Sexual Immersion Therapy
Chapter Twenty-One
I showered the Mira sex away not long afterwards, knowing that Dee was expecting me to return. I called her and mentioned the road closures, and said I needed to work through an insurance issue for work, which would delay me for an additional hour or two. She wanted me to come back a.s.a.p., to pick up where we’d left off. That meant drilling for cum between her tits again, and I wanted that, too, after more space to think.
And maybe even gloat in private? After so many weeks of wanting it, I had finally plumbed Mira Cassidy’s pussy, and I’d gotten an incredibly acrobatic blow-job from her, too. Then, out of her own mouth and unprompted, had come the words that she was totally hooked on having sex with me. Or hooked on my cock, same difference.
I trusted that I’d soon be fucking Mira every day for almost the next two weeks, and I might be fucking her periodically for the next ten years. So what about all of this had me feeling a little bit itchy inside, like there was some kind of problem that needed to be solved?
I pulled my notebook out of the safe and re-read all that I had implanted inside of Mira, and then the same with Dee. I found myself silently chuckling at how I almost felt a split in my own psyche that was similar to Mira’s, because on the one hand I wished I’d thought to prime her for future immersion modifications, and on the other hand I was completely happy that I’d hooked her to my cock with little added shaping. It was like having a subscription to a wine-of-the-month club—I knew that robust Mira sex would be delivered semi-regularly, but the particulars of flavor and intensity would be a surprise.
Dee was completely different. She was already a tangled web of specific immersion suggestions and triggers, and she would never stop dangling her tits in front of my face until I changed the dynamic. I read through the additional triggers I’d placed into her, and wrote a few more down that I might pursue. All done, I packed an overnight bag and got in my Audi, using navigation to avoid any lingering detours from the storms.
On the way, my mind replayed the particulars of Mira’s choice to stand over me on the bed, and her circus-act blow-job. She had deliberately given me a leg-centric view of her naked body; similarly, the entire point of her human-pretzel blow-job was to please me in ways that Dee could never hope to compete with. This was naughty-Mira not taking any chances that I’d become too satisfied with a larger-breasted rival. This was Mira showing me that she might not be the best at different sexual techniques yet, but she was equipped to deliver limber-limbed acts that most women couldn’t even dream of.
Other than being half-hard when I arrived at Dee’s door, I carried no obvious traces of Mira-sex with me when she let me in. She told me she had ed the time packing her suitcase, then studying the script she was to read the next day. I believed her, but it looked to me like she’d spent the hours rummaging through dresser drawers until she’d found her sexiest garment, a copper-colored corset with intricate patterning, and built-in garter straps descending to matching stockings.
In tall heels, the woman looked like the bustiest Vargas girl ever, the corset lifting and compressing her breasts so they almost looked Rosita-sized. It was like Dee’s cleavage had gained its own hypnotic powers—my eyeballs and head-brain could think, “What a sumptuous set of tits with a glorious line of cleavage,” while my cock crudely screamed, “Get me the fuck in there!”
I decided to have a bit of fun, brandishing the bottle of brandy I’d brought with me while pretending to pay no attention to the uplifted cleavage-display staring me in the face.
“This is my favorite brandy,” I said, pouring us each a small glass.
She took the offered glass, frowning. “Did I mention that I took a long bath while you were away? Bubbles, followed by essential body oils… I couldn’t stop rubbing the oil all over my breasts. It takes time because they’re so big, and they’re so soft now.”
“You do smell great.”
Impatience showed. “The oils were wonderful, but I swear it feels ten times better when I rub your seed all over my boobs. That makes me feel so good, more confidant but also so sexy.”
As if saying those words made her need to touch them, she lightly rubbed at the top of her left breast with her free hand. They were so creamy smooth, and I wondered if cum might actually work as an effective skin softener.
“Honestly, I kept assessing my breasts while you were away. No wonder you love them so much. They’re so big and so beautifully shaped… They’re close to being flawless, and not just because I protect them from the sun.”
Every word and gesture was like the strumming of one of the immersion tendrils tightly affixed inside her, causing this need to draw my attention to how great her tits were. I did what she wanted and stared at the way the corset turned her tits into taller orbs of flesh that thrust up towards her chin.
“I’d like to propose a toast, Dee.”
There was fresh color in her cheeks as she lifted her glass. “To molesting my huge tits again?”
I smiled, silently intoning: Here’s to nearly two weeks of Mira’s husband being away. Out loud I said, “Here’s to having you conquer your fear of flying, and how exciting that journey has become before you’ve even left.”
Dee smiled at that, in a half-hearted way. Knowing what she was truly hoping for, I went on.
