The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Clarisa checked her hair and face in the hall mirror. She flicked a speck of dust off her navy blue skirt. The skirt ended a little above the knee, flattering her shapely legs. She stepped into a pair of low heels by the door and picked up her handbag. She stepped out into the corridor, locking the brick red door of her flat behind her, and headed for the lift.

Almost at once she heard the whispers. “There she is, there she is!”

“Where, I don’t see—Wow!”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“She’s—amazing!”

“Shhhh! She’ll hear you! Man look at those!”

Clarisa turned about. The voices were coming from an open door across the corridor from her flat. Her neighbour, another young single named Tim or Tom or something, was standing in the doorway with a second man she didn’t recognize. They were jostling each other out of the way, trying to look without being seen. They froze when Clarisa looked their way.

Who were they staring at? Her? Why?

She looked down. She let out a shriek. Covering her bare boobs as well as possible with her purse, which wasn’t nearly adequate for the task, she turned and ran back to her door.

Dammit, locked! She fished around in her purse for the key and unlocked the door. The task provided plenty of time for Tom and company to get a good look. Clarisa turned crimson with embarrassment. She stepped back into her flat and slammed the door closed. The last thing she saw through the closing door were the two guys across the hall, pointing and whispering.

Clarisa dropped the purse. She leaned back against the door. What was wrong with her? She looked down at her chest. Her impressive rack was fully on display, unfettered by blouse or bra. Those garments were lying across the reading chair, over a book of sheet music. She had apparently thrown them there.

Clarisa retrieved her garments. She struggled back into the brassiere and put her blouse back on. It was dark blue to match her skirt. She shook her head, depressed. Today wasn’t the first time she had gone outside topless, or even the fifth. No wonder she was starting to draw crowds. Why did she keep doing this?

She tried to ignore the fact that her nipples were hard.

Clarisa arrived at work the following day without incident. She made a point of double-checking her clothing before she left the flat. She felt weird doing it, but it was just as well. Her neighbour was at his door when she left, pretending to retrieve a newspaper. He was obviously hoping for another free show. Clarisa glared at him as she walked by.

The workday was gearing up as Clarisa arrived. She said hello to the receptionist, who waggled her fingers at her, and trudged down to her grey-walled cubicle. She set down her handbag. She sighed to herself as she peeled off her jacket. The jacket was raspberry red, to match her skirt. Her sweater, in contrast, was black, and sized to be figure-flattering without over-playing her generous bust.

Clarisa was proud of her looks. She liked to dress well. On the other hand, she sometimes felt her natural endowments verged on the ridiculous. If beauty was a gift from the gods, they must have been feeling drunkenly generous when Clarisa was born. She had curves everywhere, from the round cheekbones and full lips of her face to the graceful arches of her feet. She had to be endlessly careful about playing down her bouncy thirty-sevens, or spend the day suffering lusty stares from men and jealous glares from women.

She sat down, smoothing the snug skirt beneath her. She pulled a hand mirror out of a drawer and looked at herself. Her honey-blonde hair was mussed; how had that happened? She smoothed it out with her fingers. She sighed again. The face looking back at her was lovely, but weary.

She set the mirror down. She looked about her square-walled world: a computer; a tiny, built-in desk; four grey cubicle walls brightened with pictures of tropical islands cut from magazines. Why, she wondered again, did she put up with this? Why hadn’t she pursued her dream of being a singer-songwriter, instead of falling into this dreary, nine-to-five routine? Everyone said she had talent. And with her figure, her more cynical friends pointed out, talent hardly mattered.

Maybe that was the problem. Glamour was all very well, but Clarisa was a musician first. She wanted to make an impression for her musical ability, not for the size of her amplifiers. She could probably do well on the bar circuit if she dolled herself up and strutted across the stage like a pouty popstar, but who would be listening to the lyrics? Until she could find a solution to this D-cup dilemma, her musical career remained a vague ambition.

The click of heels on the floor brought her out of her reverie. Stephanie appeared at the door, or where the door would be if Clarisa had one, giant coffee mug in hand. Steph was slim, curly-haired, and cheerful, as always. She was wearing a striped blouse and vest and black slacks. “Morning Clarisa,” she said, saluting her with the mug. “Hope you don’t mind, but Terry wants those timesheets right—what are you DOING!” Her voice rose to a shout as the sentence made a U-turn.

