The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bombshell

Chapter 2

When Caterina awoke in the morning, she was surprised to find that she was under her covers, and nude. Had she gotten up after all? But she seldom slept in the nude, even after a night with Jeff. She preferred to slept in a tight stretch tank top, the best balance of support and comfort. Her bosom was her most important asset, after all, and she needed to protect it.

She sat up and saw the sexy outfit hung carefully on a hanger, next to the door of one of her closets, in the spot where she would usually place whatever she meant to wear the next day. She had planned to stay in, but she certainly didn’t mean to strut around the house in that skimpy thing all day.

She inspected the panties. The looked fresh and clean, not at all like she’d soaked them through with wetness, or anything untoward had emanated from them. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream? It must have been. The panties were just ordinary silk, fine and soft under her fingers, but ordinary. Her inspection was interrupted by the phone ringing. She recognized Jeff’s ring-tone and ran to grab it.

“Hey,” she said, panting.

“Hey sweet thing,” said Jeff, his reply delayed slightly by distance.

“Thank you for the gift,” Caterina purred, “it’s beautiful.”

“Gift?” He said in surprise, “what gift?”

“Wasn’t that from you?”

“No, but from the sound of it, I wish it was.”

“Oh, gee, I had no idea...”

“So what, you got something nice from a fan or something?”

“I doubt that, for what it is. I’ll have to ask Denise. She brought it up, it must be from somebody.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m jealous.”

Caterina smiled. “I’m glad, now wait till you see it.”

“Oh, you know I can’t wait.”

“Trust me, it will be worth it.”

“So I only have a second. I wanted to call between sets. But I need to get to wardrobe.”

“Yeah. I miss you.”

“Miss you too baby. Love you.”

“Love you,” she said, blowing a kiss.

As she hung up the phone, she heard a noise from the hall. She glanced at the clock and realized that it was ten o’clock already and Denise had arrived for the day. Caterina danced to the closet and picked out a jogging suit. Normally she’d be up in time to do her workout before Denise arrived. She was pulling on some cotton socks when Denise tapped on the door.

“Come on in,” Caterina called.

“Good morning,” chimed Denise. She was a beautiful girl, Denise, and talented. Caterina didn’t really like having an assistant most of the time, but she was too famous to run her own errands, and she might as well support a struggling actress, like she’d once been. Denise was in fact carrying several bundles of dry-cleaning. She looked up at the lingerie hanging on the wall. “Oh, that’s cute, where did you find it?”

“It’s what was in the box,” said Caterina, gesturing to the empty package, “who left it, anyway?”

Denise glanced at the box. “I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, obviously fearing she’d been derelict in her duties somehow, “I’ve never seen that before.”

“How odd,” said Caterina, “maybe it was Marilyn?”

“Maybe,” said Denise, “want me to call her?”

“Nah, we’re having brunch tomorrow, I’ll ask her then.”

Denise was gingerly running her hand over the silk. “It sure is nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and it fits me perfectly. Whoever picked it knows me pretty well.”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow, then.”

Caterina walked down to her workout room. Originally there had been a nice view from the windows there, but then Denise had pointed out that some sleazy photographer with a telephoto lens had found an angle to look in the window from the driveway of one of her neighbors. So, they’d covered the windows. Caterina had always been somewhat embarrassed of how much her body moved when she was working out vigorously, despite her tightest sports bra. Of course, plenty of men would kill to watch her pumping her hips on the elliptical trainer. That morning, as she stretched her legs, she realized that her butt was sore, which reminded her of the strange dream.

She went back to her rooms and showered and entered into her beauty routine. Where the bath the night before had been for relaxation, this was business, the careful work of maintenance for skin, hair, and body. She was shaving her legs—in the summer she waxed, but shaving would do for an autumn weekend. As she moved her legs back and forth she was quite aware of the feeling of her pubic hair scratching against her cotton panties. She kept it short, of course, but she couldn’t help but think of those fabulous panties and how the smooth fabric would feel if her skin were completely denuded. The thought made up her mind. She applied shaving cream and cut the little patch of hair away.