“But even more than that, here’s to what might be the sexiest, most gorgeous breasts in the entire world. Sue me for feeling this way, but I haven’t been able to get your boobs out of my mind all day. What you do to me with them, and seeing what their sensitivity can do to you…”
In real time, I could witness my words and gaze hurling her towards meltdown. Her posture shifted in a way that made her tits thrust out even more, her dreamy/needy expression telling me she was dying for anything I wanted to dish out.
I stared at her tits and sighed, and a shudder seemed to run through her, quaking her tits. She quickly raised her glass and proposed an additional toast. “Here’s to all overgrown things. Your penis, my breasts, the way we come together…” We clinked glasses and sipped brandy, and she let out a breathy sigh, licking her lips. “Oh, that’s really good.”
It was, and I kept my eyes on creamy tit-meat as I took my second sip. Riffing on what she’d just said, I lightly sang a Beatles’ tune: “Come together, right now, all over you.”
She didn’t laugh; she vented rising heat through flaring nostrils. Enough playing around. “My God you have the best tits I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh Michael!” she gasped. The hand that wasn’t holding brandy traced a sheer fabric trail until it was positioned between her legs.
“I really do believe that you have some of the best tits in the world, Dee. Perfect tits, magical tits.”
“Oh!”
She was touching herself, and I thought I might actually be able to compliment her towards a touchless orgasm if I worked enough with that in further immersion work. But that was not the real goal here, and as I sat on her couch while her boobs bonelessly whapped at my meat, I told her to touch her clitoris as I kept repeating the triggers about the beauty of her breasts. When I was seconds from erupting I rolled her nipples, and then we really were coming together, sudden jerks of her body making it so I mostly decorated her face.
When she had motor-function again, she cleaned that up by wiping cum-globs down onto her tits, then rubbing it into her flesh. Good girl, she was unknowingly continuing to diminish any lingering fears about flying.
I hypnotized Dee twice more that night, the first time instilling the additional triggers I’d written down at home. The second time, my cock felt spent enough that I managed to do nothing but real therapy, helping again with her fear of flying.
She was quite the sight as I dropped her off at the airport in the morning. Even this early the air was warm, and she had insisted on wearing super-tight jeans and a bright yellow form-hugging top, with a scooping neckline that was going to be torture for many in the airport and on her flight. Fellow engers were going to think she had an exhibitionist streak, but the truth was nearer to home and so much more exciting—she hadn’t been able to ride in my car without showing off her tits to me.
I had to smile, picturing her buckling her seatbelt in the cabin of her plane. Those sitting close to her would have a great view of her cleavage, in addition to getting a noseful of the woman. It was possible they might even wonder if Dee had some kind of leaky vagina medical condition.
We were off the interstate and would soon turn onto the access road to the airport. Dee looked at her wristwatch and in my peripheral vision I could see her body stiffen.
“Pull in there!” she commanded, pointing to a service station across the road.
I braked and did as she said, thinking she must have forgotten something.
“Park over there by the air machine,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning over to unzip my pants.
I rode with it, feeling up her boobs as she gave me a vigorous good-bye blow-job. At the end of which, after swallowing my load down, she said, “This might sound crazy to you, but I think that really helps with my flying fears. I wish we’d had enough time to bottle the stuff.”
Of course it helped her, when I’d turned my jizz into a Michael-flavored tonic, guaranteed to lessen flying anxiety or your money—and a part of your mind—back.
We continued on, Dee smiling and actually smacking her lips. I glanced over at her, and because she had bigger issues to deal with, I decided not to mention that the flesh in the vicinity of her cleavage-crack was noticeably reddened from so much tit-fucking and cum-rubbing. She might be the cause of who knew what mischief and commentary on the plane, but I was completely confident that she would be able to keep her fear-of-flying shit together on the initial flight to Houston, and the subsequent leg to LAX.
Dee had her eyes to the sky as we approached the terminal, tracking a plane coming in for landing. “A week ago, if a fortune-teller had predicted that I’d be boarding a plane today without my breathing constricted and sheer terror setting in… But I can do this.”
I nodded, navigating the signs for the departures drop-off.
I could feel her looking at me. “I wish I could tuck you between my boobs and sneak you on board.” She sighed and continued, “I’m going to stay out there for at least a week, visiting with a few friends. Beyond that, there’s just no telling. It all depends on whether I get that part or not.”
“I know. Call or text when you arrive, and good luck with the audition. They’re fools if they don’t pick you for the role.”
As I pulled into the drop-off lane, Dee reached across the seat to stroke my crotch with the back of her hand. “You’re a good and kind man, Michael. None of this would be possible without you.”
There was so much more that was possible than she would ever know. In fact, Dee Young would probably set a record today as the most hypnotically trigger-filled human being to ever fly cross-country.
A porter helped with her heavy suitcase, and I got out of the car for a good-bye kiss. She said one last good-bye and I lingered just long enough to watch heads turn as Dee strode purposefully into the airport terminal. Her ass moved spectacularly, but it was the impossible-to-miss jiggle of her half-exposed rack that was drawing so many stares.
