The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Mom, did you hear me? I said I prefer the emerald ballgown with the sequins.”

Candice looked up from her phone with a guilty start as her daughter Madeline poked her head through the changing-room curtain.

“Are you sure, sweetie? It has… a lot of fabric, you know.” Her protest came out thin and unconvincing, and Madeline’s expression immediately soured.

Well, it was true. The over-elaborate gown had a lot of fabric.

A lot of very costly fabric.

Candice perched on a small padded stool inside Madam Sentani’s, a high-end bridal and eveningwear boutique packed wall to wall with overflowing racks of gowns, slips, and dresses.

Every imaginable hue shimmered around her—shining silk, soft satin, whisper-thin chiffon edged in lace, embroidered florals, rhinestones catching the light like scattered diamonds.

The tiny price tags dangling discreetly from sleeves and seams were devastating. Each garment was breathtakingly glamorous and hideously expensive, as if beauty itself demanded financial sacrifice.

Candice sat rigidly upright, hands folded tightly in her lap, careful not to touch anything. She had the distinct feeling that even brushing against a dress might somehow add it to her bill.

“Well… let me see how you look before we make any final decisions.” She forced a smile and motioned her daughter forward.

Madeline emerged from the stall with a dramatic harrumph and struck one of her pageant poses.

The effect was… irable, if not entirely successful.

The gown she wore was lovely—soft crimson tulle cascading from a fitted satin bodice, sweetheart neckline framed by delicate beaded straps. Elegant. Flattering. And, most importantly, one of the few pieces in the store that could reasonably be described as affordable.

Unlike the emerald ballgown.

That dress sprawled across its hanger like royalty awaiting coronation—rolling acres of silk, glittering crystal embellishments, unapologetically extravagant.

“Oh, Madeline,” Candice said gently. “I think you look lovely.”

“Lovely isn’t going to impress the judges, Mom,” Madeline complained. “I need to look stunning if I want to score well in evening wear. I need the emerald ballgown.”

What Candice needed was some fresh air.

The shop felt stuffy with ladies’ perfume, the closeness of all the cloth, and the crushing metaphysical weight of retail extortion. She stood up, trying to maintain the increasingly fragile smile.

“How about you change back into your clothes, sweetie? Mommy just needs to step outside and make a quick phone call.”

It was a lie, but a harmless one. A small escape to steady her nerves—and likely the smallest price she’d pay today if Madeline got her way.

Her daughter narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to smoke, are you? You said you quit.”

“Just a phone call. I promise. I’ll be right back.”

Candice slipped between crowded racks toward the front door, already craving distance from the glitter and expense closing in around her.

Candice wanted a cigarette.

Oh, how she wanted a cigarette.

But she had promised herself a fresh start when they moved out to the Midwest. A new marriage. A new home. A new job.

A new her.

So far, it wasn’t going especially well.

The family had relocated to New Billington after her newlywed husband Grant accepted a Research Associate position at the local college.

It had made perfect sense at the time. Housing was cheaper in a small college town, and as a market research analyst working remotely from her laptop, Candice could earn a living anywhere with electricity, Wi-Fi, and a halfway decent coffee shop.

Then she lost her job.

The New York consulting firm she worked for had been consolidated into some faceless megacorporation, and her entire department was restructured into a rice paddy somewhere in Southeast Asia.

There wasn’t much demand for overqualified market analysts in New Billington, Indiana—population fifty-three thousand.

So now Candice worked in a squat four-story concrete office building, performing mindless data entry for a regional freight and logistics company. She even had her own five-by-five cardboard cubicle, furnished with fluorescent lighting and all the warmth of a prison cell.

Home life offered little comfort.

Madeline had not taken kindly to being uprooted from city life and redirected all that teenage resentment toward her new stepfather. Grant became the convenient villain—the quiet, bookish academic blamed for everything from the move itself to the slow suffocation of suburban existence.

Candice knew he was trying. Dear Lord, he was trying. But Grant understood emotions better in theory than in practice.

Not cold, exactly—simply logical. Rational. A patient debater utterly unequipped to navigate the emotional hurricanes of a teenage girl he didn’t yet know how to parent.

And, just to complete the trifecta of misery, Candice was gaining weight.

