The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In 1965, my friends and I were eighteen years old, looking to graduate from Hopper Douglass High School with middling honors. I wish I could say that we had grand ambitions of moving out of Greenacre, Alabama and taking on the world. But in those days, all we wanted was for school to end. The future seemed abstract.

I was a capable student, of course, but I didn’t see the point of working like the Dickens for higher grades. Why bother? No-one who grows up in Greenacre ever leaves Greenacre, nor ever has any need to leave Greenacre. The men work in the lumber mills and the women stay home or work the service industry. My momma still lives a mile from her old school friends; my dad can same the same. Me, I’ll probably waitress at the Flapjack Diner forever. As will Madison and Chloe.

Ah, I should properly introduce myself. I’m Hannah Willows, Greenacre’s 1966 Beauty Queen. (Of course, that trophy is now over twenty years old.) Nowadays I’m married, with teenage kids of my own.

And perhaps because my oldest daughter Katie is… ah, developing, I find myself thinking about the Titsee Contest.

Lord, don’t let Katie be as foolish as I was.

My senior year at Hopper Douglass was the best time in my life. I kinda knew I would be getting married by the time I was twenty, so in high school, I was dating and flirting. A lot. I had a fair amount of sex—thankfully Momma didn’t know—but I was also discovering that sex was power. A lot of power. Some days, it seemed like it was the only power I had.

The Titsee Contest was born the morning I got a Current Events quiz back from Mr. Mathers, the Social Sciences teacher: I was aghast to see my grade: D minus?!? How could I have gotten a D minus???

I waited until the end of class, then accosted Mr. Mathers. “Why’d you give me such a bad grade?” I moaned.

Mr. Mathers, a heavyset guy with a cinnamon-swirl hairdo and bad taste in ties, looked at me with some exasperation. “Com’on Hannah,” he groused. “You gotta work harder, girl.”

“But Mr. Mathers,” I wailed, “I did work hard.” Sometimes if you’re a girl and you play exasperated and dumb, the men teachers boosted your score.

“I your paper, Hannah,” Mr. Mathers said dully. “You earned that D minus. You didn’t even know what the Paradise Cult was!”

“I know what the Pair… of Dice Cult is,” I said tartly.

“Mmm,” replied Mr. Mathers. “And what, pray tell, is the cult, Hannah?”

“Uh…” I said.

“Exactly,” snapped the teacher. “If you’d done the reading assignments, Hannah, you’d know the Paradise Cult is abducting young women all across the country and selling them into some sicko white slavery ring. Police coast-to-coast are looking for them. Young girls like you should know this.”

Fine, I thought. Time to change tactics.

“Com’on, Mr. Mathers,” I whined. “I really did work hard for this quiz, I really did!”

I was essentially just fishing for more points without providing any arguments. Sometimes that worked.

“So… what about Question 2?” I asked, and thrust my quiz paper at my teacher.

Mr. Mathers sighed, but took my quiz from me. His eyes swept downward.

“See?” I pouted. “I didn’t do so bad on Number 2, right?”

I waited for the Soc teacher to give me another withering remark. Instead, he remained with his eyes downward, silent for the moment.

And then… it dawned on me. He wasn’t looking at my quiz at all. He was staring across the top of my paper and straight at my cleavage.

Ever since I hit womanhood, I developed very amble breasts. My mother was always in denial about them, hoping I could squeeze into a bra one size smaller. And this hurt a little, but more importantly, it made my boobs pop. In an open button-down blouse like the one I was wearing that day, I was positively busting out.

I should have been offended beyond the pale. A male teacher openly staring at my womanly bosom? How crude! Southern ladies, of course, are defined by our refinement and ladylike character. We are demure, as my grandmammie liked to say. We do not appreciate it when gentlemen stare at our boobies.

But in that moment, I realized that somehow Mr. Mathers’ brain was frozen, and it was all because of me and my chest. It was like I had him hypnotized or something. Amused, I found myself silently counting the seconds: Two… three… four…

Wow, the teacher was really, really distracted by my milky white bosoms. Amused, I said, “Mr. Mathers?” and shook my shoulders, just a little. My breasts swayed back and forth. Mr. Mathers’s pupils actually followed them.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, coming out of his trance. “Uh… Er… I’m sorry, Hannah, what were you saying?”

At lunch, I couldn’t help but tell my best friends, Madison and Chloe, about the incident. They chortled with immature laughter, snorting their milk.

“Oh Lordy, Mr. Mathers has peaked at my bust, too,” Madison said. “He’s a dirty old goat.”

