The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Witchgirl: Teenage Hero of Justice

In an alternative universe, the young heroine Witchgirl fights for truth and justice on two different levels of reality. Normally she uses her hex-magic to fight crime and save lives on earth, but on special occasions she is called upon by a secret government agency to enter the Matrix, a virtual reality construct that is a universe unto itself and the earth’s last great frontier. There she faces new dangers and villains in a strange world where reality is a purely subjective term.

This story is based on roleplaying sessions conducted between Witchgirl and PsiLance. The matrix used in this story is modelled after the matrix in the movie of the same name, although there may be differences in terms of logistics to better serve the storyline and the roleplaying sessions.

For more information about these roleplaying sessions, information about the Witchgirl character, or to give out advice, criticism, and (especially) complements to the writers, please contact the authors at their email addresses.

Chapter 5: The Importance of an Open Mind

“It is important to keep an open mind,” the DOKTER says. Witchgirl has returned to his office to pick up her coat, which she forgot at the end of her last session. She sits on the couch now, dressed in jeans with small holes in the knees, a thick black belt, and a tight black turtleneck sweater. She is fingering the skull ring on her left pinky nervously as the DOKTER talks. “The logic behind my questions might not be readily apparent to you, but you must trust me. There IS logic behind what I am doing. There IS a plan.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s just that, well, this is a bit foreign to me.”

“I understand,” he says, and then, “My receptionist put your coat in my closet for safekeeping. Feel free to get it.”

Witchgirl looks over to the far side of the room, where a closet door has been left a few inches open. For some reason, she has the momentary paranoid thought that some is lying in wait for her there, watching from the crack in the door. She stands up and walks over to it and pauses before resting her hand on the doorknob. “Thank you,” she says.

“Don’t mention it,” the DOKTER says, the casual remark sounding a little forced, as if he is reading from a cue card.

Witchgirl nods and pulls it the door open and there it is, her jacket, suspended from a hanger in the otherwise empty closet. It is her jacket, right? She doesn’t remember it looking quite like that.

It is long, about knee-length, and made of see-through pink-tinted plastic, with large, almost childish buttons up the front and a wide collar. In the left pocket, she can see something through the pink plastic: a metal lipstick cylinder. She thinks, wait, that’s not mine, but then something flips inside her, and a small smile alights her face, and she reaches out and touches the plastic. Wasn’t it black? Wasn’t it suede? No, it was pink and it was plastic. That’s right. Pink and plastic.

She remembers the coat now. She bought it a few months ago, right? She can’t remember exactly where, or exactly when, but it seems like it was two or three months ago. Or maybe more recently. It’s hard to remember. She does know she loves it though. It’s one of her favorite articles of clothing.

She takes it and slides it on her body. It feels so good. She looks at her watch and says, “I have to go to work. There are glitches that need fixing. But thank you. I’ll see you er, I’ll talk to you next Thursday.”

“Good luck,” the DOKTER says, as she leaves the office, “and remember how important it is to keep an open mind.”

By the time Witchgirl arrives at dinner, Genna is already adjusting dials on the long, slender control panel, and the chair is humming quietly, like a heat bug. Genna waves and calls her over when she sees her at the door. They hug lightly. Witchgirl hangs up her coat on the back of the door and sits down in the room’s only chair. Genna begins to fasten wires to her temples and arms. “I’ve always liked that coat,” Genna remarks, as she looks over at the coat on the back of the door. A sly smile crosses her face. Witchgirl smiles too.

“What are you smiling about, Genna?” Witchgirl asks. “You look like the cat that just got the canary.”

“Oh, nothing,” Genna says, as Witchgirl sits down in the chair, “You don’t remember much of your last adventure, do you?”

“Some,” Witchgirl says, “but yes, it’s a little vague. It went well though. The glitch was a simple one to fix.”

Genna nods. “That’s good. Hopefully this one will be just as straightforward.” She walks over to the control panel again and flips some switches and the humming gets louder. As often as Witchgirl has entered the Matrix, she always gets a knot in her stomach when the chair begins to hum like that.

“Yes,” Witchgirl says, as the chair’s humming grows louder and louder. “And remember, you owe me dinner tonight.”