Driving back to the city, I could barely believe I was letting a woman like Dee fly away. It was great that she’d be gone for a while; that was the reality. But didn’t I have everything I could want with her? The great looks and the great big boobs, and she was talented and well-balanced. Plus, the way I had her filled to the gills with immersion needs meant I could keep her humming at a high-as-fuck sexual frequency, perhaps for years and years.
I saw a plane rising overhead—it was too soon for it to be hers—but the sight brought back memories of when Joyce had flown off, her plane’s departure like the g of a document that said we had officially broken up. That got me wondering what might have happened if I’d possessed powerful immersion skills back then.
But screw Joyce and her hang-ups about my having a big one. Just twelve hours ago Mira’s pussy had devoured my meat—was that all physical, a difference in internal plumbing, or was it because I’d made Mira need and want my cock so badly, so wet that it was like lubricating could be an Olympic event?
There was still so much to be explored. I could sense, like intuition but stronger, that I was still in a kind of infancy when it came to unlocking the full potential of immersion hypnosis. I was lessening physical pains and enhancing orgasmic bliss, and if I could overcome a true phobia like Dee’s fear of crashing and burning, then how many other conditions could I lessen or even cure if I put my mind to it?
As I drove, I imagined having a 99% success rate of curing the habit of smoking cigarettes in three sessions—any therapist who could do that could just about print money. I was already working wonders with eating disorders, and it seemed to me that it wouldn’t even be that hard to cure alcoholism, social media addictions, gambling addictions…
“The addiction whisperer,” I joked to a snarl of traffic on the interstate.
But it really was no laughing matter. The latest study I’d seen pegged 17% of males in the U.S. as meeting the criteria for alcoholism, with females at 8%. Cigarettes, alcohol, painkillers, phones, social media…
And sex. I had no idea what percentage of the population could be said to be addicted to sex, or component behaviors like binge-watching porn. The opposite also existed, with people sexually dissatisfied or outright unable to engage in intimate encounters for various reasons. I could just look at what I’d accomplished with Mira to get an idea of how effective the technique could be when working in this area.
“Good deeds or pornographic needs,” I said out loud. Only why frame what I could do as an either/or? It was obvious that I had my feet firmly planted in both directions.
Once in my office I let go of the hypothetical world of curing or causing sexual addictions, to engage with the day’s line-up of clients. I did good works, and I even felt a little virtuous when I received a text from Dee, reporting that she had experienced zero anxiety during the Houston leg of her journey. It was the balding guy next to me who was hyperventilating, she added. Later in the day, having arrived in Los Angeles, a string of prayer emojis appeared in our text stream, with her calling me her “big-hearted miracle worker”.
I caught up on sleep that night and the next, awaiting my full-on fuckfest with Mira starting Sunday afternoon. Dee let me know through a series of texts that she didn’t think she’d be chosen for the part she’d read for, but some important person in the casting world was encouraging her to audition for a different role in a sci-fi t.v. show that was in development. She would settle into an Airbnb, and she’d need to stay longer than expected to explore these other opportunities.
I was happy with so many things about this news. I had put it into Dee to keep me generally informed via text, and she could even go out on dates if that felt enticing enough. But of course she’d never get her girl-rocks off like she could with me; maybe it was wrong of me, but I didn’t have it in myself to grant her any heightened orgasms with others. If she had sex out there, it would be normal ho-hum sex, just like anyone else.
I still had to wait for Mira being unencumbered, so I kept myself extra busy, doing some research on various addictions and phobias, and also common forms of chronic pain. I had an idea that I could wrap things up with a handful of clients in the next several weeks, and once those slots were open I could take on new clients that represented fresh challenges. I liked this idea of curing addictive behaviors, and I especially wanted to see if the technique could provide some degree of comfort to those experiencing chronic physical pain. I fired off some emails to professional colleagues, and received encouraging replies from two, giving generalized descriptions of their “hardest cases”, patients for whom current therapies were achieving poor results. I was given permission to work with several of these people, with the term “immersion hypnosis” never having been shared. I had not made any firm decision on this, but I had an intuitive sense that my life would be easier if almost no one knew that I was practicing that specific technique, or that the technique existed at all.
These were the ways I kept myself extra-busy as I counted down the hours until Taylor Cassidy would jet his cuckold ass to another continent. On my commute home on Friday, my work week over, I stopped at a smokehouse for burnt ends and five-alarm chili. The food was delicious, but once at home I realized that something didn’t feel right inside me, and it had nothing to do with my digestion.
Sitting at my dining room table, cooling my mouth with a Negra Modelo, I decided it made sense for me to contemplate where I was with my recent actions. I was in the glow of all I had done with Dee, with perhaps full two days to go before a hypnosis-driven Mira came crashing down upon my cock.