All her ablutions completed, she pranced into her living room. That sexy outfit still hung near her closet door. She was tempted to try it on again, to wear it under her clothes, even, as odd as that sounded for such a fancy garment. She decided on more ordinary undergarments, and a typical weekend outfit—tank top, skirt, sandals. Comfortable and stylish.

She found Denise in the kitchen, with the week’s schedule displayed on her laptop. Denise went over the details with Caterina, and everything was, of course, in order.

“Thank you sweetie,” said Caterina. “Do you have any plans today?” She envied the younger woman’s freedom to have a normal social life. Caterina had many friends she couldn’t bear to expose to the annoyances of rogue paparazzi.

“Laundry, actually.”

“Oh, sweetie, I keep telling you, just have your stuff done when you send mine out. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I kind of like to do my own dedicates. It’s relaxing, you know my mother always did it with me.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” replied Caterina.

“So if there’s nothing else...”

“No, that’s it.”

“Great. See you Monday.”

Caterina watched her leave and then set out to make some lunch for herself. She made a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice, and ate it right there in the kitchen. It was a beautiful day, and she was thinking of taking a walk somewhere. But as she gazed out the window, she accidentally knocked over the glass of juice. She hurried to clean up the spill, but some of it had gotten on the tank-top. She glanced around her and pulled it off, and stuck it under the faucet in the sink, trying to remember whether she was supposed to use hot or cold water. She settled on cold, and left the shirt to soak, and went upstairs to change.

She stopped in the doorway to her closet. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to reach out and stroke the silky bustier hanging there. She felt an urge to put it on. But that was silly. Why would she lounge around alone in the skimpy thing? She liked the way it felt, but unless she meant to share it with someone... or if she wanted to get turned on... but she didn’t. Not yet. The time for that would come. She slipped on a t-shirt, which looked wrong for the skirt, which she traded for her favorite pair of “weekend jeans”.

She went out into her back yard. She walked around and explored her garden a bit. She was feeling so restless. She wished she could just walk off into the neighborhood, but she knew at least a couple photographers would chase her, and besides, there was nothing to see for miles anyway, just a bunch of big, expensive houses. Maybe a drive, then? If she was subtle, she might get past the paparazzi, have a bit of freedom. She walked towards the back door of the garage, but it was locked, of course. She walked up to the back door, but she realized with a sinking heart that it was locked too.

She walked around towards the front. She didn’t want to bug Denise to come back, and so she hoped beyond hope that the front door had been left unlocked. But Denise had been last one out, and had dutifully locked it behind her. Caterina didn’t even have a phone, of course, and to walk to a neighbor’s house, she’d have to walk past the men with the cameras.

Then she remembered that the balcony door outside her bedroom was probably unlocked. She looked at the back of the house—the man from the security company had suggested that she remove the arbor, or put some thorny bushes at the base, for the exact reason that she would be a potential point of entry for an intruder. It wouldn’t be a bad climb. She figured she was nimble enough. She took off her sandals and tried to scale her way up it.

By standing on the top of a patio chair, she managed to hoist herself up, and step carefully across the beams of the arbor. Then she reached out and grabbed the balcony railing, making the wide step onto it. Then she lifted her leg up and over the railing, and swung herself onto the balcony. But she lost her balance in the tight jeans, and she over-extended, and she fell down, and something caught on her backside, and she heard a ripping sound. She ended up flat on her face on the floor of the balcony. She gingerly tested herself and found no injuries, but found that the jeans had gotten caught on a protrusion of the railing by the back pocket, and a long gash had been torn all the way down the back of the left leg.

She stepped through the door, and headed for her closet once again, with another glance lingering on the sexy getup hanging there on the wall. She was sure having rotten luck with clothes, she reflected. She settled on a pair of khaki shorts that looked okay with the t-shirt. Then she headed downstairs.

