The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A line of fire traces down my forearm, as I move the tip of the blade. It doesn’t hurt, not really, because it’s necessary. Droplets, the red so dark that it appears black, splash onto the discoloured writing paper. I gaze down at them, Rorschachs forming out of the steady drip. It’s supposed to have meaning, if you know how to look. Do I know how? Can I find the answers that I seek?

I choose, shaping my destiny with another simple decision. Mind made up, I push aside my small memento. Safety slug, but I wonder who is safer now. The small glass bullet tumbles back into the drawer. Too cowardly to take that easy option, I am forced to see this through. Face the music, take my medicine, accept the consequences. Ready? I was born ready.

Recapping quickly, I practice my explanations. I’ve been here, done this, before. Not that it ever gets easier. Everything’s gone straight to hell. The best I can hope for is being sent over the wall, with a short stop over in the Glasshouse for my troubles. The second clusterfuck in as many months, and I’m the only common link. I tried really hard to care, but at the moment that was just beyond me. Someone had it in for me and all I wanted right now, was to find, and then kill them.

But I’m a good soldier, and despite everything, I cannot stop. Even outside the official chain of command, I still do what I am told. Well, mostly. I try very hard not to let my mind wander, not to think back. There have been so many losses, leaving me with so many absent friends. I screw the lid down, fighting with myself. I don’t want to remember.

Faces swim through my thoughts; blank, grey, mocking me in their silent repose. But not her, never Emily. Her face eludes me still. All I can see is the mask, Kabuki white, lips lit with wet promise, her eyes marked with kohl, cast out of shadows. Her mouth forms an “Oh” of surprise and she’s gone, again. Lost once more in the flames.

They summon me, just as I was beginning to feel abandoned. Debriefing, a chance to explain myself, although the decision had already been made. Can I show that I am still useful, or are those bridges already burnt? Whatever happens, there is still something I need to do. I’m one step from going rogue again and then there will be no second chances. They cannot ignore my transgressions, not again, not with what I have in mind.

Hours later, I’ve found my way back to headquarters. Non-descript, forgettable, it gives no sign of its true purpose. I cringe when I think of the last time I was here. Laughing and joking around me. Boys playing with their toys, while I tried to remember my part. They’re all gone now, dead and buried. The entire mission scrubbed, cut to pieces. Only I survived, and then only because … well, because I got lucky.

I laugh inwardly, tasting how bitter that sounds. I’m the lucky one, because I get to carry on. I have ashes on my tongue and once again I can feel the heat of that fire. This isn’t going well. I am going to fall apart, shake myself to pieces, if I don’t get a grip.

Ruthlessly I stamp down on my feelings, consigning them to the darkness. They are going to want someone to blame—an example, a scapegoat, and guess who they’ll choose? But it’s not right; it’s not fair (the joke flitters into my mind and I banish it, angrily). Someone set us up, set me up, again. Betrayal following me, dogging my footsteps. What is it about me?

I cannot give them an excuse. I’ve got to hold together. For their sake, for all of them. My facade slips into place, shielding me. I pull on my disguise, cloaking myself in the thin veneer of professionalism, and I step to the door. My knuckles rap a short tattoo and I wait, falling back into old habits, hands clasped loosely behind me, feet apart. To all the world, I am as I appear ... at ease.

The Lieutenant’s voice seems unnaturally loud as she calls on me to enter. I step across the threshold, noting the understated opulence. Fighting not to salute, I let myself snap back to attention. A shadow passes across her features—annoyance, and something else. Then she smiles at me, but it never quite reaches her eyes.

“Come in”, she offers unnecessarily. “Please, take a seat”.

I march stiffly to the chair, lowering myself awkwardly onto it. She doesn’t return to her seat, doesn’t take shelter behind the barrier of her desk. Instead she stands beside me, uncomfortably close. What is going on? You are trying to seduce me, aren’t you?

“Tell me about the mission”, she suggests, her voice strangely breathy.

I latch onto that, grasp at the only thing that feels normal. My arm aches, pain slowly filtering into my awareness. But I push it aside, telling her the truth, up to a point. I explain, I show her the facts, the assumptions, before finally coming to my inevitable conclusion.

“They knew we were coming,” I finish. “It’s the only logical explanation. Someone sold us out ... all of us”.

She perches on the corner of the desk, her skirt hiked up slightly. I try not to stare, but still catch a glimpse of her stocking tops. Her voice fills with concern, but it drips with something more. This really can’t be happening.