Without cigarettes, her hands felt restless. Her mouth felt empty. She disliked the phrase oral fixation on principle, but the constant urge to nibble, sip, or chew had proven dangerously easy to satisfy with snacks.

Which might explain why she stopped walking when she did.

New Billington’s main street possessed that charming small-town permanence sustained by generations of college students ing through each year. Broad sidewalks lined with bars, cafés, boutiques, and family businesses that felt as immovable as mountains.

This made new storefronts stand out immediately.

B.B.’s Boulangerie Pâtisserie.

The name curled across a freshly painted blade sign in elegant flourishes framed by tasteful art-deco borders. Below it hung a pastel blue striped French awning shading a wide display window and a quaint timber-and-glass door fitted with an actual brass bell.

Candice paused, worrying her lower lip as she glanced up and down the sleepy street. The morning rush had faded; students were in class, locals at work—where she should have been if not for Madeline’s damnable gown fitting.

When had this place appeared?

She couldn’t recall renovations. No scaffolding. No contractors. She couldn’t even what business had occupied the space before. New Billington wasn’t that large… though, ittedly, she was still new herself.

What struck her most was how clean everything looked.

The charm of old town lay in gentle wear—brick softened by decades of weather, wooden rails polished by thousands of hands. History left fingerprints everywhere.

Not here.

The bakery looked untouched by time. Crayola-bright yellow paint without a flaw. Window glass so clear it barely seemed to exist. Even the sidewalk appeared freshly scrubbed to near bone-white perfection.

It was as if someone had cut a bakery out of a storybook and dropped it neatly between Harold’s Home Hardware and Grouchoe’s Deli.

The bell chimed prettily as Candice stepped inside.

Bright overhead lights made her blink, raising a hand to shield her eyes—and then the smell hit her.

Sugar. Warm butter. Vanilla. Something spiced and exotic beneath it all. The scent filled her lungs so completely she could almost taste it, sweetness dissolving across her tongue before she’d eaten a single bite.

The interior glowed in shades of pastel pink while soft, indistinct music drifted from unseen speakers like a lullaby.

Polished glass display cases lined either side of an ornately carved wooden counter. Atop it sat an old-fashioned nickel-and-brass Patterson cash , gleaming as though lovingly polished every hour.

Behind the counter stood a woman so perfectly still that Candice initially mistook her for a mannequin.

Then she turned her head and smiled.

“Hi!” she chirped brightly—and immediately giggled, as though she’d said something amusing.

“Ummm… hello,” Candice replied, blinking away the spots dancing across her vision. The colours, the reflections, the lighting… everything felt very bright in here.

“Hi, hi!” the woman chirped again, beaming expectantly at her—perfectly content, it seemed, to stand there smiling forever.

She was very beautiful. Candice itted that to herself with only the faintest pang of envy.

High cheekbones. Slightly upturned eyes. Skin soft as a peach. Full lips painted the same pink as the bakery walls. Her blonde hair shone like sunlit wheat, gathered into a thick braid that fell neatly down her back.

“I was just stopping by to say hello. I haven’t seen you before,” Candice said politely. “Are you new?”

The woman’s outfit was… unusual.

A ruffled white farmhouse apron straight from another century covered a candy-striped mini dress that clung to her hourglass figure like poured icing. The fabric hugged generous hips, cinched dramatically at a tiny waist, and then rose upward into a frankly astonishing bust that strained cheerfully against both dress and apron, apparently unconcerned with the laws of physics.

Candice suspected entire baguettes could be hidden within that cleavage.

An embroidered badge on the apron read simply: B.B.

“Yes… new. All new. All new B.B. Nice and pretty,” the blonde sang, dissolving into another fit of giggles that sent visible ripples through her chest.

Was she answering about herself? Candice had meant the shop.

Something about this interaction felt slightly off-balance.

“Hello? Please wait a moment…” a deep male voice called from behind a dividing curtain.

The curtain was yellow. Lemon-drop yellow, Candice noticed vaguely as she inhaled again.

The air tasted sweet.

Comforting.

Her attention drifted downward to the display cases.