“Oh, sure,” Genna says. “Don’t worry about that. We’re going to have such a nice meal.” She flicks the last switch, and suddenly, reality drops away, replaced by the strange reality of the Matrix. Genna is gone, and Witchgirl is sitting in a reclining chair in an unfamiliar living room. The television is on. Yup, as often as she does this, Witchgirl will NEVER quite get used to it. She stands up and looks around and that’s when she notices it: two people sitting on the couch, frozen, like mannequins.

They look like twins. That’s the first thing that Witchgirl notices about them. Young women, about twenty years old, maybe a little younger, with blank expressions on their faces, the slightest smile on their full ruby-red lips. Their shoulders are touching, as are their heads, one tilting to her left, and one tilting to her right, resting against each other. They are dressed in pink aprons, tied around the back, and their black hair is tied back in ponytails by pink ribbons. Other than that, they are completely naked. Witchgirl crouches down and looks them over more closely and that’s when she realizes that they look a LITTLE bit like her. She reaches out and touches the knee of one of the girls, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s like touching a statue, except that her skin is warm.

Obviously, the glitch is nearby, to have effected both of these woman in such a pronounced manner. Witchgirl turns and looks at the TV, which is playing an exercise program. There are a half-dozen women jumping up and down and waving their arms. The instructor, a man, seems a little YOUNG to be an exercise guru, but he barks out little commands like he was a drill sergeant. “Okay, girls!” he demands. “I want to see those legs TOUCH the sky. Come on!”

Witchgirl leans forward and watches the show a little more closely. She smiles slightly-almost the same smile worn by the apron-wearing twins behind her-as the girls on the TV prance and bounce. Then she shakes her head and the fog clears. She stands up and walks over to the TV and turns down the sound, looking back to the twins to see if that breaks the spell. But no, they are GONE. She touches one on the head, on her lips, on her shoulder, pushes her slightly, but she remains a zombie. “Man, you are just FURNITURE, aren’t you,” Witchgirl says. “Well, don’t worry. As soon as fix the glitch, you’ll be returned to normal.” She wanders off, fighting the urge to glance back at the TV.

The kitchen is spotless. It shines as if it has been buffed clean, and Witchgirl wonders if this was the handiwork of the two girls in the other room, or just a product of the glitch. She turns and heads upstairs, walking down the hall to the bathroom, following the sound of running water. Is someone taking a bath?

Suddenly, there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind Witchgirl, moving methodically and slowly, like zombies. Except these zombies are wearing high heeled shoes. Witchgirl can tell from the little clicking sound of the heel against hard wood floor. Two sets of footsteps. She steps out of the bathroom just in time to see the women from downstairs turning and coming down the hall, their shoulders squared, arms swinging slightly in perfect synchronicity, as if they are ONE person.

“You’re SUCH a bother,” the first one says with a smile. Her voice is clear and cool, like a glass of water. Her eyes are completely vacant. And something about her has changed-something about both of them has changed. They now even look MORE like Witchgirl, somehow. They look like they should be her sisters.

She makes her hand into a fist as they get closer.

“That’s right. You’re a real problem,” the second one says. She wears the same wide smile as the first. “Have you ever considered the fact that YOU might be the glitch? That everything else that’s happening is sooooooooo natural, and that by interfering, you’re the one who is threatening the order of things?”

“That’s right,” the first one says, as she reaches out for her. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to be ‘fixed’. Ever thought of that?”

“Let us HELP you,” the second one says. “We can FIX you up JUST right.”

The two women reach for her, but do not touch her. Witchgirl is too quick for them. She ducks and dodges and kicks one right in the center of her apron, not her back into the wall. “Sorry, girls,” she says, “No touching the Witchgirl. From what I can tell, you yourselves got ‘fixed’ not that long ago, and the whole domestic apron look just doesn’t do it for, um, oooh.”

Witchgirl is cut-off in mid-sentence as the second woman touches the tip of her pink-nailed finger to the back of her head. A jolt of almost electric pleasure courses through her mind and she smiles-it is a smile very much like the smiles worn by the two women-and stumbles forward. The first woman catches her, Witchgirl’s face falling against her bosom.

