The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Do you realize how bizarre this all sounds?”

The woman in the other chair shrugged apologetically. “I know, Tess, I know. I couldn’t accept it for the longest time myself. I’m convinced now, though: one of my students has some sort of hold over me.”

Tess threw up her hands. “Iris, please, listen to yourself! You’re not making sense. There is no possibility that what you are describing is real. Let’s have that established, shall we? This isn’t an episode of Beyond the World. In real life no one has mesmeric powers, there are no evil hypnotists, no one has secret mental abilities. Least of all a precocious high school senior who happens to have a crush on his Biology teacher.”

“I know! I know that! I’m not deluding myself with imagination and hocus-pocus. But Harry has done something to me. I can feel it. I don’t know what or how or—well, how else do you explain all this?” She gestured down her body with both hands.

Tess knew what Iris was referring to. When her friend had knocked on the door of her office a few minutes earlier, Tess had been caught by surprise. She knew Iris had died her hair blonde—a striking departure from its natural brown colour—but she hadn’t expected the rest of it.

Her friend and fellow high school teacher was dressed like an upper-class school girl. Gone were her casual pullovers and cotton pants. In their place were a pleated blue miniskirt with a fitted white blouse. The dark blue jacket matched the skirt. It even had a gold crest on the pocket.

The collegiate outfit was an outlier from Iris’s practical style, but not completely outside the realm of fashion. Except, perhaps, for the socks. Below the above-the-knee skirt, Iris was wearing white knee-socks and penny loafers. The whole outfit looked remarkably like the uniform of some exclusive prep school. The school where both Iris and Tess worked didn’t even have a uniform.

Privately, Tess had been puzzled by her friend’s change in style for days now. When she showed up at school one day in the new skirt, Tess thought nothing of it; even Iris wore skirts sometimes. When the skirt became a staple of her wardrobe, Iris explained, rather unconvincingly, that it was comfortable for the warm weather, even though it was still early spring. The skirt was followed by crisp white blouses replacing her usual pullovers, and then the navy blue jacket, which she now wore every day. It was only today, when she appeared at her office, distraught and confused, that Tess noticed Iris’s new fondness for knee socks.

What must her students be thinking? Iris was young, and too good looking to avoid carnal imaginings from the hormonal young men in her classes. This new look made her seem even younger, and imparted an air of sexy innocence—not a good tack when half the boys in the class were already gazing at her wistfully through every class.

Tess said carefully: “I think there is a reason for how you are dressed, even if you don’t fully understand it. You’re acting out, Iris. You’re expressing something, some turmoil inside you. I don’t think it has anything to do with Harry—or any other student for that matter.”

But Iris only shook her head. “It has everything to do with Harry. He is the root, I promise you. I’m not going through some phase or expressing my sexual repression or whatever other psychological theory is in vogue at the moment. I’m under the influence of— something.”

“How can you—”

“Tess,” Iris interrupted, suddenly very serious. “You’re the school’s counsellor. You’re also my friend. If I can’t convince you that Harry has put a spell on me, who else can I turn to?”

There was a pause. Then Tess said, “Tell me again how you think— how this all started.”

“About two weeks ago. Harry came up to me after class. He does that all the time, to discuss things, or challenge something in the lesson. It’s exhausting trying to match wits with him, he’s so widely read. You know how Harry is.”

Tess nodded. Harry was perhaps the most brilliant student in the history of the school. He had already been allowed to skip two grades. Yet he was by far the best student in his senior class. He was also the dictionary definition of the word “weird.”

Harry peered at the world through thick, round glasses. His hair flew off in all directions from his head, as if he had poked his finger in an electrical socket. His conversation was random, spastic and frequently rude. He blurted out whatever was on his mind, which was a mixture of esoteric ideas about physics, chemistry, video games, quantum mechanics, comic books, the supernatural, cosmology, conspiracy theories, women, literature, and bad jokes. It was easy to see how Iris, casting about for an external source for her internal confusion, would land on Harry.

“What did Harry say?” Tess asked.

Iris reached down and adjusted one knee sock, then the other. “I don’t remember exactly. We had been talking about the definition of life. I used viruses as an example of something organic that isn’t truly alive. Harry said something, I didn’t quite follow, about how the definition of a virus was conceptual; a virus is any bit of logic that takes over a more complex structure to reproduce itself. He claimed that a computer virus was as much a real virus as influenza, even though one was manufactured; what matters is what it does, not what it looks like. Do you follow?”