She was no longer in the adventuring mood. She wanted to relax after the little ordeal, and so she headed downstairs to find a book to read. She picked out one of the many she’d been meaning to read and headed out the back door—being sure to keep it open. She sat in the chair she’d climbed on earlier, but the moment she sat down, she realized that there was a little puddle of water on the back of the cushion. It soaked into her shorts and shirt.

She tried to ignore it. It was just a little water, she figured. But it irritated her, and a few minutes later she stomped upstairs in exasperation yet again.

It didn’t stop there, however. As the afternoon progressed, she lost another skirt and shirt to an exploding diet soda, found a previously un-noticed hole in another pair of jeans, and tried on several outfits that were suddenly, inexplicably, uncomfortable beyond tolerance. She wondered if she might be gaining weight, but the scale was right where it belonged.

All along, every time she walked to her closet, she could see that sexy outfit hanging there. For whatever reason she couldn’t bring herself to put it away.

She found herself wondering if she was pregnant. Clumsiness, forgetfulness, discomfort—it would fit, wouldn’t it? So she put her hair up, put on a pair of dingy jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and some dark sunglasses and got into her car, the simple Japanese luxury sedan she’d bought after her first big paycheck. She pulled out of the garage, and crept down the driveway. She looked up and down the street, and realized that the paparazi had given up and gone home after all. She drove to the drug store in tense silence.

Her heart raced as she handed the pregnancy test to the cashier. If somebody recognized her, it would open her up to a whole new era of speculation. But the cashier’s eyes were half-closed with boredom, and she got away clean.

Back at home, in her bathroom, she peed on the stick and watched the indicator anxiously. The words “not pregnant” appeared, and she sighed in relief. But then she noticed that she’d splashed a few drops of pee onto her jeans, so she took them off and cast them onto the overflowing hamper. She turned to her half-empty closet, and realized that she had worn every casual outfit she owned already. All she had left was fancy dresses and lingerie.

It was like fate wanted her to wear the silky outfit again. The strange events combined with the strange maybe-dream had her quite nervous. What was it about the thing? And who had given it to her? She thought of calling Marilyn, since she must have been the one who brought it in.

She picked up her phone, and then she remembered the pictures. She’d taken some pictures on her phone the night before, while she was wearing the thing. Maybe if she looked at them she would remember what had been real? She opened her phone and brought up the first of the series. She’d certainly put the thing on, at least. She felt herself growing flushed as she remembered how hot she’d looked. She paged through the pictures as they got hotter and more explicit. She smiled, thinking that she could probably sell the series for a million bucks. She’d been offered more than that to pose nude already.

She got to the first picture where she’d been touching herself. She’d taken only a few once she’d got caught up in the passion. She was certainly penetrating herself through the silk. The thought of it was making her wet. I suppose there are worse fetishes in the world, she told herself. The silk looked normal enough as she went on. But then she got to the last picture, the one after she’d taken her finger out. The silk was certainly pushed in, and it looked a bit odd that it was so distorted inward without deforming the shape of the triangle of the panties. But what caught her eye was her chest. She could see, quite clearly, ten indentations in the shape of a pair of hands and fingers compressing her tits.

She looked up at the sexy outfit again. What was it? Some kind of special technology? She hadn’t heard of anything that could do anything like it. She walked over to it. It certainly felt like normal silk. She touched the fabric of the bra, the panties. It was so soft. Maybe she could understand it better if she just slipped it on? She could pay closer attention, and understand what was happening.

It occured to her that it was a strange thing to do, as she did it, but once she had the garters clipped to the bustier she wasn’t nervous at all. It felt so perfect on her, looked so perfect. She half expected it to start moving again. No, she didn’t just expect it, she wanted it, she realized in mild surprise. She wanted the thing to grope her, to sex her, to give her another earth-shattering orgasm... and even to fuck her ass again, if that’s what made it happy.

