The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The sudden shift from a steamy, girl-smelling restroom, to the dry and air-conditioned atmosphere pierced through the fog of glowing arousal the Artist was shrouded with. She stretched and felt her overcoat rubbing over her skin. She had to suppress a moan; her whole body was still tingling from Felicia’s careful worshipping. If the Artist were in the habit of keeping her conquests she would definitively have kept Felicia as a personal toy; but, alas, it was unreasonable for her to keep that beautiful lady. The Artist had rules that governed her, even if an outsider could not tell so. Taking someone against their will, would call forth attention, specially if that person could not be entirely in tune with what the Artist could do. The unwarranted attention, at this stage, was something she could do without.

The Artist snuck her head into the restroom one last time to see Felicia fixing her makeup as if nothing had happened. Of course, it goes without saying that the type of changes the Artist left inside the woman’s mind cannot be physically perceived, unless she dressed like she now wanted to. The Artist smiled, thinking the internal hell she had stirred by leaving all those kinks inside Felicia’s mind.

She made her way back to her seat and saw one of the predatory men sitting there with a chubby girl. The Artist decided to get back at him for pestering her like an incessant fly. She was happy and ecstatic and in post-orgasmic bliss, which was the same as feeling playfully vengeful. She stood in front of the couple. He gave her a look of ’sorry, you should’ve taken your chance’ before that look turned into ‘I remember how my mother made me listen to her’. The Artist removed his penchant for bothering girls in bars and gave it to the girl he was with. She added a little something hidden in the depths of a tattoo in the shape of an arrow on her left arm, had them pay her bill, and then walked out of the bar and into the night. That something would leave the man short of funds soon enough. No bars for him anymore.

“Was I too harsh?” She whispered to the night and, having no response, let the matter drop.

Where to go? Where to go? Where do people go after their cognitive ability shut downs after an overload of sexuality? The Artist was not one able to answer that question, so she roamed the streets. Roaming was what she did, as the Artist. Second to her ability to create dangerous and wondrous worlds, was the skill to thread upon this world as if she owned it. There were few places where the Artist could not tread, and she walked with the unseen thread that connected everything as her only guide.

There was something about the early hours of a day that the Artist loved. Walking down a dark hallway at three a.m., breathing in the chilly air and listening to the dull song of a sleeping city filled her with nostalgia. Yet it wasn’t nostalgia that made her enjoy the nights so much, and neither did the memories of a teenage girl climbing up and down building walls trying to steal her meals from lonely flats stirred any such feelings. The scents of dirty alleyways, and of rubbish bins overflowing with remains filled her nostrils, tugging at old familiar emotions. And yet nothing could be blamed for this delightful feeling! If only she understood, if only she could say “It is the moon overhead that makes me feel so good!” she would be that more peaceful.

Happy, ecstatic, energetic and so, so alive! Whatever was the reason for the lovely curse, she could only wonder.

She turned left down a hallway and came out into a wide road with trees lining the opposite side. She looked to the right, and saw a dwindling of street lamps, and increase of darkness. There was something that way that sang an enthralling song; mysterious, unknown, dark and dangerous, all things that called forth the Artist like blood do sharks. And yet, she didn’t give that tread a single thought.

Across the street was a hill. It was bare, a dark backdrop against the night sky and the lights of distant buildings. Here are there the Artist could make out gardens, and a huge manor on the very top. There was something about that silhouette that evoked a sense of familiarity. She stared at it, memorized its shades and lights for a later painting and suddenly stopped, straightening as her eyes widened slightly. I’ve done this before, with this building, she thought.

She couldn’t see the treads of the world; that wasn’t one of her abilities and she didn’t care for it. Yet she was one of Them, and she could sense the unknown and unseen things of the world even if she didn’t want to; and something about that manor wasn’t entirely right. The Artist had the feeling that if she closed her eyes and walked towards it, the tread would never lead her into it.

She kept her eyes open.

Round and round she walked, trying to find an entrance into the manor’s grounds. Surrounded by a tall, tall metal fence with what appeared to be pikes and—though she wasn’t sure—electrified wires; it wasn’t as easy for her to just jump the gate. Not impossible to get through, but near on for her. The Artist could change many things about the world with a brushstroke, but there were limits to her abilities—an entrance was the only way she would be getting into that place. After a while she came across what looked like a tiny, fortified security booth. It was like a tiny room built next to the gate. The windows were stained, yet the Artist knew that however was in there could see her staring inside.

