The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I don’t understand it,” said Clara one day.

Roy looked up from his computer. “What don’t you understand?”

“You. I don’t understand how you do it. How you persuade every client that comes to see you to buy our funds. You’re the top seller, month after month. You’re no whiz financial analyst, admit it. We all sell the same products. So why do you get so many accounts? Especially from women.”

Clara was sitting in one of the big, comfortable chairs in Roy’s office. She worked in one just like it, down the hall. A few minutes ago a well-heeled young woman had been sitting in this same chair. Clara guessed she was a lawyer or a young executive, by the look of her. She had left Roy’s office looking pleased. Well-to-do women were the mainstay of Roy’s client list.

Roy regarded her through his round glasses. He was mostly bald. “It’s easy,” he explained. “I control their minds.”

“Come again?”

“I said I use mind control on the women that come to see me. I control their thoughts. They have to do what I say.”

“Roy, have you suddenly developed a sense of humour?”

“I’m not joking. I can control women’s minds. I make them think what I want them to think. I make them believe they want to buy mutual funds. From me.”

“Oh, go away!”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Believe you? Of course I don’t believe you! I never heard anything so foolish.”

“Very well, I’ll prove it.” He looked at her seriously. “I am influencing your mind now. My thoughts are becoming your thoughts. I am sewing new ideas into the fabric of your mind. You are powerless to resist. At this moment you are thinking about . . . . pink elephants!”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. It worked. You’re thinking about pink elephants right now, aren’t you?

“Well . . . yeah but . . . hold on, an elephant can’t be pink!”

He pointed his pen at her. “Don’t change the subject. Right now you are thinking about pink elephants. I know you are. You can’t help it.”

“I am not! I mean . . . well, OK, I am, but only because you mentioned it. You can’t not think about something that somebody is talking about.”

“Exactly. You can’t stop thinking about pink elephants. I have control of your mind.”

“You do not! That’s a silly trick. You simply planted an idea in my mind.”

Roy looked like he was about to say something else. Instead he looked at her. It was a long, considering kind of look, of a kind that Clara seldom received from Roy. She was wearing one of her black pant-suits, with a long flowing jacket. Her hair was up for work.

Eventually he said, “Very well then. You want a better example? I’ll give you one. Listen carefully.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. This should be good.

Roy looked her in the eye. “Yellow boots,” he said.

“What?”

“Yellow boots. You are thinking about yellow boots. I have beamed the idea of yellow boots into your mind. Sexy ones, with heels. You are going to buy a pair of shiny yellow boots.”

Clara laughed out loud. “You think so? I’m going to buy yellow boots? When exactly am I going to do this?”

He seemed to take the question seriously. “I’d give it a week,” he replied, as if he was discussing when to sell bonds. “This is Tuesday. Next Tuesday you are going to walk into my office wearing bright, sexy yellow boots—and everything else that goes with them.” He was looking her straight in the eye.

This joke had gone far enough. Clara got to her feet. “Roy, next time you decide you have a sense of humour, let me know. I can give you some tips.”

She left the office. Roy said nothing more. Was he actually smiling?

Clara gave the conversation no more thought. At least, she thought she gave it no more thought. The rest of Tuesday was an ordinary work day. Roy never mentioned the conversation again. They were both busy.

On Wednesday, something happened. After work, Clara headed downtown to pick up some dry cleaning. Her route took her through a commercial district full of specialty shops and boutiques. One store was called Party Girlz. Clara had never been inside. The store sold flashy clothes for the club set. Clara spent her evenings studying financial trends.

Something caught her eye. Among all the racks of dancing shoes and platform sandals in the window was a pair of yellow boots. Clara stopped for a moment. She had never seen a pair of boots in that colour before. Who wore yellow boots? Who wore yellow anything, come to think of it? Clara’s closet was white, beige and black.

She studied the boots for a moment. They were exactly as Roy had described: shiny, sexy, and high-heeled. Garish. She wondered briefly if Roy had known those boots were there when he suggested yellow boots. It seemed unlikely. He would have had to anticipate the conversation before it started, and Clara started it. Unless the boots had been there for a long time, and Roy had stored away the information against the day that Clara inevitably asked about his inexplicable success as a mutual fund salesman, so that he could bring it up and baffle her.

She shook her head. She was over-analysing. Such subtlety was far beyond Roy. Wasn’t it? She frowned. She didn’t know Roy all that well. He was plump and analytical. Maybe he had more depth than she gave him credit for.

Clara looked back at the shiny yellow boots in the store window. They looked a little over calf-high. She shook her head again. Whatever Roy was thinking, she wasn’t about to consider anything as silly as those boots. She walked on.

Oddly, Clara found herself thinking about yellow boots again, later that day. She had just turned on the television to catch the nightly business report. The television was on the wrong channel. It was showing a sitcom of some kind. One of the characters was wearing yellow suede boots.

