The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She could do without his lascivious looks. The outfit she wore made her uncomfortable enough as it was without him staring at her. She hadn’t thought much about it when she first opened the closet last night, and only her inner prude felt much concern when she’d gotten a good look at it this morning . . .

Stephanie stood there in her hotel bathrobe, looking again at the clothes laid out on the bed. They weren’t so bad in the light of the morning, she affirmed. And it wasn’t like she had much choice in the matter. While her plane landed on time in San Jose, her luggage had decided upon a more adventurous destination, and was vacationing in either Hawaii or Cancun; they still didn’t know which. Normally luggage wasn’t even an issue—she always carried everything on—but the Gods were surely conspiring against her on this trip: limo to the airport a no-show; the world’s only slow taxi driver; just barely making the plane, only to be told her bag was too big and would have to be checked. Stephanie wondered whether jealous attitude had been a factor twenty years ago when stewardesses, err, flight attendants never worked past thirty. Arguments that she’d stowed it a dozen times before on that very airline without incident fell on deaf ears, and she knew when she finally released her grip from her suit bag that it would be the last time she’d ever touch it. She’d been prepared, though, wearing her second-best (i.e. only other) power presentation suit on the flight, just in case of such a conspiracy.

But no, the Gods weren’t just conspiring against her, they were actively ruining her life. Sunny California, indeed. A freak thunderstorm blew in just in time to intersect with the effects of airport construction vis-a-vis a temporarily-relocated rentacar pickup lot. The hard-packed dirt, slick and shiny from heavy traffic, would have been tricky enough in her faux-construction-worker Sketchers boots, but in her dress flats . . . she would have been quite a sight, if there’d been anyone within a half-mile of the lot. Hands desperately grabbing at the car door and frame as her left foot slipped forward under the wide-open door; her right leg swinging up, foot meeting the steering wheel as her ass met the ground; skirt splitting up the right seam nearly to her waist, just before she lost her grip on the car and fell back onto the greasy-mudded ground. Even if they could have gotten all the muck out in time for the next morning, there was no repairing the skirt. It’d been tight to begin with, the result of a similar (except for the rain and filth) splitting incident six months before.

She managed to get into the hotel without causing too much of a scene by (1) arriving very late (as if by choice!) and (2) tying her suit jacket around her waist. Her silk blouse had gotten soaked thanks to a leaky awning in front of the hotel, but a little BraVision wasn’t the worst embarassment she could think of, considering her situation.

As she opened the closet to hang her muddy jacket, she was surprised to find clothes hanging there. At first she considered calling the front desk to have a bellhop claim the last visitor’s forgotten items, but . . .

After towelling off and making sure she’d washed all of the scum out of her dark auburn hair (hotel shampoo hadn’t been too awful), she pulled the clothes out of the closet to take a look. A white high-collar button-up two-layer satin blouse with sheer sleeves, and a shiny peach over-the-knee skirt (some kind of polyester blend, she figured) with matching jacket. Even a pair of black velvet low-heel pumps. A little underdressed (and cheap-looking) for a presentation, but more than adequate for shopping. She could surely postpone the meeting for a day with the doozey of a story she had! She washed her underwear out in the sink and hung it to dry over the shower door. Collapsing in bed, she resolved to make things work despite their disastrous beginnings.

It was nearly 9am. She’d overslept, but that was okay. She wouldn’t have to give her presentation today. In a few minutes the client’s offices would be open, and she could recount her amazing tale of woe to a sympathetic secretary who would reschedule her appointment for Friday. She stepped into the bathroom and in one graceful sweep of the arm snatched her bra and panties down from the top of the shower door. Only they lurched out her hands a few inches later. Half of them, anyway. The other half hung in tatters from an exposed screw on which they’d caught—one bra cup and most of the panty crotch. Stephanie stood there motionless in shock for what seemed like minutes before finally gritting her teeth in a determined “harumph” and ripping the remains of her underwear down, wadding up the halves and tossing them in the wastebasket.

