right there with the determination to become a fabulous fuck. Even the need to bring Oliver into the equation was all about you, a means of practicing the landing of my super-wet pussy onto your awaiting cock.

Did you install a dance pole in your house for me, or was it more a case of the fantasy coming first, and there I was, physically able to fulfill it? I had to ask myself that when discovering that room in your house, almost like your sexual playground, outfitted with a pole for exotic dancing. For what it’s worth, I believe you were looking for a dancer all along, someone who could accomplish the obsession in your head. And looking at it like that, I can go back to even before my first journal entry—did Ashley Holloway, sometime when working with you for her cigarette addiction, tell you about her distant friend, the gorgeous one with the ballet training and the dancer’s body, only with huge boobs? I can imagine you hearing about me like that, and wondering if I might be too good to be true. And then your cock ready to cum buckets when I strode into your office the very first time…

Cum buckets—would I even have written a phrase like that before, using language like that? I always thought a climax was “to come”, or “coming”, yet I can see with my own eyes that I was using the spelling of porn sites from the earliest days of this journal. Like a particular seed had been planted. Like my sexual subconscious had been toyed with. Like I haven’t even been free to spell my own way.

I tried to test my freedom when you took me downstairs for the first time, and showed me the dance pole in that room, and the racks of sexy outfits I had to choose from. I decided that if I could sheathe myself into that webbed body-stocking without climaxing, then I’m me. I decided that if I could choose my moves around the pole, and I could tell you where to be, and stripped you naked and made you throb and ache for the perfect dismount, which was really the perfect aerial mount, then I must be me.

I followed that line of belief in self-determination when I sucked your cock into my mouth, determined to cum when I wanted to cum. But it was like building a legal case towards a conclusion when all the evidence pointed in an opposite direction, because even as I sheathed this body in that costume, I had wet trails down both thighs, all the way to my knees. And yes, I performed my cock-landing pole routine flawlessly, one complex twist after another, but I could sense the mixture of the dancer and the performer in me, joyful and proud, and the obedient sexual servant, who wouldn’t even have had a dance pole to practice with if you hadn’t programmed that need into me. And my performance wasn’t completely my own, because even as I spun at high speed I saw you starting to stroke yourself, and I couldn’t bear the thought that you might cum without cumming on me, making me cry out like a crazy woman to get your hand the hell away from that beautiful cock and…

And I stuck the landing, early, unpracticed that way, and once you were jammed inside me I felt like I’d landed on King Kong’s dick, the sense of being stretched going berserk, Like somehow, despite the evidence from my eyes, your cock’s girth was more like that of a man’s thigh, just impossibly huge. And then that perception again that I was the same, that my aching thrilling nipples had grown to the size of cucumbers, and my clitoris so fat that I had to keep spreading my legs wider and wider just to make room for its mass…

I love the look in your eyes when we fuck, the burning coals that convey both amazement and fulfillment. Yet I closed mine then and just went with the sensations that could not be, riding a battering ram, not an ordinary penis, with an orgasm building inside that felt like it could raise the earth’s sea level if I let loose uncontrollably. You can make me feel the impossible, the sublime, and how could that be anything but instantly addictive, which of course you’re completely aware of. You can make me cum so hard that I’m literally squirting like a fountain, the orgasm-storm roiling so intensely that it feels like my brains are being re-wired.

But the irony is that they’re already re-wired. I knew that for a certainty when you asked if I knew of any extremely sexy and busty young women who might appeal to your tastes. Talk about an “aha” moment. I knew then, just as you must have known I would, that my friend Ashley did not “happen” to run into me at the coffee shop that day, and tell me of you. I think she wasn’t gorgeous enough to be a permanent part of your collection—she essentially admitted as much—but you gave her a taste, either as a reward or as motivation, to bring me in. Her best-looking friend by far, the dance friend with the holy-shit rack.

She warned me, in a very small sense. She told me to be careful, and that you had an eye for women like me. Did she try to say more, to give me a real warning, only to find the words wouldn’t come?

And how similar am I that way, now? I could have mentioned Kitten Clarke’s son’s “dangerously attractive” tutor at any point when hypnotized, so there was no real possibility of hiding her from you. I haven’t met her—Sharon something; I don’t even know her full name. But of course all you’ll need to do is hypnotize me again to program me into learning anything you want—where she lives, what her living patterns are, what her fucking bra size is... Oliver will tell me anything he knows about her; all I have to do is aim my tits at him and he’ll talk. But—I know this is insane—I don’t want to go that easy route. I’d rather go ninja on this Sharon, spying, following, photographing, and perhaps, if she’s gorgeous enough, co-opting. And that has to be further proof of how deeply you’ve planted your seeds—you’ve hypnotized those desires into me; they feel exactly like they’re mine, you’re that good at it. A real master.

And don’t think me foolish enough that I’d believe that, that I can want anything other than to be hypnotized again. If everything else you’d said were true, this one point would still prove a different story. I will never be able to refuse being hypnotized by you, and we both know it.

I am not free the way you say I am. You present it as my choice to leave this realm of sexual bliss, that if I come to feel that it’s in any way distasteful or degrading or harmful or anything I don’t want, then I’m free to choose another path. But telling you of that young woman, with the chance that if you find her attractive enough, you might add yet another to your collection, which might give me fewer days or nights a month to tease your cock hard by pole-dancing for you here, and then fucking you?

I don’t believe for a minute that I would ever have made that choice. Because, I might as well admit it to you right here—I want to fuck you every chance I get, and for that reason and that reason only, the fewer other women the better.