Clara stopped with her hand on the remote control. Wasn’t that a coincidence. The same day she had run into a pair of yellow boots, here was someone wearing them. That was like learning a new word, one she had never encountered before, then seeing it again in the morning paper. The actor’s boots weren’t really yellow though. They were more like burnt orange. They weren’t nearly as bright as the ones in the store. Besides they were flat, without any heel at all. Clara decided the actor’s boots didn’t count. She switched to the news.

It was funny, she thought later, how often she was noticing yellow things. One of the reporters had been wearing a yellow sweater. Clara’s sweaters were all black, except for the red one she wore on holidays. There were yellow stripes on that box of laundry detergent in the commercial. Another ad featured a bright yellow sun over yellow daisies. They were selling allergy medication.

She went to bed later, still thinking about yellow. It was certainly more common than she had realized. She noticed her only pair of dress boots sitting in the closet. They were black, of course. She studied them for a moment, wondering. There was something about boots . . . .

She undressed and climbed into bed.

Clara was a little bothered when she arrived at work on Thursday. She had awoken that morning to the surprised realization that she had slept nude. She never did that. Somehow she had simply forgotten to put her pajamas on. Her pajamas were red satin, which meant automatically that they weren’t yellow. Why did that matter?

She took a shower, as usual, and watched the steam billow, which sounded like bellow, which rhymed with yellow. She listened to the morning commodities report to get her mind back on track. That worked until the reporter mentioned the price of yellow beans. Or did he? Clara couldn’t remember hearing about yellow beans before. Yellow boots, maybe but not . . . what?

This was becoming unnerving.

Clara was getting dressed when she noticed her dress boots again. She decided to wear them to work. It was a cool day, sort of anyway, so why not. She matched them with a long black skirt and white blouse with a black jacket. It was an outfit she had worn before. She considered herself in the mirror. She looked fine, but the suit lacked colour. It needed yellow. No it didn’t. That silly colour was on her mind, that was all.

She drove to work. Some people drove yellow cars. That meant they had yellow boots. She found herself giggling at that. She stopped at a yellow light. Funny that they were called yellow lights, when they were really amber. She felt her boot pressing down on the accelerator.

Clara was distracted at work. She kept noticing yellow things. One of the clerks came by, wearing a yellow broach. “Hey, I like that,” Clara said, pointing at the broach. “Is that new?”

Her co-worker looked at her strangely. “I’ve been wearing this for years,” she replied. “It belonged to my grandmother. Don’t tell me you never noticed.”

Clara laughed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But it is very pretty.”

“You work too hard,” said the clerk.

More than yellow distracted Clara. There was something strange about her boots. She couldn’t quite pin it down. They fit well. She had paid a good price for them, so they had better. They felt good on her legs. Yet there was something . . . interesting about them. Several times she found herself stopping at work to look at them. She turned her ankles this way and that, studying the line and curve of them against her calves. The third time it happened, she was with a client.

“Is something wrong?” the man asked politely.

Clara looked up, startled. “What? Oh, no, everything is fine. Fine. I was just . . . considering. Where were we?”

“Market fluctuations,” he supplied. He was a young office worker like Clara. He was wearing a suit. His tie had yellow stripes.

“Right, right. You must remember, a price adjustment is inevitable. Boot markets don’t last forever.”

“Excuse me, what kind of market?”

“A bull market. What did I say?”

Clara wondered if she should mention something to Roy. The usual parade of rich, smiling women were wandering in and out of his office. One shapely young thing paused outside his door to put her suit jacket back on. It must be warm in Roy’s office. Clara decided to let the matter pass. She didn’t want him to think his little trick was getting to her.

After work Clara hit the gym for her regular workout. She needed to work out some stress. She noticed the red and yellow track suit one of the other patrons was wearing. Her own track shoes were white, with yellow laces. The contrast was pretty. In the dressing room she found herself wondering what yellow laces would look like on a pair of black boots. Or black laces on yellow boots. Or yellow boots without laces. She really needed to get into the gym.

A few minutes later, as she pumped away on the treadmill, Clara tried to clear her thoughts. This silly mind trick of Roy’s was sticking with her. It was, she realized, another version of pink elephants. Once somebody mentions pink elephants, you can’t stop thinking about them whether you want to or not. The image is projected into your brain. It doesn’t help at all to tell yourself, “Stop thinking about pink elephants!”

Sooner or later though, some other thought was bound to eclipse the pink elephants. Distraction then, that was the key. She needed to think about something else. The rising cost of fuel for example, and its implications for consumer spending. Or the foreign trade balance. Either of those would take her mind off sexy yellow boots.

Oops.

She tried again. She turned up the speed on the treadmill a notch. How was it possible that Roy—bland, artless Roy—could so successfully confuse her brain? Was he possessed of some hidden well of cleverness? She dismissed that possibility as she wiped her brow with a yellow towel. She just then realized the colour she had chosen.

There were, she reasoned, two possibilities. Either Roy was indeed capable of arcane manipulation of her thinking, and by extension everyone else’s, or there was some unrelated reason why this pink elephant was stomping around in her head. Roy may even have forgotten the whole conversation. He hadn’t mentioned it since.