I thought back to the leashed panther dream from right before flying off to Switzerland. It had been perfectly applicable to my situation while having it, but now I wondered if it had been prophetic, too—just look at how the panther’s teeth and muscles had grown as soon as I’d acquired my hypnotic tools.
I had no wish to become a monster. At the same time, it felt obvious that trying to cage or even leash the carnal use of immersion hypnosis was a hopeless task.
“Repression never works,” I quoted one of my own truisms.
Feeling off, I popped a second beer and took it out to the back deck to stare at the stars I could see through the treetops. It was almost pitch black out there, no moon, and where I could make out silhouetted branches that hadn’t yet filled out with young spring leaves, it looked to me that they were spearing the indigo sky.
The air was chilly, but I stayed outside. Dee’s friend’s idea about everyone having an erotic utmost came into my mind, and I wondered if that could be the main reason I had been willing to let Dee fly away. Great as all that sex had been with her, I knew she was not my erotic utmost.
And wasn’t that showing me something, that even when a woman looked like Dee looked and I’d placed sexual dynamite in her brain and body, there was something—or multiple somethings—about Mira that turned me on even more?
Holy fuck, this wasn’t love, was it? In the cracks of all my scheming and game-playing over the last however many weeks, had love for Mira seeped into the foundation? I told myself not to be ridiculous; what I felt was mega-lust on a power trip, an entirely different animal. I had a vigorous panther growling inside my balls, not a purring kitty cat.
A vague brooding arose in me that almost felt as black as the night. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and when I put my beer down to retrieve it, I saw it was Dee wanting to FaceTime me. I smiled—this was one of the options I’d had placed inside her, to request FaceTime if she became horny enough to want phone sex.
When I slid the bar to accept her call, the moving image that appeared on the screen included her chin and mouth, and the rest was all cleavage showcased in a lacy white bra. This was Dee being unaware of how much hypnotism she’d carried like additional luggage to another coast, needing to do everything she could to show her tits off, even at this distance.
I won’t recount every word of that phone call. She was updating me that her second audition had been delayed by a day, giving her additional time to memorize lines. “I’ll be a sexy android if this all works out,” she said. “Think I can pull that off?”
I gave her a little pep talk, which she appreciated, and at the point where I felt like the conversation was starting to wind down, she told me she felt a bit lonely out there.
“My Airbnb is cozy enough, but I miss my home. I have an actress friend I might visit tomorrow, but that’s not… The thing is, I miss you, Michael. I keep thinking about what we were finding together, the whole tornado aspect of it. I couldn’t believe I could be so…”
So loaded with hypnotic triggers? So desperate to surround my rod with her tits again and again?
“There is no question that we’re extremely sexually compatible,” I said for her.
“Sometimes I get to thinking about it, us… The level of trust, and mixing hypnotism with sex, and then having climaxes that made me think… Like they couldn’t even have been real, yet they were, and…”
She trailed off again. “It was the best sex of my life, too, Dee.”
She laughed, like my words were a huge understatement. “I don’t know if anything will ever match what we were finding together. I’ve decided… I have an outright hypnotism fetish, don’t I? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“My professional opinion—I think you do have a hypnotism fetish. Lucky us to be able to find that out, right?”
She laughed, but then went silent. I wished I could see more of her face to gauge her expression; then again, the view she was giving of her bra-clad tits was sublime.
In a more serious tone she said, “Michael, I know I don’t have any claim on you. I’m here for now and you’re there. You can go on dates if you want; I suppose I could too.” Then she laughed again. “If I’m not back in ten days, how much do you want to bet that Grace sets you up with someone else?”
“I’m not about to take that bet.”
“Michael? I know I said that you’re more highly sexed then I am, but… I’m hornier than I used to be; I think you awakened something in me and it hasn’t… I woke up feeling so tingly this morning, really tingly with my nipples so needy and I… I didn’t do myself; I couldn’t because there wasn’t time. But, like, I have time now, and just hearing your voice…”
From the image on my screen, shakier than before, I had the feeling she might be fingering herself already. I’d put so many triggers into the woman that there was a whole menu to sift through in my brain, of what to say next.
I decided that I’d gift Dee with what she seemed to be asking for, a searing masturbation session that might have neighbors mistaking her climaxes for earthquake tremors. “Dee, the bet I would take is that no one Grace sets me up with could have breasts half as beautiful as yours. Seeing them on my screen, in that bra…”
“Oh! But… What bra?” she asked, expertly removing it.
And there they were, Dee Young’s huge milky tits, filling my screen.
“Fuck, Dee, even on my phone screen you have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen!”
I could hear the sudden in-breath. “Jesus! Michael, it’s like my boobs have ears and they’ve just been waiting to hear your voice talking about them!”
