The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I hadn’t had a date in ages. I’m not sure how the time slipped away, but it did, maybe a mix of getting very busy at work and not really knowing a lot of single women. When I was younger, it seemed I always had my choice of sexy women to date and take home, and I regret that time and time again as a young man I’d be dating one woman and find myself becoming entranced with another, and I’d hook up and then feel like a shit for cheating.

My last significant relationship ended more than nine months ago, and it was a messy breakup. We’d been on track to get married, and I’d decided to put my sleeping around days behind me and go “all in” on being a married man. And then, somehow, when it seemed everything was going so well, I slipped up. It was a work party, and I drank too much and, well, there’s a certain kind of woman that triggers the hell out of me when I meet them. It’s like they have a magic over my cock, and I stop thinking about the consequences and just start thinking about how I’m going to get her into bed. And that’s exactly what I did. The fallout was a train wreck and led my girlfriend to pack up and leave.

And I’ve been on my own since. I was sorry for myself and angry at myself for months, but over the last few weeks I decided to pick myself up and try to move on. I started hitting the gym to work off the pounds I’d packed on eating a steady diet of pizza and beer, and I started feeling better about myself. And maybe that mental shift made the difference, because I wasn’t really looking—and that’s when this woman popped up.

We met at the gym, and I swear I’m telling you the truth when I say she approached me. I don’t think I would’ve had the guts after the year I’ve had to even take a shot at her, she’s significantly out of my league. Very fit, a stunning face with piercing, playful eyes, and my preferred b-cup. Just outrageously hot. She took a position on the bike next to me for a spin class and when it ended made a comment about it having been a nice ride, and I practically couldn’t speak, as if my tongue got in the way of making words.

But—amazingly—she thought my awkwardness was funny, and she laughed, but not in a mean way. I thought to myself, does she actually find me endearing? Jesus, what have I done to even get on this woman’s radar? Feeling a sudden wave of confidence, and banking that I hadn’t mis-read the smile and soft laugh, I went for it. “Would you be at all interested in grabbing a coffee sometime?”

“Maybe,” she said, that hard-to-read but dead sexy smile on her face, “but I’d be a lot more interested in grabbing a drink.” And just like that, I had a date. I hit the showers at the gym and I’m sure I had a goofy how’d-I-even-manage-that smile on my face the entire time, from stripping down, walking to the shower, cleaning up, and walking back to the lockers to get dressed.

It was while I was standing at my locker toweling off that I realized I had a problem. The boxer briefs I was about to put on were, well, a train wreck. Not dirty, but worn out, frayed at the seams and saggy. I quickly did a mental inventory of my underwear drawer back at my apartment. Just more of the same. Somehow, without a woman in your life, your underwear game can go right off the rails. I realized I needed something a bit more flattering just in case—on the off chance—that this too-hot-to-be-believed woman allowed me to get out of my jeans and into bed with her.

So I bolted from the gym and decided I’d be a bit late back to the office. I needed to get my hands on some flattering boxers, but where?

I live in Greenwich Village and work at a marketing firm with its headquarters near Union Square. There should be no shortage of places to find something to wear on my date that won’t look like I’ve been wearing it since high school. I was walking along 13th Street near Broadway when a rainbow flag caught my eye and I looked into the window of a shop that clearly catered to gay men. I live in the Village, so I’m used to gay guys being around and love the energy and style they bring to the city. I’ve never given a guy a second glance, but thought to myself, who would know about underwear that makes a guy’s package look good? I stopped in front of the store, called Boi Shorts, and looked in the window.

The display showed an impressive collection of clothes, from very short jean shorts to skin-tight leather pants. These were things that I’d never wear in a million years, and even though I’m about the least homophobic person you’ll ever meet, just standing here in front of the window, with its leather collars and cock rings on display, I got a sudden jolt of panic: what if someone sees me looking at this stuff and gets the wrong idea?

What the hell’s wrong with me, I thought, calming myself down and noticing a display of underwear in colors and patterns that didn’t look gay exactly, but had curves and lines that looked designed to accentuate a man’s bulge. This was precisely what I’d been hoping to find. I took a deep breath and walked inside.

It was well past lunch hour, and the store was dead inside. I didn’t even see an employee at first, just displays of rainbow-colored shirts and swimsuits and, toward the back, what looked like a section devoted to BDSM gear. I thought for just an instant that maybe I should leave, but then thought I was being silly and nobody’s going to think I’m gay, and even if they did, so what? I’m not.

It was then that I noticed a woman emerge from a curtain in the back of the store. She looked to be in her early 20s, a redhead, with stunning green eyes. I found myself staring at them and then realized I was staring and apologized. “For what, hun?”

