The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

These is yet another experiment with the character featured in my other story, Breathing Canvas. There is no need to read that one to know who the Artist is, but it would be a good idea.

Here you will find a collection of short flashes, or short stories regarding the work of the Artist as she roams the land, changing people and controlling people, in a quest to create a great masterpiece. Stories will continue to flow until I feel the idea has run its course, and with this one I will be taking requests for stories. If you have an idea you feel fits with the mood of the overall narrative, feel free to send it my way. And feedback. Feedback is always nice.

As usual, this is a work belonging to Mr. Scade. And I hope you enjoy it.

Roaming Canvas

By Mr. Scade

Everywhere I go,
I hear what’s going on.
And the more I hear,
The less I know.

The Artist had been listening to that song for weeks, but never had she paid enough attention to notice the lyrics and their meaning, until now.

The Artist gave her work a flat, inquisitive look. The giant piece of paper was covered with charcoal strokes and white chalk lines that created the illusion of a castle, or the hunger of humanity for knowledge, or the desire to stare at the dark of space and lose yourself in it. An Artist would imprint one thing, one vision of an image, and the masses would try to interpret it with nonsensical Artistic theories and expressionistic theories. Such was art. But for the Artist, what she had planted on paper was different. It was just a castle.

She lowered her blackened hands and let go of the charcoal she was holding. So black were her hands that they could be part of her work. She turned away from her work, and the wall where a hundred similar charcoal creations hung, and forgot all about them.

There was something new in her head; some new idea, some brand new concept and she knew it. The song had broken her stagnation and fed the fires of creativity with a fuel that would first expand and coat everything with an ever-burning sheen before it was consumed.

The Artist darted to her feet and, singing the song, walked out of the room with the charcoal-painted walls and into the room with the mirrors.

The mirrors were clean, perhaps the only surface in the house that wasn’t covered in paint smudges or any mark of any sort. The reason being that the Artist considered the four tall mirrors arranged in a semi circle a window that led her take peeks at her magnum opus—her own body.

She walked between the mirrors and stood there, singing the song, feeling the lyrics course through her very veins, and chuckling; she had never paid attention to the song yet knew the lyrics by heart. After singing the song for the third time the idea materialized, and she remembered why she had walked towards her mirrors.

Staring into a face like stone cuttings and velvet, the Artist removed her paint-stained robe, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor.

In a fraction of a second she was transfixed.

No matter how many times she looked at it, how many times she re-made the designs both in mind an paper, how many times she found a mistake or bad stroke, or how much she had improved since then, her painted body still made her feel an impossibly powerful pride. It was her best work, her magnum opus, her masterpiece! It was an image of Platonic, Artistic perfection, of her soul in art, of her Artistic perception. It was her beautiful body.

She allowed her eyes to roam over the spirals painted around her breasts, over the fire that seemed to crackle and dance over the skeleton remains of Viking warriors that covered her right side. She looked at the splotches of paint and ink on her thighs, and the hidden words behind the lines of colour on her arms.

All over her back there were images of castles, or of renditions of places she had seen, or people she had met. Around her neck was a painted collar, painted in a way that could’ve seemed that a branch was chocking her, or that hummingbirds were flying around her neck. Such images covered the entirety of the skin from the neck down.

The Artist smiled, spread her legs, and inspected what could’ve been the moment when a supernova exploded perfectly captured in ink, or a pictorial representation of human history.

Her eyes found the image and...

The Artist woke groggily. She was lying down on the floor, sprawled, a hand deep inside herself. She sighed the sleepiness away and stood. Her knees were weak and almost gave way under her. She looked at her mirrors once more and smiled deviously.

She considered her tattooed body to be her magnum opus for one reason: Between her legs she had painted the real masterpiece, something so perfect that even herself could fall thrall to its inked brushstrokes. Counting this time, there had been five instances when she had allowed herself to fall to her own work. And whatever her art made her do while under its influence she ignored—the Artist, like everyone who gazed upon her body, could not remember the things she had done. The painted images were gardens whose mother was she, and she was the only one who knew how to tread upon them. But that which sweetly lay between her legs... not even the Artist knew how to walk those hedges.

Singing happily, the Artist walked towards her bedroom—a blanket and pillow on the floor, and a cup of water in the corner were the entirety of her furniture—found a cleaner robe, one that was spots of colour instead of one huge neutral mass of paint, and covered herself. With a giggle and a devious smile singing loudly she left her house.

Everywhere I go
I hear what’s going on.
And the more I hear,
The less I know.
* * *

She wondered how her experiment would play out, what her results would give her. Would they support her hypothesis? Would they give her knew knowledge about herself, or simply confirm something she already knew? The Artist shivered with excitement. It was not what could happen that excited her, but rather the uncertainty. She had no idea what was going to happen, if anything would happen at all. Either it would fail and she would be incarcerated for a while, or it would work and... do something! It was the unknown, the wonder, the fantasy that had her smiling like a child who had just stolen her favourite sweet from the kitchen.

Whatever would happen, she would turn it into art.