Made it happy? Was it alive? She was certainly thinking of it that way. And it? Or him? It was hard to think of something so feminine as male, but it seemed to click into place in her mind. It certainly seemed to have a penis.

She shook her head clear. It was a ridiculous train of thought. She was just affected by an intense dream. The picture was just a trick of the light. There was no way an article of clothing could come to life. She liked how sexy the thing made her feel, and so she’d wear it, and then later on in the night she’d touch herself, and have another nice orgasm.

Fine, she thought. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I’m going to get myself right turned-on before I get down to business. She walked to her shoe closet and picked up a pair of black pumps, She slipped them on and then walked back to the dressing mirror. They were the perfect compliment. High heels always made her feel so glamorous. She walked out of her bedroom and the heels clicked as she walked down the tile hallway and down the grand staircase. She made her way to the kitchen, and picked out a nice bottle of wine.

She walked to the living room, and opened a cabinet there, scanning the long rows of music CDs. She found the one she wanted and put it into her player. It had been a gift from her first live-in boyfriend, actually. They’d lived in a little apartment with thin walls, and they would play it whenever they made love: a full hour of sultry jazz. She had never played it for Jeff. Yet she’d kept it. The sound of it filled her ears, and she was taken back to a time of exploration. She sipped the wine, and danced and swayed across the plush carpeting. The lingerie moved with her, as fluidly as any leotard she’d ever worn. It was truly amazing stuff, she reflected, whatever it was. Her hand slid over her silken curves, dipped down between her legs... no. She stopped herself. Not yet.

She set out to distract herself. There was only one personal picture in the living room, of her and Jeff. It had been a present from him. It was taken of them on their first vacation together, in Rome, by their tour guide. They were both so happy in it. They’d taken a public cultural tour because Jeff didn’t want to consume extra resources with a private tour. Such a considerate man, she thought with a smile. But some of the people in the tour were taking more pictures of her than the attractions, and eventually they’d gone off on their own.

She remembered how they’d both had a little too much wine, and failed to find their way back to the hotel. In the end they’d flagged down a taxi, and told him where they wanted to be, and the driver looked perplexed, because they’d been two blocks away. They’d laughed so hard at that all the way up to their room.

She felt a little shiver. What happened in the room had been memorable, too. They had both been so turned on, and tipsy enough, that they’d had the wildest, loudest sex either of them had ever had. The antique bed had rocked wildly, but they didn’t care, even when the people in the room next door had started banging on the wall. Caterina had come to a great orgasm, and she’d been so tired that she could have passed out, but poor Jeff was still going strong.

She remembered the point when she couldn’t move her hips any more, when Jeff had looked so forlorn, and she’d decided to give him a blowjob. It was the first time she’d ever given oral sex after intercourse. She remembered tasting her own sex juices on his penis. She’d worried it might disgust her, but it turned out to be, if not pleasant, at least sensual, heady.

That same rich scent was filling the room at that moment. Her knees were starting to feel weak. A movement of the song caught her ear; she twirled and spun across the room again. The silk slipped wetly over her crotch. I am the sexiest woman alive, she thought. But that wasn’t a real thing, that dubious honor. That was my character, the sultry pout, the carefully arranged cleavage, the meticulously dyed hair. She still didn’t quite understand why men seemed to go so crazy over her.

But then, as she looked at herself in the hallway mirror, she could see something real. It made her lusty for herself, the way the sexy ensemble managed to gently shape and compliment her body. And it had been easy, effortless, she just slipped the few finely cut pieces of fabric up over her legs, down over her head, shimmied herself into it, and there she was, like a perfect package. She turned back and forth in front of the mirror, letting her fingertips relish the feeling of the fabric once more. It was like some magical property of the silk heightened the sensation of every touch. Her skin coursed with electric desire. There was a tremble from her sex. She wanted to touch herself, to give herself the release she wanted. She let her hand dip low enough to feel her wet arousal under the panties, to feel the fabric move ever so slightly against her bare skin. She lifted her hand and started to slide it under the waistband. She shuddered at the different sensation, and her knees nearly gave out. She let it slide down to brush against her clit from above. Her lips parted, and she let out a delicate, contented moan.