Rows of pastries rested beneath shining glass—delicate confections arranged in perfect formation on silver trays and lace doilies. Golden pastries gleamed with buttery sheen; tiny iced sweets sparkled like gemstones in impossible colours. The display resembled a coral reef beneath warm tropical water.

She stared, entranced.

“Welcome, Mademoiselle. I see you ire my humble wares.”

Candice blinked back to awareness. A tall, darkly handsome man now stood across the counter, smiling with quiet satisfaction.

“S-sorry,” she stammered. “I was just looking.”

Now she found herself looking at him.

He didn’t resemble any baker she’d ever known. Bakers were supposed to be round, flour-dusted men with rolled sleeves and permanent smiles.

This man wore a crisp white shirt, candy-red necktie, and a tailored chocolate-brown waistcoat. His sleeves remained buttoned neatly at the cuffs, ruby cufflinks catching the light. Broad shoulders strained the fabric; powerful arms filled the tailored cut. His hands were immaculate—no flour, no dough, not even a smudge.

“No, please, forgive me. I did not wish to startle you. Look as long as you like.” He gestured gracefully. “I am very proud of my creations.”

Creations.

Candice noted the slightly unusual phrasing as her gaze locked onto a tray of miniature chocolate éclairs. Each was thumb-sized, perfectly identical, filled with pale ivory cream.

Cream…

She licked her lips without realizing.

“You make these in a factory somewhere? They’re all so perfect.”

“A factory? Mademoiselle, you wound me!” He declared theatrically, clutching his chest. B.B. burst into giggles, and this time Candice laughed along.

He was extremely charming.

“No, no. Everything is crafted here—by hand, with love—as I was trained to do back home in Europe.”

“You’re the proprietor?” she asked shyly, then clarified, “The owner?”

“Me? Never.” He looked genuinely startled. “I am merely a poor artist. My name is Jean. Jean Bimbeau.”

The name sounded faintly ridiculous, and Candice swallowed a smile.

Jean slipped an arm around B.B.’s impossibly narrow waist, squeezing her hip before placing a fond kiss upon her rosy cheek.

“B.B. is the owner. Without her genius, none of this would exist.”

He pronounced her name Bae Bae, warm and indulgent. Candice’s tongue brushed her lips again.

B.B. giggled and melted into his side, gazing up at him with adoring devotion. She did not look like a genius—but Candice felt oddly disinclined to question it.

They lingered together a moment before Jean turned back to her.

“My apologies. You are our first customer—therefore our favourite customer. You should not suffer my rambling.” His brilliant smile returned. “Please, tell us how we may help you today?”

Candice faltered. She hadn’t intended to buy anything. Madeline insisted sweets couldn’t be kept in the house—pageant discipline. And Candice herself was painfully aware her figure had softened since quitting smoking…

“Mademoiselle, you look distressed,” Jean said gently. “Calm yourself. Take a deep breath.”

His voice was very soothing.

Candice took a deep breath.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. Just like in the nursery rhymes. She almost giggled again but let out a relaxing sigh instead.

“That’s better, now tell humble Jean what troubles you so.”

Candice wasn’t sure how long she spent at B.B.’s Boulangerie Pâtisserie.

Time felt soft here. Blurred at the edges.

She had vague memories of pouring her heart out to Jean—he was so handsome, so attentive—telling him everything about losing her job, the interstate move, the tension at home, and Madeline’s newest obsession.

“She fell in with this clique of gorgeous girls,” Candice heard herself saying, “all wrapped up in the beauty pageant scene, and now…”

Jean nodded sympathetically, murmuring encouragement while B.B. mirrored his movements beside him like an enthusiastic bobblehead. They listened. Really listened.

He was sooo understanding.

Candice had done her research. She’d read articles late at night about pageant culture—the dizzying highs, the crushing disappointments, the eating disorders, the impossible standards. The judges. The competition. The rivalries between girls… and especially between the mothers.

“I don’t want to be a pageant mom,” she blurted miserably. “They’re all horrible, conniving vipers. And I don’t even think Madeline is attractive enough to compete…”

Her voice cracked.

“Does saying that make me a terrible mother?”

Tears welled despite her efforts to hold them back.

Madeline had only just turned eighteen, yet still possessed the narrow frame of a much younger girl. Long hair, yes—but dull brown and perpetually frizzy like Candice’s own. Stick-thin without the effortless curves the other contestants seemed to grow overnight.