On the other hand, maybe Roy’s silence on the matter was part of the manipulation. Maybe he knew he had gotten under her skin, but he was playing it cool. Maybe he was letting her struggle with this strange idea, perfectly aware that she wouldn’t be able to get rid of it, but letting her marinate her brain for a while, wasting her energy on futile resistance until she inevitably broke down and behaved as he predicted. Was that a plausible hypothesis, or an episode from a cheap television thriller? Clara wasn’t sure. She increased her speed again.

There was one telling piece of evidence though. When Clara had arrived at work that morning, in her black skirt and boots (not yellow, which would have been much hotter, but still), Roy had been returning from the coffee room with his morning caffeine fix. He had looked at her as he went by. Merely looked at her, without saying anything. It was a thoughtful look though, and well, appraising, rather like the way he had looked at her in the office the other day. He was checking her out.

He had smiled at her in a funny way. Something about that smile troubled Clara. It was a distinctly knowing smile. That was it. In that motion of his thin lips Roy had let her know that he hadn’t forgotten their conversation at all. He was still playing with her. He understood completely what was going on in her head; he had planned and anticipated that once he cemented the idea, she wouldn’t be able to take her mind off yummy yellow boots.

Oh crap.

Ignoring the perspiration running down her face, Clara cranked up the treadmill to maximum speed. She was all-out running now. She was determined to flush this errant thought out of her system if she had to drive herself to exhaustion. She noticed one of the staff trainers coming toward her, looking concerned. She was wearing black tights and a matching top, all flatteringly tight. Here shoes were white. Clara thought her outfit would look better with a lighter colour, for contrast. Maybe yellow socks. Or a big yellow belt. Accessories were important. Clara watched her own feet stride in rhythm with the treadmill.

The idea of accessories reminded her of something else that was troubling her. In addition to that which Clara was determined not to think about, Roy had predicted she would wear “everything else that goes with them.” She remembered his exact words. What did that mean? He didn’t say “and matching hose” or “and a tight minidress”, but “everything that goes with them.” Did he mean her whole ensemble would be bizarre? Or that she would be in yellow from headband to pointed toe?

Could he have meant even more than that? Maybe he was implying, in that sideways, cunning way of his, that everything about her would be different. Maybe he meant, though she couldn’t see how he could possibly know, that her whole attitude would become more suited to a girl who would come to work in a pair of flashy, attention-grabbing, yellow boots.

Clara groaned. She shut down the treadmill. She grabbed the handrails so she wouldn’t fall. She was huffing and puffing. Others in the gym were looking at her.

“You pushed yourself a little hard there,” said the cute trainer in the black tights. “No point in exhausting yourself in five minutes. Try a lighter routine you can stay with longer.” She handed Clara a fresh towel.

“Sorry,” Clara panted, between gasps for breath, “I’m training . . .. for a . . . 5-mile . . . run.” She stumbled off toward the showers.

After her workout Clara decided to stop by Party Girlz on the way back to her car. It was on her way. Well, she had to divert a few blocks, but close enough. She had to take another look at those boots in the window. Maybe then she could figure out what was so beguiling about them.

The shop was still open when Clara got there. She could see a young shop clerk, bedecked in a sequined miniskirt and mesh hose, arranging clothing on a rack. Clara didn’t go in. She stood on the sidewalk for a long time, admiring the yellow boots.

On second regard, they weren’t as outright gaudy as she had judged them to be. They were bright, certainly, but in a cheerful, carefree way. Not so much garish as . . . vibrant. She still couldn’t imagine herself wearing boots like that. They were something a show-off with a great figure might wear to a party, along with a little black dress, to pick up the mood—and to pick up a man. Clara’s style wasn’t like that at all. What made Roy so confident he could convince her to wear those pretty party boots to work at an investment house?

She tried to imagine being the girl in the boots. She would walk into the party deliberately late, so that everyone else would be there. She would pause at the door, looking about the room. Maybe a yellow clutch purse in one hand.

For a moment conversation would pause. All eyes would turn toward her. There would be no sound but the soft jazz from the sound system. She would smile coyly and step into the crowded room. Her heels would shape her legs, looking smashing in shiny dark hose beneath the short-short dress. The yellow boots would gleam in the subdued lighting. Every man in the room would be trying to imprint her image on his retina. Girls would scowl and elbow their boyfriends. One woman in black pants would suddenly down her drink, overcome with the realization that she couldn’t compete.

Clara would feel the re-assuring grip of the tight leather against her calves as she strolled over to the bar. She would be wearing big yellow earrings and a yellow pendant, deep in her cleavage. She would lean against the bar, letting her admirers absorb the rear view. The bartender would stutter as he asked her what was her pleasure. She would order a lemon daiquiri, only because it was yellow. Before she could even get her purse open, a handsome man in a dinner jacket would be there beside her.

