The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lydia Wyngate approached the computer with deep suspicion tinged with disdain. For her, it had that vague aura of some piece of equipment deposited there by an alien spacecraft. The thing was so obviously the product of a “linear male thinking,” she sniffed. Still, she had to grudgingly admit, it was useful in keeping her in touch with the sort of people who really mattered, anywhere around the world. And, as a leading scholar and researcher, one was expected to be conversant with things like e-mail, although she always seemed to have some sort of problem getting the damned thing to work.

Today, things went smoothly; the list of messages lined up—waiting for her attention. But her suspicions deepened when she saw one from Marcus Wolfe, the one without a “subject.” That disgusting man, with his cave man mentality had no business even sweeping the floors in the Department. Paige’s proposal to the curriculum committee would take care of that! He’d probably heard about it by this time, and was contacting her in some desperate scheme to squirm out of it. Well, it was too late!

The big woman couldn’t suppress the smug smile that twisted her bloodless lips as she raised her right index finger over the “Enter” key, and quite deliberately pressed it down.

Lydia was sweating under her suit, and she had to stand up to remove her jacket. Was she coming down with something? Feeling light headed, and flushed with heat, she resumed her seat at the conference table, but soon found she was having trouble following the conversation. She had to pull herself together! She made an effort, straightening in her chair to adopt a more attentive posture, her dark eyes sweeping around the table, forcing a broad smile for her colleagues on the committee.

Jonathon Alda, bald and bespeckled, was sitting opposite her that day, and he thought Brunhilda (his personal, and very private, name for her) was acting rather odd. He was startled to see Lydia show up for the meeting with her dark hair raised in a neat chignon. She was also wearing pearls, lipstick, high heels, and a pair of impressive earrings. The dramatic shift in her appearance would have been startling in itself, had she not been upstaged by Paige Robbins who had attracted even more attention by showing up off those legs of hers in a pair of black tights and a shockingly brief miniskirt. But Paige had taken a seat across from him on the other side of the table, while Lydia sat directly opposite the man, so he couldn’t help studying her heavily made up features.

Two buttons at the top of her blouse seemed to have become undone, and he was given an inadvertent (he was sure) view of the woman’s generous cleavage. As she sat across from him in that sleeveless white blouse, her hands folded on the table, he couldn’t help letting his gaze settle on the full swells of Lydia’s Wyngate’s sumptuous bosom, her breasts heavy and rounded, cradled in a lacy brassiere that was dimly visible under the thin white blouse. Lydia was a plump woman, but not overly so, and he had noticed how well she filled out the midnight blue skirt that tightened over the prominent curve of her rounded rump. For some reason, at that moment, and for the very first time, he actually thought of her as a woman, and not as some overbearing Amazon braying about her rights.

Lydia saw where the male gaze had settled, and she secretly preened. The vague thought crossed her mind that she should be indignant, but she didn’t feel indignation. If anything, she felt pleased; inanely, crazily, delightfully pleased. Suddenly, their eyes met; held for just a second. Lydia was the first to look away, lowering her lashes prettily. She shifted slightly in her chair, pulling back her shoulders and thrusting her uplifted chest forward over the table. The movement drew her blouse tight, giving the man a detailed look at her large-mounded breasts, lightly compressed by the lacy tit-holster.

Jonathon, feeling guilty, quickly looked away. But Lydia didn’t see that. She wasn’t watching his face. Her eyes had fallen to the tabletop, where they were captivated by Jonathon’s hands—big, masculine hands. They seemed strong, she noticed, although they were folded now, rubbing together slowly, as though anxious to get hold of something substantial. Another rush of heat flooded up from her loins, and to her surprise, a wild and crazy fantasy forced its way into her mind: She pictured herself like a naughty child, laid out across Jonathon lap, her skirt bunched up around her waist. The light blue panty briefs he had uncovered strained to contain her plump, wobbly cheeks while one of those big hands slammed down with authority, and Jonathon Alda merrily spanked the ample bulges of her barely-pantied bottom!

She licked her lips. Her left hand slipped under the table to plunge into the valley of her skirt between her thighs. Her substantial legs slid apart, as she stroked her thighs through her skirt, rubbing the slippery material over the smooth pantyhose in a slow, delicious caress.

She let herself drift, barely aware of old Musgrove muttering about the complex issues involved, and the need to take in all points of view. She slipped her hand up her dress, closed her thighs tightly on that hand, trapping it between her legs, squeezing, rubbing her nyloned thighs together in a squirm of excitement. Jonathon saw her lean back, her lashes fluttering down, as a smile came to her painted lips.

Suddenly aware of what she was doing, Lydia yanked her hand back as if it had been burned, and, flustered, tried to shake off the warm languid feeling. She made another effort to pull herself together, politely looking around at the other committee members.

Paige seemed to be making some sort of point, but Lydia had a hard time following it. Page looked so lovely today: those crisp, good looks, so cool and perfect and confident, those large, expressive blue eyes, that determined chin, those perky little breasts. Lydia sighed inwardly.

At that precise moment a sharp pang of lust cut knifed though her, and the lewd image—being pinned over Jonathon Alda’s knee—flashed into her mind. She was burning up with heat, and brought a hand up to her face, managing what was meant to be a reassuring smile for her colleague across the table who sat regarding her with growing concern.

The distraught woman experienced a second abrupt surge of arousal that jarred her to the core. She knew she should get up, make some excuse, get to the ladies room to relieve the burning itch in the privacy of a stall. But she couldn’t move; couldn’t trust her legs to stand. Woozy with passion, she patted back a loose tress of hair that had escaped her tightly wrapped hairdo, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The hand that rested on her thigh now moved, slipping up under her skirt for another surreptitious foray. Her knees eased apart as the burrowing hand, its path still hidden under the table, made its way to her pantied crotch, there to press two fingers to the front of her panties. She was wet, and hot, unbelievably hot. Her fingertips felt the inner heat through the damp layers of nylon.

Now the dark-haired woman’s eyelids fluttered down; then her eyes clenched tight as she experienced the fluttery feeling of excitement in her belly that left her insides feeling like mush. Her thighs spasomed, clenched convulsively on her imprisoned hand. She arched her back, and it was only through half-lidded eyes that she noticed Jonathon across the table was looking at her, a look of growing alarm spreading across those composed features. Next to him, perky little Maddie Fox was also leaning forward, a solicitous look creeping over her cute little, puzzled face. Abruptly, Lydia pushed back from the table, and while they all turned to regard her sudden departure with curiosity, the big brunette staggered to her feet and lunged for the door.