And theexpenses…

Makeup artists. Tailoring. Designer swimsuits. Coaching classes. Entry fees. Endless spending for uncertain results.

Money wasn’t desperate—not yet—but the pressure never stopped pressing.

“I believe I understand the problem,” Jean said gently, raising both hands to slow her spiraling thoughts. “You are stressed. Overwhelmed. You feel unheard… unappreciated.” His smile softened. “I think we can help.”

Candice barely ed the word we. At some point B.B. had wandered away, leaving Jean’s full attention resting warmly on her. She flushed under his gaze.

“Do you like cream puffs?” He asked suddenly.

The whiplash topic shift made her blink.

Cream…

“I-I guess? Yes?” She answered uncertainly.

Jean slid open the display case and withdrew an ornate silver tray.

Upon it sat neat rows of tiny pastries—delicate spheres of golden choux, each no larger than her knuckle, crowned with a perfect pearl of glossy white icing. Every one identical. Perfect. Almost too perfect.

“Try one,” Jean said softly. “I believe it may help with your problems.”

He lifted a pastry between thumb and forefinger and held it toward her.

Candice’s mouth flooded with saliva. She swallowed hard.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Money’s tight, and you haven’t even told me the price—”

“No price,” Jean assured warmly. His brow furrowed as he searched for the phrase. “Ah, yes—a free sample. For you. Our first and most favourite customer.”

Relief washed through her.

Without thinking, Candice leaned forward, lips parting slightly.

Jean smiled and gently placed the pastry on her waiting tongue.

It dissolved instantly.

Airy sweetness melted like spun sugar, releasing rich cream that spread warmly across her mouth—decadent, comforting, impossibly indulgent. A soft moan escaped her as pleasure curled through her toes and rippled up her spine.

The cream lingered, heavy and luxurious, before sliding down her throat. She shivered.

“Mmmm… m-more?” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, tongue still extended hopefully.

Jean’s smile deepened, openly pleased.

So tall. So handsome. So reassuring.

“Certainly, Miss Candi,” he said smoothly. “I shall prepare a dozen for you… with our compliments.”

Candice blinked slowly.

She didn’t telling him her name.

Candice stepped back onto the boulevard, a bright pink pastry box cradled in her hands as she made her way toward Madam Sentani’s.

There was a fresh spring in her step.

No—more than that. She felt light, buoyant, as though she were walking on clouds instead of concrete.

The world looked brighter somehow, the afternoon sun warmer, the air sweeter. She licked her lips, savoring the faint salty sweetness still lingering there, and a giggle bubbled up before she could stop it.

Giggling felt… nice.

Why didn’t she giggle more often?

Hadn’t she been worried about something earlier?

Candice tilted her head, trying to .

Oh! Right.

Her darling Madeline needed a beautiful dress for her pageant. There had been something about prices… something stressful…

She frowned faintly—then shrugged.

The pink box in her hands suddenly felt very important. Very comforting.

Candice slipped her fingers beneath the lid and peeked inside. Rows of perfect little cream puffs waited for her, golden and delicate, almost expectant.

She could have one more.

Just one.

Then she’d feel completely ready to handle anything life threw at her. One tiny cream puff couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?

She giggled again at the thought, lifted one delicately between her fingers, and popped it into her mouth.

“Mmm…”

The pastry melted instantly, rich cream blooming across her tongue. Pleasure shivered through her body, warm and indulgent.

They tasted sooo good.

“Mom, where have you been? I needed you here! You were gone for ages!”

Candice felt a tiny flicker of guilt at the distress in Madeline’s voice — though she couldn’t quite understand why it mattered so much.

Madeline stood in the emerald ball gown again while Regina—the celebrated Madam Sentani herself—fussed with the skirts, a pincushion strapped to her wrist as she worked quick, efficient adjustments. The seamstress was taking the dress in dramatically to fit Madeline’s narrow frame.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s back,” Candice said breezily, sweeping through the crowded racks. Her fingertips trailed across shimmering silks and cool satin as she ed.

The fabrics felt amazing against her skin.

“And I think you look wonderful in that gown.”