How wildly could her luck swing? Not only did the tacky suit fit perfectly, but a desperate search of the bureau drawers retrieved a coordinated bra, panties, and stockings. The peach-tinted stockings were too much, but the satin panties were serviceable, if a bit overromanticized with a lace front and sheer ruffles; the matching lace/sheer front-hook bra was a little dramatic with cleavage-to-way-down-there, but it seemed to fit okay. The shoes were even the right size.

And the pendulum swung back the other way. “I... I understand. I’ll be there at 10.” Stephanie set the phone down on its cradle gently, as if afraid to break it. She choked back an urge to scream, or maybe cry. The presentation couldn’t be postponed. “She can do it naked if she has to,” the client had said, “but I’ve got to make a decision by the end of the day.” The secretary hadn’t relayed his rude words, but he’d said them loud enough for Stephanie to hear.

She couldn’t go dressed like this. But she couldn’t not go. It would probably stall her career, at least if she didn’t want to resort to fucking her way up the ladder. Buck up, Steph, you’ll get through it. You can turn this problem into an opportunity. At least there’s no question of what you’ll use as an icebreaker story.

“I might as well go for the full nine,” she said suddenly aloud as she reached across the bed for the drawer containing the peach stockings.

. . . but now, the bald stares made her feel positively exposed.

They’d started as the briefest of glances—the kind of quick & covert eye movements every man is guilty of when he sees an attractive woman. She’d received them almost as a matter of course ever since she blossomed at 16, to the point that they didn’t even register consciously anymore. But they grew more frequent—and more obvious—as the meeting wore on.

She had gotten through it. Even if she did stumble in self-consciousness a couple of times as she caught her reflection in the board room windows—her attire seemed more daring here than it did in the hotel room, as if the clients’ looks had altered it—the smiling clients hadn’t seemed to notice her flubs. The vice-president—the only one who really mattered—was positively beaming. The presentation ran long—they had more questions than she’d expected, but she’d done her homework and only faltered once or thrice, promising to get back to them with those details when she got back to the office on Monday. It made her forget her less-than-professional image. The vice-president even asked her to join him for lunch.

As she waited on the couch outside his office, she again caught her reflection in the window. No wonder he wanted her for lunch—she was quite fetching. Maybe this outfit is a blessing in disguise, she mused, though I wish the skirt wasn’t so tight. It’s a good thing the jacket’s long, rather than cropped; I can do without everyone staring at panty lines.

“Ready?” Mr. Pearson, the vice-president, was grinning down at her like a boy who knew he was going to get his favorite dessert. “Here, let me get that for you,” he said as he pulled her notebook case strap from her shoulder. “Uhh, okay,” Stephanie replied uneasily. “Miss Jensen, please hold this until we return,” Mr. Pearson said to his secretary.

“Umm, actually I have a... conference call at 1:30,” Stephanie said, making up a lie. “I won’t have time to come back here before I go back to my hotel.” “You can make your call from here if you like,” Mr. Pearson said, still grinning. Stephanie caught the tail end of his appraising glance up and down her form. It wouldn’t have bothered her if she hadn’t been in this low-rent outfit. Mr. Pearson’s secretary was pausing in mid-reach for the notebook, looking expectantly at Stephanie. “No,” Stephanie replied to Mr. Pearson but looking at his secretary, “I... have some papers back at the hotel I need as well.” She looked back at him and his eyes darted up to meet hers. Had he been checking out her chest? “You know, not quite a paperless world yet,” she joked nervously. “All right, Miss Jensen, have Miss Shaker’s notebook delivered to her hotel room. You’re staying at the...?” Mr. Pearson prompted. Stephanie felt uncomfortably out of control, but she didn’t want to rub Mr. Pearson the wrong way; after all, he was just being a good host. “The Marriott,” she said finally. Mr. Pearson nodded assertively at his secretary; Miss Jensen rolled her eyes and smirked disapprovingly, but accepted the case and put it behind her desk. “Shall we go?” Mr. Pearson said smiling as he gestured with a sweep of his hand toward the elevators.

