The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You sure this is the place? Most supervillains prefer not to base themselves in the suburbs.” Trickshot eyed the house, it did not look like the lair of a supervillain responsible for a rash of thefts. Religious artifacts held both in museums and private collections, their only connection was that they were valuable and dedicated to various trickster deities. All done without any hint of how it was done.

Until, that was, her current partner entered the picture. The blonde hadn’t had much opportunity to work with Sarthana before and her outfit did little to instill the archer with confidence. She looked like a stage-magician, high heels, bare legs, and a tight, glittery, top with plunging cleavage. The star-shaped mask wasn’t much of an improvement, dark red and more glitter. Her outfit was completed by a cane capped with a silver head, at least that wasn’t adorned with all manner of gaudy mystical symbols.

“My spell is sure,” the raven-haired magician stressed. “The magic used to bewitch the guards and fool the security systems is quite powerful, it’s what drew me to the case in the first place, but that is also its drawback. It leaves a … residue, one that only slowly fades, and that trail leads here. I admit, this does not look like the lair of a talented wielder of the mystical arts, but appearances can be deceiving.” The left corner of her mouth rose up. “I’m somewhat of an expert on that.”

Trickshot nodded, she was the expert. “Okay, then let’s see what we can find out about our Mr. Illusive,” she said as she accessed the League database and queried the address. “Which turns out to be a Ms. Illusive. Only occupant registered is a Ms. Penelope Schwindel, 29, single, no criminal records and her name hasn’t come up in any League case before. All we have is her driver’s license.”

Peering over her shoulder, Sarthana shared her thoughts. “At least we’re not dealing with another kid who thinks summoning something from the very depths of Tartaros is cool. The ones that get it right actually cause less of a mess than the ones that don’t.”

“And that’s not going to give me any nightmares,” Trickshot murmured. Louder, she said, “I’m not sure facing someone competent is all that reassuring.”

“Competence and experience are two different things. Does she have any social media presence?”

“Yup, a FaceSpace page. Lot’s of pictures of her cat, complaints about customers, no confessions, no interest in the occult. But … her last entry was over two months ago. That’s around the time the robberies started up.”

“Good enough. Do you wish to call it in?”

“Hmmm, nah, no need. Police can’t do anything anyway, your spells aren’t admissible in court and I don’t see anything that connects her to the thefts. We’ll have to confront her ourselves.” Trickshot got up and went over the bench on the other side of the van to retrieve her quiver and bow, slinging the former on her back before pulling her hood up; the static seal tickled her scalp as it engaged, keeping the hood in place.

“So, who gets the back?”

“I think it best if we stay together,” Sarthana argued. “We don’t actually know how skilled our opponent is. If she’s secured her sanctum, then you’ll need me to get through those security measures. Better we hit fast, overwhelm any defenses Ms. Schwindel has, and capture her before she has a chance to escape or defend herself.”

“Hard and fast, I can work with that.”

They exited the van from the back and quickly crossed the street. It struck the blonde just how average the neighborhood looked. There weren’t any details that sprung up at her, nothing that stuck in her mind. Everything was quiet, perfectly normal.

There was something about that which niggled at her, but Trickshot couldn’t put her finger on what and there was no time to examine this feeling further because they’d reached the door. Sarthana waved her cane over it.

“No alarms, no wards, how disappointing. Shall we?”

Trickshot nodded.

The silver knob traced a figure and Sarthana uttered a single word. “Peta.” The door swung open silently and the magician strode in.

“Hey,” Trickshot hissed, but her fellow superheroine didn’t even hesitate. “Of all the arrogant, overconfident,” she ranted as she made to follow Sarthana, but a flash of light held her at doorstep. One moment, the magician had been there, the next she was gone.

The bowstring creaked as she pulled back, the arrow’s tip swayed as she looked for the trap. But there was nothing overtly magical she could see, no glowing symbols, no ominously humming statues, no Penelope dressed in something scanty and black thundering about their foolishness. Just a homey looking hallway, devoid of the person that had been there a moment before.

“What are you waiting for?”

Trickshot tensed as Sarthana’s voice reached her from nowhere. Her ears told her the magician was about five feet in front of her, but there was nothing there.