She walked over to the booth and knocked on a steel door. No sound came from within but the echoes of knocking. She was about to knock again when a buzzer somewhere to her right sang a song of static. “Can I help you?” Came a male voice, soft and calm.

“Yes, actually, you can.” The Artist said. She turned to look at the gates and saw what, under better light, would’ve been a crest. “Can you tell me who is the owner of this... manor?”

The voice inside the booth was silent a moment, a long moment. The Artist looked around for the buzzer and found it. She pressed a button, and the man within, quite rudely, asked what she wanted.

She explained what she wanted to know.

The voice said no again.

The Artist was unphased. “Can you come out? I would like to see who I am talking to.”

“Do you think I am stupid?”

“Excuse me?” The Artist reeled, unprepared for such a response.

“You’ve come here, don’t you? This place is easy to find, but only those who know about it come here at all. No visitors but your kind. You should know who owns the House. And I am not getting out of this booth, and that is it!” The voice crackled slightly.

The Artist blinked, her hand slowly dropping. Whatever he means? My kind? “Oh, come on. You can see me, can’t you? There must be a camera pointed at me right now. What could I do to you?”

The voice sighed in the language of static. “Girl, I’ve had to guard this place for a very long time. You’d be surprised about the kind of nutters that try to jump over that fence, and the amount of mental things I’ve had to endure. I am not going out; I am not getting my head tampered with again, nor used in any way. That is final.”

The Artist let go of the buzzer button and stared right into the camera. She could get him to open the door, to come outside... she could get him to beg her to let him open the door and serve her. A sudden thought, like a whispered memory, came to her: You cannot let the world see too much of you; it made sense, and it was true. She had already done enough that night; she had already shown herself, made herself something to talk about. The breadcrumb trail she was leaving behind could not get any longer.

There were other ways to get into the manor, mostly illegal and ones that would guarantee that her description would be repeated over and over until those who she couldn’t afford to meet in her quest would find her. She could erase herself from people’s minds, perhaps, but even that would leave a trail to follow. The Artist’s only option was to talk her way into the manor... but what for? Whatever she needed to go inside for?

The Artist stood before the gate, staring at the dark silhouette. There was something in there that tickled her memory, and she had to find out. There was this sense—this feeling—that she could find the answers to the unasked questions in there.

The Artist would have to befriend the guard.

Lights flickered on, and the manor was suddenly alight. Shadows were cast upwards, reaching and melting with the mantle of the sky. The manor’s façade was all shadows and sharp lines; spikes crowned the tops, and gargoyles rendered by a Greek mythologist decorated the best-lit places; columns in what the Artist recognised as the Corinthian style contrasted against the domes and stained glass windows; its gardens were vast and well-kept, fountains and hedges doting its landscape. It was an angry, beautiful place. Whoever had designed would’ve been one for interesting conversation, the Artist thought.

The sun kissed the horizon, and nightfall came swiftly. The days were short, hot and sunny, and nightfall was a relief from the humidity.

The Artist removed herself from the shadows, pulling her overcoat from her sweaty body. She had been waiting all day in that corner under the tree. Preferring to work under the mantle of night, when a lonely security guard would feel the weight of his duty. She crossed the street, just as the night chill of dry season picked up with a pleasant breeze.

The camera pointed straight down on the door, and the Artist pressed her body against the booth’s wall, hidden from its view. She leaned close, letting her hand grace the door’s metal before she knocked. One knock, no shape in the image, and the security guard would likely come out and see. Or not.

Static echoed in the night.

“I can see you out there, miss.” The man inside said, in a monotone.

The Artist cursed to herself, nodding hard.

“What do you want?” He said.

A mechanic tune sang nearby, and camera hidden by shadows stared the Artist right in the eye. She sighed, dropping her shoulders. She was spotted. Nothing she could do about it but bite the bullet. She took a step forward and was under the scrutiny of the first camera. She looked straight into it and had to control the urge to simply push her way into the manor.