The walk to the cafe had been awkward. Stephanie started reviewing details of the deal, but Mr. Pearson—Richard—had brushed that aside. “If I wanted to talk about work, I’d have invited my secretary,” he shooed. I bet the discussion’s a little more personal with her, Stephanie thought to herself. Where had that thought come from? Mr. Pearson led the conversation, asking small-talk personal questions like where in LA did she live, what did she like to do for fun, did she like to people-watch... Stephanie struggled to keep up with his brisk pace; her heels felt higher than she remembered them, and the tight skirt further minced her steps. Mr. Pearson had been telling her a story about his younger days and was obviously wrapped up in the memory, because she had to call out to him to keep him from leaving her behind. He stopped and turned to let her regain the five steps, his eyes darting up and down. Stephanie blushed with embarassment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pearson, I’m just not used to these shoes.” “Call me Richard,” he corrected. “And I apologize for leaving you behind. But thinking about my wilder days puts a certain spring in my step. Actually, I’m surprised I didn’t lose you. That borrowed skirt doesn’t lend itself to speed-walking.” He used the reference as an opportunity to stare at her legs for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Stephanie blushed deeper red, “but as I explained this morning, I was lucky to have anything at all.” Mr. Pearson said something under his breath about being lucky, but Stephanie didn’t quite catch it. “Here, the cafe’s just around the corner.”

They’d only been sitting down for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours to poor Stephanie. Her bra was driving her crazy! She shifted uncomfortably in her seat for what must have been the hundredth time, because Mr. Pearson—Richard—had asked if she needed to excuse herself. “Oh! No, I’m fine.” But another minute of itching proved too much. “Actually, I think I do need to powder my nose.” She stood up quickly, pausing to smooth her skirt back down over her knees before heading inside.

She nearly tore off the buttons in her hurry to get out of the bra. Her skin felt on fire! Popping the front clasp, she breathed a sigh of relief. Must be an allergic reaction, she decided. The feeling over her breasts quickly subsided to a faint tingling. She briefly looked around for a place to store the offending garment. Carrying no purse, she checked the jacket for pockets as it hung on the bathroom stall door and found none. As she rustled through the lining of the jacket, her blouse hanging over it lost its purchase on the door hook and floated downward. “Oh!” Stephanie cried out as she spasmically lunged down for the blouse’s collar, dropping the bra in the process. She smacked her head against the stall door and nearly slipped on the wet tile floor, but managed to snag the blouse at knee level and catch herself by bracing against the stall walls. “Ooh!” she straightened up in surprise as her skin registered the sensation of the ice-cold metal walls against her bare skin.

To her horror, she heard a ripping sound. She looked down to see the bottom of her blouse trapped under a stiletto heel. “Oh, just GREAT!” she spat.

The blouse had ripped quite neatly from the middle of the back down to the front tails on either side. It wouldn’t have been much better if she hadn’t ripped the blouse, because the bottom was soaked in back from the wet floor. As it was what was left of the blouse was dry. She finished ripping the shorn & wet portion off as neatly as she could and slipped the blouse back on. After briefly considering her lack of options, she took the longer front and tied it off above her navel.

Looking in the mirror, there weren’t many adjustments to be made. She’d dried off the cuffs and sleeves as best she could with paper towels. The sheer material would dry quickly, but the cuffs would bother her all afternoon. She tied and re-tied the blouse tails several times, but there was no getting a conservative look out of it. She pulled on the shiny peach jacket, fastening the sole button at her navel. A triangle of bare stomach showed between the knotted blouse and the jacket button, but she could cover most of it with the knot ends. At least all the blouse’s buttons were intact, and the opaque satin body and high collar lent a hint of respectability, even if it was still a bit tight. After a final tug at her skirt to bring it back down to her knees, she strode out the bathroom door... and nearly took out a waiter. She jerked back quickly to avoid running into him and nearly fell over backwards. Adroitly, the waiter reached out and grabbed her arm, stabilizing her. “Sorry, miss,” he apologized and went on his way.