That pretty much summed it up, didn’t it? “Pinch your nipples, and let me see that.”
She did, making excited sounds. “You’re hard right now, aren’t you?”
“Completely.”
“Show it to me! It’ll just be on my screen, but… Let me see it!”
I could not do as she asked, because showing her any image of my cock was a trigger that would have her on a plane, probably here by morning. “Dee, I’m outside. I can’t…”
There were all kinds of additional words I could say, other triggers I could deploy. The picture on my phone was shaky enough that I knew her trajectory was already set, so I told her that I would dream about the beauty of her tits tonight—a super-potent amplification trigger—and the screen became even more chaotic. She was in a half-mad finger-fuck fury now, and she wouldn’t be able to stop until she came spectacularly. I said a few reassuring and career-ive sentences that she may or may not have even heard. There was a clunk sound and the ceiling view of a dropped phone, and I rang off.
Returned to the silence of the night and inspired by what I had just seen on my phone screen, I went back inside and spent more than an hour browsing big-boob sites on my computer, looking at photos and watching huge-tit videos.
Why? Because I wanted to or needed to, I guess.
I found myself captivated for a few minutes by one woman with an adorable face and pillowy boobs that were easily the size of her head. I kept scrolling because Grace had been so right, damn her—I wasn’t going to be sufficiently interested in a woman unless she had a tight, fit body, but also a great set of boobs.
I’d never thought of that as rising to the level of an outright fetish, and yet there were a handful of women on these sites where I really did feel like I’d just about sell my soul to have the experience of their tits. One was a Russian legend, and I groaned out loud at one faceless amateur, the subject of a six-minute puffy nipple video titled, “The Most Perfect Tits/Nipples Ever!”
I thought that maybe they were the best I’d ever seen, until I found a video titled, “Boat Railing Girl Has Goddess Boobs”. The girl in question showed only a portion of a young woman’s obviously beautiful face, with a black mask hiding all but her forehead and eyes. The eyes were blue and very bright, and her hair was bright, too, a lovely shade of reddish-gold that shone in morning or afternoon sun.
When the camera zoomed out, any interest in her face or hair evaporated, because holy fuck, the woman had tits that were… I gulped and sat straighter. I mean, this could not be real, could it?
She had on bikini bottoms, either black or navy blue, and her boobs were covered and contained, sort of, by a far too small pink button-up sweater, that only had the top button clasped. The volume of her boobs was parting the front of the sweater like clinging theater curtains, the bottoms of both breasts exposed. The odd presentation revealed something like a bottom-up Grand Canyon of cleavage that just went on and on.
A weak laugh escaped my lips. The sweater, which would never have a chance at being even halfway buttoned, was probably an extra-large or bigger. I was just amazed because it seemed like the woman’s tits were powering out in every direction all at once, as though a space-alien had blasted really full tits with an overall growth ray. From straight-on or nearly so, the overwhelming volume of her breasts made guess-work of the middle of her body, but from what you could see of her arms and hips, she looked trim and tight everywhere other than her chest.
She started to walk in front of metal railings that came to her waist—these must be the boat railings from the title, like she was on a good-sized vessel of some kind. Her body down to her lower thighs came in frame, and they were thighs to be proud of, which just killed me when juxtaposed with the Jupiter-sized tits. And then a glimpse, finally, that revealed a trim, athletic waist.
“Jeez!” I whispered. “How do you not just tip over?”
Somehow she was the opposite of that, as I watched the lightness of her step and the hypnotic sway of those sweater-transporting gazongadongas as she moved.
The camera guy mumbled something unintelligible, and the super-mega-stacked babe giggled lightly. Seagulls called out for her to take it all off, and then the cameraman’s voice again, speaking aloud the thought that was right there in my brain, that her tits could not possibly be real.
“I know a few people who believe they have to be fake,” the male voice said.
The girl stopped walking, her eyes narrowing in a cock-stirring way. My erection felt like it wanted to sprout ten more erections as the girl challenged the camera lens with her gaze, before saying in a soft voice, “I know they’re total freak-out boobs, but they’re completely homegrown.”
“Prove it, or no one will ever believe,” came his response, which gave my cock hope.
The eyes lost their fire, becoming uncertain.
“Come on, Dawn,” the camera guy urged. “Just this once. You’re masked, completely anonymous.”
It was difficult to read the girl’s expression because of the mask. She turned her head to the left, then right, and said, “Nobody can see us here, right? You promise?”
“We’re two miles from the shore!”
“I don’t want to be hounded. I don’t want crazies, or to make anyone crazy. You get that, right?”
Maybe she was right to be concerned, when it might be that her tits could be seen from space.
The camera guy egged her on. “No one can tell who you are with that mask, I promise.”