Madeline gave her a cautious look. Regina paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow before continuing her work.

Candice had been noticeably frosty about pricing earlier. Regina had noticed. Oh yes—she’d noticed.

Well.

Candice knew how to fix that.

“You look gorgeous in that color,” Candice declared, setting down her handbag and the pink pastry box. “You should absolutely wear it for the pageant. And those cute heels you liked too.”

Madeline squealed, bouncing in place.

The heels—sea-green stilettos with glittering rhinestone ankle straps—cost nearly a week of Candice’s salary.

Strangely, that didn’t feel important anymore.

Madeline’s radiant smile mattered more. The way Regina’s sharp, evaluating gaze softened mattered more too.

“Really, Mom? You mean it?”

Madeline vibrated with excitement, and Candice almost laughed at herself for ever worrying.

Sometimes overthinking just got in the way of feeling good.

She pulled her daughter into a warm hug, giggling as Regina clucked disapprovingly when they nearly stepped on the sweeping hem.

“Of course I mean it, baby,” Candice cooed, kissing her cheek. “Everyone deserves to be happy, right?”

Madeline nodded into her shoulder.

Candice lingered there, enjoying the closeness, iring the beautiful dresses surrounding them. A sleek red sheath caught her eye—oh, she would look fabulous in that…

Regina offered a small, grudging smile of approval.

Then voices drifted from the front of the shop.

Madeline lifted her head. “Britney! Mrs. Dawson!”

Candice’s cheerful mood curdled instantly.

Everyone in New Billington’s pageant circle knew—without ever saying aloud—that Jessica Dawson and her daughter ruled the social hierarchy.

“Oh, look, Britney. It’s Madeline and Candice.” Jessica commented to her daughter before smiling complacently at the two of them, “Good morning, ladies. Are you here to pick up your gowns too? Britney picked out hers weeks ago.“

Jessica was the dictionary definition of a Pageant Mom. Candice had heard people say dance moms were bad, but they hadn’t met this grinning she-wolf in sheep’s clothing.

She was tall, with a tight swimmer’s body, salon-blonde hair that fell far down her slender back, and a perfect solarium tan. She looked like one of those air-brushed cover girls.

Her ageless breasts sat high and firm on her chest—Candice didn’t know for certain they were fake, but a mother in her middle years should have at least a little sag and wobble—her striking face touched up with subtle hints of expensive make-up.

And she was never spotted out in public wearing any footwear without at least a three-inch heel.

Her daughter, Britney, was just a younger, blonder carbon copy of her awful mother.

Jessica Dawson liked to remind people they were constantly mistaken for sisters and boasted that they shared each other’s clothing all the time, with the same single-digit dress size. It didn’t sound too far-fetched, given they were dressed almost identically as they glided their way into the back of the boutique in matching outfits.

Short, white pleated tennis skirts barely reached the tops of their athletic thighs, and pale short-sleeved polo shirts clung close to their shapely chests, leaving long expanses of flat, golden midriffs exposed.

They even sported those stark-white tennis shoes with impractical sneaker-rubber wedge heels that always seemed ridiculous to Candice even as she eyed them speculatively.

They did make the women’s legs look fabulously long.

“We were on our way back from a small spot of tennis,” Jessica said breezily, as though she had no more pressing concern in the middle of a workday. “Don’t you think Madeline looks nice, Britney?“

Like, she didn’t need to hold down a job or anything. Jessica just floated down the river of life on a luxury yacht made of upper-class entitlement.

With her big-shot husband, beautiful daughter, finely appointed three-story home, and decadently designer outfits.

“She’s just the cutest, Mom,” Britney replied, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. “Everyone’s going to adore her.”

Then Jessica’s attention shifted.

“Oh? What’s this?”

She reached for the bright pink pastry box.

Candice reacted instantly, spinning and snatching it away before the lid could open.

They were hers.

“Mom! I told you we can’t keep sugar at home,” Madeline scolded. “Think about empty carbs!”

Candice winced.

The reprimand stung more than she expected. She hugged the box closer, suddenly self-conscious… and then faintly defensive.

They were only pastries.

And they made her feel so good.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Just something I grabbed for my team at work.”

She checked the time and brightened. “I really need to get back to the office, baby. Grant will pick you up in an hour.”