“Nothing,” I said, flustered. “I was just looking for some underwear.” Her expression shifted, for just a moment, but I caught it. I couldn’t, however, figure out what it meant. She stared at me, and then her face returned to the warm, welcoming expression she’d had when she first caught my eye. “Let me show you some options,” she said, and I followed her to a back corner of the store.

“This is our own brand, and they’re very popular,” she told me. I looked at the briefs and boxers and didn’t seem much about them that was different from the underwear at the front of the store. “You shopping for a big date?”

I may have blushed but tried to shrug it off. “Yeah, you busted me on that one.”

“The good thing about our brand is the design,” she said. She picked up a pair of black boxers with BOI written in huge letters around the waist and a subtle design of skulls. I thought they looked pretty cool, definitely masculine and not gay—well, that BOI might be an issue—I thought, and again caught myself. Why am I so worried about that? I’m shopping for a date with a ridiculously sexy woman. So, dude, chill.

“See this stitching here that’s thicker than the other seams?” She pointed out a heavy seam that curved in a way that would run under a guy’s balls. “This lifts up your masculine attributes and gently pushes them forward,” she said with a sly grin. “It takes what you’ve got, and it showcases it. Guys love them.”

I felt the need to somehow make clear I was straight but couldn’t think of how to do that without sounding like an asshole. “Well, I’m not sure I need to do that,” I said, and noticed as soon as the words were out of my mouth that I sounded like a cocky prick. Her face flashed again, that strange expression popping on and then vanishing.

“Oh, I think you’ll change your mind if you try them on,” she said. What size is your waist, a 30?”

“You’re being very nice,” I said, “but let’s say 32.”

She put down the boxers she was holding and picked up another pair with the same design but in a navy blue. “Try the small,” she said, and handed me the pair. “The changing room is right over there.” She pointed toward the front of the store to a small cubicle that seemed to back up on the front windows. I walked that way and noticed that inside the cubicle the glass facing the street was frosted from about waist height down. I remembered a famous gay bar in the Village that I’d been dragged to by a group of women after we’d been out drinking. It was called Splash and featured translucent shower stalls where nearly naked guys would dance for all to see.

So I guess having a changing stall facing the street was just racy enough without getting the store shut down. I felt bold and stepped inside. There was a hook to hang up my clothes, a small bench, and a full-length mirror. It was just that eye-level view of the street and sidewalk outside that took a little getting used to. But confident nobody could see me below my chest, I unbuckled my belt, slid down my pants and pulled off those awful old boxers.

The blue boxers felt far more complex than any underwear I’d ever worn, with seams running in clever ways and that subtle pattern of skulls that seemed designed to accentuate the pouch in front, as if the guy wearing the underwear had such a big cock it had stretched the skull pattern out of shape. I was suddenly really curious to see how I looked in them.

I stepped into them and pulled them up. They were snug, but not too tight, and I realized that the thick seam was part of an inner pouch. You had to lift your balls and tuck them inside, and that produced that dramatic bulge that she’d hinted at. I lifted my testicles into the pouch and then realized that it was designed to push the penis in, too. So, I did. It took a little work to get it right, but when everything was snug in the pouch, I looked into the mirror and was shocked. I looked huge. No wonder these boxers cost $58. You can’t put a price on an impressive bulge, now can you?

I smiled to myself and didn’t notice the girl was on the other side of the half doors of the changing room. “How do they feel? You like the effect?”

I’d never actually tried on underwear in a store before. To be honest, I’d always bought my underwear in packs of three or more at Target. So this was different, as was the girl asking about the fit. “Yes, they, well, yes, they fit very nicely.”

“Let’s see,” she said in a tone that chilled the air. It was firm and authoritative, and, in that instant, I traveled back to boyhood and the feeling of being caught stealing or looking at another kid’s paper during a test. I felt caught, ashamed. She didn’t wait for a response. She reached out and opened the half door, and I stood there in my dress shirt and BOI boxers.

She had no interest in the shame I was sure was etched on my face, she was staring at my bulge. “Not bad,” she said. They flatter you. How big is your cock?” I couldn’t believe she was asking me that—and I couldn’t believe that I answered her immediately, without even thinking. “Six inches.”

“Your boi shorts really give you a nice bulge then,” she said. “Take off your shirt.” And again, I did what she told me without even thinking about how strange it was, or the window facing the street. I dropped my shirt to the floor and stood there in my boxers. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” And when she said it, I realized she was right. It felt amazing. My cock and balls felt heavy, but strong. Powerful. I felt a sexual energy coursing through my body and noticed that I was getting hard.

