The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Her spree of delirious half-dreams and sociopathic manipulations had come to an abrupt hiatus. The Artist was tired of days of work, of spreading her artistic achievements and working on tiny pieces that would one day come together to create a grand work, more than art. She had done quite a lot so far, but she still had a long way to go. So she rested.

The Artist had been walking along an empty street, fancy houses on one side, an expanse of grass and trees on the other. She heard the sound of a parakeet take flight and she turned to look at the house it had come from. If you asked her why, she most likely would put you in a Trance and walk away, never answering why she had decided on that house. But she did decide on the big house with its tall windows and narrow façade.

With a smile, she had jumped over the fence of a house that looked like all the others, walked around it and found a hammock suspended under a beautiful mango tree at the back. She laid down to rest for hours.

As she thought about the hues on the evergreen’s leaves, voices coming from the two-storey turned her attention. Soundlessly she removed herself from the hammock and, curiously, walked towards a window. Taking a peek, she saw a man and a woman arguing angrily and loudly. Stray, hurtful words hurled from each other’s mouth, propelled at the other with well-meant anger. Had those words been bullets, the man and woman would’ve been dead.

Several options presented themselves.

In a moment of indecision, the Artist usually turned to drawing. If her thoughts were distracted and unable to come to a natural conclusion, she would let her hand wander over paper and decide for her. The image that would flow out of her fingers would then be the answer to whatever question had been asked. Usually it was a morally ambiguous decision, and sometimes it was a bad choice. And there were the strange times when the answer to the question turned out to be a good, selfless option.

With no paper or pencil immediately accessible, the Artist made due: next to her was a pile of white stones. She took a handful, starting to arrange them in no discernible pattern. It took her a minute to create the image of an open lock, complete with shadows and a glow of light upon the padlock’s body. It looked almost three-dimensional.

A decision reached, the Artist stood, took another peek into the home, and saw the man sitting alone, his head in his hands. Smiling mostly to herself, the Artist walked towards the backdoor some feet away and turned the knob; it was locked. But for the Artist that was no obstacle. Early in her life she had learned how to pick all manner of locks, seeing how she usually needed something that had been locked away or to escape a predicament of the cellblock type.

With a click the doorknob turned and then the door opened. Silent like a spirit, the Artist walked towards the man. Careful not to enter his field of vision, the Artist sat across from him. He was a big man, with muscled arms and chest, clearly a bodybuilder of sorts, or gym freak. The Artist frowned; she liked her men to be on the slimmer side of the physical spectrum. Still, she decided to call the man Pink, in honour of the pink colour men took when lifting too-heavy weights.

“Hello.” She said in her cracking voice, prompting the man to jump in his seat and squeal.

“Who the hell!?” He said, almost toppling over backwards on the chair. “How the hell did you get in here? Who are you?” All good questions; all ignored.

The Artist pointed towards the door she had slipped through. “The Artist. That door was unlocked. You can call me Artist.”

Pink was obviously surprised. He stared at the Artist, at her tattooed hands and naked feet, and at the dirty coat she was wearing. Fear, social disgust, worry, and anger crossed his face. He obviously wanted to shout things at her, but the fight seemed to have already been drained from him. The emotions flashed in his features until he settled for a calm, defeated expression. Instead of dwelling into anything coherent, he asked: “Why are you here, Artist?”

The Artist smiled; it was not every day she was met with such polite submission. She wondered if this is how victorious admirals felt after forcing an enemy to surrender. Though, most likely this man had already been defeated.

“I was in your backyard when I heard the shouting.” She said, cocking her head to the side. “So I decided to come in and see what it was about.”

“You were in my backyard?” He said, incredulously. But in the blink of an eye his question was forgotten. Pink shook his head and sighed. “You saw that, didn’t you? As much as I would rather be hearing you say that you’re sorry for entering my house, I will say that I am sorry you did. It was a bad fight.”

The Artist looked at his fingers, noting the ring on one hand, and then at his clean-shaven face. “Having marital problems?”

He nodded. “Obvious, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “What is the problem?”

Pink seemed reluctant to speak at first, but he had no one to talk to, nowhere to vent out his frustration. This strange woman had walked into the house for a reason though right now he didn’t care about it; he might as well use her as a way to blow out some steam.

“We’ve had problems about chores and the like, but that is just the tip of the iceberg. Our real issues run deeper, you know? We’re, you might say, both too domineering of each other. She wants to control my schedule and work hours, and I want to rule the house as if it were my own kingdom. We’re just too accustomed to getting our way to truly get along.” He licked his lips, digging for words. “I wish I had taken my time to know who she was before marrying her.”

The Artist nodded sympathetically. She had seen such relations before—had been in one once, a long time ago. “Does she think the same?” She prodded, sitting almost motionless; she didn’t want him to accidentally see one of her tattoos.

Pink nodded. “I believe she has realised it. She knows that she’s too controlling and so am I, but wherein I have tried to back down a bit she has only seen that as reason to push harder. And when I realised that, I tightened my control over the house.” He pointed at a television set in the corner and a collection of films ordered in an obsessive pattern. “It has been... distressing.”

The Artist waited for him to go on, but the silence grew between them. When it was obvious Pink would not continue the Artist leaned closer, resting a hand on his knee. “I have a solution.” She said, her scrapping voice echoing in the house. She heard shuffling upstairs and water running.