“I think so,” Tess said guardedly.

Iris crossed her knees, a gesture made incongruous by the short skirt and socks. “I don’t remember the whole conversation. Somewhere in there Harry began arguing that a virus could even be psychological —that a simple behaviour could find a way to take over a complex personality to reproduce itself. He claimed that was how fashions like hairstyles spread from one person to another. I told him that was silly, and he became upset.”

Tess made a note of how Iris bounced her knee up and down nervously. Her penny loafers had buckles across the vamp that flashed in the overhead light. She asked: “What did he say?”

Iris leaned back, resting her blonde hair against the back of her chair. “He said he would prove it. I remember that part. He didn’t explain how, exactly, but—the thing is, I don’t remember much of the conversation. I know we talked for some while. He was very animated. Yet every time I try to remember what was said . . . it’s all a blur.”

“Go on,” Tess said. She watched the buckle on her friend’s shoe. She jotted a note in her book.

“The next morning, something was different. I was getting dressed for school and I felt this . . . compulsion to wear a skirt.

“Compulsion?” Her tone reflected her doubt.

“Not like I was compelled, not exactly. I felt like wearing a skirt. Not a dress, but a skirt. It seemed like a day to wear a skirt. I didn’t think much of it, but the next day I felt the same way. It wasn’t exactly a compulsion even then, but it was somehow wrong not to wear a skirt. A skirt was mandatory. Then I started wearing a different skirt every day. It was like I was looking for . . . something, for the right thing to wear.”

Iris had her head back, eyes closed, letting everything spill out. She was still bobbing one foot up and down. Tess watched the buckle flash. “One morning I decided to wear a pair of old loafers to school. I never wore loafers. Again it felt, I don’t know, appropriate might be the word, as if I was conforming to some magic rule. In my skirt and loafers I was at ease. If I put on anything else it felt wrong—I was cheating, or acting sloppy.

“I still didn’t think that much of it. Sometimes you get in the mood for a particular look, you know. I kept trying different skirts. They couldn’t be too long, or too snug. Pleated was good. I bought this skirt on sale one day. I thought it looked sexy. As soon as I put it on I knew I had found what I was looking for. It felt right.

“The next morning I wanted to wear my new skirt with a white blouse.”

A long pause. Tess realized she had been listening, letting her friend talk without interruption, while she watched the light reflect off her shoe buckle. Eventually she said: “You said Harry was responsible for this. Did you talk to him about it?”

Iris sighed. “Yes, I talked to him. I tried to talk to him. Several times. The conversations always drifted away . . . I don’t know exactly what was said. I went blank somewhere, listening to Harry talk and not saying anything, just listening and drifting, listening and drifting, and kind of floating in a fog. When we finished the compulsion was always stronger than before.”

“Oh?”

“Always. After one conversation I went out and bought five identical blue miniskirts. After another I couldn’t wait to dye my hair blonde. After the last one I realized how nice it would be to wear knee socks.

“That’s when I decided to come see you.”

Tess shook her head. She said: “I need some time to think about this. This is all so . . . strange.”

The other women uncrossed her knees. She leaned forward intently. “You don’t think it’s possible—that I’m being hypnotized by Harry?”

For a while Tess didn’t know what to say. Her friend’s story was outre, but delivered with such conviction that she knew Iris believed it. Hypnotized by a student? How did she land on such a fantasy?

“Well, it is possible,” she said carefully, “but—very unlikely. There has to be a better explanation.”

She saw the look of disappointment cross Iris’s lovely face. “Look, I do believe there is something happening here, something that is confusing you and causing you stress. Whatever it is, I’m going to find it, and fix it. We’re going to find it, and fix it. Together. OK?”

Iris gave her that smile she loved to see. “OK,” she agreed. “Thanks Tess, I knew I could count on you. She looked at her watch. “And now I have to run. Class in ten. I’ll drop in again soon?”

“Of course. Come see me in a couple of days if we don’t bump into each other in the hall. I’ll do some reading.”

They both got to their feet. Iris paused to adjust her socks again, a girlishly sexy act that her students probably loved. She picked up the books she had been carrying. “See ya later,” she said as she hurried out the door.

Tess waved. She watched Iris recede down the hall in her pleated mini, socks and penny loafers. The adolescent outfit on Iris’s mature curves made for one fetching school girl. Tess closed the door to her office and sat down at her desk, lost in thought.

“Iris, there is something you’re not telling me,” Tess said, several days later.

The two were sitting in Tess’s office again. A few days has passed since the first time they spoke. A weekend had intervened.

