The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The first package arrived on an ordinary Tuesday. It was a small parcel, barely larger than a letter. Rita found it when she came home from work, among a bill from the gas company and a couple of advertisements.

It hadn’t been a good day at work. She had angered her boss. Rita worked at small financial institution called Burnside Trust. It wasn’t much of a job. It paid the rent on her flat. It wasn’t much of a flat either.

Rita’s official title was junior assistant cashier. Mostly she did what her boss, Mr. Burnside, told her to do. Mr. Burnside told her that a trust was like a bank except not really. There were no tellers or cash machines. Instead there were little rooms where rich people in suits did complicated investments. It was all very posh; the men wore pin-stripe suits and the women wore skirts and heels and put their hair up. Her boss’s first name was Richard, but she never called him that. He was always to be referred to as “Mr. Burnside” and that was that.

The incident at work rankled. Mr. Burnside had berated her in front of a client. “Where is the investment summary for Ms Sanmartina?” he asked. “I asked you to work that up an hour ago.”

The woman to whom he referred, a stunning blonde in a figure-loving designer dress, was sitting languidly in one of the stuffed chairs in front of his desk. Rita had escorted her in. The woman looked, and dressed, like a movie starlet walking the red carpet at some ritzy awards banquet. Her stretch-fit dress was blue-black and daringly short. She wore filmy hose the colour of evening shadows and glossy blue pumps with exceptionally high heels. Diamonds glittered everywhere.

As they did every time Ms Sanmartina came in, all the men in the office had stopped what they were doing to watch her go by. Basic physical desire could be read in their faces. The stacked blonde radiated sexual heat like a blast furnace with the door open. There was something about the way she walked, the way she moved, how she carried herself, that seemed to register directly on the most primitive parts of the mind, where primal lust resided. Even the women seemed to be in awe.

Rita’s morning had been busy. She was in no mood to be chastised because her boss wanted to impress a sexy client. “It’s right here,” she snapped, handing him a folder. “And would have been here sooner if you hadn’t given me four others to do this morning.”

The outburst was unwise. Rita guessed, correctly, that it would lead to a lecture later. As she left the room, she cast a glance at the gorgeous and glamorous Ms. Sanmartina. She was watching the altercation with amused detachment, half-smiling. Rita wondered what it would be like to wear shoes like hers.

Now, at the end of the day, Rita stepped inside her small flat. She dropped her purse and jacket. She said hello to the budgies, Lucy and Ricky, chirping in their white cage. The envelope in her hand was light pink, with her name and address written by hand in fluid, purple ink. There was no return address, and no postage. She turned the envelope over in her hand. A well-disguised advert, probably. She ripped it open with her thumb. Inside was of all things a pair of knickers.

Rita held them up in two fingers. They were unlike any knickers she had ever worn, though her experience in underwear did not range widely. They were shiny black, not quite full cut, and made of some sort of slippery-soft material, rubbery in texture but incredibly thin. Was that latex? She wasn’t sure. Rita’s experience didn’t go much further than cotton and spandex blends.

Why had she been given these? She looked inside the envelope. There was no advertising flyer inside, nothing at all except a single slip of paper. On it was written, in the same cursive purple, “Thrillatex try it once and it will change your life.” Below that, the initials, D.S. Nothing else. Puzzled, Rita set the panties aside and went to make dinner. The budgies chirped as she walked by.

Later that evening, the dinner things cleared away, Rita considered the strange knickers. Try it once, the enigmatic note said. Well, why not. She had never worn panties like this; she was curious to know what they felt like. In her bedroom, she slipped off her jeans and regular white underwear. Then she slipped the strange black garment up her legs. The knickers appeared to be her size. It didn’t matter much because they were also infinitely stretchy.

She snugged them around her hips, then smoothed them down over her bum. They felt rather nice. Better than she expected. They were thin as paint against her skin. Yet they felt warm and soft, not the cold plastic feel she had expected. Perhaps some new synthetic fibre?

She didn’t have a full length mirror in her room. She stood on the bed so she could see her behind in the mirror over her dresser. Wow! The black knickers were not at all subtle; they clung to the outlines of her asscheeks, and dipped inward like a river valley in the middle. The effect was brazenly sexy, but still very flattering. Rita couldn’t remember when her behind looked so good.

She decided to leave them on for a while, as an experiment. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere. She put her house slippers back on and walked, barelegged, back to the livingroom: a short walk, her flat was very small. She soon noticed something else about these knickers. They adhered to her crotch every bit as faithfully as to her backside. The slippery fabric quickly wormed itself down into her snatch, faithfully outlining her labia.