“A surprise attack isn’t going to surprise anybody if you loiter at the front door.”

“Sarthana, why can’t I see you?”

There was silence for a moment. “Hold on,” the magician said, not a hint of worry in her voice even now. “Ah, a privacy barrier. It keeps people outside from seeing what’s going on inside, perfectly harmless.”

She eased the arrow back. “Okay.” Something seemed off, though Trickshot still couldn’t put a finger on what. Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold. “So, any insight as to where—”

The world stretched and spun, colors and forms bleeding into each other as it all whirled away from the blonde before bouncing back to her. But she wasn’t in the hallway anymore, or in the house, and there was no sign of Sarthana.

“Damn, damn, damn.” Trickshot spun around, bow half-drawn, but everywhere she looked she saw the same thing. Bolts of sheer fabric, dyed in every shade of red, fluttering in a breeze she didn’t feel. Mist swirled around her feet, hiding the floor from her eyes, but it felt smooth and a little springy. A glance up told her nothing more either, the curtains simply went up into the darkness.

She couldn’t feel the wind, but she heard it. A chorus of sighs, women’s sighs, drifted towards her. “Sarthana!”

The chorus got a little louder in response, movement tugged her attention to the left, her arrow flew. She cursed herself even as the projectile was still in the air, shooting a target she hadn’t yet identified was a rookie mistake, one she hadn’t made since the original Trickshot had begun training her. But it wasn’t Sarthana, it wasn’t anybody. The arrow simply disappeared amongst the sheer banners, the blonde didn’t even hear it impact.

‘Calm down.’ Trickshot closed her eyes and remembered the exercise she’d been taught to steady her aim. ‘Breathe in, hold, release.’ Her heart stopped hammering, her thoughts cleared, a hand caressed her shoulder.

Trickshot jumped away, another arrow on her bow, her refound calm shattered like glass. There was the outline of an arm, gone with a flutter of fabric. “Penelope, playing me like this isn’t going to get you anything,” she called out.

There was no reply, only more sighs, moans, full breasts pressing themselves against her back. Trickshot rolled forward, coming up she fired her taser arrow. It landed in between the breasts still straining against the curtain, the fabric folding around the arrow as it crackled. Behind it, there was nothing but air and more banners. The curtain she’d hit straightened out once more, undamaged, and her trick arrow was nowhere to be found.

‘I’m jumping at shadows, playing right into her hands. Fine, let’s see what you do when I refuse to play along.’

She didn’t react when a hand traced the muscles of her left arm. ‘No body heat, there’s nobody there. It’s just form, form without substance.’ Another form clad in thin fabric pressed against her right, trapping her other arm in-between a pair of spectacular breasts. The chorus was close now, softly gasping in her ear, thighs closing around her legs, a hand cupped her breast.

‘I just have to stand here, do nothing. Let her get tired of this.’ Someone nuzzled her neck, the arms closed around her, hugging her, enfolding her. ‘It’s going to work.’ She shivered, arousal curling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Hmm, any moment now.’

Something tugged at the shoulder strap of her quiver, trying to find the clasp. For a moment, Trickshot didn’t react, simply let it happen, let it all happen to her. ‘It’s the only thing I can do.’ A frown creased her forehead. ‘Isn’t it?’ There had been something else, something she could use against magic users, another trick … in her … quiver.

She froze. ‘How could I forget? Doesn’t matter.’ Trickshot shrugged the women off, tried to, but they didn’t melt away like before. Their embrace was firm, growing tighter and ever more intimate.

“Join us,” someone purred in her ear as the strap of her quiver came undone.

“No,” Trickshot cried out, twisting and grabbing for an arrow, one single arrow. She pulled it out and waved it around, cloth melting at the merest touch of its head of pure Ptahnium. Freed, she finally put her arrow to her bow and aimed …

The world itself parted like a curtain and she was back in reality.

“I see you’ve escaped my trap,” Penelope Schwindel said.

This looked more like it. The air was heavy with incense, smoke curling from a bowl on the altar at the back, and she recognized the horned statue of Loki as one of the stolen artifacts. The woman before her wore a green and gold dress, sneering that confident sneer so many supervillains gave right before Trickshot got the better of them.

“Where’s Sarthana?”

