The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“What a clothes horse!”

“You have a package for me?” Faith asked.

The office manager looked up. “Apartment?” she asked in an annoyed tone. Janice was off Mondays; this older woman apparently covered the office for her.

“302.”

The older woman shuffled off to the back room, out of sight. “What’s the name?” she called out.

“Matthews,” Faith called back. She heard boxes being stacked and restacked. After too-few moments of looking, the annoyed voice reasserted itself. “I don’t see it here. How big is it?”

Faith looked at the slip that had been left stuck to her door, looking for the parcel weight or some other clue. “I’m not sure. It came UPS.”

The level of annoyance increased. “Well, what did you order?” it asked. More stacking and unstacking, then it stopped. “Here it is,” the office manager said as she reappeared, carrying something a little larger than a shirt box.

“Thank you,” Faith nodded as she backed out of the office.

Ten minutes later, Faith was sitting, silent and motionless on her couch, still in her work clothes. On a normal day she’d start peeling out of them before the front door shut, eager as much for mental as physical comfort to get into jeans and a T-shirt; but the unexpected package had intrigued her, so after slitting the packing tape on one end with her key, she’d slid the contents out onto the coffee table. The contents surprised her.

It was after checking both the delivery slip and packing list several times that she’d had to sit down on the couch, as a mixture of shock, anger, and fear flooded her. And just a little excitement.

Several minutes of spinning her mental wheels had gotten her nowhere. A dozen suspects had been added to and crossed off her list, leaving her with no more clue than before. Who would have sent her lingerie?

She picked through the bits of cloth on the table, looking at the tags for a manufacturer, but they only indicated the size. Stranger still, letters were inked over the size... T, F, another T, W, TH... days of the week! What the hell? Faith dropped the scrap of cloth in her hand and sat bolt upright. This was getting freaky. She snapped her head to the left, looking out her patio window, but the blinds were angled so that no one could see in.

Faith began examining the items themselves, laying them out carefully according to the letters on their tags. They all seemed to be the same basic style—satin bra and matching panties, all white save two pieces in black—but the bras were in different sizes and the panties varied in cut. “It’s like they just pulled everything off one rack at Macy’s,” Faith mused. And they were all too big for her, though she could make Tuesday’s 34A work if she added pads. Wednesday and Thursday’s 34Bs and Friday’s 34Cs were useless. This must be somebody’s sick joke making fun of my boobs, Faith thought. Or her lack thereof; although a slim and graceful 5′5″, Faith was basically flat-chested. Angry, she balled all the bras up and shoved them back into the box. Her hand hovered over the panties, hesitating. She could always use more underwear, and all but Friday were Small, her size. But this was a “gift” best not accepted; she shoved them into the box as well, and stormed off to get changed.

Comfortable in her torn jeans and half-shirt—her “laundry night” outfit—Faith ordered her usual Dinner For One from the chinese place down the street and hurried down to the laundry room to get her loads started before the food showed up. One machine with her cotton underwear and weekend jeans and T-shirts, another with her blouses and nylons, the last with her vests and pants. She was lucky to get all three machines going before Scowling Man from upstairs could tie up all four machines. Like clockwork, he’d rumble down the stairs at 5:55 arms loaded with a pair of duffel bags and a box of Cheer hanging from his right hand, load up all the machines, and then forget his laundry until 9:00, when he’d stomp down the stairs again to throw everything into the four dryers, and stomp down one last time at 11:00 to haul his stuff away. Faith avoided doing laundry on Mondays when she could—Scowling Man intimidated her almost as much as he irritated her for the way he’d monopolize the laundry room—but she’d been busy on the weekend and didn’t have any office clothes left to wear tomorrow.

She’d just taken delivery of her weekly chinese indulgence when she heard Scowling Man make his way downstairs. She turned the volume down on the stereo and listened with bated breath. A few muffled exclamations, then a heavy stomp back up to the third floor. Faith resolved to keep as quiet as possible when she picked up her things later; she didn’t need a run-in with him tonight.

