The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Alessandra’s home was so palatial that to find someone was like trying to reconnect with a phone-less friend in a grand museum. I thought I’d been hanging out at the heart of the gathering when I’d been with the food and booze in the outside courtyard, but the place was so big that Grace and I eventually ed another identical spread, and another serviced bar.

“Did Kafka design this house?” Grace asked. “Or what was the name of that South American writer… Borges? What if we come across another bar, and another and another, and each one has its own bottle of your special Scotch? You could be drinking the stuff until your dying breath.”

Not a bad way to go, but I took her point. “Julia could be anywhere. Beyond us, above us, maybe in some dungeon below us…”

“I have no radar for where a multitude of dicks are getting hard,” my friend said. “If I did, it would be easy to know where Julia… Wait, she was this way earlier.” Grace took my hand and propelled us through room after room, before turning us left into a grand library.

“Fuuuck,” I let out, taking in the size of the space. At this ground level, thousands and thousands of books occupied all four walls, but it was an open space with a second floor of books above us, too, accessible by a spiral staircase. The air was decidedly chilly and I took in the two massive air conditioners on opposite walls, quietly humming. This vast collection of books was being specially cooled and dehumidified, for preservation.

“The electricity bills alone would bankrupt me,” Grace assessed. “Oh look, there she is, through there.”

She pointed ahead into the next room, where Julia was deep in conversation with two older men. It was another vast room with a vaulted ceiling, lit by twin chandeliers that together might weigh as much as my car. I entered quietly with Grace right beside me, and once in the room it was apparent that we were younger than most of the thirty or so people around us. The men had thinning or absent hair, while some of the women might have had some work done, a face here or a neck there.

“I’m looking for Al Capone,” Grace whispered into my ear, being circumspect for a change. “Because this is where the money is.”

She was undoubtedly right. I recognized a silver-haired man as the CEO of one of the big banks; I couldn’t his name, but he sometimes made proclamations about the nation’s economic outlook, and people listened.

Engrossed in conversation at their end of the room and facing away from us, Julia didn’t our arrival. Grace and I eased to the nearest corner and studied faces, and several more were familiar.

“At your ten o’clock, that’s what’s-his-face documentary movie guy,” she whispered. “He’s talking to that other what’s-his-face, the environmental voice-over guy. And the other one… Isn’t he a Prime Minister of somewhere or other?”

Connections, connections. Some of these luminaries were engaged in quiet conversations much as Julia was. Others were rather nakedly ogling her body.

“She’s like a black hole that all sex-drives get sucked towards,” Grace observed, thankfully as a whisper. “Remind me again how it is that you’ve managed to—”

“Michael, Grace!” Julia beamed, as the two men she’d been speaking with exited the room.

She moved towards Grace as if to hug her again, and Grace stepped back this time, hands held up defensively. “Once was enough! I have high-deductible health insurance!”

“I’m brave,” I said, and Julia slid right into me, pivoting at the last second so she had her back leaning against my abdomen. This gave me a view from right over her head, straight down into her bulging cleavage. That clued me in to an important fact—she had definitely not been able to sufficiently drain me for the length of this entire party.

“I’m having quite a night!” she exclaimed. Turning again to face the both of us, she said, “Sorry I abandoned you for so long, but those two men… The taller one is Jacques Bernard, the owner of Bernard Gallery—they’re New York City, Paris and London. The younger one is Louis Sharp; he’s the director of the New York branch. They’re going to visit my studio in August! It’s probably only a small chance, but it’s conceivable that I could have a show of my paintings in their New York gallery sometime next year! That’s like… It would be like a wannabe actress skipping high school plays, and their very first performance is on Broadway!”

“That’s fabulous!” Grace beamed, and this time she did take the risk of hugging Julia again.

I was smiling, too, and I said all the right things. Underneath, though, I couldn’t help wondering—did they know what Julia’s paintings looked like? Her talent was undeniable, but the paintings were so overtly sexual, and… And holy fuck, could a painted version of my penis, supposedly depicted so that only a portion of it was a full three feet in length, end up on a wall in New York for all the world to see?