“Oh, shhhhhh,” the first woman says, as she strokes her hair. Witchgirl doesn’t know which way is up. She twists in the woman’s arms, her vision blurred, writhing as the pleasure spreads through her body. The second woman grabs her feet and they lift her, one on either end, like they were moving a couch.

“What’s happening?” Witchgirl stammers as they begin to carry her to the bathroom. The sound of running water is getting louder. It’s like a water fall.

“Shush, I said,” the first woman giggles, and she touches her forehead with her finger again. Witchgirl gasps and fidgets and twists as a second jolt of pleasure stiffens her body and brings the smile back to her face.

“We’re just going to CLEAN you,” the second woman says. “It’s time for your bath.”

“That’s right,” the first woman says. “When we’re done with you, you’re going to be SQUEAKY clean.”

“Cleaner than clean,” the first woman says.

“Spotless,” the second one says.

“No " Witchgirl moans, but she is still smiling. She reaches out for something to grab hold of, but one of the women catches her hand and holds it in a gentle way-a way that feels almost SUPPORTIVE and COMFORTING-and the other woman begins to push her legs into the tub, which is brimming with warm water. Witchgirl tilts her head to the side, eyes half-closed with cat-like pleasure, as she feels the water moving up to her thighs.

The water touches skin. That’s when she realizes her clothing has changed. She tries to say something-tries to wiggle free-but one of the women touches a finger to her forehead and all that comes out of her mouth is a low moan. Her lips curl into a wider smile. She is now wearing a white bikini instead of her black costume, the bottom small and tight and adorned with little sequins. The women lower her into the tub, up to her neck, as they say soothing things to her. She can’t stop smiling.

“You are SOOOOOOO beautiful,” the first one says.

“Such a GOOD GIRL,” the second one says.

“SOOOOOO clean and shiny,” the first one says.

Their voices are like sirens. They sound like her own voice. They sound like her. It’s like her own voice is talking to her, from inside her head, telling her to be good, telling her to just relax, telling her that she is beautiful.

“I have to fix the glitch,” Witchgirl moans.

“Hush,” the first woman says, as she begins to rub a bar of soap along Witchgirl’s shoulders. “Just close your eyes and let us clean you up.” The other woman is trying to pull away her bikini top. They both sound like her. They both ARE her. She feels the tugging on her bikini, the soap sliding over her skin, up her neck and down to her belly, her thighs.

“There IS NO glitch,” one of the women says. “There is no HIM and no MATRIX. There is only ONE WORLD and ONE REALITY.”

“There IS a glitch,” Witchgirl says with her last ounce of will. “There IS a HIM, and there is ONLY ONE WITCHGIRL!” She begins to kick in the tub, like a petulant child, fighting against whatever spell the women have cast on her.

The second woman reaches out to touch her forehead, but Witchgirl grabs her finger and bends it back, sitting up and splashing water onto the floor. She pushes the woman away, out into the hall, and jumps from the tub, sending water everywhere.

The first women reaches out for her, but Witchgirl grabs her by the wrist and throws her into the hall as well. “You ALMOST had me,” Witchgirl says, “but you shouldn’t have mentioned Him. That brought me back like a shock to the system.” She kicks the first woman, strikes the second one a blow to the back of the neck, and watches as they collapse to the floor.

Her costume has changed back to normal, as if the bikini did not exist at all, which of course, it did not. She is no longer even wet. She checks the women to make sure they are out and then returns to the bathroom, where she bends down and touches the edge of bathtub. She reaches down into the water, pulls the stopper, and the water runs down the drain, spiraling clockwise in an almost hypnotic fashion. This is definitely it. This is the glitch.

She puts her hand under the water. Freezing cold. She tastes it and it tastes like water, even though she knows it isn’t. It’s a malfunction. It’s a hole in reality. The water is actually data spiraling away. An error in the system. She turns off the faucet, but the water keeps coming, so stands up and makes a small gesture with both hands.

The spell envelopes the bathtub in a warm glow, but only for a second, and when it is gone, the water has stopped flowing. “That was relatively straightforward,” Witchgirl announces to the empty room, “but I feel more like a plumber than a superhero.”

Witchgirl looks back out into the hall, where she left the two women. They have changed back to their normal selves, she notices. A middle-aged couple. The man wears a T-Shirt that barely covers his paunch, the woman a housecoat. They are still dazed-their eyes are unfocused, their bodies limp-but at least they have PHYSICALLY returned to normal. Their minds should MENTALLY clear in a little while.