As always, the chicken-and-brocolli over rice was good, if a little too spicy this time. Faith finished her third glass of water before getting up to pee. When she sat back down and began flipping channels for something interesting to watch, she noticed the time. Her laundry should be ready for the dryer...

“Look, I didn’t do it, all right? Now leave me alone!” Scowling Man’s face was red, his bulky frame filling his doorway. Faith shook as the adrenaline rushed through her, but she wasn’t backing down.

“All’s I know is, I happened to get my laundry in before you could go down there and hog all the machines like you always do, and I come back and everything’s ruined! If you didn’t do it, who did?” Faith’s grammar and vocabulary usually reverted to high-school girlishness when she got flustered.

“Sure I was mad that you intentionally disrupted my schedule,” Scowling Man replied, “but I’m not gonna wreck all your stuff, even if it isn’t much to look at.” He obviously didn’t intend it as a slight, but it was hard to take it any other way; this was not a man who often considered the feelings or opinions of others.

Faith was taken aback. “You god-damned...” but she ran out of steam as she looked up at this mountain of a man. No, he was a jerk, but in that self-absorbed way that told her playing dirty tricks was too much effort and too indirect for him. He confirmed it: “If I was gonna do something, I woulda pulled your stuff out and piled it on the floor until I finished. You know, you should really think about how your actions affect other people,” he finished with an ironic twist that settled the young woman.

“Well I’m sorry,” she said, fire still in her tone, “but somebody destroyed basically my entire wardrobe by pouring some kind of greasy solvent in the machines, and I can’t exactly afford to go out and replace it all.”

“I’m sorry too, um, ma’am, but I didn’t do it, and I can’t help you. Are the machines okay to use, or am I going to have to go to the other building?”

“I don’t know; probably not,” Faith mumbled, the adrenaline subsiding and the helplessness of the situation washing over her. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said and turned to go.

Scowling Man watched her go, simultaneously trying to figure out whether she meant the machines couldn’t be used or he wouldn’t have to go to the other building, and contemplating the shape of her butt in her faded jeans as she made her way down the hall to the stairs.

Back in the laundry room, Faith’s dark mood grew. How was she going to get her clothes cleaned? She’d tried running the machines again, but that only made it worse. What looked like dirty, oily grease from the underside of a car was all over everything, even more of it than after the first cycle. She started pulling items out one by one, looking for anything that was salvagable, but it was hopeless. It looked thoroughly ground-and-soaked-in. And aside from a couple of things she wore when she used to go out, which she couldn’t exactly wear to work, her closet was empty.

“Okay, I’ll be in tomorrow. Thanks, Jim. No, I’m sure I don’t need an advance, but I appreciate the offer. All right. Bye.” Truth was, she could use the advance, but she didn’t feel comfortable accepting one when she’d only been working there for six months. The office rumor mill guaranteed that everyone would know about it, confidentiality policy be damned, and that combined with all new clothes wouldn’t improve office relations with her peers any. She’d just have to do what everyone else did and join the ranks of the credit-card debtors. She had plenty of room on her new ProMedian Visa—with the interest rate being what it was they’d be tickled to see her rack it up to the $5,000 limit.

Going commando around the house on laundry night was one thing; going shopping was another. Faith sat on the bed; after dumping out her dresser drawer, she was presented with just two pairs of little-girl frilly ankle socks and a ridiculous lace-front g-string, the other half of a Frederick’s of Hollywood babydoll she’d received as a misguided valentines-day gift in her senior year of high school. Poor Johnnie; he’d apparently had a crush on her since they were freshmen, but had never screwed up the courage to even approach her. Finally, seeing his time was running out, he’d written an embarrassing (and at the time, scary) seven page letter professing his undying love for her. He wasn’t a spaz or anything; actually, he was kinda cute and she would have gone out with him, but his feelings had reached such epic and twisted proportions that all she could do to save face was crush him. (Well, it isn’t called a crush for nothing.)

The g-string was worse than nothing at all; it had never been worn or washed, so the lace felt scratchy on her sensitive skin. She stepped out of it, and was about to step into her jeans when she remembered the package.

