The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

PEOPLE WATCHER

The plane disembarked at last, after a seeming interminable delay. Mina stretched, arching her back, dekinking herself. Long haul coach was such a comedown. She trudged the endless miles through JFK to claim her bag, looking forward to home, to sleep, and to seeing James tomorrow.

By the baggage carousel she idly scanned her fellow passengers, always alert to peoplewatching. The businessmen playing with their blackberries, scrolling endless emails, always jittery after ten hours’ electronic silence. The younger travellers pecking at their facetubes, expressions blank, lolling at strangers. A squabbling family, tired and irritable with each other.

Across the belt, an implausibly attractive red-haired woman in a tight black dress and heels. Mina’d caught her eye at check in, half a day ago, half a world away; they’d chatted briefly as they waited, smalltalking about Paris and life in general.

The redhead was transiting through from Tokyo, she told Mina, and a few days off grid was a rare break.

“Airports are so interesting,” the woman had said. “All human life passes through here. Look: that man—he’s with a woman who’s not his wife. What are they doing, do you think?”

Mina looked “I don’t know. How do you know?”

The woman had smiled at that. “Can’t you tell? Look: he’s too attentive, yet he’s slightly uncertain. He’s smiling too much. Good fortune and guilt all mashed up. His body language: proud of himself yet worried. She’s too glossy, just a little too well groomed, still at that stage of looking to seal the unsealable deal. Can’t you tell? Don’t you like to guess?”

It was true: she did. Mina had laughed at the outrageous yet entirely plausible speculation. “And what do you think people are saying about us? Our innermost secrets?”

“Oh, me? They’ll be seeing some sort of generic tri-ontinental ball-breaking business bitch, I expect. But don’t worry. They can’t see you.” The woman had looked at her intently for a moment. “Not the things you don’t want them to see, anyway.”

She’d noticed the woman again in First Class as she passed, heading for coach, and she had glanced up at Mina from her seat; cool grey eyes, appraising. Mina had squashed a brief flare of jealousy at her dynamite figure and general First-Class-ness.

Without the heels, Mina guessed they’d be the same height. Now, she nodded across the belt at the woman. The other acknowledged with a small red-lipped smile and a tilt of her head.

With blessed bleary-eyed relief, Mina spotted her bag was one of the first off the plane.

* * *

Home at last. Mina snagged a glass of chardonnay from the fridge and thought about unpacking. She thought hard, then flopped down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, swigged her wine and thought about it some more. A few minutes later, relaxed, she decided to actually do something about it.

She knew as soon as she opened the zipper that this was not her luggage. Damn her tiredness; all these damn bags looked the same.

Yet checking, a tiny tag on the handle, as always with her initials: M.S. There was no mistake.

Eyeing the strange clothes, she was suddenly, disorientatingly, wide awake. She inspected the bag again, rifling through the front zipper pocket for reassurance and indentification. Here: a forgotten stub of lipstick; red, her exact shade. The magazine she’d bought in Paris, a memento. A Metro ticket; the Louvre brochure. There was nothing with her name, but these things she recognised.

Therefore, she thought, her mind misted by jet-lag, QED: this must indeed be her luggage. She pawed through the contents, seeking familiarity, recognising nothing. It was like rummaging through a stranger’s dressing up box.

But, she thought, this must indeed be her luggage. And if this was her luggage, then QED: these must surely be her clothes.

* * *

Mina tried the underwear on first. It was wonderfully sheer and silken, black as sin, and obviously far more expensive than anything she’d thought she owned. It fitted perfectly, and set off her own black hair. Turning, admiring her curvaceous body in the mirror, she felt proud she’d had the taste to ditch her old stuff and buy this in Paris. She couldn’t recall doing so, but that was what must have happened. James would be thrilled, she thought, with a tiny flush of anticipation.

There were other items. She turned a vivid red and black corset over in her hands, noting how the suspenders would work well with sheer stockings. She tried it on, lacing it tight behind her own back; with a little effort she saw her figure exaggerated into a stunning hour-glass. Experimenting, she slipped the stockings on, and slid into a pair of vertiginous black heels she certainly couldn’t remember buying or ever even thinking about buying.

Looking at herself, Mina frowned in confusion. She couldn’t remember buying any of this stuff, but this was her luggage, therefore these were her clothes: QED. And there was no question it all suited her perfectly. She was arousing herself; goodness knew what it would do to James. The heels made her legs look wonderfully long and toned. She bent back to the bag, wondering what else she’d bought, and stifled a laugh at the large dildo that immediately caught her eye.

She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, hefting it. It was indeed a dildo, and it was a very realistic looking depiction of what it was supposed to substitute for, albeit in smooth and seamless black. It flexed slightly to the touch. Mina thought she must have been out of her mind to buy such a thing: the very size of it was intimidating. And yet, this was her luggage, therefore these were her things…

Mina felt her muscles twitch, down there. Experimentally, she nudged the head of it inside her, then pushed it deeper, slowly deeper, until it could go no further, stretching to accommodate it; and suddenly, with no warning, it came to life, throbbing warmly and insistently inside her.

At once Mina threw herself onto her bed, back arched, and her hand pushed it deliciously deeper. She threw her head back on the pillow. It began to make itself felt in new and unexpected ways. In, out, in, out, in a slow and insistent rhythm that was all too addictive. Out of control now, Mina spasmed and twitched and squeezed; she squealed and writhed on the bed, and finally came, stifling a scream.