Grace chose that moment to place clenched fists on her hips. “So when is it that I get to see these paintings?”

“When everyone else does,” Julia replied, and I wondered if a contest of wills was about to erupt. It was hard to bet against Grace on that front, but up against a powerhouse like Julia…

“Michael?”

This was a new voice, and we all turned our heads. Julia and Grace made simultaneous utterances of recognition and pleasure, whereas I sucked in a breath.

Three women hugged, briefly forming an odd sort triangle of torsos and heads and limbs, and it seemed to me that the beauty overload ought to be creating something as robust as a pillar of fire.

The newcomer disengaged and turned my way, offering her hand. “Michael, I’m Robin, Alessandra’s assistant. Good to finally meet you.”

I shook her hand and tried extra-hard to appear normal, or neutral, even as my eyeballs swept up the juicy details. She was almost as short as Julia, and of course not so thick. But in so many ways she was a similar body-type, and she had a similar impact.

Full breasts pushed at a white buttoned-up blouse that was tucked into a gray professional-length skirt, a wide black belt defining a trim waist. Below were extremely strong calves with black cotton tai-chi shoes on her feet. The flat shoes somehow spoke of an inner confidence; the woman had no issues with being only a bit above five feet tall. Her attire, overall, also said something about not needing to get overly dolled-up for this party.

An ultra-sexy Irish-y version of Velma, I thought, from Scooby Doo. It was the cut of her scarlet-gold hair, and the fact that she wore rather thick eyeglasses. I’d seen examples of women cosplaying the animated character, with really large breasts doing wonders to the orange sweater the character always wore, and I had a flash of this woman giving the costuming a go. Behind those glasses she had a serious case of the cutes, with great big eyes and an architectural chin with a somehow friendly mouth… Wait, hadn’t someone said she bore a slight resemblance to the Mary Ann actress from Gilligan’s Island? Suddenly I could see that.

“Dawn Wells but better, right?” Grace said, reading my mind. “The eyes and cheeks and chin… Don’t let the red hair fool you. You can see it, right?”

It looked like Robin wanted to roll her eyes, but she abstained; she’d obviously heard it before and she just stood there patiently, looking very composed and extremely beautiful. I tried to picture her in her professional role, fielding calls and arranging appointments for Alessandra… She was roughly the same size as my receptionist, and in body structure it was easy to imagine that she and Gina shared the same trainer. Only I couldn’t deny that Alessandra’s assistant was even lovelier than mine, and—this was really saying something—perhaps a helluva lot sexier than mine. Not that Alessandra and I were competing in any way.

Robin met my eyes. “Michael, I wonder if you could follow me to the fireplace room? Alessandra wishes to have a private word.”

“Ooo, you’ve been summoned to the principal’s office!” Grace teased.

Julia laughed, and I turned to her. “Okay with you if I go? I feel like we haven’t been very—”

“It’s okay, go talk your shop-talk,” she smiled. “Grace and I can stir up trouble; the night is still young.” There was a pause, and then she added, “But don’t forget that I really do want to see the aurora borealis again tonight.”

I was lost in translation for about half a second, and then I got it—her colorful climaxes when we fucked.

“The Northern Lights are visible tonight?” Grace asked.

“In rare locations,” Julia smiled.

“I’ve never seen them,” Grace lamented.

“Too bad you’ll never let Michael help with that.”

I could feel my face turning red, and thought it best to become extricated from that particular conversation a.s.a.p. Turning to Robin, I said, “Lead the way?”

Robin had said that I should follow her, not accompany her, and I wanted to walk several steps behind just to watch her extremely full calves and rear end in motion. But that would have been too obvious, so I behaved and matched her pace at her side.

She led us down a hallway on the other side of the library, much narrower than the others with a curved ceiling. The hairs on my arms stood up, perhaps because this had the feeling of being led into an inner sanctum. Plus, Robin and I had to be much closer to one another by necessity, and even though I didn’t turn to stare, I could feel the curvy solidity of her body, almost touching mine.

