The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’d worn t-shirts into the office before—casual Fridays and all that. I mean, even at the best of times it wasn’t like our office was particularly formal. I liked to dress smart; I’m ambitious, and I knew that dressing to impress was an excellent way to get noticed.

I mean, I suppose what I’d just worn through the office was another way to get noticed.

I was blushing when I reentered, but—to my great relief—no one was pointing and staring, or whispering.

Perhaps I’d imagined all those eyes on me when I’d left. Perhaps holding my head up high had actually been been the smartest thing I could do; if I’d acted suspicious, maybe it would have been obvious what I was trying to hide. What had been on my chest.

Perhaps I’d gotten away with it. It had felt like the substance was obviously...well, what it was...but that was just because I knew. Theory of Mind and all that—if you know the answer, you can’t see it as anything but the answer.

But if I’d seen a random person—Tracey, say—walking through the office with a stain on their shirt, I wouldn’t have assumed it was...

I would have assumed it was mayonnaise. Or hand cream. Or spilled milk. Definitely not something worth crying over.

When I returned to the office, there was nothing on my chest. No stain. No milky-white residue. The most embarrassing part was that I was wearing a t-shirt, but like I said, even that wasn’t particularly uncommon.

Typical Amber. Assuming that everyone is always thinking the worst. No, it was obvious that no one had any idea what had just happened. What I’d just done with Mr. Peterson—just done to Mr. Peterson—would stay between us.

I returned to my desk and kept my headphones on for the rest of the day, eager to bury myself in work. After a weekend of being highly strung and a day of raw emotions (and orgasms), I was ready to bury myself in my work, where nothing could surprise me, where nothing could catch me off-guard.

It didn’t take long for the tension to leave. The stress from the day melted away as the work progressed, and my mind stopped replaying the events, stopped imagining that everyone knew what had happened.

No one knew. No one could know. It would be so easy to interpret what we’d done as unprofessional, or even cheating. And it wasn’t, of course. As I continued working, that fact became more and more clear.

It wasn’t cheating. Helping someone get relief wasn’t cheating, it was just that: helping someone out. Mr. Peterson needed my help so that he could do his job...so that I could do my job. It wasn’t like we were doing it for fun. Spanking me was part of his duties...hell, it was a punishment. It wasn’t like either of us wanted to do that.

The fact that I enjoyed it was incidental. There are probably some people who like prison, but that doesn’t stop it being a punishment.

Getting spanked by Mr. Peterson was a punishment. It was part of the EED, simple as that. When I’d taken this job, I’d signed up for spankings—it wasn’t like I was doing it to get off.

Yes, I was getting off, but that was incidental. My spankings were a punishment, no two ways about it.

And punishing me was part of Mr. Peterson’s job. I was an ant—knowing the ins and outs of spreadsheets was my job. He was a manager—disciplining employees was his.

He needed to discipline me, just like I needed to be disciplined. It was just part of the job.

And then, yes, he was inconveniently turned on. Now, I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t get a secret thrill from that. Mr. Peterson got hard because of me, because of my body. It was his duty, his job to spank my bare ass whenever I made a mistake, and it wasn’t his fault that he enjoyed it.

It wasn’t his fault that he enjoyed it a little too much.

If anything, it was my fault. It was my fault for making mistakes in the first place. And, I smiled, it was my fault for having such a great ass. Who could blame him for getting turned on by having to spank it? Who could blame him for getting aroused when his bare hand made with my bare ass?

And it was definitely my fault for cumming when he did. I mean, I couldn’t help it, just like I couldn’t help the stupid crush I’d developed on my boss.

But it certainly wasn’t Mr. Peterson’s fault.

So yes, I could see how what we were doing could look like cheating. From the outside, if you didn’t understand exactly what was going on, I could see how a married woman kneeling in front of her boss and jerking him off could be misinterpreted to be something more than it was.

Especially when she came long and loud after doing so.

But that was just the body’s normal reaction to the situation we’d found ourself in. The perfectly normal, professional, completely-above-board situation that had occurred naturally.

If anything, the only problem was my crush. But it wasn’t like I wanted to be attracted to my boss. I didn’t wake up one morning and think “my happy marriage isn’t good enough, I want to develop the most professionally inconvenient crush possible”. No, that was nobody’s fault.