“I want to get into the manor.” She said, in a whisper.

“You have to be invited.” The security guard said.

“By whom?”

Silence. Anything could’ve been happening inside that booth. “I am not falling for that, miss. Again, you have to be invited; I am not letting you in.”

“Why?” The Artist pressed her back to the door and looked at the camera.

“Oh, because if I do the monster in garden will eat you up and I’ll have to pay for your burial.” He said. “Isn’t it bloody obvious? It is my job. I am tasked with guarding the entrance from unwanted things, Jehovah Witnesses, things beyond our understanding, lost people, and thieves.”

The Artist’s features twisted. “I am none of those things.” Well, not entirely.

Static and then, “I do not know that, miss, and have no way of knowing. Only those who know who lives in here ever find this place; and only those who are invited are allowed in; seldom do these two things coincide. Good night.”

The Artist’s finger hovered over the buzzer’s button. Should she continue the conversation? She knew there must be something she could say that would convince him that she needed to go inside, but could she tell him without sounding raving mad?

She ran her fingers through her short hair and sighed. Again, she would sleep in a burrowed car.

—

For a person like the Artist, whose very existence is marked by creativity and creation, the world is a canvas. She didn’t need pencils or acrylics to do art: she was art, and she could make art out of people. It had years since she carried with her a bag of tools—she preferred to use the world around her as a brush. In the past years, she had had periods when she dedicated herself to one medium. Months painting, months drawing, months sculpting; very few times could she concentrate on various media equally.

Today she regretted not having a bag of tools.

She sat against the metal door, staring into the city across the street. Perhaps she could find an art store and buy something, but first she would have to get money. The Artist didn’t like the idea of money.

Shrugging, she slipped back into a drawing trance. With a chalk-like stone of reddish colour she had found lying nearby, she had started to draw on the concrete slab around the security booth. At first she drew the strata in the rock, mimicking what she saw in the tiny flecks of sparkling quartz. But soon enough she saw shapes and forms and people. The rocks gave way to places, and the places gave way to fantasy creatures of a probably bygone time. The creatures became more real, and less monstrous as portraits of unknown shadows in the Artist’s memories came to life on the concrete slab. She didn’t know those who she painted, but she could recall their features. It was not until she put them on paper, that their faces stopped haunting her.

She finished painting an old woman when the song of static broke her trance. She blinked and turned to see the box buzzing.

“That’s beautiful.” The security guard said.

The Artist rose, knees complaining, and pressed the red button. “I didn’t think you were in there.” She said, looking into the camera. She didn’t know why she was smiling.

“I am always here.” He said. “It is my job.”

The two didn’t say anything. A Pepsi lorry passed by, its thunderous, rusting music drowning all thought. She looked down at her work, finally noticing some mistakes. It didn’t matter now: she had seen them, and knew how to correct them. Perfection was inexistent, and even less so in a perishable work of art like this one.

“You are not giving up, are you?” The voice said, strangely in tune with the static.

“No.” The Artist looked up at the camera and smiled a charming smile. She would’ve looked better if the chalkstone had stained her face.

There was a sigh, or a chuckle from the other side. She couldn’t tell as it faded away.

“Why do you want to go inside so badly? You don’t even know who this place belongs to.”

“You would think I am mad if I told you.”

Now, what she heard was definitively a laugh. A good, healthy laugh. “Oh, miss, you have no idea! I have seen impossible things and more... there are very few things I now find to be on that line.”

Could she tell him? Would that change anything? The Artist looked to her right, at the metal fence that extended into a single vanishing point. Electrified, dangerous, and near on impossible to bend. She couldn’t get in through, no matter how hard she tried. Unless she stole a truck and smashed it against the fence. You cannot let the world see too much of you, came the voice from the dark. Breaking through would leave crumbs; breaking into the security guard’s mind would be a worse idea. But telling him about who she was and what she was looking for was unthinkable. The other Powers That Be wouldn’t need to follow a trail when they could see the big landmark pointing towards her and her intentions.

I can keep to my own decisions. I used to do it; I can still do it. She thought.

“Sorry, I cannot.”

“Telling me might get you in.”