Panting, Mina slid the toy out of her and lay back. Wow, she thought. What a souvenir. She wondered what else she had bought.

* * *

A full length, whole body outfit of some sort, in something resembling black latex; and if Mina saw it right, the body suit ended seamlessly in built-in gloves and six inch heels. Her breath caught in her throat. There was no way on earth she’d ever buy such a thing, let alone wear it.

But, she thought, this was her luggage. And if this was her luggage, then QED: this belonged to her.

Mina shrugged out of the corset and heels, and picked up the suit. It was very light. The material stretched, just a little. It was very black, and very shiny, and as she examined it, it reflected her face, vaguely recognisable in spite of the distortions in its folds.

Turning it over, Mina could see a zipper running the length of the suit.

She couldn’t resist. And what harm could it do? She unzipped the suit, and slipped one leg into it, then the other, pushing her feet into the boots. They weren’t boots exactly, just part of the suit, but the fit was perfect. She pulled it up over her legs, her thighs, her butt, and squeezed her arms into its arms, and her fingers into its fingers, and raised it over her chest. It fit her breasts exactly, bulging precisely over the nipples.

She reached behind her back, with difficulty, and began to draw the zipper upwards. Damn, it was tight. She breathed in, and pulled hard, feeling the suit cinching her waist, and finally, with one last pull, felt the zipper reach her neck.

Mina eyed herself in the mirror, stunned. The suit was an absolutely perfect, skin tight fit. It simply looked sprayed on. Her breasts bulged out proudly, full and round and high, the nipples prominent. There were no fibres, no creases, no imperfections whatsoever in the fit.

Mina strutted around in the suit, glorying in her stunning new look, unable to take her eyes off her reflection. She looked like a different person. She felt like a different person.

It was only when she tried to take it off that the problems started.

She pulled and she jerked at the fastener, but no matter what she did, the zipper wouldn’t budge. She was stuck.

And then the suit began to squeeze and throb, in all the right places. First the tight sensation of her nipples being sucked; she gasped, feeling them harden. Then the feeling of being stroked, down there, and then licked, slowly at first and then faster and faster. She pressed both hands to her seamless groin, but that only seemed to exacerbate the sensation.

Frantically, her vision reddening with heat, she called James, but he wasn’t picking up.

There had to be something. She scrabbled again in the many and various tiny pouches of the wheelie bag. At last, buried deep in one of the pockets—a business card. Mina reached for her phone again.

* * *

“Hello?” Mina said breathlessly, panting in arousal.

The line hissed with silence. And then a woman’s voice, throaty and authoritative, and strangely familiar. “Hello. You must be M.S.. Are you perhaps calling about my luggage?”

“Your luggage? Yes. But how did you know…” Through the gathering storm of lust, Mina was confused.

“From the little label on your bag. Which I have here, instead of mine. What does the ‘M’ stand for, may I ask?”

Relief flooded her.

“Mina. But how?” Something wasn’t quite adding up. Trapped in this strange outfit, assailed by wonderful sensations, Mina struggled to think clearly. “Yours is so exactly like mine. The magazine; the brochure, the lipstick, my initials—but they can’t be your initials too —“

The woman laughed. “No. I know. Such small signifiers, from one bag to another. I even watched you take it from the belt, and check it, just to be sure.”

Something was eluding Mina. She tried to concentrate. “You opened my luggage too?”

“I did.” Another laugh. “What on earth are you doing with all those dowdy clothes? You’re so much better than that.”

“Oh—“ gasped Mina, as the sensation at her pussy built to a crescendo. She couldn’t think. “I—aaah —“

There was a beat of silence on the line. “Mina, I assume you’ve been trying out a few of my things?”

Mina pulled at the zipper again, but it didn’t budge an inch. The sensation was overwhelming now; one orgasm after another. “Yes, I, ah, ah—“

“And let me guess: you’re in my special suit now, aren’t you?” The woman sounded more amused than offended. “Good. I could tell you wouldn’t be able to resist it, just by looking at you; the look in your eyes, your body language, the way you move. Just talking to you, even for a minute, I could tell you were the type. Not everybody can do that, but I can. I’m a very good peoplewatcher. It’s my job, actually. The signals nobody sees. Always on the lookout.”

Mina had no answer to that. She flashed on the red-headed woman at the airport; her calm throaty voice, her curious perspicacity.

“Not so easy to get out of, is it, though?” continued the other woman.

“No,” panted Mina, gathering her senses. The suit was quietening, its rhythms easing down. Seemingly sensing her climax, it lulled and then began building slowly again. “Not so easy.”

“No. That’s the idea. It has to be removed by someone else.”

“Who?” Mina managed to gasp.

“Never mind who. You can’t just take it off. You have to work to be let out of it.”

“Work? What do you mean? Doing what?” Mina climaxed again as she spoke. Would this thing never stop?

“Never mind what. It obviously fits you.”

“Yes…” The rhythm of squeezing, nuzzling, nibbling, licking was beginning all over again. Mina closed her eyes, relishing it in spite of herself.

“Very good. Now, I’ll text you an address. It’ll be a nice surprise.”

“A surprise…?”

“Yes. A little present. You do want to be let out of the suit, don’t you?” A throaty laugh. “Or maybe you don’t, hmm…?”

The suit was doing its work, implacable; Mina couldn’t think. “I—I—yes—no—“

“Whichever. Bring the rest of my luggage with you, though. Either way, you could be in for a long stay.”