Iris giggled. It had a pretty, light-hearted sound. “What— whatever do you mean?” she responded.

Tess regarded her friend with concern. It was the giggle that bothered her most—more than the absurd outfit she was wearing or the fact that she was obviously holding something back.

Iris was giggling. She had been giggling and tittering for the past twenty minutes, ever since she appeared at the door of Tess’s office in a get-up better suited to over-developed fifteen-year-olds, and announced that her problem was getting worse.

Tess could see that. Iris’s skirt had grown at least an inch shorter. The skirt was blue plaid, with a band of black around the hem. It matched the blue plaid vest straining over her breasts. There was at least an inch of toned, tanned skin visible between the bottom of the vest and the top of the skirt. Blue plaid ribbons decorated the tops of her white kneesocks. She even had blue, plaid slippers on her feet, albeit with elevated heels and rhinestones around the toes. Sheer nylons shimmered below the shadow of the provocative skirt.

Still, the giggles troubled Tess more. Iris’s giggles were high-pitched and musical. They seemed to tumble out of her like popcorn out of the popper. They were the innocent, carefree giggles of a simple girl with nothing on her mind except looking foxy and helpless so some man would take care of her. Iris never used to laugh like that.

Tess flicked a speck of dust off her own skirt. “Iris, I’ve known you for years. I know when you’re being straight with me and right now you aren’t. There’s something more. I think you want to tell me, you’re afraid of what I will think. This is a counselling session, I’m not going to judge you, now or later. Out with it girl!”

Iris folded her hands in her lap. “You’re right,” she admitted, “there is something else.” She giggled again, nervously this time. She toyed with the hem of her skirt. She wore bright blue, hoop earrings.

“You see, I’m worried and confused about this . . . compulsion to dress like a schoolyard tart, but . . . the thing is . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m enjoying it!”

“What?” This confession was unexpected.

“Tess, it’s a blast. You can’t imagine what it’s like, how . . . alive I feel these days. When I get dressed in the morning, and I can’t bring myself to wear anything except kilts and kneesocks, it’s frustrating, sure, but—I don’t know how to say it—it’s refreshing and, well, simplifying. As if I’ve cast off all the heavy decisions that grown-ups have to make. And the reactions I get! Everybody loves me in this look. Men watch me everywhere I go—with that look that means they’re going to be thinking about me later, when they’re in bed playing with themselves or making love with their wives or their girlfriends.”

The teen-look teacher settled back in her chair. She crossed her knees, letting the high-heeled slide dangle on her toes. “I’ve never felt male attention so viscerally, so basic, so exciting. I have to admit, it turns me on. Isn’t that weird?”

Tess watched the rhinestone’s sparkle on Iris’s shoe. Where had she found slides like that? In plaid, no less. “Go on,” she said.

Iris leaned back and closed her eyes. “In class, I’m a sensation. The students think I’m way cool. The boys all stare at me, so easily excited. The girls glare at me, jealous, but I think I’m winning them over too. It helps to act a little bit immature, to make them feel like I’m one of them. Of course, the teacher in me wants to be stern, adult. I try to maintain decorum. I’m standing there in my girly little kilt and kneesocks, and they keep on staring, so what can I do?”

Tess was still watching the rhinestones on her friend’s slipper. Iris was bouncing her foot up and down, up and down, making the rhinestones sparkle. Eyes closed, she went on in a quiet, even voice. Tess listened without interrupting. It was good that her friend was confiding in her. Those silly slides on her feet were pretty.

“ . . . get so excited sometimes, I can’t help it,” Iris was saying. “Even at school. When I go home at the end of the day I’m getting myself off, every night. The orgasms are fabulous! Sometimes . . . I’ve even been doing it in the washroom here at school!”

Iris kept talking in that same gentle voice. She explained how she felt she was slipping away from her adult self. It was as if a great, warm tide of giddiness was washing over her, floating away all her grown-up sensibilities. She already felt compelled to dress like a sexy schoolgirl. Now she was becoming one.

Tess listened attentively. She watched the rhinestones on Iris’s shoe.

Eventually she wound down. A long silence ensued. Then Tess said: “I’m still not quite sure what to make of this. It seems to me that you have found some sort of outlet for a side of your personality you have been suppressing. Maybe—tell me, have you been under stress lately?”

“Nope. Same old same old.” She giggled again.

“Have you tried talking to Harry again?”

She shook her head. “No. Frankly, I’m a little scared too. Every time I do—well, you know.”