“How terrible,” she whispers. “You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”

I swallow, trying to think of what to say. This is wrong. It makes no sense, but then what does at the moment?

“Ma’am?” my voice shaking slightly.

“Natalie”, she corrects me, laying her hand on my shoulder.

“You’re something of a contradiction,” she said, smiling. “Bright enough to realise that there was a mole in the organisation, yet simple enough not realise just who it might be.”

I feel something slither into my head, squirming between my thoughts. It makes me gasp, my hands tightening on the arms of the chair. Natalie strokes me, inside and out, making me jump. I try to say something, but I just can’t. Words fail me as she begins to play.

“Feels nice, yes?” Natalie asks, unnecessarily.

She flows more deeply into me, touching and feeling. I can only groan, my eyes rolling back of their own accord. God that feels so much better than nice. I hear her laughter, malicious and cruel, feel it jangling my mind. This is what gets her off ... this control, this power. The knowledge doesn’t help; it merely serves to reinforce my position.

She’s getting to me, forcing her own lusts upon me and making me want them. My body burns, shivering in delicious rigors with each new sensation. Natalie reaches deep inside. She tugs and I respond. Nipples coming painfully erect, shuddering slightly. Then, another touch, making my sex quiver. I am already moist and she has only just begun.

“I can give you all this and more,” she promises. “You really want to work with me, not against me. You have no idea what you are playing with.”

I want to deny her, to tell her exactly what I want to do to her, but my moan hardly counts as language. Still, I sense that she heard me well enough, and in the next moment, her ‘touch’ changes entirely. She squeezes, just a little, just enough. I cry out, this time in hurt, and perhaps fear. That pain lances through me, driving away my arousal, pinning me to the chair and forcing me to howl.

“I don’t want to hurt you”, she whispers, but I don’t believe her, “I want us to be friends”. Nor then, either.

The pain fades, leaving only the burning sensation, the memory of sweet agony. Then she begins to stroke again, melting away my objections. I can taste blood, but at least that is better than the ashes. Her caress smoothes over my emotions, touching me lightly, easing the pain.

“Just a few tiny changes”, she reassures me, “You won’t even notice. Then everything will be better”.

Natalie presses, firm strokes deep into my mind. I can’t stop myself, can’t feel anything except the heat of my pleasure. I thrash, still held in place by her compulsion. Body and mind fighting, even as they relish the experience. Her power coils sinuously around me, every slight vibration sending twinges through my body. A single note begins, reverberating somewhere in my sacrum. It hums down, deep into my buttocks, making me squirm.

She adds a harmonic, buzzing low in my stomach. The two notes mix and merge, forming a counterpoint that climbs upwards. Echoes tingling through my breasts, ending in exquisite sharpness at the tip of each nipple. A third sound joins the others, forming a chord, which seems to rise into my head and my thoughts hum in sympathy.

The forth note is just too much. It unites the others in a teeth-jarring thrill, which she centres directly onto my clitoris. I cum, angrily, shouting and screaming with abandon. She presses closer, hot words burning my ear.

“I have you now!”

Suddenly, her eyes go wide, certainty fading. I reach out, engulfing her tiny talent, subjugating it to my will. Petty mage, with the audacity to believe that I was the one who had no idea with whom she was playing. Holding her in a vice-like grip, paralysed, helpless, I smile my toothy grin and hiss back a quote of my own.

“I am double the worst trouble you ever thought of!”

She writhes, trying to break my hold, so I squeeze back, more gently than she deserves. Her scream is shrill, heartfelt, and I love it. She sees that in my eyes, knows how this is going to end. Fear replaces everything, her adrenaline leaving a bitter aftertaste.

I sift slowly through her thoughts, digging out her dirty secrets. She tries to keep me out, instinctively knowing that she only survives while I want something from her. I just batter aside her flimsy defences, brute force enough to overcome her. Her look of understanding is a guilty pleasure.

“Go ahead and kill me,” she gasps, impressing me with her stubbornness, “If you think it will give you satisfaction.”

I squeeze again, emphasising my point. Watching, as her eyes grow glassy. I can be subtle when I choose, and I give her the benefit of my experience. She echoes my earlier moans, learning what it feels like.

“Killing?” I ask quietly, “No. No satisfaction. Everything up until the killing … will be a gas!”

She doesn’t hear me; she can’t hear anything now except the hollow thudding of her pounding pulse. I play her, learning everything she knows. In return, I give her a tutorial, a master class in pleasure and pain. Mixing them together, swirling them into new colours, new flavours, until she cannot tell one from the other.