“The fireplace room,” she said, coming to a stop in front of an intricately carved wooden door, and lifting a black metal latch.

The fireplace room was different than any of the others I’d been in, in that it was smaller and its walls were comprised of some sort of blonde wood. It also had at it’s far end a—duh—rather large fireplace, with two very long couches perpendicular to it, facing each other. Between them was a long glass coffee table. There was no fire going, because that would be an absurdity in early summer near Washington D.C.

“Why don’t you sit over there,” Robin indicated to the couch at my right.

“Any idea what this is about?” I asked. I wasn’t nervous; the opposite probably. I kept sneaking glances at Robin’s calf muscles, and the temptation was there to ask whether she was somehow related to Julia. I kept silent, and thought that if I were somehow made to choose whether to fuck Alessandra or her assistant… Robin, hands down, which really was saying something.

“I know that Alessandra has some very important matters to discuss with you. She’ll be here—”

“I’m here right now,” came the voice of our host, entering the room at my left. “And I come bearing a special gift, I might add.”

Indeed. Alessandra had a round tray in her hands, and on it were two glasses and a bottle—perhaps the bottle—of Glenfiddich 50.

“I’ve never even had a sip of this,” Alessandra said, placing the whiskey and glasses at the center of the coffee table. “I tend towards rare wines, but tonight…”

I watched as she carefully poured into the glasses, mine receiving easily twice as much as hers. My eyes felt torn—the super-rare bottle of scotch vs. her diamond-patterned legs. The legs won for several seconds, but I also absorbed the refinement of her arms and hands as she poured.

“Robin, why don’t you check in on us in ten minutes or so. No one is to interrupt before then.”

I turned my head to peek at Robin’s quiet retreat for a second, and had to stifle a sigh that might have said, “What would I give to see those legs in black stockings!”

The door closed and I saw that Alessandra was sitting opposite from me, knees together with her glass raised. “A real marvel, isn’t she?” Alessandra asked.

And then some, but I didn’t say anything.

“We should toast this moment, this age of sorts.”

“age?”

“You have to be wondering why you’ve been singled out like this. I commend you on your composure.”

Was I composed? Part of me was. Another part, the part that was tingling and starting to get hard, could not stop wanting to devour this woman’s fucking legs. Again, they weren’t quite as miraculous as Mira’s, and I might have established thirty seconds ago that her assistant’s were even more to my liking. Even so…

“Why am I here, Alessandra? Like this, I mean.”

“That, Michael, is a very deep question, with so many layers. Here’s to peeling those layers away, one by one, so the truth can be revealed.”

She raised her glass and held it out, and I did the same.

“To you, Michael, and to all that you can become.”

I paused, not clinking my glass into hers. “What does that even—”

She made the of the two glasses happen, and looked straight into my eyes as she took her first sip. “Ohhh, yes. Worth every penny.”

Pennies and a whisky this rare lived in separate hemispheres. I sipped from my glass and savored the delicious burn, and the vapors in my nose.

“Did you ever see the movie, The Matrix?”

“Sure,” I replied, putting my glass on the table. I thought a moment, then aded, “Facing each other in a fireplace room… Is this where you give me a choice between a blue pill or a red one?”

“Well done! That is exactly the scene I had in mind. That choice, to learn the truth or remain unaware of reality… Tell me, do you believe the Neo character ever had a choice? Was there even a one-percent chance that he could choose the blue pill?”

“Probably not, because there wouldn’t have been any story. The writers, the filmmakers—”

“Oh fiddle-diddle!” Alessandra exploded.

It was a bizarre expression of consternation, but at least it wasn’t aimed at me. From somewhere or nowhere, like a magic trick, Alessandra suddenly had a cell phone in her hand, and she was staring at the screen with a stern expression.

“There aren’t even supposed to be any phones!” she said incongruously, putting hers facedown on the table. “Now, where were we?” she asked, refilling my empty glass. “Choices, and whether we really have them. We have them to some degree? All the time or only some of the time?”