Sunrise found her walking an empty street, orange and yellow light licking at her feet, her back, and showering her pale neck with sunlight. She liked the warmth of the sun, the coldness of the pavement under her feet, the crispy cool sting the morning air left in her lungs, the singing of the birds in the distance, and the lack of people. Oh, how she loved to walk the streets of whichever city or town she was staying well before everybody rose from their sleep. It made her feel like she was the only one in the whole world.

The sun rose slowly, heating up the world and making people come out of their homes. People who would gaze upon her art and act upon whichever truth they found there. The Artist may be the only person who could tread upon her own art and not get lost, but others could tread and find their own half-truths hidden in the illusions.

She waited by walking up and down the road several times until the sun had been released from the horizon. People were coming out of their houses, to tend to their yards, to pick up newspapers, to look at the sky, and to start their vehicles. People, she always thought, were so strange; they hid themselves in a routine, perpetually stuck in a daily basis. Few had the creativity to make their routines interesting, and even fewer had the desire to create creativity and escape such routines. Compliant, uninteresting, lacking the spark of worlds and realms... that was people. And yet, they detested such menial existence.

The Artist really hoped to lure some truly creative people; even if it was just one self-proclaimed Artist she could leave with a smile.

She had stopped in the exact center of the street. She stood there, lungs filling with morning air, ears listening to the pointless, muffled chatter of people and to a song. She could hear it in her head and in her lips.

Everywhere I go,
I hear what’s going on.
And the more I hear
The less I know.
They want to tell you this, they want to tell you that.
Just hold your hat when the black wind blows.

And she sang, in her voice as beautiful as shades of violet, as impacting as hues of orange and red. Her voice carried like the illusion of reflected water white colours creates on blues; like the movement brushstrokes done in a single direction create. It was a loud voice, like a splatter of green on red that carried all over the street.

And soon enough she had an audience. Curious people come over to hear the beautiful—and in some cases hideous—voice that had woken them from sleep or from the trance of routine. The Artist kept singing, her voice impossible to drown by the murmurs and shouts of the onlookers whose every word was of wonder and question. Who was she? Why was she singing? Where had she come from?

The Artist listened to them, heard what was going on, and sang harder and clearer. She was enjoying herself, both because of the song and the reactions of the audience. The Artist was a private woman, who kept to herself and to her art and, when questioned, denied all accusations on her personality, which, with some probing, turned to be a reality. She hated being called prideful, but she was proud of her work, when she didn’t hate it. The Artist loathed when people pointed out her love for scenes, for audiences, for critiques on her work; but here she was, hoarding a growing audience and loving it. She couldn’t help it, really; the Artist loved doing what she did, even if it clashed with her own convictions. But what are convictions when creativity swallows you? How relevant is conscious thought when the Trance is upon you, the trance in which the world ceases to be and only the realms and people flowing from your mind into your arm exist?

The Artist sang the song for the fourth time and then stopped. All around her a great audience had formed: women and children, men and boys, little girls and teenage girls, old men, old women, balding youths and many more. The crowd was varied; people from a diversity of cultural and ethnically backgrounds, people that had nothing in common with each other but that they lived in this street... and that they had seen the Artist.

She stopped singing, and allowed the cacophony of questions and murmurs to swallow the morning air, which had grown hotter as the morning passed, moving from grey to blue with every note she sang. The Artist allowed them to ask their questions, to wonder out loud, to ponder nastily; but never answered one inquisitive. She let them grow hungry and angry, let the emotions build up. The Artist may hate crowds, may hate expositions, and may hate people; but she loved to manipulate them and to control their emotions to reach a desired result.

The noise grew to concert levels and then died to funeral depths. Only then did the Artist speak.

“Hi.” Was all she said, a lopsided smile giving her an air of ironic dismissal.

Somebody frowned and shouted a question. The Artist was angered for a moment and then gave that person the same smile and a wave of her hand. He fell silent, as well as some others around him.

“Do you want to know why I decided to bother you all this morning?” She said, her voice just like glass shattering, a complete opposite to her singing voice.

More shouts, more questions. And that was when she began to lose them. Some didn’t care, some had better things to do, and some simply had no appreciation for the situation. The Artist saw this and before they all could turn around and slip into the tedium of routine she disrobed. And the world didn’t know what to do.

People entered a trance. People entered a dream. Their eyes fell upon her body, and their bodies fell upon the ground. Their minds shut closed. Shut from thoughts and from ideas.

And the Artist sang.

She sang to her audience, just like she had done years ago. Just like she had done that first time. Her voice was clear, like the rumbling of the sea. At first she didn’t know what to do—it had been a long while since she had dared to give a spectacle—so she did what she could: deepen their minds.

Some would think of this as an evil act, but the Artist thought of it as a gift, a wonderful gift. Her art, her skill, was a gift to the world. It had given joy to so many, and right now it was giving these people a wonderful experience. She knew, by past accounts and stories, that looking upon her art would lead you on a magnificent travel. She had been on such a travel, once, long ago. Then, she wondered, where would their minds take them after staring at her magnum opus? She could only imagine.