Rita drew in her breath. This was not what underwear were supposed to do! She wore underthings to tuck away her lady bits, not to show them off. This little black garment was shocking.

Again though, she reconsidered. The effect of the shiny black material on her pubes was shameless, but attention-grabbing. It would be interesting to wear these if she had a man over—if she ever had a man over. He would certainly know at once what was on her mind. “I can’t believe I’m even wearing these,” she said to Ricky and Lucy. “And there is no way I would have the courage to wear these on a date.”

She sighed. The trouble with sexy underthings like these was that they just weren’t for her. These were made for confident, free-thinking, worldly women who wore this season’s shoes and went to all the right clubs and bedded professional tennis players and stockbrokers. Definitely not for wall flowers like Rita.

The black knickers were so comfortable she was reluctant to take them off. She shook her head. She could never wear these anywhere. Look at they way they slipped into her slit. Scandalous!

She ran a finger along the midnight black crevice so clearly defined by the clinging garment. Oh! That was unexpected. The fabric was so thin that the touch of her finger brought a rush of sensation. She tried it again. “Oohhhh, myyyy,” she said out loud. That felt good. These knickers were practically a sex toy.

She sat down on the sofa in the tiny living room. The movement of her body made the slick fabric slide back and forth a little. The effect was electric. Rita gasped. “Ohmygod what are these made of?” she wondered out loud. Lucy and Ricky had no useful opinions, but chirped anyway.

Rita ventured another finger along her crevice. Oh, yum! It felt so good she had to do it again. And again. And again! Then she just gave in and masturbated, letting her head fall back against the sofa cushions and her legs splay open. It felt wonderful. Her fingers slid joyously up and down the black cover, pushing the stretchy fabric deeper with each stroke. Her breathing became fast and ragged.

She closed her eyes. Her back arched off the sofa, eagerly lifting to meet the downward thrust of her fingers. Her orgasm was abrupt, intense, and loud. It frightened the budgies. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she murmured over and over, as she flopped back, breathing hard.

After a while, when her breathing was finally close to normal and her pulse had slowed, Rita took stock of herself. That was bizarre behaviour. Jilling off on the livingroom sofa? When did she start doing that? She wasn’t even watching a dirty movie.

And she had probably made a mess. Did she stain the sofa? Tentatively, she felt around between her legs, looking for evidence of her wetness. She found nothing but a bit of perspiration on her thighs. She looked down with renewed curiosity. Though she was wet as a dripping sponge, the latex panties clung so tight they had sealed it all in. Another new experience.

She got up to clean herself properly in the bathroom. “Ohmygod I’m practically squishy,” she said. The panties kept every drop inside her. The effect, she was surprised to discover, was intensely distracting. By the time she got to the bathroom she was heating up again. “What’s wrong with me?” she wondered. “I’m transforming back into a horny school girl. Mmmmm, more like an ultra-horny school girl.“

She pulled the wet garment out of her crotch to inspect the situation. It looked inviting. She slid a finger down on a reconnaissance mission. She discovered immediately that her trapped juices made it easy, really quite easy, in fact very easy, maybe much too easy, to slip that finger right up her vagina and oh sweet heaven but that felt niiiiice! The situation was so fluid that she could almost as easily slip in two, wait, three fingers. Those fingers didn’t want to leave.

Before she knew it the dark-haired young woman was in full-on pleasure mode again. Her hand danced. Her breath became hot and laboured. She could feel the dampness of perspiration on her face. The bathroom mirror reflected her hooded eyes and tumbling hair. At the last moment she sat down on the toilet, long legs spread wide, so she wouldn’t fall down when she came. Good decision: the orgasm bowled her over like a comber hitting a Hawaiian beach.

“That that was intense,” Rita gasped, a good five minutes later. “I can’t spend my whole life acting like this! These knickers have got to go.” She walked back to the bedroom to get changed. By the time she arrived she was heating up again. Getting to the point of actually removing the black knickers took two more rounds of hand-play on her bed.

Finally, reluctantly, she peeled off the skin-tight black garment. After all that, she would have to go in the shower. The knickers would have to go in the wash.

Rita gave them a preliminary rinse in the bathroom sink. She discovered another intriguing property. The latex-like fabric did not get wet. All her moisture instantly rinsed off. A few strokes under the running faucet and the shiny black undies were perfectly clean. Ten minutes later they were completely dry. “So this is thrillatex,” Rita mused, holding up the dry, clean garment. “Quite the wonder fabric.”