I raised my topped-off glass to my nose and inhaled its scent again. Weird, that I hadn’t even realized I’d downed the contents of my first glass. Yes it was heavenly, but I needed to pace myself.

“Are these purely philosophical questions?” I asked, trying to sleuth her intent. I had the sense that this was some sort of game-theory therapy-talk, with an agenda underneath. Something about my “age”, presumably into becoming a better therapist in some way? Or perhaps she had an idea of forming some kind of associated group of therapists. Someone with this much money might have big ideas.

“Partly philosophical. As a fellow therapist, you must ponder these questions, too. Maybe you have a client who wants to stop behaving in a certain way, but they can’t. Another client might wish to start behaving in a particular way, but they’re afraid. Is any of that under their control in the end?”

She leaned back with her glass of whiskey in hand, and crossed her legs. There wasn’t even a hint of flirtation in her expression, and yet I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if she next spread her legs.

Maybe that was a way of making her point, and I was catching on. I wanted to stare at her legs, and she must know that it was taking willpower to keep from doing that inappropriately. This was like a test, then, or a demonstration. To give in, to just allow the shapeliness of those beautiful stems to burn into my retinas, would be the same as having no real control, no real choice.

“Oh fiddle-diddle, not again!” she exclaimed.

I didn’t know why she said that—it wasn’t like her phone had pinged, and she didn’t reach for it. There was the slightest lifting at the corners of her mouth, and she stared right at me. Her expression, the way the curvature of her legs rounded the geometry of her patterned stockings… All of that burned a little, burned in such a satisfying way.

Only… No, the burn was in my throat, in my nose. It was the Glenfiddich, so delicious.

“You’ll want to lay off of that, if you ever hope to drive home tonight,” Alessandra cautioned.

“Definitely,” I agreed.

“Why are you pouring yourself more, then?”

What? Was I? Yes I was, which was not the brightest idea in the world. This one bottle, maybe the size of a loaf of bread, probably cost as much as a good used car. Only it wasn’t like a loaf of bread; it was skinnier…

“Closer to a baguette,“ I reasoned.

“A baguette?”

“Like a baguette. The whiskey.”

“Michael? Are you becoming drunk?”

“No, I… Maybe a little, if I don’t watch out. I need to stop.”

“Yes, you do. Can you?”

“Sure,” I said, putting my refilled glass down on the glass thingie over there.

“Can you stop yourself from wanting to look at my legs?”

“Aha! I was right.”

“I was a dancer, too, somewhat like your Miss Torso. Only in .”

Alarm bells went off, somewhere. How did this woman know to call Mira “Miss Torso”? Was she… “Oh, Grace, right. She’s your client. She told you about Mira.”

“Yes, she did, although… But there, I’d like to know—whose legs do you find sexier? Mine, or your Miss Torso’s?”

“What? Why… Oh Crike… Christ. Did Grace made a bet with you, about what I’d say?”

“I see you know your friend very well. She did and there’s twenty dollars on the line.”

I burst out laughing, rather wetly, I noticed. “We’re here together like this because twenty dollars?”

That hadn’t come out quite right, and Alessandra sure wasn’t laughing. Her intense eyes had become all smoky and she leaned forward at the waist, placing a hand at each ankle and then running them up the backs of her calves.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

And I wouldn’t, when Mira was the obvious answer. This woman’s legs were fuggin’ great, but Mira.

“Or what about Robin’s legs? She works-out regularly, but no one can have calves that full without the genetics for it. She’s a real help in the office in that way, believe me. I want some male clients to pine for me, and that’s easily arranged. But many more would be projecting their undying love onto me right and left, if not for Robin charming them instead.”

Good for Robin. I’d bet she could make my dick feel like pine, too.

“What is it like at this party for a man like you, with an outright leg fetish? But wait, it’s a bit beyond that for you, isn’t it? You have something of a leg-strength fetish, don’t you?”

How did she know that, when it took me a while to figure it out myself?

