Insecure Clothing is one of 22 stories collected in my e-book The Downward Spiral – Stories of Hypnotic Ruination, available for only $3.99 USD in the ATR store. Your purchases fund the creation of new, free erotica. (Click here to view in store.)
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Abbey didn’t recognise her psychologist, and that was her downfall. She didn’t realise that gorgeous, professional, brunette going by the name Dr Sandwell was the same Georgia Sandwell who Abbey had mercilessly bullied in high school.
She *particularly* didn’t remember how on their first day of high school she had ripped off Georgia’s shirt and bra, leaving her bare-breasted in front of the whole school and photographed her. She didn’t remember how the school had spent the next five years trading that photo of Georgia around, and calling her “Udders” – a name that Abbey had made up.
So when Abbey told “Dr Sandwell” that she had a problem quitting smoking, Georgia immediately recommended hypnotherapy.
Only the hypnotherapy she gave had nothing to do with smoking. Instead, she gave Abbey a set of simple suggestions.
One: Abbey was going to stop wearing underwear. No bras, no panties. She was going to think that was her own choice, and feel ashamed she was making that choice, and want to stop – just like she wanted to stop smoking.
Two: Without realising she was doing it, Abbey was going to sabotage her clothing. She was going to make sure every last piece of clothing she owned had the potential to humiliate her. She was going buy tops that her tits would pop out of if she bounced too much. She was going to buy shirts that became transparent when wet. She was going to cut halfway through the threads on all her buttons, and the cinches on her skirts, so that they could fall off at the slightest provocation. She was going to weaken every seam on her clothing. She would buy bikinis that were held on by knotted strings, and tie the knots poorly so they would come apart at the slightest tug – and she would wear these bikinis more often, and to more social occasions, than was strictly appropriate for swimwear.
Three: Whenever Abbey’s tits or cunt or ass were exposed in public, she would feel overwhelming shame and humiliation – but she would be unable to cover herself in any way until she had masturbated to orgasm. It was entirely up to her whether she ran away naked to find somewhere private, or masturbated right there on the spot. Over time, she would slowly find herself unable to cum without the feeling of humiliation and exposure.
Four: Abbey would take a photograph of herself nude and masturbating. Whenever she was required to submit a photo of herself for any purpose – job applications, social media, or whatever – she would use that photograph, without realising she was doing it. Upon the photo being published, or being shown the photo, she would realise what she had done, and feel humiliation, but be unable to ask for the photo to be changed or hidden, or explain why she had used the photo.
Five: Whenever Abbey was required to write her name, instead of “Abbey”, she would write “Udders”, without realising she was doing it. If anyone called her “Udders” to her face, she would feel humiliated, and also become aroused – but she would answer to it be unable to say that it wasn’t her name or ask them not to call her that.
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Georgia sent Abbey off that day with instructions to make a follow-up appointment in a month. When the appointment came, Georgia was delighted to see the name “Udders” listed on her patient calendar.
“Hello, Udders,” she said, as Abbey entered her office. Abbey blushed bright red, and clearly wanted to say something, but instead said, “Hello, Dr Sandwell.”
As she stepped into the room, Abbey’s large tits popped out of the top of her ridiculously low-cut prostitute-top. Abbey’s eyes widened, and her hands fluttered, as if she wanted to cover them, but couldn’t. A step later, her skirt just fell away from her waist, the cinch broken, exposing her pussy.
“Your clothing seems to have malfunctioned, Udders,” said Georgia. “Does this happen often?”
“Every day,” admitted Abbey, blushing. Georgia saw that Abbey’s pussy was soaking wet.
“You look like your cunt is needy. You must be an enormous slut, Udders,” said Georgia. “Do you need to masturbate?”
“Yes,” said Abbey, in a small, broken voice.
“Okay,” said Georgia. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and play with your pussy like the whore you are? And… I’ll film it. For your records….”
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