I’m already sure I’ll get more of you by teaming up with Pauline. You say she’s completely happy, but I know that she, like me, wants everything she can get. You’ve created that, the mixture of bliss and need. We need. I need, and does that make you hard, reading here that I know the truth about my situation, that I know the game and yet I want more? Does your cock ache for me when you know I know you’ve made me need you this badly, and I’m powerless to feel any other way?

Whenever I put my pen down, and close my eyes and picture your big cock straining straight and true for me, my nipples zing to life, tingling and aching. And the image of squeezing my tits together with my arms, and you gliding in-between, the two of us making a giant boob-sausage sandwich of our bodies, grilled to perfection through friction...

Oh my God, an unseen pause of several minutes there between sentences, because I came, sitting here in this chair and not even needing to touch myself. But it’s only a drop of what you can make me feel, only one teaser among many until I’m there in your private sex space again, dancing for you and fucking you.

You’ve won, you terrible wonderful Angela-fucker, if you need to hear that. But I believe I can win too, by becoming your favorite, your most frequent, the one you ache for the most.

I haven’t told you yet of my plans, and what I’ve done since those twelve incredible hours at your house. To begin with, I’ve fucked my husband more times than I care to count—every morning I awaken him with a tit-job or blowjob, and I won’t let him out of the house unless he’s cum at least twice. And I’m at the door when he comes home, and right back to fucking him again.

It’s stressing him, and that’s the plan. His dick can’t help getting hard from me but he’s getting more woman than he can handle, whereas I feel that, just by closing my eyes and conjuring images of your cock plowing into me, I could suck and fuck for hours and hours. This morning at the front door, looking disheveled and fuck-drunk, Tom asked if maybe I should go back into therapy, perhaps a different kind of therapy, because, as he put it, “I wonder if you might be showing signs of nymphomania.” It’s called sexual compulsive disorder these days—you’d think a lawyer would know that—and I responded by pulling my tits out again, saying “I’ll show you what real nymphomania is”. Like he even has a clue yet what truly obsessive sex looks like. Like he’s even gotten a fraction of how much energy I could slather onto his dick. Already late for work, Tom had to flee the house, limp-running to his Lexus. He ran from my tits—I can’t help giggling every time i imagine his trained legal mind trying to figure out how a turnaround like that ever happened.

I’ve decided that with the weekend coming up, and it being Sunday before I can pole-dance for you and fuck you again, I’m going to torture Tom’s dick from dawn to dusk on Saturday. I’ll ride him every time I see him and turn his cock into pulverized meat if that’s what it takes for him to file for an amicable divorce one day. Irreconcilable differences—that’s the legal language that will be used, which will be shorthand for his sex drive being like that of an ant standing next to an overheated elephant.

I hid the GoPro camera and filmed us having sex in bed this morning, and I’ve told him I climax like crazy when he keeps repeating, “You’re the best lover in the world!” over and over. In a very short while I’ll have an arsenal of evidence of just how well his super-stacked wife is treating him—wouldn’t that make an invigorating Exhibit A in divorce court. And then I’ll get half, plus generous alimony, and I won’t even have to sneak around to fuck you and anyone else I fancy, or that you allow me to fancy. It will be like winning an undeclared war, not by fighting the enemy but by giving them so much that they feel crushed by the weight of it.

It gets me really excited to watch myself having sex—is that news to you? I had Oliver film me masturbating earlier today, and he couldn’t help beating off, the camera going bouncy when I sucked my nipples and literally squirted out a thigh-quaking orgasm. I’m learning to edit the raw footage on my computer, and the way my tits undulate in slow motion, and seeing beads of female ejaculate catching the light as they slowly arc across the screen… Oliver captured close-up footage of my boobs, too, one puffy round areola at a time completely filling the screen. And it came into my head that if I released that footage onto some porn site, the video would go so viral.

I’d be one hell of a webcam performer, wouldn’t I? Picturing you watching me get myself off, with thoughts of you getting off getting me off… It would be the perfect masturbatory circle, a circular cumming squad. I love it, and I really think I’m going to do it. I could create thousands or millions of boners that way.

And the more I think about it, I want Pauline to perform with me, not just when we’re there fucking you together, but during the in-between times. I remember, talking to her on the phone, that she insinuated how you could make me feel anything I want, as long as it would be in the direction of excitement. So here’s a request: Make me cum like fucking crazy when Pauline eats me out, or sucks on my tits. Make her make me go fucking nuclear. I know you can, and then, any time you want, you can turn on your computer and watch. What I’ll do for you on camera, for years and years…

You know, it’s only occurred to me just now that early in my therapy, I just had to show you photos of my mother. You looked so pleased, and now I know it was seeing how my mother still looks like a sex-bomb at fifty. The genetics are there for you to want me for at least twenty-five or thirty years, and when I play at the math, and think how many climaxes that could be…

Thirty years or even more—I hope my tits keep growing the entire time. I hope they get so massive that Pauline has to give them their own letters and dates in your calendar.

It’s three in the morning and I’m going to close this journal for the last time and go upstairs and keep my husband from sleeping by fucking his face with my monster tits. I’ll be thinking of you and I know I’m going to cum.

I live to cum, for you, and especially on you. And these fucking incredible tits… They’re for you. They always feel like they’re growing just so they can get closer to you.

You’re a huge boob-lover and I really don’t believe you can find a more magnificent pair of tits than mine anywhere, and that’s me being real. They’re right here being fondled and stroked with this trophy ninja whore’s hand that is not holding a pen, and believe me Stephen, they’re just dying for you.

Don’t make them wait to pound the cum right out of you. Reward them for being so insanely beautiful, and for growing so much.

Please.

Your Angela. Your trophy ninja whore.