“Very good. What a very good boy you are,” she said, and her words hit me like lightning. I started getting much harder, much faster. I felt my cock straining against the material of the underwear. “Very good boy, that’s it,” she said, and for some reason, even though part of me knew all of what was happening was insane, I was happy. I felt like—well, a good boy.

“Now take them off,” she said.

A part of me deep down in my brain told me this was wrong, that something dangerous was happening, that I’d somehow lost control and I needed to fight, but how? And against what? A store employee in an underwear store? It was insane. I tried to hold on to that train of thought, but snapped out of it as I realized that I’d already started to lower the boxers to the floor and step out of them. I was standing in front of her, naked and fully—almost painfully—erect. I looked down and saw to my horror that I was already oozing from the tip of my cock. It bubbled up and began to drip, slowly, hanging there from my shaft. And I looked up at her.

“What a very good boy,” she said, and my cock pulsed. I felt energy in my balls and my penis swelled even more, sending another long rope of precum oozing from the tip. What the fuck was happening? I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my own cock—it looked so good to me, as if I’d never really examined it before. How had I never noticed how hot and sexy a penis was? The way the head was tilted up, the slit opening with each heartbeat to release more delicious precum. Delicious? Why did I say that? And my balls. Jesus, how had I never noticed how hot balls are? The way they hang there, so hot and powerful, just radiating manhood.

“You’re feeling it, boy, aren’t you?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her pull something from her pocket, hold it out in front of her, and click it. The frosted glass next to me dissolved into clear glass. I was standing nude and rock hard just inches from the sidewalk, in full view of anyone walking by.

“Go ahead. I know you want to,” she said. And somehow, I knew exactly what she meant. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed people had stopped outside the window. A few guys, and two women. One of them was holding her phone, recording me. And even though a voice in my head was screaming at me, begging me to snap out of it, another voice—a powerful, calm voice—was telling me to give in. And I did.

I raised my hand, wrapped it around my cock, and started to stroke. It felt like pure, intense sexual energy flooding through my body, and a heat radiated from my balls and up through the shaft of my cock to the tip, which crackled with sensitivity, like if I stroked it too hard or too fast, I would explode. I kept pumping, riding the waves of bliss that I’d never felt in my entire life. I knew the crowd on the sidewalk had grown, and in the sickest way, it intensified the flood of sexual energy coursing through my body. I felt my balls shake just slightly as my hand pumped up and down my cock, and the soft, quiet voice from so long ago, the voice that was being drowned out, told me this was all being recorded. People would see it. But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned my head, opened my eyes, and made eye contact with one of the men watching me. He gave me a sly grin and I smiled back, staring at him as I stroked, feeling the fire in my balls starting to rise, a climax beginning to boil.

“What a very good boy,” she said again, and I realized I’d forgotten she was there. How had I forgotten? How had this happened? How could I be masturbating in public in the middle of the day? I just kept staring at the man outside the window, just inches away from me on the other side of the glass. Out of nowhere, I thought to myself, damn he’s so fucking sexy. Instead of wondering where the hell that idea came from, I started performing for him, stroking for him, staring into his eyes as I worked my cock, loving the fact that he was watching me. I felt so good, it all felt so right.

“Be a good boy and cum for him now,” she said, and a switch flipped in my brain. I saw myself passionately kissing the man, our tongues swirling around each other, my hand grabbing his hard cock and he grabbed mine. I envisioned myself in his bed, begging him to fuck me. I’d never felt such a strong desire for anyone in my life. That it was a man didn’t even register in my foggy brain. I just wanted him.

And then it happened. It felt like lightning bursting from my balls and shooting through my cock. I moaned as I had the most intense, full body orgasm of my life—a thousand times more intense than anything I’d ever experienced. I kept my eyes locked on that beautiful sexy man as my cum splattered onto the glass between us, one burst followed by another and another, the climax never seeming to end, just wave after wave.

I heard a click and the man vanished behind frosted glass, this time the entire window was obscured. I stood there, my cock in my hand, cum still dripping down the glass, and turned to her. She put her clicker away and told me to get dressed. And in that instant, everything came back to me. My date tonight, the girl from the gym, the crappy boxer briefs I’d been trying to replace, and to my horror I saw that what had just happened was real. The cum on the glass, my softening cock still in my hand.

“What did you do?” I asked, thinking of the people who’d watched me, the phones getting it all recorded. And the guy. Jesus, what had come over me? I hadn’t just masturbated and cum in public, I’d jacked myself off for a man. What the fuck had happened?

“Put on your boy shorts and get dressed,” she said, and once again, I did what she told me to without a second’s thought.