Was she drunk? She hadn’t even finished her wine when she excused herself. She cast a disapproving look down at her pumps. The patent leather around her open toe gleamed back up at her. Talk about cheap shoes, she thought, I must have rubbed all the velvet off. She lifted one foot and then the other to make sure the three-inch stilettos weren’t broken. No, it must be me, she sighed as she made her way back to Richard’s table.

As she ate her salad, she felt a breeze. It hadn’t been this chilly on the walk over, had it? “Wind picks up a bit down here about noon,” Richard explained, noticing her chilled look. He also noticed an erect nipple poking through the blouse as she reached for the pepper and her jacket shifted to one side. He’d see more of that later, he grinned.

She panicked. He was in her hotel room! It lasted but an instant. Of course; he wanted to see the market survey results after all, and they were in her notebook case. The room was hot; housekeeping had flicked on the heater instead of the air-conditioning. She hung her jacket on the back of the chair, forgetting her exposed midriff. She found the notebook case there on the floor, and bent down to pick it up, hoisting it to the desk. She caught a glimpse of Richard grinning like a Cheshire cat in the mirror as he stood behind her; was he checking out her ass?

Richard approved of the numbers. He also approved of the shape of her ass—and those legs atop those three-and-a-half-inch slingback heels—as she’d bent over to retrieve the notebook, skirt inching up the backs of her thighs. He even caught a glimpse of a stocking-top. Was that a ruffle on her hip peeking out above the top of the skirt? He visually traced the arc of the unelasticized ruffle along the peak of her shapely buttocks. If they were anywhere near as sheer as her white stockings, he definitely approved. His fingers grazed the spare room key in his pocket. Palming it while she was busy with her laptop case had been easy, if somewhat distracting from the brief show.

“I’m sorry about the heat in here; the stupid maid...” Richard stopped her. “That’s quite all right.” It was murderously hot, but Richard hardly noticed the sweat pouring down his face. He did, however, notice the way Stephanie’s blouse became clingy with even the slightest bit of perspiration. “Let’s step out onto the balcony and you can explain the numbers.”

The view was fantastic. What had been a slight breeze at street level was a steady wind up here on the twelfth floor, and it pressed Stephanie’s blouse firmly against her ample chest. The sudden cooling made her nipples stand proudly at attention. She shrank in a bit at the chill, tugging the skirt down to keep the bands of her stockings from showing. She noticed that the afternoon light made it appear bright pink instead of the softer peach it had been that morning. Richard shot her a quizzical look; she blushed momentarily, then realized his gaze had returned to the market survey report in her hands. “Oh, yes; here,” she said as she crossed the balcony to stand next to him. She nervously flipped through the report. “You were asking about the, um... people groups...” her vocabulary failed her. Why couldn’t she think? “The demographics,” Richard said, a bit sternly. “Yeah, the demographics.” She continued scanning the report, looking for the right page as she held it in front of him. Where was it?

“I think you passed it.” As they faced the window, he scanned her reflection appreciatively. The early afternoon sun had an illuminating effect in more ways than one. The top of her blouse was sheer, gradually opaquing as it reached the full swell of her breasts. The contrasting satin collar and cuffs and her bare midriff set off her tits nicely. As she moved slightly to and fro, flipping back and forth through the report, the sun danced across the blouse. As it caught the light just so, the blouse seemed to be becoming more see-through . . .

“Ahh, here it is!” Stephanie punctuated her discovery by stabbing the page with her manicured nail. Her tits jiggled. “As you can see here, it’s really going to be a hit with people my age.” Richard took the report from her hands. “Yes, I see,” he said mock-thoughtfully. Stephanie recovered and crossed her arms, as much for coverage as for warmth, not realizing the posture had thrust her breasts upward and spilled her strawberry-blonde curls forward to frame them. The first two buttons below her collar fell off, giving an inviting keyhole effect. She couldn’t believe she’d dressed this way for a client, even one so handsome...