Clarisa jumped. “What? What is it?” She followed Stephanie’s gaze, down to her chest. “Oh my god!” she shouted in return. “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod I did it again!” She used both hands to cover at least a little of her bare boobs.

“For god’s sake, cover yourself,” Stephanie commanded. She strode over to the coat rack, where Clarisa’s brassiere and sweater were hanging beside her jacket. She threw them to Clarisa. “I don’t know what your game is dearie, but that kind of prank is likely to get you sacked.”

Twenty minutes later, the two women were sitting in a quiet corner of a meeting room. They were talking in lowered voices. Clarisa was fully dressed. “You mean, you don’t even notice when you’re doing it?” Stephanie asked.

Clarisa shook her head. She stared at the floor, still red with shame. “It’s, it’s like some kind of compulsion. I can’t stop it! I’ve tried, believe me. I can keep it together if I put my mind to it, but . . . as soon as I stop concentrating on staying dressed, I take off my top again.” She didn’t mention the powerful flush of arousal and humiliation that accompanied discovering her topless state. She hoped Stephanie hadn’t noticed how stiff her nipples were when she walked into her cubicle.

Stephanie sipped coffee. “How long have you had this . . . condition?”

The busty blonde considered. “About . . . maybe three weeks. I think it started around the beginning of this month. It . . . it’s getting worse.” Finally she looked up. “Steph, what is wrong with me?”

The other woman took her hand. “Clarisa, have you ever considered that you might have . . . well, an exhibitionist streak buried deep inside you?”

Clarisa heaved a great sigh. “If I do, it’s not so deeply buried any more, is it?”

Was it possible, Clarisa considered later, as she walked down a busy street, that she was a closet exhibitionist? Or did the phrase “closet exhibitionist” even make sense? Maybe she had become so obsessed with covering up her knockers that her subconscious was rebelling. She was a beautiful woman, forced by society and her own ambitions to pretend that her captivating curves didn’t exist. It was rather like a poor man trying to hide an inheritance, for fear of losing his friends. Wasn’t showing off in front of others fundamental to the character of a musician?

Maybe part of her nature, the primordial, sexual side, was tired of the charade. That was the side that wanted to rip off her blouse, throw off her bra, and shout at the world: “Yes! I’m gorgeous! Come on everybody, take a look at these fabulous boobies!” Well, it was a possibility.

It was Saturday afternoon. Clarisa was shopping downtown, looking svelte and shapely in skinny jeans and calf-high boots. The early spring air was warm and fresh, even here in the heart of the city. Nevertheless, Clarisa wore a pink jacket over her tank top. She figured an extra layer might be a good idea if she had one of her stripping fits. She checked periodically to be sure she was still wearing it. Her handbag hung over one shoulder.

For a while she strolled along without concern. Her original plan was specifically to find a new suit for work. It was such a fine day she lingered a while, shopping and browsing along with the rest of the Saturday crowd. Men passing by turned to admire the well-figured blonde in tight denim and boots. Clarisa was used to that. She checked her jacket again.

Stepping out of a store a few minutes later, Clarisa paused to put her jacket back on. She had taken it off in the store to try something on. It was getting warm, but she didn’t trust herself without it, not with the way she had been behaving. She fished a pair of oversized sunglasses out of one pocket and put them on.

She seemed to be drawing more attention than usual. Clarisa knew she did wonderful things to a pair of tight jeans, but this was something else. Every man she met was doing a double take. One fellow almost walked into a lamp post. Two teens walked by, heads turning in lockstep to ogle her. One of them whispered something she didn’t catch. A middle-age woman abruptly pulled her two children away, covering their eyes. She glared daggers at Clarisa.

Clarisa stopped. She looked down. She was still wearing her jacket, of course. The zipper was unfastened. Underneath she was mother naked. Her twin beauties were coquettishly exposed, bouncing along merrily with every step she took.

Not again! Mortified, Clarisa turned toward the nearest building, trying to shield herself from the gathering crowd. The blood rushed to her face. How, she wondered, had she exposed herself while still wearing her jacket? She reached for the tab to close the zipper. She discovered that her right hand was carrying her tank top and bra.