Madeline’s expression immediately soured at the mention of her stepfather.

Candice chose not to engage. She collected her purse and hurried toward the door.

“Give my love to Nicholas when you see him,” Jessica called after her sweetly. “He’s such a kind boss, giving you time off like this.”

Candice sat in her tiny cubicle on the third floor of Transdirect Freight Express Pty Ltd, licking a stray spot of icing from the corner of her mouth.

It was her third creamy snack of the day.

She covered her lips quickly as a soft, involuntary moan threatened to escape. The delicate salty-sweet filling slid warmly down her throat, settling heavy and comforting in her stomach. A pleasant haze followed, spreading through her limbs like a slow exhale.

On the cluttered desk beside her aging work terminal sat a leaning stack of ring binders filled with shipping orders awaiting entry into software clearly designed sometime before the invention of joy.

Her office chair squeaked ominously every time she shifted, loud enough that she worried it might set off dogs three streets away.

This was her world now.

Small wonder she needed a little pick-me-up to survive the monotony.

She’d only been granted the morning off after promising Nicholas Dawson she would make up the lost productivity by Friday evening. Today was Thursday.

So far… that wasn’t going well.

Candice was working—technically. She crawled through page after page of order numbers, customer IDs, freight manifests, and addresses. Fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.

But her concentration kept drifting.

Her skin tingled.

At first it was subtle—a faint itch along her scalp—but soon the sensation spread everywhere at once, prickling beneath her clothes.

She tugged at her sensible grey skirt and modest blouse, trying to get comfortable. Her jacket already hung abandoned over the chair back, discarded when it began to feel unbearably restrictive.

Her flats lay kicked beneath the desk.

Maybe it was soap. Or detergent.

Yes—that had to be it.

She pulled the pins from her tight bun and shook out her frizzy brown hair. Relief flooded her as her nails scratched gently at her scalp. She sighed, fingers combing through the loosened strands.

That felt so much better.

The moment the itching faded, another sensation replaced it.

A dull ache bloomed across her chest.

Her bra suddenly felt too tight, the underwire pressing insistently against breasts that seemed… fuller. Warmer. Sensitive. Every small movement made the fabric rub uncomfortably against her nipples.

Frowning, Candice slipped a hand inside her blouse to adjust herself.

“Ohhh…”

The sound escaped before she could stop it.

The low sound whispered past her parted lips as her fingertips accidentally brushed over a stiff, engorged nipple in her attempt to rearrange things. It was so sensitive to the touch, and her body immediately responded on its own volition, sending a shock of pleasure across her blushing skin.

She immediately broke out in an exhilarated rash of gooseflesh across her chest, neck, and shoulders.

Biting nervously at her bottom lip, she glanced about surreptitiously.

She had the top four buttons undone, so her simple white blouse was open all the way down to her navel, clearly revealing a lot of her plain bra and the gentle swell of her modest cleavage.

None of her fellow wage-slaves had seemed to notice anything, and she did have her back to the cubicle opening...

Feeling a bit adventurous, Candice slipped her fingers back over the tight, tender raspberry-sized nipple and gently pinched...

“Ooomph!”

The blissful wash of sensation was unmistakable. It lanced from her stimulated peak like lightning to run down her arching back and ground itself in her twitching loins.

Candice was panting a little, waiting for someone nearby to question the lewd sounds coming from her tiny workspace, but all she could hear was the tip-tapping of dozens of typing keyboards and the rumbling of a distant photocopier.

Her fingers trembled, desperate to chase that ebbing tide of pleasure, and her fat stocking-clad thighs started the shift, rubbing smoothly together. Goodness, her clothing felt constrictive in all the wrong places!

She swallowed hard.

Okay.

Bathroom. Splash water on her face. Fix her blouse. Get back to work.

That was sensible.

That was responsible.

She hurriedly tried to button herself up—but the top buttons refused to close over her newly swollen chest.

The third-floor offices of Transdirect Freight Express Pty Ltd possessed exactly one disabled toilet.

The company didn’t employ anyone with a disability that Candice had ever met, but the Federal Equity Act of 2010 required employers to provide accessible facilities regardless. Corporate compliance demanded preparation for needs that might someday arise.