“What am I, an idiot?” Faith said out loud to no one. “Whoever sent me this must have wrecked my clothes.” She pulled the underwear out of the box. Tuesday turned out to be a thong; Wednesday and Thursday’s high-cut bikinis would show through her worn, tight jeans. She often went without a bra, but neither her half-shirt or her cotton camisole top could conceal her completely without one. Especially today... it wasn’t time, but they felt a little puffy. She picked up the Tuesday bra. It fit perfectly. “Okay then, no pads.”

Faith was proud of herself. She’d managed to leverage a “buy one get one free” sale into four complete pantsuits. They weren’t of the highest quality, but they’d do for a couple of months. A few conservative blouses, and some grabs from the discount bin at Victoria’s Secret and she was set. She’d even found a pair of low-heeled pumps on sale.

“I’ve gotta cut out the chinese food; it’s making me fat.” Faith looked with a frown in the mirror; her new bra didn’t fit, and her slacks felt tight in the seat. At least they didn’t pinch at the waist. She went back to the bra she’d worn the day before, thinking it was cut a little bigger, but it was tight too, her flesh bulging slightly at the top of the cups. “I’m too old to be growing; what gives?”

Faith returned to the box of bras, digging for Wednesday’s 34B. “Well, it worked yesterday; let’s see if we can repeat.” Sure enough, the bigger bra fit comfortably. It must be made a little small, Faith rationalized. The matching bikini panties were a foregone conclusion; she’d had a thing about matching tops to bottoms ever since she began wearing a training bra.

Faith received a few lingering looks from the male passers-by as she typed away at her console. A few made comments: “nice blouse!” “You look cheerful today!” She couldn’t help but enjoy the attention; she’d accepted being invisible at work but she didn’t like it. It wasn’t until she stopped in the ladies’ room on the way to lunch that she saw the cause of the change. Her blouse was quite a bit more sheer than she’d thought when she bought it, and a little too snug, too. The lines of her white satin bra were quite evident underneath. “Show’s over, boys; the jacket goes back on this afternoon.”

The headache had started right after lunch, but by four o’clock it was hard to concentrate—and she’d already taken two Advil from the supply cabinet. “You look like you got hit by a truck,” Jim said in a concerned tone.

“I... I’m sorry, Jim, I just have a splitting headache.”

“Well, I saw you hitting the Advil an hour ago; not helping huh? Why don’t you knock off early today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel better and you’ll show us all a little more of the happy Faith, eh?”

Faith thought she heard the makings of a double meaning, but Jim’s innocent smile brushed such thoughts away. “Oh... Okay. Thanks, Jim. I really appreciate it. I’ll make up the hour tomorrow.”

Getting into her car, Faith heard—and felt—the rip right up her backside. Her fingers confirmed what the breeze told her; her slacks had split right up the center seam from waist to crotch. “Lovely... I better return the other pairs before I split those, too.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but those are all sold out. You got the last of them.”

Faith’s expression turned grim. This was getting ridiculous. “I’ll just take a refund, then.”

“I’m sorry, but you bought these on clearance. I can only give you a store credit.” The thirty-something sales droid was just trying to make her cry...

“Fine.” Faith was determined not to be beaten. “Do you have anything similar?”

“Slacks just aren’t popular for business-wear this season. But we do have skirts in the same fabric. Or were you planning to bring back the jackets, too?” The saleswoman’s tone was condescending.

Well, Faith, it’s either skirts, bust the budget wide-open at Macy’s, or sink to... K-Mart. “Show me.”

Thursday morning found Faith angry. “Someone is fucking with me and I DON’T LIKE IT!” she screamed in frustration. She liked the changes—her boobs were definitely bigger, and she could swear her curvy hips were more than just the cut of the skirt—but it bothered her that she was being manipulated. Again, the only bra that fit her was the one marked for the day; she’d resigned that Friday would likely bring more of the same and stuffed that day’s marked underwear in her bureau drawer in preparation. Thursday’s coordinating satin thong left no panty lines on her snug but conservative knee-length skirt. Buttons matching those on her jacket held closed the slit that ran up her right thigh. A long-sleeved white satin blouse with a V-shaped lace panel in front and high collar and cuffs complemented the black skirt and jacket nicely; two-inch black suede pumps capped cheap-but-serviceable white stay-up stockings. As she retouched her makeup—a little more eyeshadow and deeper-red lipstick was appropriate with such a conservative dark outfit, she told herself—Faith’s anger faded.