“Let me get that for you,” he would say, his eyes alive with desire.

“Oh, you’re very kind,” Clara would reply in a smoky voice. She would sip her drink delicately. “I’m Clara.”

“Jon,” he would reply, watching her lips. “Care to dance?”

Her shiny yellow boots would shimmer like candles as she gracefully moved onto the dance floor.

Back on the warm street, Clara shuddered. The fantasy was unexpectedly intense. How long had she been standing there? She felt flushed. A little tickle of excitement was fluttering up from under her silk panties. She looked back at the sun-yellow boots. How could she possibly get turned on by looking at them?

Clara wasn’t the only one admiring pretty things. The reflection in the window showed a young man in a suit, dawdling behind her as he looked her up and down. He was cute.

Clara was flattered, but not surprised. Though she tended to dress seriously, especially for work, she knew how attractive she could be. Back in college she practically had to drive off suitors with a stick. As the man finally moved away, Clara rested her chin on one finger. She tilted her head one way, then the other. She studied the smooth lines of the yellow boots. There was still no way she would ever wear those, Roy’s prognostications notwithstanding.

Still . . . maybe it was time to do a little shopping. The stores would be open late. Clara smiled mischievously. She hurried back toward her parked car.

The success of Clara’s shopping spree was evident when she arrived at work on Friday morning. She wore a black skirt and black boots as she had the day before. The effect was much different. For one thing, Thursday’s long flowing skirt had been replaced by Friday’s tight black mini. Her new boots were still black, but knee-high with tall, blocky, platform heels.

Clara’s many admirers on the street and in the office turned to stare at the leg show, framed by black leather and lit up by yellow lace nylons, as bright as a daffodil. What they couldn’t quite see was that the nylons were the bottom half of a semi-transparent, yellow bodystocking. The top half was partially covered by a close-fitting jacket—or it would have been if Clara had troubled to pull up the zipper. The black satin half-bra that cupped her impressive chest like a pair of loving hands provided a fetching contrast to the yellow lace stretched over it.

Clara shuffled into the office a little late and more than a little confused. She was still learning the art of walking in three-inch platforms. Her earrings were big plastic hoops in bright yellow. So was the lacy ribbon in her hair. She was perfectly aware that this over-the-top outfit was far out of line for a conservative investment house. She couldn’t help it. Sometime over the previous evening, her pre-occupation with yellow and boots had blossomed into a sex-heavy obsession.

She had started with a plan. Since it was silly to believe that Roy could possess any arcane ability to influence the minds of others, except possibly to bore them to sleep, Clara’s profound response to his suggestion must have come from within her. She was feeling repressed. She was responding to an unadmitted sexual frustration arising from too much work and too many nights with the electric blanket. Frivolous colours, sexy boots, all these were a message from her subconscious that she needed to cut loose a little. Roy had been nothing but an unwitting trigger.

At least, this is what Clara reasoned as she wandered from one trendy boutique to another, trying to alleviate her repression. She adamantly refused to buy yellow boots, of course. She figured she could get that thought out of her mind for good if she allowed herself the components. She bought a pretty yellow dress. She bought a pair of sexy boots. She felt much better.

Clara felt so much better that she bought a yellow miniskirt and a matching tank top. Then she bought another pair of black boots. She was going to stop there, but she noticed some kicky yellow stockings in a store window and decided to get those too. That purchase led to yellow socks, yellow jewellery, a see-through yellow blouse, another yellow dress, even shorter than the first one, a number of other yummy-yummy yes-yes yellow things she didn’t quite remember, and finally yet another pair of sexy black boots—these being the platform numbers with the funky six-inch heels she had worn to work on Monday. Clara spent more on boots on Friday evening than she had in the previous five years.

The whole expedition fired her up like a match thrown into a fireworks factory. With every vampy yellow treat she added to her collection, Clara’s sexual thermostat climbed higher. “Is everything all right in there?” one twentysomething store clerk asked, as Clara fingered herself madly in the changing room. The girl must have heard her groan.

“Great!” Clara gasped, her fingers still stroking. “It was <ohhhh!> it was . . . just <ahhhhh!> a cramp!” She was leaning against the door of the cubicle. The dress she was trying on was on the floor. One hand bulged her new daisy-patterned lace panties, the other adored her bare tits. She bit down on a yellow glove to stifle her scream when she came.

“Did you find anything you liked?” the sweet clerk asked, when Clara stumbled out of the changing room. Clara’s hair was falling over her eyes.

“Mmmmm, sure did,” Clara replied dreamily. “I’ll take all of them.”

Clara had never played with herself in public before. Nevertheless she found her way to orgasm three times before the shops closed. Then she drove back to her town house. She threw her packages on the bedroom floor. She was wearing a top and skirt outfit in yellow, piped with black, very short, and yellow canvas shoes. She flopped back on the bed, spread her long legs, and brought herself off a few more times with the red vibrator she kept in the bedside table. She resolved to replace it with a yellow one sometime soon.