Those turned out to be the magic words. Very simply, the young woman slipped an index finger under that poor lone button at the top of her sweater, and with applied pressure it popped away, initiating a whole cascade of movement where two ginormous boobs surging out into the sun.
I just gasped.
She helped the sweater fall away, and I would swear that her breasts looked designed, not by any surgeon but by the gods of all things heavenly and horny and just fucking enormous. They were so creamy and round, not a mole or freckle on them, and they just fucking went on. Smack-dab in the center of each was a perfectly circular areola, so smoothly edged that they looked like they’d been created to meet the highest factory standards. And the size of those—were her areoles the size of fucking dessert plates? On almost any other woman their scale would be ridiculous…
“I mean, lots of women’s entire breasts aren’t that large!” I breathed out. “And their color!” which seemed extraordinary, too. Was it an enhancement from the camera? Because they glowed a very rich shade of pink, that made it look like her tits had just emerged from a steam room.
The male voice in the video sounded choked with emotion when he said, “Dawn, you’re just unbelievable!”
The image dipped for a second, like the camera guy couldn’t quite keep his shit together. The image came back up and the girl cradled her boobs with her arms, pressing all that flawless flesh more together and further out.
“Tell me your bra size?” he said, or pleaded, his voice much thinner than before.
She lowered her arms, hands grasping the railing behind her. A vigorous shake of the masked face made the super-projecting tits wobble. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore. You know I make my own bras anyway.”
The guy laughed and the girl changed her posture, going more in profile. The outward thrust of her tits was simply astounding.
“Oh Dawn!” his voice sounded again as she lifted her breasts with her arms. With her back arched she suddenly dropped the arms, and it was like some kind of practiced magic trick when her boobs didn’t really fall. Instead, they super-wobbled just slightly, somehow continuing to thrust out proudly.
“I know how special they are,” she said, looking down and way out at them.
She pivoted more to a three-quarter view, once again placing her hands behind her on the boat’s metal railing. I marveled at the way her tits cast ball-boiling shadows down upon her torso and thighs, and who knew how much further.
“I don’t want to get too much sun,” she said, reaching forward to press a finger into the top of her left breast. There was an edit, the image more grainy, of her finger pressing into that spot of flesh. Her hand looked tiny compared to the screen-filling ocean of tit, but what really captured my attention was the tactile give of that smooth flesh, and the shift in the color when the finger lifted.
“Okay,” the male voice said, and then the video abruptly ended.
I sat there for a full minute, knowing I’d sell three lifetimes worth of my soul to meet this girl and get my hands all over those tits. She had black swan tits, boobs that were relentless overachievers, physical treasures that…
They were in the same league as Mira’s legs, weren’t they? The best I had ever seen.
“Fucking peacock tits,” I said, which weirdly made sense. “Just imagine nipplegasms with those!”
I replayed the video twice more, and it would be fair to say that I watched obsessively. I was far from the only one—the camera guy’s promises had been full of shit because the video had been viewed more than fifty-million times, and it had almost eight-hundred comments. Everyone wanted to know the identity of this young woman—they begged for more videos of her and she gained the name “Boat-railing girl”, and also “Miracle Tits of Dawn”.
Predictably, an internet debate raged about whether her tits could possibly be real. There were dozens of comments where people explained that she had to be lactating, otherwise it was impossible for nipples to be that large and pert. Others declared that she must be wearing some new kind of prosthetics, or that what we were witnessing was an AI manipulation. Still others protested that the way her tits moved could not be faked, and that the change in her skin color at the end, from the pressed finger, was undeniable proof of authenticity. But then the edited close-up, with some arguing that the change in skin tone could have been manufactured.
“I believe!” I said in an outpouring of breath, thinking of her comment that she didn’t want to be hounded. It made sense because these were breasts that could have escaped from Pandora’s box—you could just imagine the storm of attention and amazement that a woman like that would get. If she simply walked down a city street wearing a blouse or sweater…
I couldn’t help it; I typed “boat-railing girl” and “miracle tits of Dawn”, and I could find message boards filled with comments from people searching just as I was, but no more videos, no photos, no selfies. Just like me, some chat people said they’d be happy just to find one clothed shot somewhere, but nada.
I closed my laptop, heart rate elevated and my nerves feeling prickly. Something didn’t make sense to me—if anatomy equaled destiny, my pet theory, why weren’t there more videos or photos? Even if camera-shy, a woman as conspicuously blessed as this would appear in phone snapshots or reported sightings. Assuming she didn’t live in an underground bunker, what was up? Could she have gotten a breast-reduction soon after making the video? I almost wanted to throw-up, even considering that.
My very soul desperately wanted to hypnotize that young woman, but the world is a bigger place than even those breasts. She could live in California, or Michigan, or anywhere.