The Artist blinked and looked at the buzzer, then at the camera. Is he... no, he doesn’t sound like the type to do that. “I doubt it.” She said into the buzzer.

“True. I just wanted to know. Curiosity is dangerous in my line of work.”

“I cannot tell you, not without having to do something you wouldn’t like to have you forget what I said.”

The Artist waited for a reply and waited and waited. Just as it became obvious none would come, she noticed the buzzing sound of the camera turning away from her. She sighed and turned around and walked away from the booth.

Hunger settled in, finally, some blocks away from the manor. The Artist looked around for a place to eat as she wondered what must that security guard have gone through to react that way to her statement. More importantly, what has he experienced that would make him believe her words?

The sun was saying its final goodbyes of the day. Soon it would meet the horizon, and shades of violet and orange and red would shift in the sky in a war dance for domination of the clouds. Every time the Artist looked up at a sunset sky, she remembered years of knowledge, and years of emotions. She missed working with oils.

Her feet carried her over to the security booth, and she stopped just before she reached it. Eyes wide and a half-smile on her lips, the Artist saw what had changed. Her improvised artwork shone under the light and had not faded a bit. It wasn’t the cheap lacquer either, but the good stuff that could withstand years of sunlight and water. Her features softened and a true smile settled on her lips. The Artist dared walk over her creation, and placed the food on the tiny desk that had been put out.

She recalled an old man who had done the same thing. She had spray-painted a wall; nothing fancy or pretty, and most likely something she would hate today—she didn’t even remember what she painted! But the girl who had painted it had been proud and happy with it. But others weren’t of the same mind and tried to remove her art, such as it was. That kid fought against those who tried to whitewash the wall and remove her work, and it was a kind old man who came along and painted it over with something that immortalized the work. It was very likely that work was still on that wall, somewhere in that city. It signified the beginning of something grand for the girl who would become the Artist.

With the press of a button, she heard that familiar sound of static. “I brought you something.”

Not waiting for a response that might not come, the Artist silently sat to eat, biting into a hamburger as if she had not eaten in a long, long time. The seat wasn’t precisely comfortable, but it was better than the sizzling hot street.

As she ate, she looked down at the floor. She saw herself in the pictures—her style, her skill, her ideas and her thought process. It wasn’t an image that would stare right into your soul and mirror what it found there. It was an image as flat as paper, with but two dimensions mimicking a third. The fourth dimension, the one that could be found in her tattoos and her best pieces, was not one easily found in those pictures—not because of lack of want, but that they were simply not there.

The Artist finished her meal, satisfied and relaxed. The buzzer came to life, and she heard something else, something new. She opened her eyes, startled, and looked to her right.

“Thanks. Would you like to put it in the basket thing?” The security guard said.

There indeed was what appeared to be a basket protruding from a hole in the wall, just next to the door. She walked over to it, tapped on the wall and heard a hollow sound. It was a type of latch, something that could be pushed outside to receive things, and with a wall that didn’t allow anyone to peer into the booth. How had she not noticed that it was there?

Suddenly a thought occurred to her. She smiled, deviously, and turned away from the camera as to not give herself away. She pressed a button and said, “I will, if you tell me your name.”

She could see him, in her mind, letting go of the button and reeling back on his chair. He must’ve thought I would ask for him to open the door. She had learned, early on, that fighting reluctance with the unexpected was a great way to fight.

“I thought... Well... why do you want to know my name?”

There it is. She thought, with a grin. The Artist turned towards the camera and with a finger on the buzzer, she said, “You won’t let me in, and I won’t go away, so we are stuck with each other for a long while. Wouldn’t it be better if we knew each other’s names?”

“You won’t be getting me supper every day, would you? Because I would feel indebted then.” He said, ending on an unusually cheerful tone. “I always feel compelled to pay debts in an unusual way.”

Is he flirting? She thought. Not-quite smiling, the Artist placed his meal inside the basket and saw it slowly pull back into the wall. Now that she knew it was there, its outline was horribly obvious.

Static, and she could hear the unwrapping of a meal. “My name is Ralph, by the by. And thank you for this.”

Ralph. The simple name changed things in the Artist’s imagination. Now she could see someone, and not just a disembodied, faceless shape. The shape took form, similar to Ralphs she knew, and unique in her imagination.