With a scream of frustration, the bodacious blonde turned and ran into the nearest doorway. It happened to be a law office. Ignoring the shouts from the startled receptionist, she ran down the corridor until she found an empty room.

As quickly as possible she sloughed off her jacket and pulled her brassiere and top back on. Bizarrely, the pressure of the bra cups against her turgid nipples sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. It was impossible, but she was turned on.

Clarisa was pulling the jacket back on when she noticed the receptionist, a pretty young woman with brown hair in ringlets, standing at the door of the cubicle. She looked worried. “Excuse me, uh, miss,” she said, “can I help you?”

“I don’t think anybody can help me,” Clarisa replied.

She kept one hand on the front of her jacket all the way home.

“All right then,” Clarisa said out loud, early Monday morning. " I am going to work. I am fully dressed. I am wearing a blouse. I am wearing a jacket. I am not going to flash like some big-boobed stripper ditz.” Her reflection in the hall mirror looked back at her with a trace of doubt in her hazel eyes.

This morning Clarisa was wearing a deep blue skirt-suit. It was the only positive result of her public indecency act on the weekend. The skirt was snug and short, showing off her tush and legs without violating office decorum. The tailored jacket and white blouse were equally flattering. She was wearing blue slings and gold jewellery. Everything looked fine.

Nevertheless, she was nervous as she stepped out the door. Tom was at his door. He looked disappointed when he saw her, less so when he noticed her legs.

Clarisa arrived at work intact. She let out a sigh of relief as she stepped into her cubicle. She tossed her purse on the desk and slid off her jacket. She expressly checked that her white blouse was in place. It seemed odd to be checking her clothing all the time.

Once again that morning she was aware of all the eyes she was drawing. Everyone she met, man or woman, gave her a long, appraising scan. Bob, the clueless nerd three cubicles down, stared at her wide-eyed when she walked by. He looked like he had seen an angel. Ned, the office sleaze, was even more impressed. The look she got from Terry, the office manager, was more reserved.

Attention Clarisa might ordinarily have found flattering, today made her nervous. She kept checking that her blouse was on, and all the buttons done up. Finally she figured the heavy looks were a response to her new suit. The tight skirt did show a lot of nylon-coated leg.

It was Stephanie who eventually set her right. The first time the other woman saw her, she grabbed Clarisa by the arm and pulled her into an empty meeting room. “Hey, what’s the problem, Steph?” Clarisa demanded.

“Look, Clarisa, I know you’re dealing with this . . . flashing thing, but there’s covering up and there’s covering up.”

Clarisa was perplexed. “I’m wearing a blouse. I’ve been checking like every five minutes all morning!”

Stephanie flipped a hand. “Take a closer look.”

Clarisa looked down. She gasped in horror. The blouse she had chosen was semi-transparent and tight. She was wearing nothing beneath it. The gossamer fabric clung to the smooth globes of her breasts, perfectly outlining their curve and swell—including the stiffly distended nipples. The effect was more erotically revealing than wearing nothing at all.

Instinctively Clarisa folded her arms over her chest. “Steph! I did it again!” she cried. “I been showing everything . . . the whole office . . . all morning! Ohmygod! Her tits felt warm and tingly under her hands.

Stephanie said: “I’ll get your jacket.”

A few minutes later, Clarisa was hurrying down the street from her office. She was holding her jacket closed with both hands. There was a lingerie shop not too far away. She dashed inside.

At this time in the morning the shop was empty save for a single clerk entering sales numbers at the cash register. She was a youngster, barely out of her teens. Clarisa peeled off her jacket. “I need a bra,” she said to the surprised clerk.

“I would say you do,” the other woman replied.

Wisely refraining from asking questions, the girl led Clarisa to the racks of foundation garments. It took a while to find something in Clarisa’s size. They were all more showy than the functional harnesses Clarisa favoured. Well, any port in a storm. Clarisa grabbed two, in pink and purple, and marched into a change room.

It was difficult, not to mention embarrassing, to try the brassieres on while her nips were so stiff. How could this behaviour be getting her so excited? She almost slipped a finger down for a few strokes under her mini. She forbade herself sternly.