“Look at the time,” Richard said. Stephanie was confused. It was 2 o’clock; so? Maybe he had to leave. Then at least she could send for something, anything else to wear... “Your conference call.” Oh, shit! She’d forgotten the made-up conference call. She turned beet red, and her tongue dulled. What could she say? After a moment of awkward silence, Richard offered her an excuse. “I’m sure your boss will understand; after all, you’re doing everything you can to make me happy.”

She was caught off guard by the implication, but Richard’s smile quickly won her over. “Yeah, I’m sure he won’t mind,” Stephi giggled. What was happening to her?

“Let’s go inside,” Richard suggested. “You look cold.” Actually, Stephi was a little cold, but warm and tingly all at the same time. She crossed the balcony to the open door, glimpsing herself in the window’s reflection. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing her stocking-tops, and her sheer top left little to the imagination. Her breasts bounced and her hips swayed as she strutted inside on her four-inch stiletto mules. Damn, I look good! How could he not be interested? But, I can’t... what if her boyfriend found out?

Richard openly stared as Stephi preceded him in from the balcony. Her shoes alternately clicking on the balcony and slapping the bottoms of her stocking-clad feet, her perfect ass cheeks alternately waving at him from underneath the hot-pink miniskirt, her mostly-bare back caressed by waves of soft curly hair—Jesus, she was hot! “Almost perfect...”

They sat down at the table in the corner of the room. “See? It’s not so hot in here anymore.” Richard took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair before he sat down. Stephi went to the minibar, her flared miniskirt sashaying to and fro. Stephi could see flashes of bare thigh above her stockings; her hands went to her sides, but the skirt just wouldn’t lay flat. The front bulged upward as she pressed on the sides. Panicked, she tried to suppress the front, only to feel the back pull away. She spun around to see Richard grinning; she hung her head in shame. She hadn’t noticed the stiff plastic ring under the hem before... how long had she been exposing herself to his gaze? Pulling her hands away from her waist as if afraid to let them go lower, she excused herself to the bathroom.

Poor Stephi was humiliated, but what could she do? She vainly looked for her ruined muddy clothes from last night—even they were preferable to this peep-show—but apparently the maid had taken them away. She thought about Richard; how could she gracefully get him to leave? But the more she thought about him, the foggier her mind became. She couldn’t shoo him out; he might get mad and then she was ruined.

What an ass! Richard savored the memory of the brief flash, recounting the exact lines of those satin white high-cut ruffled string bikini panties decorating Stephi’s taut cheeks... “Just about perfect...”

Resolved to make the best of it, Stephi experimented with the skirt in the mirror. Half of it insisted on lifting away from her legs, no matter how she tried to manipulate it. And her panties! It was a good thing she shaved; the front was so low-cut it barely concealed her, and the unelasticized ruffled style compounded the high cut to give teasing flashes of her derriere. Like her skirt, they now looked hot pink; had being outside in the bright sun affected her vision?

If she left the skirt alone and was very careful how she sat down, he wouldn’t see everything, quite. She failed to notice that all of the buttons below the throatband collar were missing from her sheer whisp of a tied-off blouse, leaving a scandalous amount of exposed cleavage. She adjusted the coordinating satin wrist cuffs as if tugging down imaginary sleeves. Girded for battle, she re-entered the room.

“Can I get you something to drink?” She slowly kneeled down in front of the minibar, trying not to make any more of a spectacle of herself than she had to. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Richard staring; an excited shiver ran up her spine. Richard cleared his throat as he loosened his tie. “A beer’s fine,” he said. He watched as her hair tickled her back, bare save the satin collar and a slim strap of sheer material holding her top in place. The wash of cold air from the fridge made her arch back. As she timidly brought him the can, he saw her erect nipples plainly through her barely-there top. It took all his will to avert his gaze.