“I have no name, but you can call me Artist.”

“Okay, weirdest thing I ever did with paint?” The Artist said, laughing loudly. The memory was a fond one. She took a long drink from her jug and dried her lips with the beck of her hand. “Oh, that list is endless!”

“I thought so. Okay, allow me to rephrase,” Ralph began to say. “What have you with paint that even you raise an eyebrow?”

The Artist smiled. Now, that one time was embarrassing. Should she tell him? Oh, what the hell, not like he could actually see what she had done. “I once exchanged a small city’s traffic signs for phallic shapes, and I did it using a cheap oil paint that wouldn’t be removed easily.”

“That doesn’t sound at all eyebrow raising.”

“Oh, come on, it is!”

“You painted dicks on traffic signs. Big deal—” Ralph said, static covering his words. “Excuse me, I have another call over here.”

The Artist perked up and tried to listen in. She leaned closer to the buzzer, running a finger over the button. She had placed tape over it to keep it pressed.

“Sorry, Artist, this will take a while.” Ralph said and then went silent.

She could hear movement inside, the sound of someone looking for something. It had never occurred to her that security guards indeed have to work. She spent hours a day sitting in front of the booth and had never once seen Ralph do rounds, or check the gate or even seen him. Did he think that if he left she would find a way to sneak in? The Artist knew that Ralph trusted her that way. The only reason she wasn’t already inside the house was because of Ralph’s devotion to his employer and job.

Seeing how he might take his time, the Artist stood and started to walk around the manor’s grounds.

The fence surrounded the gardens and the hill, and it seemed to extend forever. The Artist wondered how the manor had been built inside the city, seeing how it was a perfect circumference around a tiny hill; even the roads were a perfect circle. Then, it clicked: the manor was older than the city. How important was the place, or the owner, for a city to not change one bit about it its desire for progress? The man within must be very impressive. Or intimidating. Or rich.

The Artist stopped in her tracks. Her eyes were far away, and her head cocked to the side. Was that a memory trying to form? She thought as the recollection faded into nothingness.

There were gardens all around the property, but the Artist had never been able to judge their beauty. Pressing matters had kept her away from looking at them through the bars, but now that she walked by some of them she realised she had been missing on something. The hedges were not that impressive, though only a more personal inspection would yield true judgement; but there were flower beds, arranged in shapes and letter she could not quite discern, that simply called to her. She walked some more, getting closer to a particularly colourful form. The closer she got, the more details she could discern. The leaves were dark shades of green, and the flowers—big and shiny—were in shades of reds and blues.

Reds and blues, plants interwoven so that one red flower was next to a blue one. A master gardener had created this work of art, one that was trying to mimic something. And the Artist knew what.

Her eyes widened, her hands shook. In an instant she could feel all the things coming together. The scent of the flowers, of the breeze carrying with it the scents of the city...

Memory is a feeble, selfish bastard. It comes and goes as it pleases, never once regarding what we want or need. Some have it better trained than others, but everyone is subject to its egocentric whims. To be master of one’s memory is to be both cursed and blessed with a lifetime lived.

Like a flicker, the Artist felt something inside her click into place. Triggered by scent, triggered by a precise order of thoughts, triggered by something she didn’t quite understand, and triggered by colours. Wasn’t it poetic that the Artist’s memory was roused because of colours? All of a sudden, she remembered things that a child had witnessed: white hair, a smooth voice that sometimes broke into more than one voice, and a personality that was parts bubbly and parts scary. His name escaped her, but she remembered him—at least the version of him she saw thirty-seven years ago—and remembered what looking at him made her feel. The Artist wrapped her arms around her chest and a breeze picked up, a chilly, strong breeze.

She walked back to the security booth, saying and thinking nothing. Her overcoat was tight around her and she cursed, once more, that she had nothing else to wear. She reached the booth and stood before the metallic door. Ralph thought she was cold, seeing her shudder through the lens of the camera. He was about to ask her if she would like to come inside, or something hot when she leaned against the buzzer and pressed a button.