A few minutes later Clarisa emerged from the changing room. She had put her blouse and suit jacket back on. “I’ll take this one,” she told the clerk, indicating the purple choice. It more or less matched her suit.

The girl raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I’ll ring it up,” she said guardedly. “Uhm, don’t you want to wear it?”

Clarisa looked down at the underthings in her hand, then at her torso, where her ebullient breasts were again bursting through the thin blouse. “Oh for crying out loud,” she cried. “Hold on a minute.” She returned to the changing room to dress properly.

It was harder getting dressed this time. Clarisa’s boobies didn’t want to go into a brassiere. They wanted to stay out and play. She indulged them for a second or two. The first caress brought such a pulse of excitement it made her gasp. She stopped then, because she feared she soon wouldn’t be able too. “Babe you are righteously fucked up,” she lectured herself.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, then emerged from the change room again. “There, that’s better. I’m sorry, I . . . left the house in a great hurry this morning.”

“Of course,” the clerk said understandingly. “Uhm, did you forget something else?”

Clarisa looked down. Her new bra was fully on display beneath the open jacket of her suit. The cups were purple lace. They were designed to display rather than cover. Turning around, she saw her white blouse hanging on a hook in the changing room. With a moan of combined frustration and heat she trotted back to put it on.

This time she couldn’t resist dipping a finger down to her lovebox to see what all the fuss was about. That turned out to be a dubious decision. The moan she let out at the first touch was loud enough for the clerk to hear. It took all Clarisa’s will-power to stop herself. She was fully dressed, but red-faced, as she hurried out of the store.

When she returned to the office Clarisa realized she was no longer wearing panties.

It was too much. When she sat down in her cubicle and felt the unsponged wetness beneath her skirt, her heat boiled over. She moaned like a lover had kissed her between the legs. She jumped to her feet and fairly ran to the ladies’ room. Someone else was coming out. She said, “Hi Clarisa! Hey are you all—”

Clarisa brushed past her without a word. She dashed into the farthest of the three stalls. She slammed the door. In moments the clothing she had struggled so hard to keep on was off again, and she was standing in her hose and heels, legs spread, head thrown back, one hand adoring her fabulous tits, the other stroking her wet and thrumming cunny.

It felt divine. It felt lovely. It felt like sex in a big, soft bed bathed in morning sunlight and the smell of roses, with a selfless, muscled lover who knew how to stoke carnal pleasure with every touch and thrust. Clarisa was making noise. She was filling the room with the fragrance of her arousal. Someone could come in and discover her at any moment. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

“My god I’m sick, I’m fucked, I’m . . . oh god fucking twisted,” she muttered over and over. “I’m so fucking turned on from fucking flashing and unh! showing my titties titties titties and men staring and unh! oooh! so sick, so goddam fucking sick ohmygod ohmygod ohmy GAAAAWD!”

The orgasm hit her fast and hard. She propped herself against the door with one hand to keep from falling. The other hand kept up the action in her pussy, prolonging the peak into a series of bright spasms, one on top of another on top of another.

Finally, slowly, she floated down. She let her hand rest. She leaned against the door for a long time, breathing slow and deep. She used some tissue to keep her love juice from dripping on the pool of clothes at her feet.

She sat down loosely on the toilet seat. Her pantyhose were bunched up around her knees. A bead of sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts, like a traveller following a pass through the mountains. “What the what is wrong with me?” she wondered out loud. “I haven’t cum like that since . . . oh man . . . that was . . . that was . . . oooh, I need to do that again.” Her fingers were already in motion.

Well over half an hour passed before Clarisa felt ready to leave the washroom. After her second, mind-shattering climax she redressed carefully, checking and rechecking that she hadn’t left anything off. She washed her face and combed out her blonde locks. She felt an odd mixture of shame and relief as she walked back to her cubicle. She wondered briefly if anyone had heard her.

No one spoke as Clarisa walked by. Colleagues turned away or looked at the floor. Clearly the whole office had heard her. Mortified, the shapely blonde hurried to her cubicle as fast as she could. She desperately wished she had a door to close.

Wednesday evening found Clarisa pacing about in her flat. She was trying to decide what to do. Sooner or later she had to go out to buy groceries. There was no food left in the cupboards.