I had a stupid crush. It happens. But I wasn’t going to let it get in the way of my job, and I certainly wasn’t going to let it disrupt my marriage. So while an uninformed onlooker might see what we were doing as illicit, I knew the truth—as did Mr. Peterson—and that was all that mattered.

I wasn’t jerking off a man I was attracted to. I was doing everything I could to perform my job to the best of my abilities, and to ensure that Mr. Peterson had everything he needed to perform his job.

And yes, that happened to involve me jerking off a man I was attracted to. But that was just how things had landed, and no one was to blame.

Beside...he’d said it was amazing.

“You’re in a good mood,” Aaden said as I came in the door. His eyes flicked down to my chest, and I had a moment of strange panic—like he could see Mr. Peterson’s cum, like he’d know exactly what we were doing...

But no, of course not. He was just surprised to see me coming home from work in a t-shirt.

“Spilled something on my blouse,” I explained, and he nodded, not asking any further questions.

That night, I reached out and grabbed Aaden’s cock in bed. He turned to me with a smile—despite how much we’d fucked over the weekend, he still wanted me.

I loved him so much. My stupid crush could never compete with how I felt about Aaden. He was my soul-mate, the father to my children, my life partner. My husband. That meant something to me—I would never cheat on him, not really.

He leaned forward and kissed me as I slowly stroked his cock, paying particular attention to what he liked and didn’t like.

I was going to be doing this every day for Mr. Peterson, and—like everything I put my mind to—I was determined to be great at it.

Amazing, even.

The look on Mr. Peterson’s face as I removed my bra the next morning was everything I could have hoped for.

Up until now, he’d never seen me topless. I mean, obviously—he was my boss. The only reason he’d seen (and touched) my bare ass was because he had to spank me.

But this was his first time seeing my tits. And his reaction was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

ant. Mother of two. Happily married. I know I’m not boring, of course, but...well, I could imagine someone thinking I was.

Perhaps that was why I’d done it. It had been after my youngest stopped breastfeeding. I think I’d told myself that I just wanted to, but maybe it was my way of telling myself that I wasn’t boring. Or hell, maybe I just wanted to take ownership of my body back, remind myself that it didn’t solely exist to feed offspring.

Whatever the reason, about a decade earlier, I’d gotten my nipples pierced.

And no one knew about it. Well, Aaden, obviously, but no one else. Not even the boys.

And certainly not anyone at work.

But now Mr. Peterson knew. Only two men knew my secret—my husband and my boss.

A pulse travelled through my entire body at the look on his face when he saw them.

“W-wow,” he stammered, his eyes flicking back and forth between my breasts and my face.

I didn’t say anything, just blushed a little. He probably didn’t even notice; my face was already red.

We’d just finished my punishment. Twenty hard spanks, delivered as skillfully as ever. I hadn’t cried this time, nor had I cum. And when I’d turned around, I hadn’t said anything, just slowly unbuttoned my shirt, carefully draped it over the desk, and then reached behind myself to unclasp my bra.

I stood in front of him, wearing nothing but a pair of heels. I’d removed my skirt and underwear for my punishment; now, I was removing my shirt and bra for my reward.

The look on his face was reward enough. He didn’t even need to say it, the word was already running through my head, as though on a loop.

Amazing.

I don’t think I’d ever seen Mr. Peterson truly shocked. He was usually so professional, so in control. And so as his eyes widened, it felt like I was seeing through the mask, like I was seeing the real him.

But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

I’d been anticipating the staring. I mean, it’s not like I’m a professional in these things, but I’ve always known I have nice breasts. I would have been slightly insulted if he hadn’t stared.

And the shock, I’d seen that coming too. Like I said, the piercings are so out of character—after getting Aaden off with my hand the previous night, I’d gone to bed with a smile on my face, imagining what Mr. Peterson’s reaction would be when he saw them.

But I don’t think either of us expected him to reach and and touch them.

I froze. Should I say something? This was clearly unprofessional. This wasn’t anything to do with my punishment—or helping him find release so that he could continue to deliver my punishment. This wasn’t work-related at all.

This was just a man reaching out and touching a woman’s breasts. No, worse—a boss reaching out and groping an employee’s breasts. It was textbook sexual harassment.

