The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Stan fixed her with a steely gaze. Or tried to. He wasn’t really a steely gaze kind of boss. More a hide-in-the-office-occasionally-emerge-and-make-an-awkward-remark-about-SNL-then-scurry-back-to-his-desk type of boss. He was a classic computer nerd, more comfortable communing with code than with people. Carla was pretty sure the company had forced an administrative assistant on him against his will, in the hope that someone could get him to show up for meetings. Or to answer his phone.

It had worked fairly well. Carla was young and good looking in a professional, compact, no-nonsense kind of way. She dressed to deemphasize her 34Bs and kept her black hair short. She thought Stan was half intimidated by her and half had a crush. It made him easy to shepherd. But that meant she was more often doling out steely gazes than receiving them.

Yet, today he’d called her into his office—rare enough, since she was usually the one barging in to tell him he had an appointment. And after hemming and hawing, there he was, attempting to steel. She tried not to smile. Stan was too rumpled and nervous to really be attractive, but he wasn’t bad looking. She had a mild fondness for him, like you would for an exasperating chihuahua.

The fondness took a major hit when he finally got out what he was trying to say. “So, uh, Carla, in conclusion, I think, for the office, it would, I’d like, it would, that is, I think more professional? If you wore more professional?” He took a breath. “I’d like you to…I think you should wear skirts. In the office. Skirts.” He tried to smile encouragingly. It looked like his face was trying to suck his teeth through the back of his head.

Carla froze for a second. It was always a miserable moment when you had to deal with something like this. But, she reminded herself, this was Stan. He was technically her boss, but he almost certainly couldn’t actually fire her. She had literally been hired to push him around. She was good at it. It was time to do some pushing.

She stood up professionally, in her professional slacks. She smiled professionally. “I will continue to dress in accordance with the employee handbook, Stan,” she said, as pleasantly as she could under the circumstances, which was not very pleasantly. “As long as that’s the case, I don’t think your input is required. You have a meeting at 4. I am going home early.” Without her there to get him to that meeting, there was no way he was going to remember it. He’d get chewed out. Which would serve him right.

He wilted, if Stan could ever be said to wilt more than he was already wilted in his natural state. She turned, irritatingly aware now that he was probably look at her rear. She stormed out firmly and with, she hoped, a certain magnificence.

She thought he had been quelled, but infuriatingly he had not. As she exited, he called out, “I…just, think about it, Carla. Skirts. It would be fun.”

She stood outside his office, shaking her head. Fun? Fun for who? And why would she want to have fun at her stupid office job getting her stupid and apparently sexist boss to stupid meetings? She didn’t want to wear skirts. She was absolutely not going to think about it, ffs. Fuck you, Stan.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

At first, it was just because she was so angry. Of course she’d experienced sexism at work; she was a woman at a tech company. Stan had always been awkward but pleasant though. If he was going to start coming onto her, her job would be miserable—and she needed the job. Did she have to start putting her resume together?

By the time she’d driven back home, though, the anger had weirdly receded. In its place, her mind kept replaying his last words to her. “Think about it.” There’d been something in his intonation which was actually kind of steely; more forceful than Stan’s usual whimper/stutter. It banged in her head like a pop song. “You are the daaaaancinnngggg queen! Young and sweet only seventeen! Think abouuuuut it. Skiirrrrtttts. Think abbbouuuuttttt itttt!”

And as the words danced around in her head, ABBA like, the thing he’d asked her to think about also swished and swayed disturbingly. She had skirts, of course. Professional skirts. Slacks were more comfortable, and less flirty than hemlines creeping up past the knee, or tight to the thigh. Less fun.

Her boyfriend, Len, called, but she didn’t pick up for some reason. They’d been high school sweethearts, and had intended to go to college together, but she hadn’t had the money. She was saving up and hoped to start in a year; meanwhile he drove down most weekends. He’d be as outraged as she was about Stan crossing boundaries. She could imagine telling him; he’d be impressed at how she’d handled it. He’d tell her to save the skirts for him. Then they’d have phone sex about him fucking her very hard in a short flirty skirt he could flip up. It would be fun.

She was thinking about it. But she somehow didn’t feel like calling Len and venting. She had to think about…other things. About it. In the shower, she realized she was actually mentally scrolling through possibly appropriate skirts. She had a conservative beige well below the knee she could pair with a sweater. Also a more fun frilly red number—not a mini, but not quite so sexless.

She soaped her thighs and thought about how the skirt would look. She soaped her breasts and her nipples were for some reason fully at attention. She wondered why briefly. They felt good. But then she was thinking about fun. And skirts. She pulled her fingers away from teasing herself reluctantly. She was thinking and the thoughts were in those nipples, inflating them, making them heavy and hot.