Tess nodded. She regarded her friend critically. Setting aside the oddness of it, Iris looked darned sexy. The attraction came not only from way her shapeliness was advertised by the short skirt, tight top and high heels. It was the juxtaposition of vampy teenage fashions on a grown-up woman—with very grown-up curves—that really notched up the temperature. Iris looked hot, as her students would say. Who wore panythose under socks? Only a boy-crazy babe twisting the rules to show off her legs without quite violating the dress code. Yes, the source of Iris’s teen-temptress look was sexual, Tess was now certain.

“All right,” she said, getting to her feet. “I don’t understand what’s going on yet, but I have a few ideas. Come and see me again soon, say, Thursday?”

Iris stood too. “Will do,” she agreed, with a giggle. Unexpectedly, she gave her friend a warm hug. “Thanks so much, Tess,” she said seriously. “You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”

She didn’t seem to want to stop hugging. “Uh, sure, OK,” Tess said at last. She extracted herself from the embrace.

“I have to run to class now,” Iris said. First she bent over to carefully adjust both kneesocks, a dangerous activity in the mini-kilt she was wearing. She picked up her blue purse and left with a wave.

Tess watched her recede down the hallway, tall and leggy in her blue plaid uniform. Her high-heels clattered musically. Did she really enjoy wearing kneesocks? Tess wondered. Tess hadn’t worn high socks herself in ten years. She looked down. Today she was wearing a narrow red skirt, a little above the knee, and a white blouse. She wore slacks most days.

She had an idea. She sat down at her desk and kicked off her shoes. She found her bag of gym equipment that she kept in a corner. Inside she found a pair of clean, white cotton socks. They were intended as loose slouch socks, so they were quite long. She slipped them on her bare feet, then smoothed them up her calves. She folded the top over neatly. She slipped her shoes back on.

She considered the result. There were no mirrors in her office, but standing she could make out a pale reflection in the floor-length window. The socks looked silly with her dress shoes. The contrast did tend to draw ones eyes to her legs. She unbuttoned her skirt and rolled up the top until the hemline rested several inches higher. That was better. Tess had fine legs.

She looked at herself in the window. This was the look that was making Iris so hot she had to jill off several times a day? She frowned. The white socks weren’t quite tall enough to qualify as kneesocks. Maybe that was the problem. What had Iris said about that?

She returned to her desk to check her notes. After the first few lines, the page was a blank. She hadn’t written anything down! That was right odd. Iris had chatted for at least ten minutes—hadn’t she? Tess looked at her watch. Make that twenty minutes. Why couldn’t she remember any of it? The last entry in her notebook said “pretty shoes.”

Tess sat back down at her desk, puzzled. She kept her high white socks on. They were comfortable.

Later that day she had a counselling session with a student. The girl was about sixteen. She was having boyfriend troubles that were upsetting her school work. She didn’t seem terribly concerned about it. Tess considered the girl as she sat in the chair opposite her. She was wearing a couple of layered tops over a blue denim miniskirt, with navy blue socks and blue sneakers. It was the kind of outfit girls wore lately. The skirt was as brief as a passing breeze.

Tess found herself studying the girl’s legs. The dark blue kneesocks emphasized the shape of her calves. Once again Tess was struck by the contrast. The short skirt and tight top revealed a grown-up figure that shouted “sexy woman”, while the socks and sport shoes said “cute little girl” just as loudly. The combination was acutely appealing. Was that why Iris had fallen for the look?

Tess became so wound up in analysis of her client’s legs, she almost missed what the girl was saying. “. . . do you think I should do?” the girl asked.

Tess started. “Oh! Well, uhm, well. Yes, I can see why you have been feeling off, Becky.” She struggled for something helpful to say. “But you mustn’t let your personal life interfere with your schoolwork. You don’t want to lose your A average, do you?”

“I guess not,” the girl replied, without conviction. She had flowers painted on her fingernails.

“OK then, let’s remember, school has to come first.” Tess smiled. “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll chat again.” Would she be wearing knee socks then too?

“Sure thing Miss Prettytree. Thanks!” The girl bounced to her feet, made a perfunctory tug at her skirt, which accomplished nothing, and skipped out the door.

Tess sat down behind her desk, pinching her lip. This business of schoolgirls and kneesocks was distracting. She looked down at the white sport socks she was still wearing. She couldn’t do a real test of what kneesocks felt like unless she had some proper socks of her own. She decided to do something about that on the way home.