Roy was already finishing with his first client of the day when Clara arrived at work the next morning. She stepped out of Roy’s little office just as Clara was stepping carefully toward hers. The woman had that contented look on her face Clara saw so often on Roy’s clients. She swung her briefcase lazily as she ambled toward the door. Her brief designer suit matched her shoes.

Clara caught a glimpse of Roy as she passed by. He smiled at her. “Morning Clara,” he called out good-naturedly.

“Morning,” Clara replied, trying to act natural. She could see his eyes sweeping up and down her curves. She had been attracting that reaction since she stepped out the door. He smiled, but said nothing more. Clara hurried down to her office.

Why hadn’t he said anything? Clara sat in her office and pondered. Her sexuality was decidedly un-repressed in this outfit. She looked hot and she knew it. She had been a sensation on the street. Roy had definitely noticed. Yet he hadn’t said a word. He just smiled that wise, knowing smile, full of calm and hidden knowledge.

It was deliberate. It had to be. He was still trying to mess with her mind. Instead of reminding her about his promise to see her in yellow boots (oh!) he had expressly not mentioned it—letting her know that he knew and thereby reminding her of it anyway. It was clever, she had to grant that. Roy evidently knew a thing or two about psychology. He was playing her.

It wouldn’t work. No matter what tricks and traps he played to manipulate her into wearing yellow boots (soooo sexy!) she wasn’t going to fall for it. Her yellow body stocking alleviated any yen for yellow (which is why she practically creamed when she put it on that morning). Her boots were black. She wasn’t going to waste any more time thinking about yellow boots (yum!).

Maybe Roy hadn’t noticed Clara’s new sunshine packaging, but everyone else did. Customers and co-workers alike looked her over with a mixture of shock and amazement. The fellow that brought the bagels fell in love instantly. Investors sat in front of her desk and stared dreamily at her tits while she earnestly tried to explain investment options. She had to be very careful bending over. In fact, she had to exercise care simply walking in her towering platform boots.

“OK, who are you and what have you done with Clara,” demanded Hailey, the front office worker whose broach Clara had noticed earlier. She was standing in the doorway to Clara’s office, where Clara was trying not to notice how much leg she showed sitting down. It was a lot, all of it splendid and dressed in yellow.

“Oh, I know, it’s . . . strange,” she replied.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, you look totally hot, but . . . geez Clara are you trying to paralyse the whole office? Everybody’s too busy ogling you to get anything done. If Tim sees you like this he’ll have a coronary.”

Timothy Merrypole was the office manager. He was a slight, quiet man with a moustache and a touch of grey in his hair. He excelled at the art of hands-off management. If you met your quotas he left you alone. Clara had seen him as she walked in, standing at the doorway to his office with a look of blank disbelief on his face.

“Oh, I know, I know. But . . . you see, I have to wear . . . something different today . . . because . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m trying to kill a pink elephant!”

The other woman blinked. “Hello? Is this ‘Let’s Not Make Any Sense Day’? Did I miss a memo?”

Clara ran a hand down her face. “It’s hard to explain. Roy said something to me the other day, something about . . . yellow . . . and ever since I haven’t been able to get yellow off my mind.”

“Neither will anyone else if you keep dressing like this. Wait a moment. You’re dressed like a teenager’s fantasy because of something Roy said. Roy? Roy the Rotund? No-Joy Roy?”

“Look, it’s . . . nothing. I felt like breaking out of my shell for a while.”

Hailey looked her over. “You sure did, honey.” Her voice was not completely unapproving. “Maybe this would be a good day to hit Merrypole for a raise.”

Instead, Clara spent the day avoiding Mr. Merrypole, and everyone else, as far as she could. This was difficult in a busy office where she had regular appointments with customers. To make matters more confusing, the avid attention she was generating was a powerful turn-on. She found it hard to keep her jacket zipped up. She toyed with her hemline when she knew someone was looking—which was all the time. Three times she had to dash into the ladies’ room to satisfy the tingle in her pussy. Her bright yellow bodystocking was conveniently crotchless.

Through it all, Roy said nothing. If he passed her in the corridor, he would nod politely and make small talk. He never mentioned her attire. It was infuriating. Every time Clara saw him, every time he casually studied her abundant curves but acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary, it reminded her of their conversation the week before. And that reminded her of yellow boots.

She knew what he was up to. She knew that he knew that she was already thinking about yellow boots, and that the association with their earlier conversation was so strong that he didn’t need to say anything to re-inforce it. In fact, she reasoned, sitting in her office with one tall boot swinging nervously, he was deliberately saying nothing to give her nothing new to think about. That way she couldn’t drive off the pink elephant. It was devilishly clever.

Clara noticed something else that gave her pause. She had been wondering about the oddly complacent looks on all the svelte, well-off women that wandered out of Roy’s office. Their contentment ran beyond what one would expect from a shrewd purchase of securities. They looked—satisfied. One stately redhead casually buttoned up her blouse as she strolled away. Another entered with her hair in a bun. She left with her hair down.