“Fall, walk, deeper into your fantasies. Stare at the work of art and lose yourselves!” Her soft voice filled the world. People moaned, people sighed. They were in a trance, a trance so deep the scorch of the sun upon their bodies wasn’t perceived.

In no time the Artist was holding the reins of a small army. She had in her power the minds and wills of dozens of people. She smiled broadly. She didn’t exactly enjoy doing this, that is why it was a rare dealing for her to show her true art to the word; but she couldn’t deny just how good it felt. Before her were fresh canvases, yearning to be painted. They were nothing but potential. And potential was nothing but a drug to her.

The Artist walked towards them, seeing how her proximity deepened their breathing. They had seen her art from afar and their minds had collapsed. Looking at her close by, where they could see every detail of her body? One can only imagine.

The Artist walked up to a short, balding man. He was dressed for work, his eyes unfocused, his mind open.

“You...” While her voice was like a friendly caress, her tone was that of a car crash. Her voice had returned to its usual place, where no one was allowed. “Tell me what you see.”

The man gasped, his lips quivering. His expression was happy, ecstatic even. He was in a wonderful place. “I see my family...” His voice was a whisper, distant. “On an island back home. We’re together, oh, god, we’re together!”

The Artist smiled. It was not uncommon for her art to show people their desires, but it wasn’t precisely common to show them their memories. She was improving. The Artist felt prideful.

The Artist moved on to the next person, a woman of middle age, with tired eyes and a droopy expression. The Artist thought she recognized the woman, but, then again, the Artist recognized the faces of many; she had been around for a long time.

“What do you see?” The Artist asked in her cracking voice.

The woman sighed happily, her head lolling to the side. “I see... I see my first love.” She whispered. “Oh, how do I miss him; he was the only one...” And the woman trailed off, still talking in her mind but her lips failed to catch up to her thoughts.

The Artist gave something that passed for a smile. Her painted finger rested upon the woman’s clavicle. “Hear me,” She began, her voice a pleasant whisper. “Breath deeply, breathe very deeply, and remember him. Remember how he smelled, how he felt, how he laughed. Remember him when you’re alone, when you’re with someone. Remember his shadow upon your lover. Remember him.”

The woman moaned ever so slightly, her toes curled, her eyelids closed. The woman began to breath, deeply, heavily, profoundly, and she slipped deeper into memory. The face of her current lover disappeared, replaced by the first man she truly knew. The woman smiled for the first time in a long while.

The Artist ran her fingers through her hair, feeling crusts of dried paint. She grimaced, peeling away some red paint from her scalp. The Artist decided she couldn’t do a thing for the sorry state of her appearance and so continued moving through her crowd.

She looked at each person in the eye, which prompted a pleasant symphony of sighs. The music was off tune, but she enjoyed it—it helped her think on what to do with so many people. Eventually she would have to let them go, she knew; such a crowd would clearly bring more people upon her and that is one thing she didn’t need to deal with. She suddenly found herself realising the irony and contradiction of her situation; hating people, yet relishing in their gawking presence.

The Artist decided to distract herself with a child.

The kid must’ve been twelve or thirteen, if the specks of hair on his chin were to be acknowledged. She crouched in front of him, letting his eyes fall on the marks on her cheeks and forehead. His eyes became focused, but then lost themselves back into whichever fantasy land he had devised in his mind.

“What do you see?”

The kid cocked his head to the side, then to the other. “Something like a...” He trailed off, his breathing slow. “A castle. Knights...” His eyes closed and a smile painted his face with an emotion the Artist liked to mimic on canvas with clear violets. She ran her hand over her neck, her lips curled into a violet smile.

“Let yourself walk this castle, boy,” Her voice turned a whisper, like soft brushstrokes of light grey upon white. “Breath deeply and listen to my voice: with every breath you will walk deeper into the castle, deeper into adventure. You will see knights, magicians, creatures of untold legends!” The violet of her lips turned a deep purple. “As you walk deeper you will feel your body growing stronger, older. As you walk deeper and deeper into this castle, you will become a knight yourself. Breathe deeply, boy, and picture yourself as a knight.”

The boy sighed, and then giggled.

The Artist rose, feeling satisfied.

Her morning was spent like this. She would walk amongst her crowd, choosing only those who caught her eye, and pulling them deeper into the Trance, asking them what they saw and always, always twisting their words in a way in which she thought her meddling would give them happiness. Everyone smiled after her suggestions seeped into their minds.

Eventually the morning grew hot, and her tranced puppets restless. A secondary crowd had started to amass, curious as to why the street was so crowded. Luckily for the Artist, they had settled behind the wall of bodies and thus she had not been looked upon. Quickly the Artist gave another man a dream of pleasant dreamings and started looking for her discarded coat. She covered her work of art, and immediately the crowd gave a collective yelp of awareness. They all looked lost, confused.

The Artist didn’t wait for anyone to ask questions, or look at her way. She had finished her sketch; it was still rough at the edges and the idea was not yet completely formed, but she had something to work on. She needed only to practice again, upon a different sort of crowd, with a different medium, so her concept would grow. Only then would she be ready to create true art.

Fin