She stumbled over to the bed, nearly falling down off her five-inch clear-plastic stilettos. She sat down gingerly on the end of the bed, facing him, being careful to let her skirt flare out behind her rather than sit on it and force the front up off her lap. She didn’t know why, but she felt more comfortable here than sitting across from him at the desk. She gathered her feet up to one side, leaning on her opposite elbow. Her free hand idly traced up and down her ultrasheer white stockings; something tickled her hand down by her feet. She looked down to see it was the hot pink maribou trim on her clear-plastic five-inch stiletto bedroom slippers. It was so hard to think; had she worn these all day?

“Well, Stephi, thank you for the market survey data, and for being such a pleasant lunch companion, but I need to get back to the office.” Stephi’s heart sank; did he have to go already? But if that’s what he wanted... “Are you sure you hafta go?” she cooed. But... didn’t she want him to leave?

“Unless there’s something else you’d like to show me . . .” Richard led. Stephi’s cheeks burned crimson; her eyes cast downward. Her fingers slowly traced a line down her form, from her bare shoulder, down over her heaving tits which threatened to burst out of her see-through sheer hot-pink halter, across her quivering bare stomach, along the maribou-lined hem of her hot-pink plastic miniskirt, pushing it down at her side so that the front lifted to reveal her sheer hot-pink ruffled panties, caressing her bare thigh down to the top of her pink stockings. She didn’t care what anyone thought; she wanted him so badly. If she didn’t, why did she dress so hot? “Well, maybe...” Richard stood up and came to the foot of the bed.

Stephi straightened her legs out from under her, crossing them as she leaned back on the bed, her fuck-me shoes dangling from her toes.

In a flash, his pants were down around his ankles. He grabbed her behind each knee and yanked her toward the edge of the bed. The front of her skirt stood straight up as she gasped in surprise; her soft hair spread out above her head just like a soft-focus glamour shot. He found her slit through her split-crotch panties and in one quick thrust rammed his cock home; she cried out as her soaking-wet pussy squished and squeezed around his member. Richard nearly came right then; he knew he couldn’t hold out for long. But it didn’t matter; he’d been mentally fucking Stephi ever since he first saw her two months ago. He’d have plenty of opportunities for a good, long fuck—or a quickie, or whatever else he wanted from her—in her new “love nest” apartment, in the back of his limo, even bent over his desk, watching her reflection in the window . . .

His hands gripped her asscheeks roughly, fingers curling up over and sliding underneath the unelasticized ruffled edge of her panties, squeezing in time with his strokes. He looked down at her swollen breasts, finally bouncing free of the overstrained halter as it gave way under the strain of their undulating motion. He curled down, clamping his mouth down over one succulent breast and alternately tonguing and biting her nipple through the flimsy, tattered fabric. She bit her lip and tossed her head to the side as new waves of pleasure overcame her. Her left slipper slid off her foot as she locked her ankles behind him; her right shoe dangled from her toes, bouncing up and down and slapping her stocking-clad foot as she urged him on. He felt the tickling maribou trim of her miniskirt on his stomach, and heard the crinkle of the plastic under her as he pistoned faster. His fingers curled tighter, trapping the flimsy ruffles of her panties between them. He pulled down and out as if to work his way even deeper inside her; the fabric resisted and then gave way slightly. The tearing sound drove him further toward the brink; he yanked down harder, the sound of each new tear driving him on, increasing his tempo. The rhythmic tightening and loosening across her ass as her panties surrendered to his assault an inch at a time drove her insane. They finally gave way from her left hip with a long rrriiiippp; this pushed them both over the edge. He came harder than he had in years for what seemed like minutes; finally spent, he collapsed on top of her as her legs unwrapped and fell to the bed. He rolled off her, their breathing slowing. Her right slipper still dangled precariously from her toes as they both fell to sleep.