“But he’s married!” Chloe exclaimed, slightly scandalized.

“Yeah, and Mrs. Mathers’ boobs drape down to here,” I wisecracked, holding a hand down about my knee.

“Ladies?” a warning male voice intoned from behind my shoulder.

This was Mr. Roberts, the shop teacher. He hadn’t heard our conversation, of course, but I guess we were getting too loud or something.

I rolled my eyes and turned to face the guy. “Sorry, Mr. Roberts,” I said, using my sad-little-girl voice. “We’ll be more quiet. We were just talking about… woman things.”

And I don’t know why I did it, but as I spoke, I slowly traced a finger along the top of my blouse.

“Yes, well, er…” said Mr. Roberts, as his gaze momentarily flicked downward, “…Ah, please be courteous to your neighbors.”

And with one last glance at the top of my breasts, the shop teacher sauntered off.

Madison and Chloe stifled giggles. “Oh my God!” Chloe gagged. “What a pervert!”

I shrugged, feeling confident. “So easy,” I boast. “Nothing to it. Five points.”

The next day, both my friends appeared in school with low-cut tops. Madison is like me; she comes from a long line of curvy, busty women; top-heavy with a thin waist until the babies pop out, then chunky for the rest of life. As an eighteen-year-old, Mads probably had a bigger cup than mine. Chloe was the smallest of the three of us, but her breasts were nothing to sneeze at.

The instant I saw my friends and their cleavage, I knew: They wanted to see if they could entrance our teachers as I did to Mr. Mathers and Mr. Roberts.

And by lunchtime, they had interesting notes to share. “Ooo, you were right, Hannah,” Chloe told me. “The men in this school are morons! Show a little tit and they drool on the spot.”

“Who’d you get?” Madison asked, munching on her roast beef sandwich.

“Mr. Geffor and Mr. Klien,” bragged Chloe.

I was surprised. Mr. Geffor was mid-thirties and divorced, I think, so it made sense he would stare at a girl if given the chance. But Mr. Klien was older than my grandpappy; I would have thought the sight of slightly exposed breasts wouldn’t have dented the haze surrounding his brain.

“Mr. Klien?” Madison recoiled. “Ewwwww!”

I agree. Thinking about ol’ Mr. Klien mesmerized by Chloe’s breasts was, well, gross.

“I know, right?” Chloe grinned. “But he was pretty easy. Five points for each.”

“Actually,” I interjected, “shouldn’t Mr. Klien be worth more? He probably uses a pacemaker and can’t see too well. You probably had to work harder. Ten points for him.”

“Oh,” Chloe agreed, “fine. Fifteen points for me.”

“Yeah, I’d be impressed…” Madison said lazily, “…if I wasn’t up seventeen points!”

“Seventeen?” Chloe and I said together.

“I got glances from Mr. Flander, Mr. Alman, and Mr. Georges, who is worth an extra two points, because he teaches Sunday School.” Madison cackled wickedly. “And he stared at me the longest, too! Sheesh!”

The competition was born in that moment. We all wore low-cut blouses every day after that. For reasons I don’t completely , we named our little game the “Titsee Contest” I think because, well, it was all about getting older men to see our tits. I would Madison in the hall and brag, “Five more Titsee points!” and only she would know what I was talking about.

The whole thing was perverse and despicable, I know. But that was the fun of it. Honestly, these male teachers thought and acted like they ruled our lives, shoveling out disapproval and condescension to all the girls at Hopper Douglass. If you were a female student, they assumed you were dumb as rocks and barely bothered to hide their contempt.

But the moment you leaned forward and let them gaze into your chest, our instructors became salivating morons. It was like we could put them under a spell, if only for a few seconds. I will it, I got off on this tiny bit of power. While I wasn’t proud of acting like a tramp, I loved that moment when their gaze drifted down and they lost their train of thought.

You know what the best was? The best was when you could distract a teacher at just the right moment and then wield power over them. I’ll never know why, but when men are staring at breasts, they are highly suggestible.

For example: Three days after the Titsee Contest started, I was caught late for the bell by Mr. Harris. “I’ll have to write you up,” he glowered, reaching for his pen and the points slip in his shirt pocket.

“Oh, Mr. Harris,” I flirted, “do you have to?” And I leaned forward, just a little.

He gaped at my chest. “Uh…”

“I won’t let it happen again,” I promised coyly.

“Oh… well… alright,” Mr. Harris allowed. He blinked, then smiled. “Run along then.”

Fantastic! Five points for getting him to look, and another five points for dodging detention.