I breathed deeply through my nose before getting up to grab another beer from the fridge, feeling like the pulsing erection in my pants was spreading disorder to my brain and various parts of my body. There was no point denying it—I had a big-tit fetish. Or, perhaps more accurately, I had a selective big-tit fetish, where certain combinations of beauty and size roiled my balls.
There is a clinical term for this kind of body-part fixation—partialism—where some particular portion of a sexual partner’s anatomy is the source of the other partner’s lust. Without that anatomical element being there in sufficient quantity or quality, the desire is absent.
I sighed and wondered when I’d crossed the line into a zone where I was so fixated on how women looked, and how hot I found their bodies. What about their interests, their personalities, their insights and goals and individual quirks? In anything resembling a healthy relationship, sexual attraction could be a very important factor, but not the only factor.
It was my reaction to Mira that had started it all; before her, my general attitude towards women and sexuality had been healthier. Joyce, for instance, had been a newbie landscape architect, and sure I’d loved her big tits and work-out body, but I’d also been interested in the projects she was involved in, going so far as to memorize the names of many flowers and shrubs, and then types of stone that had been foreign to me. With Mira I loved that she was a dancer, but that was because dance training had shaped her form—especially her legs—and it had given her a sublime degree of vigor and flexibility. As for her life in general, did I really care if she and Taylor had dinner with the so-and-so’s, as long as she looked the way she looked and had an insatiable need for my cock?
Perhaps this was a night when contemplating the women in my life served as a means to summon them, because a few minutes later my phone rang, and it was Mira.
“I want you so badly I might go insane!” was the way she began the conversation.
“It’s only a matter of hours now,” I assured her.
“I’ve been practicing with my mouth more, on a cucumber. It drives me crazy that you’re as big as this thing is, and I want… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take all of you into my mouth, but I’m getting closer.”
I listened to her breaths, sharp and quick. It really did sound like the woman was reeling.
“I’m going to send you a picture,” she said, “but you have to promise you won’t jack-off to it. I want your balls completely full on Sunday, able to go at me again and again.”
And then she was gone. Not even a minute later a text appeared, with a photo of Mira’s legs sheathed in black floral-patterned stockings, spread wide with the green of a fairly massive cucumber sticking out from her pussy. My pulse went through the roof and it wasn’t from the vegetable-porn aspect; it was the dynamism of her legs in the stockings. She had been right to caution me against masturbating to the photo, because I probably would have.
I enlarged the photo on my phone, zeroing in on her legs, one at a time. I let out a soft “Jesus Christ,” as I salivated over their incredible shapeliness. Then I opened my laptop and began a new search, wondering if I could find some woman’s legs on the internet that I believed were just as sexy.
It was like falling down yet another fetish-oriented rabbit hole, and I could not find a single woman anywhere whose legs just got to me as much.
I closed my laptop. None of this fruitless searching and pondering wiped away the sense of unease that had been my companion all evening, and that brought me to a truth that study and practice and just plain living has taught me—sometimes, psyches go into a funk. I had no specific complaint about my life just then; the opposite, with the months-long object of my desire mere hours from being available to me for days on end. But it was obvious that something felt off.
I was obsessing about female anatomy, and any therapist with even half a brain would point out that enduring male/female relationships are built upon the sharing of trust, and the successful navigation of common or divergent attitudes towards political and religious philosophies, child-rearing, mutual friendships and interests, etc. Somehow, ever since first making ga-ga eyes at Mira Cassidy and discovering her sexual schism, I had slipped into a pattern where the pursuit and enjoyment of rare physical beauty had become almost everything to me.
A balanced life would mean rediscovering what natural attraction is, and being open to feelings of love while risking honesty with a partner. Immersion seductions were the opposite of that, concocted in the shadows and perpetrated in secrecy. The highs were incredibly high and I couldn’t deny that I wanted more of them, and that sounded an awful lot like immersion sex becoming no different than heroin or any other destructive addiction.
Should I make a vow to myself about never abusing the immersion technique again, like a New Year’s resolution to put it the fuck down? There was no way I could ever go that far, but I went to bed believing I was turning a corner, where I could at least lift my foot off the gas pedal.
Then I awakened in the night from a vexing dream, that had me feeling all creepy-crawly inside. In that dream I went down into my basement and found that a sculptor must be working there, carving female torsos with perfectly formed breasts out of marble. The torsos were neatly arranged upon a large circular table, lit from above. Getting close and studying the details of these carved figures, I recognized some of them—I had been marveling and salivating over exactly these female bodies online.
Just looking at them was getting me hard; and weirdly, even the way they were arranged in a circle made me hard. I reached out and glided my hand over one marble breast—it was so lifelike, and though made of stone the surface felt warm like living flesh. I gently squeezed, and of course the material did not yield the way a flesh-and-blood breast would; even so, feeling the protruding nipple pressing into the palm of my hand, and appreciating the overall roundness of the form…
At another circular table I saw a similar arrangement of female legs, also sculpted from marble. Though there were variations, they were all strong and shapely the way Mira’s legs were, and I was so turned-on.
