The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Maddie Fox, her reddish brown hair darkly plastered to her skull, emerged from the steamy shower and walked naked straight to the bedroom. It was quiet in the house. Scott was already gone. He had left for the office early and, except for the dogs, she had the place all to herself. She would take her time getting dressed, quite content to pad around the carpeted floor in the nude. For some reason, she was feeling slightly randy this morning. When she woke up she was thinking of Marcus Wolfe. Images of that erotic dream came to her in bits and pieces; thoughts of the bearded lecher, Wolfe. She considered that in a curious, detached way.

It was odd, because nowadays she never gave sex much of a thought. Scott really was sweet—an intelligent and sensitive guy, tolerant to a fault; but after seven years of marriage, they both seemed to have lost interest in sex. Maddie didn’t much notice its passing. She threw herself into her work, determined to carve out a niche for herself as a recognized scholar on women’s issues. She traveled extensively, invited to seminars and conferences where she presented papers to like-minded women. Her thoughts turned to Paige, and the committee meeting they would face that afternoon. She had pushed for them to hire Paige. And she was glad she did. The two women thought alike on all the issues, and together they would transform the stodgy old Department into a leading light for professional women everywhere, raising the consciousness of all academia on those things that really mattered.

Thoughts of the tall, cool brunette were going through her head as she plunked her naked bottom down on the satiny pillow of the vanity bench, and gazed up to confront herself in the mirror. The pixie-like face that looked back at her from under those damp bangs, met her gaze with serious, green eyes. She took in the compact shoulders and teardrop-shaped breasts—small, plump tits with just the slightest sag to them, that presented with wide brown nipples. She thought of Jennifer, a lanky kid who always sat slouched in a front seat in her “Intro” class, her long, slack-limbed body sprawled out like a lissome colt.

Jennifer was one of those free spirits, who, as far as Maddie could tell, didn’t even own a bra. Her apple firm breasts, their well-defined nipples pressed boldly against straining T-shirts, invited the boys to look—which they did, to the point of walking into walls! Maddie watched them in class, sneaking furtive glances at Jennifer’s chest. They practically had their tongues hanging out!

Then, yesterday, as she was awaiting for class to begin, she watched one of the boys, a guy named Kyle, who had been talking quietly to Jennifer, lean over to whisper something into her ear. The girl giggled, and gave him a playful shove, and Kyle eased back in his chair, a pleased smile on his face. He was wearing pair of denim shorts and as he slouched back in his seat, he opened his legs, letting his knees fall apart, presenting to Maddie, who had a direct view to the boy’s crotch, an unmistakable bulge, thick and hard, brazenly tenting the tight denim. The thought of that young prick, swelling up, hard and ready for the girl he was flirting with, gripped Maddie like a vise. She became aware, searingly aware of the heightened male sexual excitement stimulated by the jiggle of the frisky girl’s unfettered breasts. Suddenly, a wave of randiness swept over her, leaving her weak in the knees. She had to lean against the podium for support, hoping no one would notice.

Now before her mirror, she brought up a hand to cup her own left breast, hefting the little weight on her curled fingertips. An extended thumb rubbed thoughtfully over her pliant nipple. The words ‘bare breasted’ came to her. A wicked thought raced through her. Why not? After all, the burning of the bras had been a ritual of the liberation movement. Of course, it would be absurd to actually destroy her underwear, but the thought of going around bare breasted under her blouse, sent a thrill rippling through her.

She jumped up to slip on a pair of panties, and then stood before her closet considering a top. It was a sleeveless blouse that she selected, almost a vest, made of shiny purple silk. She buttoned the front and coaxed her breasts into place, delighted with the feel of the slippery fabric rubbing over her nipples. The top few buttons could be left open; wide collar smoothened down into two flattened triangles.

She ran her hands down to her flanks to her hips, and then back up again, to lightly cup herself through the slick blouse. Smiling to herself, she sat down on the bed to struggle into a pair of pantyhose, though why she chose to put up with the damned inconvenience of pantyhose, she couldn’t say. She stepped into her dark twill pants, and finally, slipped her feet into a pair of flats.

Now completely dressed, she settled once more before her vanity, to blow dry her hair, rake clawed fingers through the unruly mop, fluff up the bangs. On an impulse, she opened a drawer of long-ignored cosmetics.

She selected some blush. A little make-up wouldn’t hurt, she decided, even if it violated some feminist injunction. It had been a long time since she considered makeup at all—the primping before the mirror to make oneself more attractive (to the male of the species?); it was all sort of repugnant, if you thought about it! Simply perpetuated the “sex object” myth! Paige was really adamant on the subject, but Maddie wasn’t so sure. Surely, a bit of blush on the cheeks, and maybe even a little lipstick, couldn’t hurt? At least, once in a while?

She sat regarding her frank cat-eyes in the mirror, large and green and thoughtful; no longer young: the subtle definition of her highlighted cheekbones, the muted pink lipstick, carefully blotted, that defined her pursed lips.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ she thought, reaching for some eye liner.

Dr Maddie Fox drove impatiently, weaving through the morning traffic, eager to get to her desk, excited, practically driven to see what awaited her in today’s e-mail.