“Think about it. Think about it.” As she tried to get to sleep, the words throbbed in her head…and not just in her head. She was…oh. She was really wet. She imagined Len going down on her last weekend, which had been very good. She imagined herself wearing her red skirt, but much shorter. At work, so people could almost see the globes of her ass. She imagined Stan smiling at her short fun hot skirt. She came, hard. She might have gasped, “Think!” as her cunt arched against her fingers.

As she fell asleep she tried not to think about what she had cum thinking about. Then she tried not to think about what she was trying not to think about what she had cum soooo hard thinking about. It didn’t work very well, though. She thought about it anyway.

“Hey, nice skirt,” Jordana said. “Is there an occasion?”

Carla smiled more genuinely than she’d intended. People had been noticing the skirt for sure, and whenever one of the tech guys did a double take, she felt a little happy flutter which she might have identified as the echo of her previous night’s profound orgasm, if reflection hadn’t been drowned out by the words “think of it” running through her head. And by the fun feeling of the skirt swooshing, and the air conditioning on her legs. She’d found herself running her hands over the fabric. She’d found her hands wanting to maybe head for…thinking about it.

Jordana was one of the few female engineers. She was short and round with big glasses and wasn’t much better dressed than most of the guys. But her social skills were a big step up. She treated the assistants like people and appeared to at least know how one would conduct a life outside the office if one wanted to. She was noticeably not in the office late on Friday. She might plausibly have a significant other. Unlike, say, Stan.

Carla liked her. But she shouldn’t feel quite so…nice? Giggly? Euphoric? She shouldn’t feel like that in general, and definitely shouldn’t feel like that just because the somewhat socially ept female engineer had noticed her skirt and approved.

“No occasion,” Carla said. “I was just thinking about skirts, I guess.”

“Well, you look great,” Jordana said. “Nice to see a little bit of color in this beige hellscape.”

“Red skirts are fun!” Carla chirped agreeably. Jordana looked a little quizzical, but nodded and ducked back into her office.

“What the hell?” Carla tried to think. But it was hard to when she was so focused on the way her skirt felt against her legs. And on thinking about it.

Carla had avoided Stan as best she could most of the day, but there was a meeting with the boss’ boss he absolutely had to get to. She was just going to peek her head in and tell him, but then she somehow started thinking about the skirt and fun and whether he would think the first was the second and before she quite knew it, she was standing in front of his desk playing nervously with her hemline as she reminded him of his appointment.

He glanced up from the screen vaguely. Then he did an actual double-take, like he was in a sit-com or a cartoon. His eyes bugged and his jaw dropped.

“You’re wearing a skirt,” he said.”

Her throat was dry. Other parts were maybe less dry. She tried not to squirm as he looked at the skirt.

“It’s not…I don’t have to wear skirts,” she explained. Except it sounded less like an explanation than a question. Or maybe a whine. She tried again. “I did not wear this because you said to wear this. Slacks are professional. I will wear slacks. I just was…thinking about it.”

Stan looked up from her skirt for the first time. “You were thinking about it?” he said.

She licked her lips. There was something about the way he said that. Too eager. Too…something.

“Yes,” she said, cautiously. “I was thinking about it.”

“Okay,” he said. He did look steely, for just a second. Calculating. Like he’d made a big decision. Then meekness descended upon him again, like a bold mouse suddenly sighting a cat and scurrying back into its hole.

“Well, the skirt looks, um, it looks professional,” he said. “And professional. And professional. And…fun?” He seemed to think she might bolt at the last word, but she felt rooted to the floor. “Skirts are fun, fun is skirts, skirts are fun” her brain whirred. She fingered her hemline.

“Okay,” he pushed on. “Well, um, thank you. For the skirt. And the appointment information and the professional…” he faded out. “Do you think it’s still a little…boring? And the sweater could be more…more?” he said.

“What?” Carla said. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Asking her to wear a skirt was…well she’d thought about it. But now he was literally demanding she dress sexier at work for him? Her head felt clearer than it had all day. This was obviously unacceptable. This was a line. She couldn’t let this go.

“Stan,” she said. “You don’t get to dress me up like a doll. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you ever bring this up again or talk to me like that, I’m going to…I’m going to have to file a harassment complaint. Don’t make me do that.”

She realized she was still playing with her hemline. She stopped. She gave him a steely look, much more accomplished than his. “Do you understand me?”

He had the courtesy to look abashed. He nodded.

“All right,” she said. She was, she realized, not thinking about thinking about it. Her head felt clear. She wasn’t sure what had happened. But tomorrow it was back to slacks. And this evening she was going to talk to Len and maybe see about sending resumes out. This was bullshit. She swished towards the door. Let Stan get one last look at the dress; it was going away.

“Just…think about it?” Stan said. “Less boring. And the skirt and top and…dressing up like a doll? Think about it.”

She slammed the door. She stomped back to her desk. She told herself that she was going to strangle him. She told herself she was going to “forget” to remind him of all his meetings.

But…shorter skirts. Sexy tops. Like a doll. She was already thinking about it.