She unburdened her thoughts, painting a verbal picture of the man with the hair like a gorgon’s and eyes of two colours. The more the Artist talked, the more she remembered. She could remember her mentor’s face, and his smell. She could remember when he brought her to the manor, in an important business meeting, carrying with him trucks of his work. The Artist ignored what was in those trucks or why they had brought it to this place, yet she felt that whatever they had brought was and is relevant to her search. She was here, not by chance or luck, but because she knew how to get here.

She unloaded her mind and turned away from the booth. The Artist now understood, more than ever, that it was imperative that she entered that manor.

It would only take her a minute to climb over the fence, even as fortified as it was. She just hoped that those wires were not electrified.

She was about to wrap her hands around the metal when she heard something unlock nearby. She straightened and looked back to see Ralph, tall and handsome, standing there.

“You know Lord Herrera.” He said.

Ralph wasn’t tall, but he seemed tall; he wasn’t handsome, but seemed handsome. In his uniform, you could only think of him as a security guard, and the epitome of the office.

The Artist nodded.

Ralph removed his black cap and ran his fingers through his brown hair. “Now... well...” He whistled, looking as if a fly had suddenly talked to him. “I didn’t actually think you could know him. I mean, it was obvious you were the type to know him but...” He looked at her, and saw something he had not seen in the past two weeks. His lips became a thin line and he straightened. “Many people come through here wanting to meet with Herrera. Most of them know him, others know about him. And all want something that is beyond my understanding; and the few times it is within my grasp, it is a very bad thing.”

They stared at each other, measuring each other’s worth.

“You still won’t let me in, will you?” The Artist gave him a lopsided smile, straightening as best as she could.

Ralph shook his head. “I am sorry, Artist. But it is my job to not let people in unless they are invited. If you had come five years ago, perhaps; back then there was no need for a gate, but, as I am told, something bad happened and Herrera had to put up a gate and hire me.” Ralph’s smile was dreamy as he mentioned Herrera’s name.

A laugh filled the air, draining away tension and bad thoughts. Ralph raised an eyebrow, surprised and confused. The Artist laughed; it was primal and full of emotion and she didn’t stop until she was out of air. Ralph leaned closer and asked why she had laughed so.

“Oh, because this has been wonderfully ironic. Oh, don’t give me that look—you don’t know what I was planning to do.” She took a deep breath and finally managed to straighten herself up. “I was going to break inside as I usually do, Ralph, but I decided to win you over to let me in. It didn’t work, so I have to resort to my usual methods.”

She turned towards Ralph and winked at him, her hands pulling her sleeves up her arms. “Nothing personal, but I do need to find out what I can from this place. And you are in my way.”

Ralph took a step back, his right hand going for the baton tied to his belt. “What are you doing?” His voice was suspicious and wary, his left arm pulled up protectively. Anything could happen.

“I promise, you will enjoy this.” She said, her voice suddenly becoming sensual.

In the blink of an eye Ralph was about to defend himself from what he thought was going to be a physical attack, and the Artist pulled open her overcoat.

Ralph’s line of work was one that allowed him to develop certain defences against certain types of mental assaults. But just like one is immune to a flu’s elder cousin and not their younger relatives, Ralph had no defence against art that showed a reflection of your own self.

The baton hit the floor, and Ralph’s arms hung limp at his sides. He stared into the Artist’s chest, and into childhood memories and dreams. His face went from wary to mindless to content. He fell through the gaps in reality, to worlds unthought-of and lands with flora majestic. He treaded upon a landscape described by his imagination, and painted by the Artist; and he could no more walk upon it than over hot magma. He was lost, in pleasure and joy.

The Artist smiled and buttoned herself up. She took Ralph’s hand and guided him back into the security booth, putting his baton back where it belonged. Inside the booth she saw several television screens showing what many digital eyes could see, and one door that led into the manor grounds proper. Careful to lock the outside door, she made sure Ralph was comfortable.

“Thanks for everything.” She said as she went into the manor grounds.

She walked up the hill, keeping to the shadows, and keeping hidden lest new eyes would spot her. If this person had a security guard, who knew if he had other such employees roaming the grounds.

When she reached the beautiful garden, with its flowers mimicking the eyes of the man in her memory, the Artist turned to look at the gates she has just crossed.

“Few places I cannot get into... this was one.”