“And these stockings make it even worse for you, don’t they? The color, perhaps even this particular pattern… It’s something about the quality of the form that gets to you, right? That was the initial reason you couldn’t put Mira behind you and move on. Her form was much too captivating, and talk about leg strength. You just had to have her, didn’t you? And that puts us right back to that question of real choices, doesn’t it?”

Did it? I felt like uh-oh, or a big barrel of uh-oh’s, and didn’t love hearing how much Grace must be blabbing about me and beauty legs and strength legs and Mira. Also, I couldn’t be sure I was thinking completely straight or even seeing straight when… My glass was empty again—when had that happened? Fuck, I really needed to lay off the booze! But as I refreshed the glass I still had enough wits to know that I didn’t like hearing so much about this woman’s beautiful legs and that woman’s muscled legs and especially about Mira. How did this woman know so much about how I’d chased after her? Grace again, only…

“Tell me, are you aware of moon phases?” Alessandra asked out of nowhere. “Like where we are right now in relation to the full moon, or a new moon?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“A great deal, actually. But you’re not aware, not consciously. Deep down in your subconscious mind you are, but… It’s exactly what I expected.”

What, I’d failed some obscure test tonight about moon awareness? Was that tied to feminine rhythms, something I should know more about when working with female clients?

“It was a new moon roughly a week ago; did you know? Right after you spent some time with Julia.”

“How dood… did…”

There was a knock at the door. Alessandra turned her head and said to come in.

Robin just leaned her head in to peek inside. “Everything good in here?”

Alessandra sat straighter with her hands at her sides. “Everything is great. We’re just getting to the important stuff now.”

“I have Ruoya here with me.”

“Have her bring some water in a few minutes. I should have thought of that earlier.”

The door closed, and I couldn’t decide what to look at that wasn’t Alessandra’s legs in the black stockings. Stabs of something akin to panic were tightening my abdomen, and I wondered if I’d be steady on my feet if I made a rush to flee the room.

It was something I’d heard, something… “Ruoya?” came out of my mouth, though I hadn’t wanted it to.

“Yes, Rosita’s friend. She’s been rather instrumental lately. Exceedingly helpful.”

“I… um…”

“Tell me, Michael, do you an important line from The Matrix, that Neo couldn’t be told what the matrix is, he had to see it for himself?”

I nodded somewhat absently. Wasn’t this Ruoya overseas now, or… Rich uncle, right. Only wait, wait. She was helpful to Alessandra? And Alessandra was rich, like filthy rich.

I looked at her, trying to read past the beautiful features and especially the kill-me legs.

She stared right back, then said, “There’s so much I could tell you right now, but your ego, your ordinary conscious self, won’t want to believe. That’s simply because you’re human, and that aspect of you will want to resist accepting the truth. Essentially I’m concerned that you’ll try to fight against the truth. That’s why I need you to be extra-relaxed, somewhat ive.”

The whiskey? It did have me a little bit loopy.

“Let’s begin, shall we? I’ll try to be gentle, although… Okay then. I want you to look at your glass on the table. Is it full, or empty?”

It was almost empty again. Did she think I was a child, to…

“Keep your eyes on the glass. Focus on it. And fiddle-diddle.”

Those silly words again. I stared intently at the glass, and more peripherally I could see my hands reaching for the Glenfishy. My hands poured and the glass went from almost empty to full.

“If you drink any of that, you won’t have a prayer of driving Julia home tonight. You understand that, right?”

Of course I did. I was half-lit already, and if that much more went down the hatch…

“Keep your eyes on the glass. What’s happening to it?”

“It’s…” Poised at my lips, I wanted to say, just as much as I wanted to set the glass down, to just get it the fuck away from me. I couldn’t say anything, though, not with the liquid burn going in, numbing my tongue, hot-massaging my throat. If I tried to lower the glass right now I might spill this precious nectar onto my chin and shirt, and it was far too expensive for that.

“Hahhh!” I breathed out, savoring the delicious warmth while simultaneously being horrified by it.

“You made your choice, didn’t you?” the leggy leg-therapist said. “But there was no choice, not really. Can you see why that was? Grasp the implications?”

