The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lyda was a raven-haired beauty whose ability to tan in about five minutes of sunning Sandy had always envied. A week to the day after their call, she showed up at Sandy’s house promptly at nine a.m. Sandy lugged her suitcase out to Lyda’s graduation present, a new red Lexus SC—Lyda’s parents were both physicians. And both generous.

“Omigod!” Lyda exclaimed as Sandy found space in the trunk for her one suitcase. It was a bit difficult with Lyda’s four already in there. Lyda had jumped out and was standing there with her mouth open. “You had a boob job!”

“I did not!” Sandy said indignantly. “I found a treatment that worked.”

“It’s padding!”

“Is not!”

Lyda darted a quick glance around the neighborhood and then reached out and squeezed Sandy’s right tit. Her touch made Sandy’s knees tremble—her nipples were so damn sensitive! It was difficult for her even to wear the new bras sometimes. “You gotta tell me about this!” Lyda said.

“Let’s get going.” Sandy went around and climbed into the passenger seat while Lyda slammed the trunk down and then hopped in behind the wheel. Their week at the beach was due to begin that afternoon, and the beach was three hundred miles away.

Somehow, Lyda’s parents were sort of under the impression that Sandy’s mom Sylvia was going along as chaperone on this little trip—and Sylvia thought that Lyda’s mom was going to be in the beach cottage. Everything had worked out pretty well, all things considered. They hadn’t gone far before Sandy complained that she was going to burn, so they pulled off at a rest area and Sandy applied sunblock to her face, neck, and arms. Then they tooled off again. It was fun, zooming down the beach expressway with the wind whipping. On the way, Sandy told Lyda all about the treatment she had ordered from the Internet and how it had promoted the spectacular mammary development that Lyda had noticed right off.

“I can’t believe that stuff really works,” Lyda said. “Suppose I could get up to a double-D?”

“You don’t need a bigger bust,” Lyda said. “You’d strain your back.”

Lyda’s turn to talk, and Sandy heard all about London, Paris, and Rome—especially Rome. “I could have had a good time with those Italian guys if Mom hadn’t been along,” Lyda grumped, though in a good-humored tone. “Omigod, you wouldn’t believe how much they yelled at me!”

The drive took nearly six hours—traffic was slow close to the coast—and by the time they finally located the beach house, it was well into the afternoon.

Sandy dug out the instructions she had received along with the notification of having won the week’s vacation, and they pulled the car under a new, but weathered-looking, beach house that stood on high pilings. An actual elevator opened when Sandy punched in the code on a keypad, and the girls rode up in it, with a suitcase apiece. “Omigod!” Lyda said when the door dinged open. The elevator looked directly out into the living room; the kitchen and dining room was off to the left. But straight ahead was an enormous picture window, and beyond that was the blue Atlantic, sparkling in the sun and streaked with white foam. It was low tide, and vacationers crowded the sand. “Oh, this is great!”

They made more trips, bringing in the approximately eighth of a ton of absolute necessities that Lyda had brought with her, and then they looked at the bedrooms. Lyda graciously gave Sandy first choice—after all, she had won the trip—and Sandy took the master bedroom on the top floor, with its own private balcony and another grand ocean view. That left the second-largest bedroom across the landing for Lyda, but she liked it—it had a waterbed, a big walk-in closet, and a view almost as nice as Sandy’s. The connecting bathroom was equipped with a whirlpool tub big enough to throw a party in. And in the backyard, as they discovered, there was an oval fresh-water swimming pool.

“Fantastic!” Lyda proclaimed. They set about the task of sorting and hanging up their clothes. Though Lyda had more by a factor of about six, she seemed to finish faster. Sandy was just storing her underwear in a bureau drawer when Lyda popped in. “Let’s go to dinner first,” she said. “Then let’s go clubbing. You packing?”

“I’m unpacking,” Sandy said in surprise.

Lyda laughed. “No, I mean protection. You know? Oh, hell, wait.” She ducked out and came back a minute later with two cardboard boxes. “Catch.”

Sandy managed to catch one. It was a carton of a dozen condoms. Ribbed.

“The ones in the yellow box are flavored!” Lyda giggled.

“I don’t think I’ll need these,” Sandy said with a rueful grin.

“Oh, come on. Vacation? Summer love? It’s practically your duty!”

Sandy frowned. “I . . . I’m not going to . . . to have sex with any other guy.”

“Other guy?” Lyda’s dark-brown eyes lit up. “So who are you having sex with? You said you and Tony broke up!”

Sandy blinked. “I—I didn’t say any other guy,” she protested. “I said any guy.”

Lyda reached for the condoms, opened both packets, and removed six of each. “I’ll be carrying these,” she said decisively. “Just in case you change your mind.”

Bayard Beach came alive around sundown. They ate in a seafood place with cute waiters and a sound system that throbbed with a techno rhythm, and then they strolled the boardwalk, popping in and out of clubs. All of them were crowded and rowdy. After about three bars and after about four rounds of Jell-O vodka shooters, Sandy was feeling pleasantly buzzed. She wished she had Lyda’s energy—the black-haired girl danced with every guy who asked her, and a lot asked her. Sandy danced three or four times, but the guys seemed to sense some layer of reserve in her, and they passed on to other girls.