By the end, we are both exhausted, both lessened by our encounter. I look at her, seeing her truly now, everything else stripped away. She was weak, her talent almost insignificant, and yet still enough to corrupt. I shiver, knowledge tugging at me, begging to be heard. If so little power can do this, then what chance do I have?

Too weak to pierce my mask, poor Natalie couldn’t even see my talent. I saw hers but just ignored it. It was nothing, beneath my notice. But now we see each other, recognise what we both are. Something has changed, the dynamic has shifted. I can’t tell which of us is the greater monster.

Doubt fills me. I cannot be sure anymore. Nothing has been the same, not since Emily… not since she died. My world flickers and fragments. I see the room again, watching her frailty burn away. Why can’t I remember her face? My fist smashes into the table, pain radiating up my arm, shocking me back to the present.

My divination had worked, the blood magic leading me to my traitor. It is so easy to read the past but so difficult to read the future. The future takes umbrage, doesn’t want its patterns to be seen. It shakes and slips, not wishing to be tethered. But the past is obvious, it is set in stone. But if that is true, why can I still not see what really happened?

I look back at Natalie, shocked when, for an instant, her face becomes the mask. The afterimage flickers, fading. I take a step back. Knowing what I have to do, but somehow conflicted. Betrayal, part and parcel of the job, it goes with the territory, but still cries for resolution. My lieutenant gasps, her body still responding to my presence. I’m not lonely, but I am alone.

She should die here, that would be justice. Payback for the other’s whose lives she spent. But I can find no comfort in that idea. Too many people have died already, by my hand and others. What purpose would there be in one more death? Will it make me feel better? Unlikely. I shake my head, she doesn’t deserve it, no one does.

It’s happening again. My conscience deciding to step shakily to the forefront. It is impossible to root through everything that defines another person and not develop some kind of connection. We’re not that dissimilar, not where it counts. Do I hate her? Probably, but then I hate myself, as well. Flames flicker from the shadows, illusionary, distracting. I am not going back there, not now!

It is painstaking work. Creation is so much harder than destruction. It takes a woman to know that, perhaps? A jigsaw puzzle of shattered dreams, broken promises and unrequited need. I rebuild her, reshape her, polishing away the harsh edges. Forcing her to become. I send tiny impulses dancing through her brain, stirring her to action.

Her eyes glitter, the glow of my power lighting her from within. A shudder, horror gripping me as I contemplate my presumption. Then she smiles, happy and stupid. I angrily sweep it all away, channelling more and more power. It’s too much, the damage too great. I see her thoughts expand to accept me, but there is no more room.

Withdrawing, half-finished, I stare at my simple puppet. Half the woman she used to be? Maybe, but perhaps the better half, if I am lucky. Ashes in my mouth again, seeing her eyes turn dark and empty. Inky blackness coils in the corners of the room, ebon flames licking. I ignore them, pushing the memories aside. But the whispers remain.

”Emily is gone,” and I force myself to accept the words.

”But I still love her,” comes the faint reply.

In the darkness, another woman watches, seeing the pattern laid out before her. Her vision acute, even without eyes to see. She watches as the magician takes the pieces which used to be her commanding officer and tries to put them back together. Delightful irony, raising a soft smile. She watches until they begin to consummate this new relationship, these final images too painful to behold.

I let the glamour take shape, forcing it into a rough approximation. The puppet’s face changes slowly, becoming the mask again. It’s not right, missing something vital, but it is close enough. Part of me wants to scream, but instead I just let it happen. Taking her hand, leading where I need her to go. Natalie is gone, becoming yet another victim. But what is left is enough, for the moment.

My talent reaches out, holding and controlling. She moves, obediently following. No thoughts of her own, she can only follow my every whim. For an instant my conscience nags, but then it is gone. We embrace, my fantasy overcoming everything. It isn’t enough, but I take it anyway. Bodies meet, touching, feeling. We share the emotions, passions opening into helpless arousal.

We sink together onto the couch, clothes stripped away with a thought. It’s a gross parody of what I want, what I need. But my head isn’t doing the thinking anymore. Perhaps, just for a moment, we can be happy. I stare into her face, ignoring the disgust that tries to choke me.

“Emily,” so softly that I am not even sure if it was out loud.

The dark eyes blink, her small mouth smiling in recognition. At that moment, just for an instant, I feel it. We fade into each other, all sighs and moans. I know that she won’t be here in the morning, but it isn’t important. There will time enough for recriminations later. We melt, two bodies trying to become one, sorrow mingling with our passion.