Pink straightened, looking at her startled. “What? You know how to help us!?” Suddenly remembering something, Pink looked up the stairs at the bottom of the room. He blinked hard and then turned away. “I am sorry, but I do not know you.” He looked away from her. “I cannot just go trusting in strangers, you know?”

“I understand.” The Artist nodded. She closed her eyes for a second and then repeated her statement. “I can help you.”

Pink frowned and bared his teeth slightly. “I got you the first time, but you cannot seriously think I can accept the help from a stranger?”

“I am not the Stranger.” She whispered so faintly Pink didn’t hear her. The Artist showed him a tattoo in the shape of a sun on the back of her right wrist. Pink blinked, his face draining of expression. Again, she said: “I can help you.”

Pink nodded and smiled, friendlier than ever. “Really?” His voice was placid. “How?”

The Artist only smiled, her hands suddenly moving over her coat.

When Pink looked up he saw a wonderland of peace and calm. A sudden tiredness washed over him, taking away his frustration and pain. The Artist saw him relax, tension going away, thoughts disappearing. His eyes fell upon her spiralling breasts and the crackling fires of her abdomen. Pink was pulled in, deep into her tattoos.

The Artist wondered what to do. She thought about making another decision, but decided against it. Instead, she simply asked: “What do you see?”

And Pink spoke. His desires spilled out of his mouth like larvae out of a fly’s bottom. He spoke, spilling his secrets, dreams and guilt. Had the Artist decided to follow her twisted heart’s desire and mate it with Pink’s dreams, she would’ve completely changed one person’s mind. But instead she took a second to deliberate; to chose what she thought was right. Now she knew what to do. It all seemed to clear now that she had some real, subjective insight into the situation.

As soon as Pink stopped talking, she leaned closer and turned around. She looked over her shoulder, making sure his eyes befell on a particular design on the right side of her lumbar area.

“Stare at the image. Look at it. Concentrate on it.” Her cracking voice was gone, replaced by a pleasant caress of whispers.

Pink leaned closer, all but pressing his face against her naked flesh. He heard her voice, followed it as a boy in a forest track following a guide. He found the image she was talking about, and allowed himself to fall deep into its mazes. He was lost in a second.

Even with the Artist’s voice guiding him, Pink had no idea where to go, where to tread. He was lost in her art, his mind filling in the gaps he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Immediately he fell to his knees.

“Masturbate.” The Artist said, seeing the man suddenly pull out his sex from his trousers.

Pink started stroking his manhood, his lips moving silently. He had seen the truth, the needed desire he had always kept secret, too proud to let it grow and mature from a fantasy sprout to a reality tree. He would help his relationship, and this was how he would do it.

“I obey my wife. I obey my wife. I obey my wife. I obey my wife.” He whispered, barely audibly, over and over. He slipped deeper into the Trance, creativity filling him. He thought of ways to please her, of ways to obey her, of ways to make their relationship grow and deepen. And he conditioned himself to such thoughts.

Resisting the urge to lean forward and touch, the Artist turned around and walked up the stairs.

Manoeuvring inside the house was easy, and the sound of falling water told her where the wife was holed in. where the wife was. Without calling, without knocking, without the understanding and rare show of compassion she had show Pink, the Artist walked into the bathroom and pulled shower curtain to the side.

The wife, a voluptuous woman with podgy cheeks and bulging eyes, almost screamed; she lashed out with a thick arm, but her eyes fell upon the Artist’s body before any reaction took place. The arm slid down her side as the Trance took her. Her whole body jiggled in overweight joy.

The Artist smiled and pulled the woman closer towards her. She considered kissing the woman, turning her face in her hands. It would certainly make things easier, smoothly, but she didn’t like the idea of kissing this woman. There was something about looking at someone through a shroud of second-handed distaste that simply killed any hypothetical flames that might’ve otherwise sparked. Instead, the Artist brought the massive woman’s eyes to a spot on her left shoulder.

The woman’s gasp sounded over the sound of rushing water.

The Artist didn’t ask her what she saw. Didn’t ask her what she wanted. Didn’t ask her anything. Instead, she pushed concepts into that thick and selfish brain of hers. There is so much one image could tell, so much more than words. And the Artist’s many tattoos had a million different messages. People say an image is worth a thousand words, but the Artist had thousands of images, each worth well over a thousand concepts. She knew them well, very well, and knew which one was perfect for this particular case.

She chose the image of a looping train over tracks of gold ingots. The tiny image, no bigger than a coin, drew in the voluptuous woman. In no time the Artist’s sighing onlooker fell to her knees, a hand bringing physical pleasure to her body.

“Repeat what you said.” The Artist said in a voice that was neither cracking nor whispering. Her words echoed in the room with the held-back fury of a vengeful goddess. Even in her mindless state, the wife shuddered.

“I love my husband. I care for him. I listen to him. I dominate him. I care for him. I love him. I dominate him.”

The Artist nodded, feelings cooling down. Satisfied, she returned to the sitting room; She found Pink still masturbating, and chuckled as she saw that he had already orgasmed several times but still went on. She would’ve stopped him, but knew that eventually she would slip into a dreamless sleep.

Silently as she had walked into the house, the Artist left their lives. The only indication she had been there was a drawing made out of white stones.