“Now why would I tell you that? Much better if I show you.” Her hands went up, strange syllables began pouring from her mouth.

“You’ll tell me because I want to. Which, in a moment, will be all the reason you need.” She pulled her arrow, the one she was famous for, and aimed almost lazily. The slave arrow was the best way to pacify a supervillain, though she didn’t like to use it on anything but female criminals, the attractive ones. After all, one of the perks of this job was that you could enslave beautiful women who would pleasure you to your heart’s content before you sent them to their just deserts.

Trickshot pulled her arrow back. ‘Sounds like she has a very flexible tongue, it’s going to feel great between my legs. Should I share her with Sarthana or keep Penelope to myself?’ She should loose her arrow, she was going to, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something. She’d missed some detail, an important one. It was impossible, she never missed, yet the feeling remained.

She glanced at her slave arrow and frowned. It didn’t look familiar, she didn’t know how it would fly, but how could that be? ‘I’ve used it plenty of times. I used it just last week. I know I did. Lioness didn’t even try to dodge this time, I think she’s starting to like it … Didn’t she?’

The blonde remembered … she remembered the golden-furred supervillaines begging, remembered fighting her, her rough tongue lapping at Trickshot’s sex, struggling against the ropes of her trick arrow, claws teasing the back of her knee, the police carting Lioness off as she roared her defiance, begging her mistress for release.

Trickshot swayed on her feet. “Not … real,” she bit out, even as her body pleaded for it to be real, demanded satisfaction. “None of this.”

The world wavered, the altar, the statue, the rough stones of the basement, it all dissolved. Left behind was something more mundane, something very mundane. ‘Living room, I must have continued inside while my senses were fooled.’

“Oh, hey, how was the con?”

Startled, Trickshot aimed at the woman coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t Sarthana, but she recognized the brunette all the same. “Penelope Schwindel, you’re under arrest.”

She didn’t expect the smile. It was one of pleasure, anticipation. “Ooooh, I like that game. Going to tie me up and search me, superhero.” She eyed Trickshot’s arrow. “Though could you not point that at me. How you get away with cosplaying with real arrows I still do not understand.”

“Cosplay? What are you talking about?” But even as she asked the question, Trickshot recalled going to the convention her girlfriend had asked about, getting complemented on her costume, how much she looked like the real Trickshot.

She shook her head. “No, I’m Trickshot.” But the bow came down, easing the string forward. She looked everywhere, and it all looked familiar, as if she’d seen that couch, that table, that clock, that little statue she and Penelope had picked out, a thousand times.“This isn’t … This isn’t ...” She didn’t have a girlfriend, didn’t she?

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Her girlfriend looked so worried as she approached the blonde. The brunette’s hand came up in a soothing gesture, a familiar hand. She remembered the feel of those fingers, remembered kissing them, licking them, remembered how they’d slipped inside her wet cunt and made her cry her lover’s name.

Trickshot shook her head. “No, no, this isn’t real. None of this is.” The bow came back up, but it was Trickshot who backed away and Penelope who kept advancing.

Another step, the world twisted around, and Trickshot was falling, wind rushing past her hood, pressing it against the back of her head as gravity yanked her down. Training took over, she spun and got her feet under her, rolling to bleed out the energy.

She laid there, forcing herself to breathe, to calm down. The floor was hard, rough, the room was dark, but she could see a door above her. Trickshot blinked, her eyes found the door before her. The floor was hard, rough, but the rope kept her kneeling, waiting.

“I swear, I can’t take you anywhere.” Trickshot looked up and saw Sarthana standing at the doorway, tapping her foot in annoyance. “I turn my head and there you go, getting captured again.”

“Not my fault,” the blonde protested, but her cheeks felt hot, almost as hot as her sex; the knot between her legs shifted, sending more sparks of delight through her.

‘Wait, I’m tied up? When did that happen?’ The question summoned the memory, the pretty gem twinkling, drawing her away. She’d just stood there as the silk rope snaked its way across her limbs and between her legs, pure arousal beating in her chest.

‘Happened again. I’m such a sub.’ Something seemed off about that thought, like she hadn’t come to that conclusion a hundred times before.