God, her whisky was fine. It felt like I had rich tasty vapors rising into my lungs from a cauldron down below, even as some of the vapors sank to penetrate into my balls. “I like this whiskey way too mush.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s because you really had no choice, just like Rosita had no choice, and the same for Mira and the others. You got inside of them and gamed their choices. They lost control because you took control, invisibly.”

“Whu-oh!” Multiple alarm bells in my adrenal glands, flashing blue lights and police sirens at the base of my skull.

“Calm down; you’re in no danger. And who could even judge you, when you haven’t been in control for months?”

“I haven’t been… What—”

“What did I say before? That you wouldn’t want to accept the truth?”

“What truth?” I asked, and it flashed in my brain that Keanu Reeves had uttered that same line in The Matrix. Lawrence Fishburne, as Mofo… fuck, Morpheus, had evenly replied, “That you are a slave, Neo.”

Alessandra leaned forward, elbows on her delicious knees. “I know and you know that you’ve had a few ‘dark nights of the soul’ since returning from your immersion training in Switzerland. Essentially twenty-four hours of doubting your direction, weighing the moral implications of your actions, wondering whether you should stop. You’ve even wondered whether you could stop. As you discovered for yourself, there were so many ways that you could rationalize or excuse what you were doing—you needed to learn more, or the women were enjoying the sex so much, all of that. When being convinced by yourself that there were all these great reasons to keep going, there was never any chance that you’d give up sexual immersion therapy. The need to manipulate the women you desired was too deep, essentially hardwired. Enhancing their desires, exacerbating or even creating sexual fetishes, turning them into creatures who practically lived for the next time you could make them orgasm… They had no choice because you had no choice. That’s the hard truth I need you to accept tonight, Michael.”

I stared at the half-full glass of whiskey in my hand. I told myself to put it down on the table, but it wouldn’t go there.

“Doodle-poodle, put it down.”

I did, alarmed and relieved. It tasted like money in heaven, but I never even wanted to see the stuff again.

“Your libido has been put into overdrive the same way you’ve done with others. Finding the next woman to hypnotize, turning her into a sexual beast that lives to mate with your cock… You were turned into a sexual beast back in Zurich. You arrived for your training halfway into a sexual frenzy because of Mira, and we did the rest. You were launched from your cage and you’ve been racing from one immersion sex opportunity to the next.”

She knew. She knew!

“As for lunar cycles… By your own ission, you never figured out that those times of doubt, possibly even regret where your conscience bobbed back to the surface, came on nights that really were dark. They were new moon nights, roughly once a month without even a sliver in the night sky. The last time, just over a week ago, I’m sure you didn’t even notice because that was when Julia was screwing you half-blind.”

“This… I can’t believe—”

“You don’t have to take my word for it—tomorrow, when you’re back at home, you can check the dates in your secret notebook. There are lots of charts of the moon’s phases that you can find online. Compare the dates, and you’ll see.”

She knew about the notebook! Worse than alarm bells and sirens—this could mean prison!

“Of course we know all about your notebook, and its contents. Do you understand now? You were told to keep one, when we had you in the immersion state during your training. I’ve read through it myself, three times. I’m sure that feels terribly invasive, a stranger in your house without you having any knowledge of it. Just so you know, I didn’t snoop around, no going through your drawers or sniffing your sheets, or hacking your computer.”

“But the safe, the—”

“You gave up the combination in Zurich practically at the beginning, and you never changed it because you couldn’t. The same with your alarm system.”

But why? “To have this on top of me… No, over me…”

“It’s not at all about extortion, Michael. No blackmail, nothing so crude. There is no danger to you because you kept those notes; be assured of that. But for us, the information was priceless because it told us exactly how you were progressing, what you discovered. Everyone has a unique talent with the technique, an individual style that’s innate. You’re special, though, and what you wrote in your notebook told us so much about how you’ve been working with your conquests, what barriers you were willing to blast through and which ones gave you pause… Also, to what degree you were aware of your situation, and what you were never able to work out. Your dreams—do you realize how informative they’ve been? Your subconscious mind kept trying to tell you what was going on but you still couldn’t see, couldn’t find a way to listen.”