She picked up her guitar and strummed it aimlessly. She and her musician friends had regular jam sessions on Wednesday nights. Clarisa was too nervous to go.

It was increasingly difficult to keep her clothes on when she went outside. Hanging about her flat was no problem—mostly. Once the front door closed behind her she had to watch herself every moment. A few hours earlier she had gone down to the lobby, topless, to pick up the mail. At least a half dozen people, including the building superintendent, were treated to a free show. Her nipples had been standing at attention, of course, shamelessly basking in the shocked stares.

The day before she had gone down to do laundry. The building had its own laundry room on the lowest floor. It was only when the machine was churning away that Clarisa realized she had stripped off the clothes she was wearing and thrown them in with the rest. She was standing in the well-lit room in bikini panties and red pumps.

Anyone in the building could walk in at any moment. In despair, Clarisa realized that she either had to stay there until her clothes were clean and dry, or go back up to her flat wearing virtually nothing. Despite her mortification, the predicament turned her on something fierce. Why had she been wearing her best high-heels beneath her jeans?

Eventually Clarisa worked up the courage to go out for some food. There was a corner store not far away, it would do in a pinch. Clarisa didn’t trust herself to go to a regular supermarket. She put on a long orange sweater to go with her snug jeans and boots. She figured she could hardly pull the sweater over her head without noticing. There was another top underneath it, in case she could. She checked the sweater carefully in the hall mirror before she left.

Clarisa continued to check her sweater every few minutes as she walked to the corner store. She bought an armload of essentials as fast as she could. Something was still wrong. Men were turning to look at her, not with the shocked excitement of her bare boob displays, but with keen admiration reserved for a hot babe. Clarisa was a hot babe, but she was wearing a sweater and jeans. Wasn’t she?

She paid for her groceries. The teenager behind the cash register was almost tongue-tied. Clarisa tugged down her sweater self-consciously as she left the store. Her hand felt bare skin. She looked down. Somehow, in her pre-occupation with keeping her top on, she had forgotten to put on her jeans. The tight sweater was acting as an extremely short mini-dress, revealing the full length of her long legs, made even more provocative by the calf-high fashion boots.

Clarisa groaned. Resignedly, she realized there was nothing to do but hurry home. It was only a few blocks. She wasn’t actually flashing anything, if she walked carefully. Fortunately, a grocery bag in each arm kept her from taking off anything else. Unfortunately, hurrying wasn’t exactly feasible while she was wearing heels and carrying two heavy bags. She used the weight of the bags as an excuse to keep her back straight, thrusting out her chest.

Arriving back at her building, she sighed in relief when the doors of the lift closed and the car began to rise. She had already turned down two offers to help with her groceries. She set down her heavy bags. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. She was panting for breath. This problem was seriously getting out of hand.

Her neighbour had found some excuse to be at his door when Clarisa arrived at hers. “Uhm, miss,” he said, surprisingly diffident, “can I give you a hand . . . with your bags?”

“I’m fine,” Clarisa replied, trying to deflect conversation. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he replied, smiling stupidly. “I love pink.“

“That’s nice,” Clarisa replied. She was concentrating on getting to her flat as quickly as possible. Would he only stop looking at her! She had to set down her bags and bend over a little to get the key in the slot. She heard a gasp behind her.

Only when she had retreated to the safety of her flat and set down the two bags of groceries did Clarisa realize that her sweater was hanging over her left arm. She must have taken it off in the lift! She had walked down the corridor in nothing more than a T-shirt, undies, and boots.

She studied herself in the hall mirror. The t-shirt stretched vainly over her pneumatic chest. It stopped at the edge of her rump. The black, suede boots set off her legs and emphasized the expanse of bare skin above them. The pink her ogling neighbour had referred to was the colour of her panties, which she had been flashing with every step. She looked like a picture from an internet porn site. One that got lots of hits.

“Oh sweet heaven, look at me,” she said to herself. “I’m all screwed up. I walked out in public half dressed again.” She took a deep breath, watching herself in the mirror. Her eyes were glassy. “It’s all wrong all wrong,” she moaned, running a hand across her chest. “and it’s sooooo hot!” With that admission she tottered off to her bedroom for an hour of passionate self-love. She didn’t even stop to take her boots off.