Yet still, she forced herself to stop again. Not yet, she thought. I need to get comfortable first. She reluctantly withdrew her hand and started to walk unsteadily towards the stairs. Every nerve in her body seemed to be awake with the anticipation of pleasure. Every movement of the fabric over her skin caused a new ripple of pleasure. The silk and lace seemed almost to caress her, to respond to the touch of her even as she reacted to it. She padded down the carpeted hallway and through the door to her bedroom.

She stopped there, looking at the bed. Smooth cotton sheets, down comforters. Inviting, beckoning. She came up next to it, but then turned once more to admire herself in the mirror. She smiled, blew herself a kiss, and then let herself fall back onto the bed.

She closed her eyes, and let her hands rest on her bosom. Almost always before, when she would touch herself, she would be visualizing a moment of passion with a lover, remembered or imagined. But right then she was wholly in and of herself. She was enjoying the sensation of the silk stretched taut over her ample breasts. Her nipples were hard, making stiff, smooth nubs that she slowly pulled her palms back and forth over. The breasts which have made me rich and famous, she reflected, yet they’ve never given me this kind of sensation before. Maybe it was the way the silk clung to them, like some kind of static energy drew the fabric to trace every contour of her. She pulled her fingers in towards her palms, letting her fingernails slide across the fabric.

On some fabrics, her fingernails would scratch over the weave of the threads, making a scratching sound. But on this magical stuff the motion was near noiseless, almost frictionless as the silk was. The lack of the feedback bugged her. She scraped the fingernail of her right ring finger over the pad of her thumb. That motion made a reassuring gentle scraping sound, a kind of tactile feedback that soothed her. But as she ran that same fingertip over the soft, silk-encased surface of her breast, she felt like she was deprived of some crucial feeling. Her fingers fanned out, searching for a flaw, a single raised thread on that dark field of softness. She encountered the coarser red trim tracing the decollete of the garment. It was stiff, scratchy, almost sharp by comparison. Her fingers rebounded back down the curve of her breasts. Her fingers lighted on the raised rim of her wide aureoles under the silk. There was texture there, reassuring human texture. Her fingers moved with interminable slowness, tracing the little bumpy glands that were so prominent on her wide aureoles. She hated them, sometimes, but they were just something that came along with the beautiful natural shape her genetics had given her. And she never intended to show them on camera, anyway. So she’d tolerated them. But in that moment, they became such a desperately needed source of texture that she had an insight: this is part of what makes me real, part of what is just for me, and the few real people I share it with. An intimacy, something I don’t have to give away for my career.

Her fingers caught on the nubs of her nipples, wide and full of throbbing anticipation. She sighed—she’d never felt such a thing from those little nubs. It was like they’d come alive, like some spell had brought them to life for a short time, and they longed to make the most of a few precious moments. She pinched them ever so softly through the silk. They slipped between her fingertips teasingly. She longed for that sensation, to feel a firm pressure so she knew she was real. She tried again. The silk slipped away like the lips of a teasing lover. The pulling caused the fabric to snug up still tighter against her breasts. She pinched harder, but could not gain purchase. She managed to tug ever so gently, and she writhed under her own hands. She longed to tear the bustier off, to feel skin on skin, to pull on her nipples, not to cause them anything like pain but just once to feel them stretch out, to feel the weight of her breasts anchoring her. But the lace, to pull the garment off she’d have to feel that scratchy lace over her skin, and she couldn’t even think of that sensation, how it might break the spell of that glorious moment.