Witchgirl hears footsteps coming up the stairs. Could this be the person behind this rash of glitches? She spins toward the bathroom door and enters attack stance, arms raised and a spell ready.

“Ah, you found it,” someone says. It’s a middle-aged man in a policeman’s uniform, gun drawn, as if he was expecting trouble. He holsters the gun and steps over the two dazed people slumped on the floor.

He enters the bathroom and looks down at the tub. “Doesn’t look like much, huh?” he says, as he rests his boot on the edge of the tub and ties his shoelace. “But it was causing all sorts of reality fluctuations in a radius of more than two miles.”

Witchgirl nods. “I’m Witchgirl, but you probably already know that,” she says. “And you are?”

“Parsons,” the man says, as he shakes her hand briskly. “Chief Graham Parsons. I monitor this section of the Matrix, Witchgirl, and I have to admit that I am glad to see you. There are some VERY strange things going on here lately.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but glitches are popping up left and right. As if they’re being CAUSED by something. Or someone. Not only that, but people have gone missing. Then they pop up again after a few days with absolutely no memory of where they’ve been.”

“That IS strange,” Witchgirl says, as she thinks about her own lapses of memory. The last time she came here, to the matrix, seems so VAGUE to her now. She’s been trying to convince herself that the lapses are nothing, but maybe there is some relationship between them and the strange goings on that Parsons is describing.

“Well, I will talk to Him about it,” she says, as she puts her hands on her hips. “It DOES sound like it merits investigation. Perhaps I’ll be back soon and we can figure out the problem together.”

“I would like that,” Parsons says. “I need all the help I can get. And I’d consider working with you a high point to my career.”

“Why, thank you, Chief,” she says and she blushes slightly as she heads to the door. “Right now, though, I have to head back to the ‘real’ world. A friend of mine is expecting me for dinner, and she just HATES it I’m late.”

“Good-bye, Witchgirl, and thanks for all the help,” Parsons says, as he shakes her hand again. “Have a good dinner. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you,” she says, and then, with a small smile and a wave, she steps through the doorway and is gone. Parsons smiles too, for the first time and a long time, and turns to go.

“Hello,” says a voice from behind him. It is a boy, a teenager, with tousled dirty blond hair and glasses. He wears a white T-shirt and jeans and looks completely normal, except there is something about him that is DEFINITELY not normal. Parsons can’t put his finger on it.

“Who are you?” he demands of the boy.

“Just call me, Mason,” the boy says. “Don’t feel you have to introduce yourself, though, Chief. We’ve met before, although I looked a little different then than I do now.”

“What the HELL are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Mason says, and with a wave of his hand, a gently breeze seems to blow through Parsons mind. He smiles stupidly as his eyes dilate. Mason steps closer to him. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Parsons,” Mason says, as he walks around him, “but no longer.”

“What are you doing?” Parsons stammers. His voice rises as he speaks shooting up an octave. His hair is changing from gray to black and lengthening around his ears.

Mason smiles. “Hmmm. What am I doing? That’s a good question, Parsons. But also a pointless question. Because when I’m done with you, you’re not going to remember a single thing.”

Mason touches Parson’s nose with the tip of his finger. The wrinkles in Parsons’ face have smoothed out and his body is more slender, almost girlish, his mind a pleasant blur of non-thoughts. The worries seem to drain out of his mind like water as Mason walks around behind him.

“In fact,” Mason says, “the only thoughts in your pretty little head with be the ones I put there. Won’t that be nice?”

“Nice sooooo nice,” Parsons moans. His waist has narrowed and his eyes are larger. His hair is MUCH longer and his lips more full. He appears to be about thirty years old now, and still getting younger. A thirty-year-old WOMAN, with a perplexed, blissful smile. She is still changing, getting younger, her face transforming and shifting as Mason circles her. Parsons’ mind blinks out like a light bulb.

“Looking GOOD,” Mason says, with a chuckle, as he touches the woman’s behind gently. “You’re going to be INSTRUMENTAL in the next stage of the plan. As soon as I make a few more changes, that is.”

FINIS CHAPTER 5