Okay, perhaps in the textbook the woman wasn’t naked, preparing to kneel in front of him and masturbate to orgasm, but still. It was completely inappropriate.

But...well, it felt good. Not inherently arousing—I’ve never had sensitive breasts. I’d hoped the nipple rings would help with that, and they did a little, but it wasn’t like going from a 2 to a 10 in sensitivity.

No, it wasn’t doing anything for me physically. But emotionally...

I had a crush on my boss. I’d long since accepted that. It wasn’t going to impact my marriage, it wasn’t going to impact my job. It clearly wasn’t requited—yes, he got aroused when spanking my bare ass, but I’m sure that would have happened with anyone. He wasn’t turned on by me, he was turned on by the fact that I was a half-naked woman.

And even if he was attracted to me (and my heart wouldn’t let go of the possibility), attraction wasn’t the same as love. I was attracted to Jake Gyllenhaal, that doesn’t mean that I was in love with him. Or wanted to be with him.

Not that I was in love with Mr. Peterson. Or wanted to be with him. I loved Aaden. I wanted to be with Aaden.

This was just a little crush.

But no matter how little the crush, it still made my stomach do flips when Mr. Peterson’s fingertips brushed across my nipples.

I shivered. It didn’t feel like an intrusion. Maybe that was the line—if it had felt like an assault, it would have been one. If it had felt like he was doing something inappropriate, that was what made it inappropriate.

But this didn’t feel like an assault. It didn’t feel like anything other than an entirely innocent action, from an entirely innocent man. He was just curious.

Curious, and perhaps a little turned on.

His hand went from one to the other, his head tilted to the side, and it was all I could do not to let out a little moan. God, he was just so sexy. His intense look was normally directed at his work, but right now, it was directed at my nipples. At my piercings.

It wasn’t just my body he was fascinated by; it was what I’d chosen to do with it. If he’d just liked my ass, that would’ve been flattering, but it’s not like I got to choose what kind of butt I got. That was genetics, and maybe a little bit of sculpting at the gym.

My piercings? Those were my choice. I’d done that: me. And the way he looked at them, the way he looked at me...I felt so seen.

I felt like Mr. Peterson was really seeing me. He was seeing something that I’d never shown anyone except my husband. He was looking at my self-expression, and he wasn’t just iring it. He was intrigued by it.

He was fascinated by me.

After a few more moments of tweaking and playing with the twin metal bars, his gaze returned to my face, a soft smile on his mouth.

I think I’d expected him to apologize. He’d always been so professional; I fully expected him to drop his hands, frown, and apologize for crossing a line, assure me that it wouldn’t happen again.

But he didn’t. Instead, he just stared into my eyes, continuing to play with my nipple rings as he did.

I returned his smile. Does that count as consent? Probably not by the book, but we both knew what I meant. I see what you’re doing, and I’m okay with it.

In truth, I was far more than okay with it, but I knew what this was. He was my boss. I worked under him.

We had to keep things professional.

I licked my lip, and spoke up.

“So, um...”

“Hmm?”

His eyes never left mine as his other hand came up to play with my other breast. He wasn’t pulling or tugging, just feeling the metal bars between his fingers.

Tweaking my nipples in the process, but I knew that wasn’t why he was doing what he was doing. He was just curious. Probably hadn’t ever seen a woman with piercings before.

Well, piercings there.

“Can I...”

Mr. Peterson just continued to stare at me, waiting for me to finish the thought. I fought back the urge to narrow my eyes.

He wasn’t seriously going to make me ask, was he? While I stood completely naked in his office, letting him play with my nipples?

The silence stretched on, and I realized: he seriously was.

“Can I...help you find release again?” I finally asked, and Mr. Peterson’s face turned serious.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he demurred, and my mouth fell open.

“What?” I wanted to ask. “Why the hell do you think I just took my clothes off?”

After yesterday’s incident, I’d come prepared. I’d brought a towel in with me; one from home. Aaden and I had a fairly equal relationships, by most standards, but I was still the one who did all the laundry, so I knew he wouldn’t notice me borrowing—and washing—a towel every day.

I’d even brought an old gym bag to stash it in. I was convinced that no one had noticed the stain on my shirt the previous day (or worked out what it was, if they had noticed) but I didn’t want to take any chances.