I wanted to know something about the sculptor who could craft these miracles of feminine power and grace, and I believed that the artist was somewhere in the space with me, out of my sight. I called out, and when there was no response I ventured away from the tables and the light, trying to locate him—or her, I had no idea which. I could never quite find them, even though I sensed a presence in the room with me, observing.
I became frustrated with my inability to find the sculptor, and shuffled into the darkness, feeling my way by using extended arms as antennae. Soon I was engulfed in lightless black, trying to touch something, anything, that would give me an indication of the sculptor’s identity or even what direction I was going in. I began to feel swallowed up, possibly trapped inside of a space that I might never escape from.
I awakened in a sweat, heart beating fast. It was four in the morning and I knew there was no hope of falling back to sleep. I brewed coffee and wrote down what I could recall of the dream in my secret journal, and I couldn’t pretend to like what I thought the symbols were telling me.
The dream representation of me was focused on idealized female forms, thus the representations of those gorgeously sculpted breasts and legs in marble. It was clear that I was being shown the existence of my fetish-oriented self. And when I experienced how marble is hard, unyielding—symbolic language about my attitudes there?
An image came into my mind from an old textbook, of the famous etching by Francisco Goya, “The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters”. In it, a male figure asleep at his desk is tormented by a host of dark creatures, presumably taking flight from his subconscious. Had I been something like that on my computer last night, indulging unreasonable obsessions that had the power to bedevil me? A basement almost always symbolizes the subconscious, and I’d stirred up what I could only call fetish-Michael with all of that web-surfing.
But then the last parts of the dream, the futile search for the sculptor and the sense of feeling trapped in darkness. I took this as an illustration of my inability to get a handle on the full nature of my fetish-self; it was only recently that I was becoming aware of just how strong those preferences and urges were.
Most importantly, did I feel like I’d gotten myself into some place where there was no light, and from which I might never escape? The only thing that came to mind was that my savant-like ability with immersion hypnosis could become a kind of trap—back to immersion sex as being like heroin. In crafting various flavors of sexual bliss within Mira and Rosita and Dee, I couldn’t deny that in a completely predictable way I had created enhanced pleasures for myself. Sex with a woman whose libido was enhanced by hypnotism felt like godlike sex brought down from Mount Olympus, or the kind of sex a young and horny Merlin the Magician might conjure. You didn’t have to connect too many dots to see how someone, me, could become enthralled by having that much power, creating a particular kind of wanting.
I wrote down the acronym SIT, for Sexual Immersion Therapy. Letting my mind wander I also wrote Sex Is Transcendent, then Success Is Treacherous. And then, Shit, I’m Trapped.
Because how would I ever choose, definitively and irrevocably, against abusing my hypnotic genius? In the professional sphere there should be no more Rositas, ever, but I wasn’t confident about that, not when I wished to find new ways to branch out with sexual immersion therapy.
I put my journal away and made more coffee, committed to remaining awake as it started to get light outside. I went for a longer than usual sunrise run, and after returning home I took a hotter than usual shower. I vacuumed and dusted the entire house, ritualizing simple actions that were in the direction of cleansing and order.
It was shaping up to be a gorgeous spring day, and I made myself buy some hostas at a local nursery, and also impulse-chose a Japanese maple that would likely thrive at the front of the house. Planting it was sweaty earthy garden work, and I experienced a feeling of rejuvenation when digging the maple’s hole and placing it in the ground.
I was rinsing my hands and arms clean when I received a text from Mira that said, 24 hrs 2 go!
That could have been what brightened things, or maybe it’s just that “dark nights of the soul” are exactly that—a single night or at most a day or two, unless you’re plagued by chronic depression or some other psychological malady. Or maybe I just wasn’t good at being in the wake of the dopamine highs from all the incredible things I’d been able to do with Dee.
I had learned things, like the truth that I had complex sexual preferences, so strongly focused that I would need to rein them in… Or, get real, maybe I wouldn’t be able to. Legs as incredible as Mira’s and breasts as grand as Dee’s had ignited what I could term “my fetish self”, and there it was. That, combined with the hypnosis, had the potential to be outright addictive, true. But without being slayed by Mira’s looks in the first place, I never would have acquired the skills for getting her, or doing all I had with Dee.
That was what I believed on that sunny Saturday afternoon, where every minute that ed was one less before Hurricane Mira could blow into my house and just keep blowing. I could sense how doubts and misgivings were dropping away like unnecessary baggage, dumped so I could save energy for all the hypnotically-elevated sex to come.
Which, as it turned out, was so much more than I could have conceived at the time.