Luke’s was the fourth bar. Lyda and Sandy were carded at the door, but they both had convincing driver’s licenses that said they were close to twenty-two. It wasn’t that much of a lie, really. And one thing old Tony had been good for was finding convincing fake ID’s. They found a table and were just about to order when, down at the other end of the bar, a spotlight hit a young guy in a white shirt open to the waist and tight jeans. “It’s that time!” the guy bellowed into a cordless microphone. “Luke’s Wet T competition! Ladies, this is your big chance—first prize is a hundred dollars! Any of you lovely ladies wishing to compete, see me down at this end of the bar. The competition begins in twenty minutes—and if you don’t have a T-shirt, we’ll give you one free just for entering!”

Lyda jumped up. “Let’s go!”

“No!” Sandy laughed. “We don’t need a hundred—”

“Come on,” Lyda said. “You know you’d like to show off those tits!”

Sandy pushed her chair back and joined her. They made their way to the end of the bar, where half a dozen other girls already had gathered, some of them in T’s and some not. The guy signed them up and handed them each a Luke’s T-shirt—Lyda got a yellow one, Sandy a pink one—and told them they could change behind the curtain in back of the stage. The chattering girls followed his direction, and Sandy quickly stripped off her white top and bra and tugged the pink T down, a tight fit. “Holey moley,” one of the other girls said, sounding a little tipsy. “Jesus, girl, you make me feel like a damn ironing board!”

Sandy’s face felt hot, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. The guy called the contestants out, and they paraded onto the stage, to whistles and shouts of approval from the men in the place. “Okay, I’m gonna introduce you gals,” the M.C. said, “and then we’re gonna dampen you down while you dance!”

Sandy was at the end of the line, and when the M.C. called her name—“Miss Sandy Macelven!” she did a swaying step and got the loudest round of applause and the loudest hoots. The girls began to dance to a medium-fast tempo number, and the M.C. sprayed them down, first just a mist, and then heavier jets of water. Sandy quivered with pleasure every time the spray hit her—her nipples were stiff and swollen, and even the areolas were visible through the clinging, wet pink fabric of the T-shirt. She impulsively rolled the bottom up, up, until it was just below her boobs, giving herself a kind of reverse cleavage. They room went wild.

“Two can play at that game!” Lyda said with a laugh. She pulled her yellow T up until both of her boobs, glistening with moisture, were exposed—and she had an all-over tan!

Sandy grinned at her. As the M.C. had explained, the rules said that the girls had to finish the competition wearing the T-shirt—but they could wear it any way they wanted. Sandy unfastened her wet jeans, unzipped them, and pushed them down. Now she was dancing in rolled-up T-shirt and damp pink panties. And then she took off the T, pulled it around her waist, and barely managed to tie it, like a sash. The crowd was screaming. When the M.C. sprayed her again, Sandy impulsively pulled out the front waistband of her panties, and he squirted her down there. “Oh, yess,” she hissed, throwing her head back and shivering. Her spectacular nipples peaked as she came to a climax right on stage, right in front of everyone.

What am I doing?

You enjoy being looked at.

Oh, yes. that was right. She enjoyed being looked at. Being stared at. Making all these guys’ dicks hard. Yes. Yes, she did.

Sandy coquettishly turned her back on the room and fondled her own breasts. Then she spread her legs, bent way over, so far that she could see the crowded room between her legs, so far that everyone could see her hanging, sharp-tipped tits, and she elaborately reached between her legs to fondle herself down there, through her wet, wet panties.

The M.C. almost moaned, “Folks, we have our winner!”

Ray came home with them. Ray was the M.C. at Luke’s, tall and well-built, with short, spiked brown hair and a white smile. “Nice place,” Ray said.

“Let me show you my room,” Lyda told him, leading him by the hand.

Sandy had to pee. She finished, stepped into the shower, and cleaned off—somehow the dance had left her feeling all sticky. From Lyda’s bedroom she heard murmurs and giggles. Sandy tied a big bath towel around her and, impulsively, opened the door. Ray, lying on his back, turned and grinned at her. He was stark naked, as was the kneeling Lyda. And she was busily sucking his cock, sheathed in one of those flavored rubbers. “Hi,” Sandy said. “Mind if I watch?”

“Come on in,” Lyda said, relinquishing Ray’s cock for a moment of stroking. “The water’s fine.”

“I’m not going to fuck you, Ray,” Sandy said, hearing a tinge of disappointment in her own voice. “Okay?”

“Okay. Let me see your tits, though.”

Sandy dropped the towel.

What am I doing, this isn’t like me at all—

You like to be looked at.

Oh, yes, that was right.

Sandy sat in a chair near the bed. “I’ll play with them if you’d like.”

“Yeah,” groaned Ray. “Babe, I can’t take much more of that!”

“I’ll fuck you,” Lyda said, getting up to straddle him. “And we’ll both watch Sandy play with her great big tits.” She reached delicately down, found his cock, and poised it at the entrance to her pussy. Then she lowered herself with a happy sigh. “God, Sandy, I love your great big nipples.”

Sandy was dreamily massaging her breasts, tweaking those pert little strawberries. “Yeah, I like to be looked at.”

Lyda fucked Ray until his face became almost purple, his lips drawn back and his teeth clenched. Sandy found that arousing. She slipped one hand down to her slit and played with herself, pacing herself, and when Ray yelped and arched in his orgasm, she let herself go, too, crying out and biting her lip. God, she thought, sex was good. It was going to be good. So good. . . .