At work, Faith was her usual efficient self—but she couldn’t help smiling at everyone who passed by her desk. As they did the day before, everyone commented how nice she looked. She was even asked to lunch by Cliff from outside sales. Until now, she’d always thought he was an egotistical jerk, but today he radiated warmth and gentle confidence...

Checking herself in the bathroom mirror after lunch, Faith was somewhat dismayed to find that again her attire was slightly more provocative than she’d intended—but this time due to poor construction. The seams of her blouse were unraveling fast; when she took her jacket off the sleeves went with them; she made deft repairs by neatly pulling out the remaining loose threads—if one didn’t look too closely it simply looked like it was sleeveless all along. She noticed a loose thread at the edge of the front lace panel and tugged it sharply to break it off, but instead of snapping it simply pulled, unraveling halfway to the other shoulder. The lace now gapped obviously; she couldn’t leave it as is. Faith carefully pulled the thread the rest of the way out and the lace panel fell away, wafting to the floor. “Hmm, a bit much in the cleavage department, but not out of the realm of professional dress,” she mused. “Two days ago I didn’t have any cleavage to show!”

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that she noticed that five of the eight buttons that held her skirt closed were missing. The tight skirt parted halfway up her thigh, and the outside refused to remain in place on her knee; the slightest movement sent it draping downward. She slipped into the bathroom in an attempt to make adjustments, but her new & improved derriere prevented twisting the skirt to either side; Faith feared a repeat rump-splitting performance when she sat down. Worse, on her way back to her desk she’d nearly been run over by Jim as he came barreling around the corner; while she managed to avoid a collision, she’d nearly lost her balance and grazed a partition wall. This dislodged two more of the skirt’s buttons, and bending to retrieve them pried loose the last of them, opening the slit to just eight inches from her waist. “One more nightclub-only skirt,” she frowned. She’d planned to hide behind her desk and ride out the day, but Jim had given her “emergency filing” to do.

Her embarassment intensified as she worked, moving from one filing cabinet to another in the aisles between desks and low-walled cubicles. The office was basically an open floor, so she was generally within the field of vision of a half-dozen employees. Though she turned bright red whenever she caught someone checking her out, at least they weren’t being rude about it—they were all polite smiles and sweet compliments. It must have been a record-breaking day for trips to the restroom, the break room, the literature table, filing cabinets—the men sought any excuse to walk by and get a better look. Faith knew they couldn’t help but look her up and down—from her four-inch patent pumps to the inches of exposed soft bare thigh above the lace of her sheer white stocking-top on up to her tightly-held breasts—any more than she could help being so exposed. Still, to be on display was embarassing, if a little bit exciting at the same time.

“If I can just get through tomorrow, I’ll be able to buy some more clothes on Saturday—preferably stuff that won’t disintigrate.” As she walked through the lobby at the end of the day, her heels clicked seductively on the polished granite. She caught her reflection in the glass door; the four-inch heels added a sway to her new hips... four-inch heels!? “I’ve never worn these heels to work... am I going crazy?” When she got to her car, she took a closer look. These weren’t her shoes, were they? Did she buy them and not remember? That wasn’t possible; she wouldn’t have bought shoes that were so... sexy, with their glossy patent finish, pointed toes, stiletto heels, and a dramatic low-cut shape. They seriously weirded her out; but they were surprisingly comfortable, as if custom made for her. She slipped them back on; impossibly, they shaped and caressed her feet. “Feels better than barefoot,” she said out loud to no one. She resolved to dig up the receipt—she hoped they weren’t too expensive; maybe she could get another pair, perhaps in different styles and colors...