Around mid-afternoon something odd happened. An affluent businessman came by, accompanied by his much younger wife. They disappeared into Roy’s office. A few minutes later the man came out. He sat on a bench in the waiting area. He waited patiently. Some time later his blonde trophy wife emerged, smiling. She smoothed down her minidress, patted her coiffed hair into place, and rejoined her husband. They left arm in arm.

The implications hit Clara like a blow. Was Roy doing in his office what she thought he was doing? There was a rather large sofa along one wall. But why hadn’t anybody noticed? It was as if ——ohmygod—he had the whole office seeing only what he wanted them to see. If that were so, it meant he really could plant ideas in people’s minds. It was no joke.

Perhaps she was over-analysing again. Clara tossed the idea around in her mind. Unfortunately, the mental image of compliant, mind-controlled women happily giving themselves to Roy was an even bigger pink elephant. The idea was perverse and unexpectedly sexy. Clara thought about women compelled to wear yellow boots, or yellow dresses, or scanty yellow underwear, and then to present themselves to Roy for his leisurely inspection. If what he saw pleased him, perhaps he would let his enchanted client share his pleasure.

Clara groaned. She jumped to her feet, almost fell off her giant heels, and wobbled off to the ladies’s room again. She was ten minutes late for her next client.

Saturday morning Clara dressed in a yellow T-shirt, a red denim mini, and a different pair of boots over thin yellow socks. The outfit was a far cry from the jeans she normally wore on weekends. This was not a normal weekend. She spent most of the day doing odd jobs and trying to distract herself from thinking about yellow boots.

She wasn’t entirely successful. Her mind seemed to swing back to them every time she saw something yellow, or boot-like, or starting with the letter B. Since Clara herself was wearing black boots, she saw reminders all the time. Worse, the pretty yellow socks spilling over the top of her boots made it easy to imagine wearing flashy yellow boots instead. These images were instantly arousing. Clara spent a good part of the day with one hand up under her miniskirt.

In the afternoon she went out to buy some fresh vegetables and milk. She was surprised at the attention she gathered. Her skirt wasn’t that short—was it? Only when she arrived back at her flat did she realize that she had forgotten to wear a brassiere. The tight T-shirt flattered her unfettered breasts. Her stiff nipples distended the fabric. The T-shirt was yellow. No wonder everyone was staring. Clara dropped her groceries and trotted into the bedroom to find her vibrator.

She had bought more boots, after her grocery trip. There was a shoe store down the road a way. One pair was tangerine suede. That was as close to yellow as Clara would permit. She was resolved not to give Roy the satisfaction of seeing her in yellow boots.

A few minutes later, as she worked herself toward the promise of a nifty little orgasm, Clara realized that she was wearing no undies. She groaned when she realized what the young shop clerk must have seen as he knelt at her feet, helping her try on one pair of boots after another. She hadn’t even tried to keep her legs together. The orgasm arrived early.

Sunday was more or less a repeat of Saturday. Clara’s effort to distract herself were constantly derailed by horniness. Yellow clothes were a constant. She slept in a yellow negligee. The only time she took off her boots was to put on another pair.

“I’m really confused,” Clara said into the telephone late Sunday afternoon. “Do you think it’s possible for someone to control other people’s thoughts?” She was talking to Petra, a friend who lived across town.

“I hardly think so. You mean by hypnotism or something like that?”

“No, I mean—more like manipulation. Planting ideas that the hearer can’t resist. You know, making someone agree by the force of your personality or—oh, she’s wearing yellow!”

“What’s that?” came Petra’s voice.

“I’m sorry. I have the television on. One of my friends at work said something to me the other day and I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s like a pink elephant.”

“A what?”

“A pink elephant. You know? An idea you can’t stop thinking about because once someone mentions something as outrageous as a pink elephant, it well, it sticks in your mind, and everything you see reminds you of it.”

“Oh. You can’t stop thinking about pink elephants.”

“No! I can’t stop thinking about yellow.”

“Yellow elephants?” Her voice was puzzled.

Clara looked down at her fancy suede boots. She was wearing straw-yellow tights. She sighed. “Never mind,” she told her friend. “I’ll talk to boots later. Yellow and good-bye.” She didn’t want to be abrupt with Petra but she was horny again.

Clara was hiding in her office on Monday afternoon when the summons came from Mr. Merrypole. She had been expecting it. Clara had arrived at work very late.

She was wearing her new stretch boots in pretty tangerine. They were almost (moan!) yellow. She was also wearing a stretch-fit minidress in bright orange, with yellow bands down the sides. Her earrings were giant orange hearts. There were yellow seams up the back of her expensive stockings. Her underthings were tangerine too. Clara felt like she should be leaning against a sports car at an auto show.

She had been propositioned three times before noon. She accepted all of them. The first had been on the street, before she even got to the office. The last had come from an impetuous young client who couldn’t bear to wait for the weekend. He took her right then and there, on top of her own desk with her spike-heeled boots pointing at the fluorescent lights. He left her a generous deposit.

