Tess reads a self-help book that unlocks her breasts’ full potential.
tags: mind control, nsfw
art by Mr. Scade
Tess was in trouble.
It had just been an innocuous purchase, a joke. The library’s quarterly yard sale always had the most wonderfully strange, hilarious books, and Tess and Sara had a long-standing competition to see who could find the weirdest, most absurd title. Today, Tess was absolutely certain she had won. Tucked between two hardbacks of last year’s forgotten bestseller was a thin little booklet, its awkward font and “Publisher’s Recommended Price: 5 cents” dating it to a very different decade.
TITNOSIS: UNLOCKING THE POTENTIAL OF YOUR BREASTS
Tess had giggled and turned to share it with Sara, but even then she knew something was wrong. By the time her friend had walked over, already grinning at the promise of some strange new book, Tess had quietly slipped the small volume into her purse, blushing slightly as she waved Sara away with an apology.
Why hadn’t she told Sara? She didn’t know, just like she didn’t know why her thoughts kept returning to the book’s gaudy psychedelic cover, and just like she didn’t know why it took every ounce of her willpower to wrap her hands around the steering wheel and not pull out the book at each stoplight on her way home.
And now Tess was in trouble.
As soon as she made it through the front door, the purse tumbled away, the rest of its spilled contents forgotten. At this moment, all that mattered was
TITNOSIS: UNLOCKING THE POTENTIAL OF YOUR BREASTS
She read it voraciously, not even mocking its awkward, upbeat tone or its absurd claims that your breasts exert an incredible power over yourself and others and that with practice, your breasts will earn you the attention and respect you deserve and you will feel your breasts swell with power and become true tits and your tits control you, your tits control others…
There were a series of guided meditations, where the reader was instructed to stare at their breasts in a mirror and repeat a series of self-affirmations, visualizing the kinds of breasts they wanted and then actualizing that power.
And now Tess was kneeling in front of the mirror, her blouse pulled open and her bra only partially unclipped, while she vacantly watched herself massage her perfect, powerful breasts. The book had had some instructions on how to break out of the trance, but Tess hadn’t gotten to that part, and now she couldn’t look away from her breasts to read that part.
She didn’t know how long she had been kneeling. Her knees didn’t hurt, which was a good thing, but also, her knees didn’t matter, because only your breasts are important. She knew she needed to close her mouth, but drooling over breasts is appropriate. She watched herself in rapt attention, fingers gently kneading her freckled flesh, thumbs rhythmically brushing across her hard nipples. Worshipping breasts is the most appropriate use of your thoughts and your hands.
But some part of her refused to completely give in. Something was amiss. Something was out of place. Something was wrong.
Tess gritted her teeth, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and on her décolletage.
“I… am not…” she angrily muttered through a clenched jaw, “some sort… of… tit-obsessed slut.”
The words hit her like a freight train:
Tit-obsessed slut.
Tit-obsessed slut.
Tit-obsessed slut.
Tess felt the vocalization hammer into her mind, infinitely more powerful than the mantras she had been mentally repeating. They smashed through her old self-perceptions, obliterating any sense of identity that stood in opposition to who she really was.
And then, when the words were done in her head, she felt them pour down into her breasts, filling them, empowering them. Under her hands, she felt the flesh warm, and then she felt the subtle pressure of her breasts beginning to grow, filling out into the tits that she deserved.
Tess realized now how wet her pussy was. She desperately wished she had another hand. But she was a tit-obsessed slut. Her brea-… her tits demanded her attention. And if her tits demanded her attention and controlled her life, what did that make her?
“No, no!” she mewled. She might be a tit-obsessed slut—obviously—but that didn’t make her a slave. Something was still wrong. “I’m not controlled by them. I’m not… I’m not controlled by my… bre-… by my br-… by my tits.”
Again, the words echoed through her head:
Controlled by my tits.
Controlled by my tits.
Controlled by my tits.
The corner of Tess’ mouth twitched upward, her contentment growing. She had finally made a breakthrough.
Of course she wasn’t controlled by her breasts.
She was controlled by her tits. Because that’s what she had now. Magnificent, beautiful, firm tits. They were so large now, so perfect, so powerful, so self-evidently in charge. They controlled her. They owned her.
Everything was beginning to make sense again. She was a tit-obsessed slut, controlled by her perfect, powerful, magnificent tits. And if her magnificent tits were perfect, and if they controlled her, then… why couldn’t these perfect, magnificent tits control other people? Why shouldn’t they? Hadn’t her tits earned that attention? Didn’t they deserve that respect?
This last thought brought a flash of concern. It was one thing for Tess to finally accept that she was a slave to her tits, but… but wouldn’t it be wrong to use her tits to control other people?
“I don’t…” she feebly muttered, mustering the last of her willpower, “want to… use my tits to… to make more titslaves?”
Use my tits to make more titslaves.
Use my tits to make more titslaves.
Use my tits to make more titslaves.
The words washed over Tess, and she broke into a smile. Everything was so clear now. All her concerns had been addressed. She was finally able to look away from the mirror—away from the mirror, because she was finally ready to drop her head and stare directly at her tits. Her mouth hung open, drool dripping onto her titflesh and into her cleavage and lubricating her fingers’ ministrations.
“I am a tit-obsessed slut,” she began. “I am controlled by my tits. I must use my tits to make more titslaves. I am a tit-obsessed slut. I am controlled by my tits…”
This story is unabashedly based on a series of illustrations done by Oo_Sebastian_oO. Having said that, the real ur-inspiration for this story was the writing and art of Mr. Scade, whose work was a young, impressionable Devi’s first introduction to concepts like “fitnosis” and “swimslave.” Imagine my joy when, years later, I was able to actually commission him to illustrate this story! He’s continued to write fiction stories, but has also branched out to professional writing and photography!
As always, a special thank you is in order for my patrons, whose support made the art commission possible, and who got early access to this story!