Not that Candice knew—or cared—about any of that legislative minutiae as she sat perched on the closed toilet lid, leaning far back with her legs spread wide, heels braced against the metal rails while she trimmed frantically at her thrilling, exposed pussy.

Everything had spiraled the moment she locked the door and started pawing at her chest again.

Unbuttoning her increasingly tight blouse had revealed a shocking discovery.

Candice had tits.

Well—of course she did. But Candice, much like her unfortunately under-endowed daughter Madeline, had always been a late bloomer. At her peak she’d managed a modest C-cup during breastfeeding before settling back into a soft, slightly sagging B.

Not anymore.

She’d stared at herself in the mirror in stunned fascination—full, perky handfuls rising proudly from her narrow frame, round and high like ripening fruit threatening escape from her bra.

The clasp had fought her when she tried to remove it, strained tight beneath unexpected weight.

That bra now lay abandoned across the sink as Candice struggled to keep her delighted little noises contained.

Her grey skirt was bunched around her waist. Her blouse hung completely open, dangling off one bare shoulder as she painted eager circles over her thrumming clit with her thumb and dipped long wet fingers between her glistening folds.

Her other hand was tugging insistently at a stiff nipple, pulling at the tit-flesh and making her shudder in carnal delight.

She had worn pantyhose today—she couldn’t why. Stockings were obviously hotter. And far more practical.

The ruined nylon hung in shredded ladders around her thighs where she’d torn through it in her primal, animal need to get at her aching pussy.

“Mmmmnph!”

Her sensible beige panties were pulled to one side as she squirted the proofs of her pleasure across the plastic lid of the toilet. Hot juices ran across the cool white surface and began leaking onto the tiled bathroom floor.

Earlier, realizing she couldn’t stay quiet, Candice had stuffed a hastily balled-up wad of toilet paper in her mouth. Now her nostrils flared, dragging in much-needed oxygen as the rest of her body went boneless and limp in the wake of the soul-shattering orgasm.

For several long minutes she simply sat there, limbs loose, mind floating.

Touching herself had never felt like that before.

A disbelieving giggle bubbled free.

She—boring, responsible Candice—had just masturbated in the office bathroom. The thought sent a delicious chill down her spine.

What if someone had caught her? What would they say? What would Grant say?

She suddenly wanted to describe her wicked behaviour in loving, vulgar detail to her new husband, that would break him out of his cool, clinical shell. Maybe then he would fuck her naughty lil’ pussy until she howled!

Still unsteady, Candice rose and faced the mirror.

Her hair fell loose and soft over one milky shoulder, less frizzy than before, almost glossy. It even looked lighter—though she dismissed that as imagination.

Her skirt slid back into place over newly fuller hips, though it insisted on riding higher against her thicker thighs. Her bra was useless now; she tossed it into the bin and knotted her no-nonsense blouse up under her fantastic new knockers for .

It left her little muffin-top exposed and her fat nipples still tented the garment, but Candice couldn’t do much about that.

She really didn’t mind.

In fact… she rather liked how it felt when they rubbed against the thin fabric.

Candice flashed herself a bright, conspiratorial smile before stepping back into the hallway—and nearly collided with a gangly young intern pushing an overloaded mail cart.

“S-sorry, miss,” he stammered, eyes widening. “Are you okay?”

He couldn’t have been older than eighteen—Madeline’s age. Cute, scruffy-haired, already blushing furiously as his gaze flicked helplessly over her.

Candice blew him a kiss.

“Just fine, cutie. Thanks for asking.”

She sashayed past, deliberately adding extra sway to her hips. Behind her, she heard an unmistakable gulp and couldn’t suppress a delighted giggle.

She felt wonderful.

Light. Naughty. Playful.

It was such a welcome change that she almost skipped her way back to her dingy little desk, enjoying the long, confused stares her male co-workers locked on her as she flounced and bounced her way back into her crumby workstation.

A yellow Post-it note waited on her monitor.

Come see me — Nicholas.

Without hesitation, Candice opened the pretty pink pastry box and selected a single cream puff.

Icing dusted her lips as she popped it into her mouth.

A long, blissful groan escaped her before she could stop it.

“Ohmyooomph…”