The next day was an ordinary work day. There was no way Rita was going to wear those devilish panties to work. She would never be able to concentrate. It was time to get back into sensible underthings. That was what she told herself, anyway, even as she slipped the black nicies up her legs that morning. Wearing these knickers to work would be a big mistake.

“Wearing these knickers to work was a big mistake,” Rita told herself, a few hours later. She was sitting at her little desk, among the cabinets and work-stations outside Mr. Burnside’s office. The trust was organized as a series of small, private rooms where clients could transact their banking business, connected to a larger, open space full of cubicles and cabinets and working women. Everything was carpets and wood panelling and ergonomic chairs.

Rita was having trouble sitting still. Her thrillatex panties were driving her to distraction. Within minutes of being put on they had slipped up into her snatch. The slippery-soft fabric had been teasing her ever since. It seemed like every step she took standing up, or every move she made sitting down, set off another tingle.

Could her colleagues see how hopelessly turned on she was? Rita hoped not. They couldn’t see how wet she was, the thrillatex took care of that, but Rita could feel it. She pressed two fingers against her crotch through her skirt. She bit her lip.

Mr. Burnside burbled out of his office, a serious-looking client in tow. “Rita, get me the investment summary for Mr. Trolton, please. We’ll be in the oak room.”

“Y-yes Sir, of c-course, right right right awaaaaay,” Rita replied. The last bit came out as a plaintive whine as a change in position set off another pulse of pleasure. Her eyelids fluttered. Burnside scowled at her for a moment, then returned to coddling the client.

Rita found the file and printed a paper copy. She got to her feet. She had to close her eyes for at least ten seconds to let another pulse of heat pass through her. With great concentration she made her way to the printer. Then she quivered and gasped the few steps to the oak room and handed the files to Mr. Burnside. “Ah, here we are,” he said absently.

Rita turned to go. Her boss called her back. “Rita, these are the files for Mr. Trenton,” he said, irritation in his voice. “I said Trolton.”

“Ohhhh, that’s niiiice,” Rita said dreamily. She took back the folder. “Soooo sorry. I’ll get the ohhh!—trial for Mr. F-Folder.” She wandered away, leaving her puzzled employer staring after her.

By late morning, Rita was beside herself. She was getting nothing done. She kept making mistakes. She wasn’t even sure if she had said, “Good morning cunnie,” to a co-worker named Connie. She had to do something about these demonic underthings or she would go mad.

She made her way to the washroom, squishing and tingling the whole way. She took refuge in an empty toilet stall. She lifted her long skirt and peeled her pantyhose down to mid-thigh. Underneath, the glossy black knickers clung lovingly to her sex, as eager as a suckling child. She ran two fingers over her latexed pussy. “Ohhhh, yesss!” she exclaimed, at the throb of pleasure that resulted.

She needed more of that. Her skirt was in the way. She took it off and hung it on the hook on the door. Standing awkwardly with her hose around her knees, she slipped one hand under her midnight black panties and began to pleasure herself.

The relief was exquisite. Her fingers danced. In moments she was stroking excitedly. She gasped and caught her breath. She leaned against the door with her free hand and spread her legs apart as far as her hose would let her. She threw her head back, closed her eyes, and climaxed immediately. She rattled the door as the pleasure-spasms shot through her. She came down slowly, in a series of gasps that gradually transitioned into deep sighs of satisfaction.

When Rita had calmed down enough to clean up her exuberance and make herself presentable, the full implications of what she had done began to sink in. She felt her cheeks flush. What if someone had noticed? She hadn’t even checked to see if anyone else was using the facilities. For that matter, half the office could have come in while she was in full flight of self-love. Rita wouldn’t even have noticed.

Finally, with a deep sigh, she pulled her underthings back up, put her skirt back on, and returned to work. Getting herself off in the washroom was an act of desperation, brought on by those maddening panties. With any luck, she reasoned, that session would hold her over for the rest of the day.

She had to do it again in the middle of the afternoon.

Early that evening, Rita stumbled up the steps to her flat. She was utterly frazzled. The thrillatex undies had transformed her workday into eight hours of torture and distraction. Despite two rounds of hand play in the ladies’, she was wet down under again.

When she checked her post box in the lobby, there was another package waiting for her. “Uh-oh,” she murmured.

Safe in the sanctuary of her tiny flat, the pretty brunette considered the second letter. It was identical to the first one, addressed by hand in flowing cursive that suggested a feminine hand, but a strong, steady one. She ripped it open. Inside were two more pairs of thrillatex knickers.