“You think I’m just standing in your office, baring my body to someone other than my husband—for the first time in two decades—for fun?” I wanted to say.

But I didn’t. Instead, I forced a smile to my face.

“Pardon?”

“Like I said yesterday, I really do appreciate the offer. But...”

“But what?” I asked, slightly too desperately. Mr. Peterson was still playing with my exposed nipples as he spoke.

“But I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

My mouth dropped open. I wanted to remind him that he’d said it was amazing, that he’d...that he’d said I was his good girl.

I didn’t, of course. I’d done a pretty good job of hiding my crush; if I suddenly started echoing his words back, he’d realize how much they meant to me. And they only meant so much to me because of whatever it was I felt for him.

Feelings are so stupid. I’m counting down the days until we’re all ed to silicon and can just be done with them forever.

I swallowed down the desperate plea for approval that had sprung to my throat and instead managed a simple “Oh.”

“And besides,” Mr. Peterson added, one hand leaving its place on my left breast, “it’s getting late. I don’t want you to fall behind on work.”

“I won’t!” I replied far too quickly, realizing that I was tilting my body, as though trying to move my breast to his hand. “I promise.”

His hand returned to my nipple and began playing with my ring again, like a fidget toy, and I felt a wave of relief though my body. His hands on my breasts felt so...so natural.

Like I was made to be played with by him.

I pushed that thought down, and continued my case. “Please, sir. I just...I want to make sure that nothing disrupts my punishments. I know how important they are.”

Mr. Peterson winced, and a look of contrition ed over his face.

“I knew I never should have said that,” he tutted. “I’ve made you think that you’re responsible for...”

He trailed off, but we both knew what he had been about to say.

“Let me say this again,” my boss said, staring me deep in the eyes, one hand on each of my bare nipples. “And please, Amber, it’s important that you understand. No matter what, I will continue delivering your punishment as appropriate. You don’t have to do anything for that to continue. I hate that I put that on your plate, and I completely regret it.”

“I understand, sir,” I said, my voice breathy. “I...I know.”

“I don’t want you to offer anything because you feel like your punishment is in jeopardy. My job as your manager is to keep you in line, and I promise you—I’m going to do that no matter what. Capische?“

“Capische,” I said with a smile. Did Mr. Peterson know I was Italian, or was he just using slang he’d heard in a gangster film?

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Great. So now that you know that, you know there’s no reason to...—”

I interrupted before he could finish. “I want to, sir.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not offering because I have to. I’m not offering because I think it’s part of my job, or because I don’t think you can do your job. I’m offering because...because I want to.”

My boss tilted his head, but he didn’t say anything.

“I liked it,” I said, moving my shoulders back slightly. It had the desired effect—Mr. Peterson’s eyes flicked down to my tits once more. I didn’t know if he was a tit man, but if his hands were any indicator...

“And I think you liked it too.”

I don’t know what kind of a response I expected. I mean, I know what I wanted—“Of course I liked it, you were amazing. You were incredible, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. You’re my good girl, and I want you down on your knees where you belong...“

Ungh. My whole body throbbed at the thought of him saying those words to me.

Not that he ever would, of course. He was a professional.

No, what I got instead was a small smile and a tiny nod. Such a minute reaction should have been disappointing, shouldn’t have had the effect on me that it did—I felt my entire body getting warm.

He liked it.

Of course he liked it. What man wouldn’t enjoy an attractive woman kneeling in front of him and stroking his cock until he came?

My brain knew that, but the rest of my body wasn’t listening.

He liked it.

“Still...” he said, moving his hands to his side. I almost gasped as his fingers lost with my nipples—how had something that I’d never had before immediately felt as natural as breathing?

My nipples were made for Mr. Peterson’s hands to play with. That was why I’d gotten them pierced, so that he could play with them whenever he wanted.

God, this crush was really getting out of hand.

“Still,” he repeated, his tone stronger, “we really shouldn’t do anything that takes you away from your work.”

“I can stay late,” I replied immediately. “I don’t mind. Please, sir.”

He shot me a look, and I wondered if I’d overplayed my hand. He’d given me every excuse to refuse, and yet I hadn’t. I wanted to jerk him off again. I needed to. It wasn’t even an option.