Clara could hardly blame the men for their ardour. She had been coming onto them shamelessly from the moment she walked out the door of her flat. A passing stranger helped her unlock her seemingly stuck car door. She hit on the amazed gate attendant at the parking garage, while letting him get a good long look down her dress. She paid for her morning bagel with a hand job. In between she cooed and word-fucked with every client that entered her office, male or female. The men were floored by the attention from this suddenly hot babe in the tight mini and high heeled boots. The women were often shocked, but some of them responded too. Clara felt like she was on fire. Whole herds of pink elephants were copulating in her head.

Inevitably, she got a terse phone call from the office manager. She put down the phone reluctantly. How could she possibly explain this erratic behaviour? Who would believe her? “I’m sorry, Mr. Merrypole, but I think Roy has been mind-fucking the entire office, and I’m so desperate to escape the pink elephant he let loose in my psyche, I’m fucking anything that moves to avoid thinking about sexy yellow boots.” She shook her head. That approach probably wouldn’t work.

In the event, her overcharged libido arranged another approach. When Clara stepped into Merrypole’s office five minutes later, her mild-mannered boss couldn’t believe his eyes. Clara smiled wanly. She stepped toward his desk, placing one foot in front of the other so her hips swayed fetchingly. “H-hi Tim,” she said, “I guess you want to reprimand me for the way I’m dressed.”

“I should say so,” the older man responded. He was looking at her keenly, despite his disapproval. “Clara, what has gotten—you know better than this!”

Clara stood beside his desk. Her hips were still swaying, back and forth, making the knit dress stretch one way, then the other. “I do, Tim, of course I do. I’m, well, I’m confused, you see. I know I shouldn’t come to work looking like this. Look at this dress! The hemline is far too high.” To emphasize the point she drew her fingers across the hem, where it rode along the tops of her thighs.

Automatically, Merrypole followed her fingers with his eyes. He got to his feet. “Look, Clara, you’re upset about something, I can see that. Why don’t—”

“And it’s so tight, you can see everything!” Clara exclaimed dejectedly. She smoothed her hands down the straining fabric. Merrypole’s eyes shifted from her legs to her boobs. “I’m wearing stockings too,” Clara explained, as if that were a trenchant fact. “See?” Slowly, she lifted the hem of her dress on one side, until one sun-yellow garter came into view. Again her boss’s gaze followed her hands. “They feel delicious, but what am I doing so dolled up for a day at work?”

Merrypole shook his head. “That, that’s exactly what I want to know! Why are you—”

“Oh, but it’s worse than that, Timmy,” Clara interrupted him again. “I don’t think I’m behaving properly either. I get all gushy whenever I’m around a good-looking man. Like you, for example. I get all excited when you look at my body. My eyes start to twinkle. My voice becomes soft and inviting. My nipples get hard and pointy—can’t you see them? My hips begin to swing back and forth, like this, and I strut toward him in my high heels, licking my lips, mmmmmm, like that. When I get close I take his face in my warm, soft hands, like this, and I can’t stop kissing him (smack) and kissing him (smack, smooch) and again (!) . . . .

“Clara . . . what . . . you—” Merrypole gasped when Clara finally freed his lips for a second. She smothered his protests with her lips, and then her tongue. He stiffened when a slim female hand lighted on his erection.

“It’s not my fault,” the tangerine temptress whispered in his ear. “I’m being mind-trampled by pink elephants.” Two hands worked his zipper. “And I have to do something—” she began to gracefully slide down his body, onto her knees—“to take my mind off yellow boots.”

Merrypole could only grunt helplessly as Clara found something stiff to take her mind off other things, and began to eagerly distract herself with her mouth.

Twenty minutes later, Clara left her panting, spent boss sprawled in his executive chair with his suit trousers around his ankles and a loose grin on his face. She stumbled to the ladies’ room to repair her lipstick. The face looking back at her in the mirror was wild and aroused. She couldn’t go on like this. She extended one foot. She looked down at the gleaming stretch boot. It was almost perfect.

Almost.

She returned to her office only long enough to grab her orange purse. “Cover for me,” she told Hailey as she marched by her front desk. “I’m going out.”

“But, but, you have appointments! And a management meeting. Where ——”

Clara stepped around the desk, grabbed Hailey by the shoulders, and kissed her full on the lips. The other woman squawked and flailed about. Clara slid an arm around her, holding her close. He free hand began to knead one breast lovingly. Her lips and tongue worked magic.

Abruptly she let her go. “Just cover for me,” she whispered.

Hailey fell backward into her chair, shocked and turned on. “Yes Clara,” she squeaked.

Clara walked down the street to Party Girlz. She looked in the window. The preposterous yellow boots were still there. So was the pretty clerk, today in a cute pink skirt. Clara swung open the door and marched in.