“Oh no,” Rita said. She addressed the budgies: “Guys, what’s going on?” Lucy and Ricky chirped happily.

There was another note in the package. It read: “Everyone needs variety. D.S.” Who was D.S.? Rita spent a few minutes compiling a list of anyone she knew with those initials. It was a short list. She had a friend, a writer, whose initials were D.S., but she hadn’t heard from him in a long time. Other than him, she could think of an old Hollywood actor and an announcer on the BBC. None of these men seemed likely to send her a pair of latex underwear. Or any other kind of underwear.

Rita held up the new arrivals. They were identical in style to the ones she was wearing, narrow at the sides but not quite bikini. One pair was sunshine yellow, delicately edged in black. The other was candy-apple red.

Rita made a decision. “No! I am not doing this. One day of that was enough.” She tossed the new garments on the sofa and marched off to take a shower. She paid particular attention to cleaning her nether regions so much so that she came again under the hot water.

“What am I doing?” Rita said to herself as she made her careful way to the office the next morning. “I said I wasn’t going to wear those hell-woven knickers again.” Yet underneath her knee-length skirt, a bit of yellow thrillatex was already snuggling happily into her pussy.

Rita was walking a little slower this morning. She was wearing her best heels. She wore dress shoes to the trust company every day, of course, decorum demanded it, but not her party shoes. She was on her feet too much. When she got dressed that morning, after titillation arm-wrestled common sense into putting on the yellow undies, she decided on a change in style.

There was something special about thrillatex: the knickers turned her on fiendishly, yet they were inexplicably affirming. They made her feel exquisitely feminine, despite the edging agony they kept her in all day. She was a hot, steamy woman, all sex and desire and sensation, and everything else was secondary. If she was going to wear thrillatex again today (and the panties were pretty much on by the time she made that decision), she needed to be unquestionably female and that meant a pair of decent heels.

Rita was wet by the time she got to the office. Of course she was. The yellow panties proved every bit as effective at pushing all her arousal buttons as the black ones had been. The distraction was a little less intense, though only a little, perhaps because she knew what to expect. Rita drifted through the day, smiling and forgetting things. She managed to keep her fingers out of her pussy until almost noon.

Mr. Burnside was looking for her when she came out of the washroom the second time, around afternoon tea-time. He was irritated. Rita had forgotten to update some foreign exchange rates. “Look,” he said, “I depend on you to give me accurate data so I can advise the clients correctly. Day-old data makes us look incompetent. Let’s keep our ship on course, Rita.”

Rita simply smiled at him. She was floating on the warm river of a double cum in the ladies’. She was in no mood to be lectured by Mr. Burr-in-my-side. “Oh don’t worry, Sir,” she said, turning the last word into an adoration, “I’ll get right on it. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you need.” She stood very close, invading his space. She noticed as she spoke how her high heels brought her closer to his height.

Something in Rita’s new attitude caught him by surprise. He faltered. “Yes, well . . . see that you do,” he said, trying to sound gruff. He hurried away.

“What’s he on about?” said Tina, another of Rita’s young cohort. She was passing by with a cup of tea in one hand.

Rita waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. You know men. They like to think they’re in charge. Oh, I like your dress. Pretty.”

Rita wore her new red panties on Friday. She wore a cute red skirt with it. The skirt was a little short for the office. The trust company was quite conservative. Mr. Burnside looked disapproving. Rita favoured him with her warmest smile. Then she sat down at her computer and ordered five pair of high-heel shoes on-line. Tina helped her choose. Rita talked her friend into buying a couple for herself too. The in-office shoe-shopping got Rita so excited she had to go for her first toilet break before half-past ten. She screwed up the currency exchange rates again.

The only drawback to fingering herself in the ladies’ room at work, aside from the minor considerations that it would be suicide to her career if anyone found out, and that it seemed to be transforming all her serious, grown-up brain cells into giggly, sex-mad teenagers, was the inconvenience of pantyhose. Rita considered this as she lazily redressed on Friday afternoon, when she really should have been taking calls at her desk. The office had strict policies forbidding trousers or bare legs for female employees. That meant pantyhose every day. Rita had never considered hose an issue until a few days ago. Now, the thrillatex panties had convinced her to distrust anything that restricted access to her treasure.

Finally tidied up, Rita took one more look to make sure she was presentable. She decided her legs looked terrific in heels. Especially with the brief skirt. Any observer would come to the same conclusion. Rita felt wonderfully sexy as she ambled back to work. Though she didn’t know it yet, the weekend offered a tidy solution to her pantyhose problem.