Mr. Peterson shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “We really shouldn’t.”

I think my boss was the most frustrating man I’d ever met. I was standing naked in front of him, he’d just spanked my bare ass and watched me strip, and after several minutes of playing with my nipples, he was refusing to let me jerk him off.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I repeated, fully aware of the desperation in my tone. “I just...I just like doing it.”

“We shouldn’t,” he said quietly, and intellectually I knew he was right. I was married, he was my boss. If we’d been sensible, I would’ve just masturbated in front of him and gotten back to work.

But one word kept running through my head.

Amazing.

He’d said it was amazing. My hand, touching him, stroking him, getting him off...

He’d said it was amazing, and I’d do anything to make him feel like that again.

Anything.

My eyes widened as I realized what I had to do. My heart sank at the thought, but I knew I had no other option. If I was going to convince Mr. Peterson to let me jerk him off, if I was going to make him see that I was serious about wanting to do this, there was only one thing left to do.

I knelt down in front of my boss and looked up at him with wide eyes, a look of desperation on my face.

“Please, sir,” I said. “Please let me.”

Mr. Peterson stared at me, his expression neutral. But my eyes were at crotch level, and I saw the reaction my words were having. His cock was hard, straining against the fabric of his pants, and I was certain he wasn’t going to turn me down.

“Amber...” he said noncommittally, and I didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“Please, sir,” I said, putting as much urgency into my voice as I could. “Please, let me do this for you.”

Mr. Peterson’s face betrayed nothing, and that only made me more desperate.

“Please,” I begged, my hand moving up and grabbing my breast. “Please, sir, I...I need to.”

His eyes followed the motion, and it was all I could do not to smile. I knew I had him. I knew Mr. Peterson’s weakness.

My boss liked boobs.

“Please, sir,” I gasped. “Let me jerk you off again. Let me get you off. Please, sir. It felt so good yesterday, you felt so good, and...and I need it.”

I was babbling, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Peterson had his hand in his hair and his face was troubled, but he wasn’t looking away. I moved my other hand up and cupped my breasts, offering them to him, giving him a visual treat to feast on.

“I want to feel you cum on my tits,” I groaned. “Please, Mr. Peterson. I want to stroke your hard cock until you can’t hold back, until you have to cum on my body. Please, let me do this for you.”

I knew the moment he broke. His expression was still troubled, but his hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach down and play with my nipple rings again. As though he wanted it as much as I did.

But I didn’t stop.

“Let me make you feel good,” I cooed. “Let me take your stress away. Let me help you find release, help you cum.”

“We shouldn’t,” he repeated, and my body filled with pleasure at the slight moan of his voice. I’d never seen him like this.

“Please,” I begged, my tone as plaintive as I could make it. “Please, sir. Let me jerk you off, let me get you off, let me help you cum. I want it, sir, I need it. I need to feel you spurt all over me again. I want to be your good girl and serve you, sir. I want to make you feel good. Let me.”

“Amber...”

“Let me,” I whispered, and took one of his hands in mine. My heart beat furiously in my chest as I slowly guided it back to my chest, guiding it towards the hard little pieces of metal that I’d been carrying in my body for more than ten years.

“This is a mistake,” he said, his tone firm, but I didn’t care. I just needed to convince him to let me get him off.

“Please,” I begged, and his fingers started playing with my nipple rings again, as I’d so desperately hoped he would. ”Please, sir,” I said, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I...I want you to cover me with your cum. Mark me, sir. Show everyone that I’m yours.“

At my words, his hand stopped playing with my nipples and my heart sank. I’d gone too far. Of course Mr. Peterson didn’t want the world to think I belonged to him—that was my fantasy, not his. He’d made it very clear that this was a purely professional relationship. He’d tried to turn me down—I was the one insisting that we do this.

So far as he was concerned, I was just a hand and a pair of tits. I was the one making a bigger deal out of it than there was.

I hung my head, preparing for him to send me away. My body was aching, empty, and I felt like the last of my self-respect was leaking out of my body.

But the command never came. And after the silence had stretched on for an uncomfortably long time, I looked up to see that Mr. Peterson’s cock—his beautiful, perfect cock—was staring me in the face.