So she tugged and she tugged on the silk-wrapped nubs, and her knees rose and fell and listed from side to side, and her hips rolled, and her sex was dripping wet, and her back wanted to arch. As she moved she started to feel the fabric riding up against her sex, bunching up slightly. How could there be any slack in the fabric which had seemed to fit so perfectly all along? But she couldn’t think such a thought for long, as the stuff sliding up and down her clit was electric. Further, it was moving in resonant harmony with the rhythm she pulled her nipples in. She repeated the movement again and again, afraid that the slightest change would break the perfect unity of her movements. The sensation only got better. The panties seemed to be bunching up more and more, moving against her love button, pressing against her dripping opening.

And then, then the impossible happened once more. She couldn’t even bring herself to question it, but she knew it was really be happening. The panties were penetrating her again. There was no more chalking it up to bunching fabric, and her fingers were nowhere near her crotch. But something firm was clearly pressing into her, distending the silk in an impossible way to slide, thick and round, inside her. She felt her legs involuntarily spreading wide. The feeling of fullness, the firm pressure inside her after the long bout of teasing was immensely satisfying. She couldn’t let herself open her eyes, or falter in her movements. She just kept pulling, flicking. Not letting herself ask why or how she had the distinct feeling of a silk-wrapped penis sliding deep inside her.

She could almost have imagined that a man had snuck in and had jumped on her. But she couldn’t feel anyone; she knew it couldn’t be. But it was more than the feeling of an inert object—the thing inside her was alive, throbbing, full of its own desire. Needful—it needed to be in her as much as she suddenly realized she needed it there. She was dripping with secretions and yet it felt huge inside her. It was long and full and it was pressing against her wide-awake nerve endings. All the while it continued its steady rhythm on her clit, and she kept pulling her nipples, which ached from the sheer, teasing need.

Who is this woman, she asked herself. This is completely unlike how I’ve ever felt. It’s like every cell of my body exists only to further this feeling. This need. I need... I need to get off. I need to feel release. I need to let this thing overcome me. I need to come. But I need to get out of my head. I need to let go and let this happen, just let my body do what it seems to be so sure of. Stop wondering. She took a deep breath and let her will slide between her lips in a moan and escape into the rich, warm air.

She could feel herself opening. Feel the silk spread over her body. Or was it spreading into her body? Or into some deeper part of her yet? But that thought was replaced by the intensity of a rising sensation, a fluttering deep in her belly, radiating out into her body, in waves inter-meshing, then combining, and she tipped over, and she felt herself falling over a precipice. Or was it flying? Flying or falling, air was moving and her body was reacting not with panic but with abandon, and the gravity pulling her was not from the earth but from something warm, intense, near to her. She let the reaction out between her lips, let it take over her body.

She saw stars. She felt like she might pass out, but she forced herself to perceive, to take in every bit of the experience—physical, mental, emotional. It was a pure moment, and in that moment she understood herself more clearly than she ever had. Now that she know that something like what she was experiencing was inside her, something so beautiful, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

She could feel her body reacting against the impossible physical form inside her, and then she could feel it moving out of her, away from her. She thought it was gone, and the disappointment dampened the last remnants of her climax. Then she felt movement inside the cups of the bustier. The thing was back, pressing between the tight tunnel of her breasts. She looked down, and she could see black silk pressing forward, mashed between the tightly constricted cups of her breasts. It pressed outward, the head of it emerging. She could make out some details of the shape of an erect penis, and she stared on, transfixed as the thing slid back and forth in her cleavage. Then, it pressed forward firmly, and she saw it pulse, and then start to spit a thick white gob directly at her face. She wanted to turn away, to recoil in horror, but all she could bring herself to do was clamp her lips and eyes tightly shut as jet after jet of hot goo shot out over her face. She could feel it landing on her hair, falling across her lips, dripping down onto her neck, chest and breasts. Then the pressure against her chest withdrew, and the room suddenly seemed quiet.

She waited a long minute for her heart to slow down. Still she could not bring herself to open her eyes. She wasn’t sure what to think, what to do about the mess and the impossible thing. But the release had been so sweet that her body could not stay awake a moment longer.