Being dissed now, that I hadn’t been able to properly interpret my dreams. The leg therapist sure knew how to stick the knife in.

“Nightmare, nightmare,” I thought, and then realized I’d said out loud. “The fuggin’ booze,” so good and so much. That much wasn’t good for everyone… “For anyone.” But who was everyone? “Everyone has a unique style with the technique? Whoozz everyone? Whoozz us? What have I stepped in?”

“I can see where it does feel like a nightmare at this moment, but that won’t last. Michael, what you’re going to learn is that we’re on the same team. It might take a little while for you to reorient, but here is the absolute truth, I swear—you aren’t here with me right now to be taken down. Tonight, starting right in this room with this conversation, with these revelations, you finally have a chance to move up.”

Gasping for air with a hammering heart… Then the hammering became audible, a knocking. “Move up where? For wash? Fuck! For what?”

The knocking was real. “Come in Ruoya! Your timing is perfect.”

My eyes slid left and like a hallucination the knocking became fucking knockers. I wanted to fix on them, to know if they were real or round-and-around, but the whole room was sliding, close to spinning.

“Easy now, you can stay together,” the beautiful leg-lady said. “You didn’t drink so much that you can’t stay with us here. Focus-pokus, focus-pokus… Yes, that’s it.”

I didn’t believe in witches and their spellchecks but the effect was almost instantaneous, no more spinning. I could focus my pokus straight ahead, and what I saw was luxuriant black hair, like silk curtains the color of my favorite stockings, framing a beautiful and smiling Chinese face. The face looked so comfortable, a petite nose over lips as soft as a cloud, all of that poised above a massive jackpot of bulging excessive cleavage-y tits!

“Wow!” came right out. “So boobful!”

“Yes, I am very boobful, and so are you. Rosita wasn’t lying; you are cute.”

“Rosita Below…” slipped out, like I could almost see my former client underneath me with her massive boobies bouncing all over my dong, and these even bigger ones pressed into my face.

“Bello,” someone corrected, then: “He’s in terrible need of coming back to earth. What do you think, Ruoya? Should we help him with that?”

I didn’t hear the answer, if there was one. The beautiful face and great big boobs were there between my pants legs, which moments later were missing the pants, just legs and the towering erection between them. I said, “Whoa-oh,” at my pole’s nakedness, but I didn’t mean it. Like what else could ever happen when the generals were planning a big rack-attack that was this big.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” China boob-lady said, her ginormorous knockers uncovered, big blemishes billowing buddies pillow-pushing at both sides of the big ol’ number nine pencil in the middle.

“Too thick for pencil,” I corrected.

“It sure is,” I heard, just before a slosh of liquid made the not-pencil-head, the me-head, glisten.

“Hope that wasn’t more Fenfiddish,” I lamented, though if it was it sure did feel fleshy creamy. Flesh cream engulfed me, just swallowed me inside, wibble-wobble, mega-booble.

A thought bobbled to the surface that these mega-boobles had no doubt engulfed Taylor Cassidy’s funky-tasting thing. “Sharing another one with him!” I laughed, and then, “Bigger… than even Rosita!”

The face between the dark curtains of hair sighed that yes, she was bigger than Rosita, and then more yes and yes, and “Yes, yes!” coming from a different voice.

Maybe it was my voice. Maybe the leg-lady’s voice? Yes, the leg voice was there, the black stockings, black diamonds growing larger, getting closer. Big textured diamonds pressing into my mouth, my extended tongue touching black.

My tongue told me it wished Robin were here, too. Bet anything she’d be the best of the best, just like the whiskey. All that whiskey and now I needed a woman chaser, sex taste nectar chasing while also wobble-boob-bobble, all that jigglin’ whompin’ weight and oh those creamy thighs opening, yes…

Yes. Just yes and yes and more fuggin’ yes.