“I think these will be a good fit,” the clerk said five minutes later. “Let’s try them.” She was kneeling at Clara’s feet, one bright yellow boot in her hands. She slipped it up Clara’s right leg. She slid up the hidden zipper. Clara extended her left foot like an empress being attended by a slave. The fawning clerk slipped the second boot on. She zipped it up. “What do you think?” she asked nervously.

Clara was sitting in a comfortable chair. She looked down at the yellow boots on her feet. They were shiny and high-heeled. They were gaudy and impractical. She felt like she was ready to cum right then and there. “Perfect,” she breathed. She was tingling all over.

“Do you want to try walking to see how they feel?” said her obedient attendant. Clara’s sexual heat had entranced her the moment she walked in the door.

“No, I’ll take them,” Clara responded immediately. She already knew the boots felt wonderful. She was thrumming with arousal. She looked past her perfect yellow boots to the barely-twenty cutie in the lacy black top and pink ruffled mini. “I’ll take you too, honey,” she purred. She slid off the chair onto the floor, then onto the astonished girl. The youngster’s feeble protests quickly transformed into screams of pleasure.

Clara got the boots for free.

Roy looked up from his work when he heard the tap of high heels. It was Tuesday morning. Clara was standing in his doorway. “You were right,” she said.

Roy allowed himself a thin smile. The brown-haired bombshell posing in his office was utterly different than the conservative young banker he had teased a week earlier. Her hair was carefully arranged and her make-up was subtle. She was wearing a tight yellow T-shirt coupled with a very brief, black skirt that swished back and forth with every hip-swaying step. Below the skirt she wore sheer stockings and sexy yellow boots.

“I see you understand my point now,” Roy said. “I told you I can control minds.”

Clara strode into the room. She was feeling relaxed and happy. The confusion of ideas that had tormented her all week was gone. “You made me crazy, that’s all,” Clara responded. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about yellow boots until I bought some. It’s like trying to not think about pink elephants.” She closed the office door behind her.

Roy looked her up and down keenly. Clara’s legs went on forever. “As I recall,” he said carefully, “I also said you would be wearing everything that goes with them.”

“Oh, but I am,” Clara responded. She lowered her voice. “Look at this.” She spun in a pirouette for him, letting the little skirt fly. Then she grabbed the bottom of her yellow top with both hands, stretching it tight. Looking Roy in the eye, she lifted the shirt over her head and off. She let it dangle on one finger for a moment before dropping it on the floor. “See? Yellow boots and yellow boobs.”

She was referring to the yellow lace brassiere that decorated her breasts like sugar candy around delicious filling. She took another step toward him, showing off. Roy was making her steamy. Wearing the hot yellow boots he had predicted (ordered!) was a capitulation of a very sexual kind. She was a submissive female now, giving herself to the dominant male.

“I’m not quite done,” she announced in a throaty voice. She turned around slowly, keeping her legs spread. She unhitched the joke of a skirt. She swayed her hips back and forth, letting the black fabric slide down seductively. More bright yellow came into view. One more twitch, and the skirt slid down around her boots. Clara’s lace undies matched her bra. “Yellow booty,” she said over her shoulder.

“Splendid,” Roy replied, adjusting his round glasses. His voice was thick. Clara knew what he wanted. She strutted toward him in her yellow underthings and vampy yellow boots. Even her garter belt was lacy yellow.

Roy said: “You are thinking about pink elephants again.”

“Is that so? What makes you think so?” She was close to his chair now.

“Because I have one right here,” Roy explained. He bounced to his feet. With a deft, practised motion he unzipped his trousers and exposed himself. He was already tumescent. “Here’s his trunk,” he said.

Clara gasped in delight. “Oooh, Roy baby you must let him drink at my watering hole!”

Less than two minutes later they were on the sofa in the back of the office, Roy on his back and Clara happily bouncing up and down on his pink elephant. She was giggling and moaning as she rode him. They were both missing appointments. They were fucking like rabbits in the middle of the morning, in the middle of a bank office. Clara couldn’t care less. She felt horny and sexy and wonderful. Her soul glowed as brightly as the yellow boots on her feet. From time to time Roy reached up to adore her tits, hardly contained by her wispy yellow bra.

“I think,” Roy gasped, between strokes, “that it’s time—to plant ——a few more ideas—in your head.”

“Mmmmmm, wha?” Clara replied. “I-Ideas?” She was coming close to coming—again. She watched the reflection of the overhead lights in Roy’s glasses, and the sheen of perspiration on his bald head. His little bald head was deep inside her.

“Listen, uh, listen, cu-carefully.”

Clara listened. She bounced and she squirmed. She knew Roy couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t really believe she would do those things he said. Still, the fantasy of imagining herself as his sex-mad thrall added to the excitement of their mid-day fuck. Roy groaned suddenly, his back arched, and he came, just moments before Clara’s own orgasm rippled through her. In that moment of ecstasy she realized she would eventually do all the things that Roy had mentioned. How could she help herself? He had given her a new kind of pink elephant to think about.

Sexy yellow boots were only the beginning.