“I know, but you’re still getting punished.” Sarthana said, interrupting Trickshot’s thoughts. “Especially since our quary managed to slip away while I was busy looking for you. In fact, I think we should do that right now while the memory is still fresh.”

Her mouth dry, Trickshot watched mutely as Sarthana stalked towards her. She easily conjured a chair up, took a seat, and only then beckoned the blonde to come to her. Her head spun, for a moment she forgot her legs weren’t tied together, then she quickly made her way to the magician and laid across her lap.

Sarthana’s hand came down, rubbing the blonde’s leather-clad behind. “Trixie, Trixie, Trixie, so eager for your punishment. You’d almost think you get yourself caught on purpose, just so I can do this.” The smack was quick, Trixie jumped more out of surprise than any sort of pain.

Yet even as hot shame, pain, and pleasure raced up her spine, confusion swirled in her head. “I … Who’s Trixie?”

“You are, silly.”

“But ...” It seemed wrong, it didn’t fit her.

“I picked it for you. I thought it fit.” The hand moved, sliding over the roundness of her butt cheek. “To me, for me, you are Trixie.” The caress became a squeeze, Trixie gasped which turned into a squeal when Sarthana followed up with another quick slap. “Who are you?”

“Trixie … Mistress.” It wasn’t her name, it was Sarthana’s. She owned that name, like she owned Trickshot. ‘Trixie, she owns Trixie.’ Her sex slickened, making her glad that she’d forgone underwear again.

The blonde raised her ass, begging for more. She couldn’t ask, Mistress had trained that out of her and Trixie shuddered as the memory teased her nipples fully erect. Almost as if it was fresh, some new delight rather than a fond memory.

But the hand didn’t rise. “Up.” Trixie pushed herself up, her head spinning again. ‘Again?’ She held her arms behind her back, her head down. There was no trace of the ropes. ‘Ropes, what ropes? I … what am I doing?’

Someone tugged at the rope threaded through the metal loops of her outfit, pulling her out of the house and into the light of day.

“I swear I can’t take you anywhere.” Sarthana looked up and saw Mistress walking down the garden path towards the street and their van parked there.

“Not my fault,” the blonde protested again, but her cheeks felt hot, almost as hot as her sex. ‘Again?’ she swallowed thickly, felt the collar tighten. Another tug. Mistress had conjured the rope up, the rings were already there. She’d added them herself on Mistress’ orders.

“I know, but you’re still getting punished.” The words were familiar, as if they’d had this conversation before. ‘And we have. I get captured, she rescues me, she punishes me, and then I reward her for coming to my rescue.’ She licked her dry lips and surveyed the street. It was deserted, but the idea that people were watching from behind the blinds only made the pleasure flow quicker.

“Especially since our quary managed to slip away while I was busy looking for you. In fact, I think we should do that right now while the memory is still fresh.”

Trixie blinked. ‘Is she talking about doing it here? In the open? Where everybody could see us?’ Suspended between hope and shame, she could only stand there and wait. The fact that this made her look even more submissive only stoking the fires of her arousal.

But Sarthana didn’t stop, she opened the back of the van and pulled Trixie inside. “Kneel here, and when I come back I want you to beg me to punish you. And you better make it good, I want you to really sell me on how much you want it. How much you want to be my submissive little slut. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Excellent.” She could hear the smile in the magician’s voice. The raven-haired superheroine’s picked up her League com before hopping out of the van. The ropes vanished as the door closed, but Trixie didn’t move. She was busy crafting her plea. It needed to be short, graphic. ‘Mistress, this slut needs to be punished. You have to redden her ass, or she simply won’t be able to properly tongue your cunt the way you like it. Yes, that’s a good start.’

“Hey, I was wondering if you could come help me out with something,” Sarthana said with a voice that was not at all like the magician’s. It fitted more with the superheroine kneeling within the van. “Nothing serious,” she assured the other woman. “But this situation can use your touch. Please, come.”

Her grin grew as she heard the reply. “That’s great. The address is Groven Street 56, I’m in the van. No, don’t worry, the place is deserted. A housing project that went belly up, nobody lives here. Alright, see you soon, Sarthana.”

The phone clattered on the asphalt, a raven flew into the cloudless sky; cackling.