The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wrath of the Wizardess

Chapter Five

We leap up onto another not-quite-skyscraper, forced into a tiered design by local building codes. At the seventh floor, we’re on the first tier, which is frankly a bit of a building site.

There’s man-portable construction gear every damn place, cement bags left out in the rain and all sorts of dangerous tools just lying about unsecured. Still, who’d just drop in on the roof?

Besides errant superheroes and villainesses.

Not the managers who’ll end up paying for their contractors negligence, that’s for sure.

Klystron swept up before us, hovering over the lip of the building. In light of the microwave cackle around her hands and her trigger-happiness I tumble my passengers off Nightmare.

A few bruises from a bit of a rough landing are far better than the alternative. They even have a bit of cover behind some of the detritus left behind by the construction work.

Nightmare and I charge Klystron. She flip herself backwards in mid-air and flees us, shedding bursts of microwave power in her wake.

No problem, my armour provides plenty of protection, and Nightmare’s immune-

Ouch.

Unholy Fuck.

She’s hit a god-damn water tank and the water inside must’ve superheated and the whole rig went up like a concussion grenade. I’m just lucky the tank was plastic, not metal, or – wait, if it had been metal, the microwaves would’ve been absorbed and never reached the water.

I don’t deserve this.

And its a good demonstration of why ‘Pathica is a danger. Klystron would’ve never thought of that on her own. Not in a million years.

Though I’m not at all sure she was far enough away for safeties sake, but that’s hardly a surprise. If there’s one thing Klystron isn’t its a coward.

But with ‘Pathica, always look for the two-punch, and… there it is. Twister swooping down behind me, a second windstream already lifting ‘Trancica into the air. Figures good old loyal ‘Pathica would prioritise rescuing her twin.

If Twister gets ‘Trancica over the edge there’ll literally be nothing I can do. ‘Trancica will fall, Twister will catch her and they’ll be away and back for a rematch on more favourable ground.

And I’ll end up an entranced straight good girl.

Only one thought out of three is dampening my panties, which isn’t bad going really.

Oh. Wait. Yes it is. That’s only thirty-three point three reoccurring percent moderate happiness.

So no. Hell no. I’ve got to stop Twister. And I know just how to pull it off.

I step over shattered pieces of watertank and wait, not knowing if Klystron’s out of action or not. That she could be at my back sets my teeth on edge. Every instinct screams to turn and fight. I wait.

Each passing second carries Twister closer to the roof and the point of no return.

Even at her prodigious speed it seems to take an age for her to reach the rooftop, an age where my shoulderblades itch maddeningly expecting to receive the sting of a knife.

Or the hot pain of a microwave beam.

The itch grows, until Twister reaches a distance above the roof I decide is good enough and I cut loose a simple Gust of Wind spell.

Bernoulli’s principle states that half of velocity squared, plus pressure over density is equal to a constant. Simply put increase velocity in a given medium, such as air, and pressure must fall.

Thus it is that aeroplanes and helicopters and the great gliding birds fly on shaped wings that force air to speed along a lengthier path above the wing than below. Thus it is that Twister flies, by speeding the winds above her own luscious southern-belle body.

My Gust of Wind speeds the air below her. If she’d been more cautious in her approach she might have had time to recover, to fix my sabotage before impacting the building became inevitable. Though had she done so I suppose I would’ve used a Lightning Bolt instead.

Sometimes the villainess fucks you coming and going.

But Twister has always been quick-witted and she pulled up, though how she shaped her broken windstream to do it I’ll never know.

Unless I entrance her and ask.

Her fall becomes a swoop so instead of a death-dive she hits travelling nearly parallel to the roof. Normally that velocity wouldn’t be survivable but like all of superheroes and villains she’s tough. And of course my own Gust of Wind brakes and protects her.

Perverse though it is, I still feel so proud that she’s thought of that.

They say a good landing is one you walk away from. A very good landing is one where you leave a serviceable aircraft behind you.

It seems to me that Twister is both pilot and craft. As her body rolls and tumbles through martial arts moves designed to help you fall safely, the hard roof inflicting bruises and cuts and myriad other injuries I realise this is no good landing.

She stops not ten feet before me. She almost looks asleep, her limbs akimbo as I’ve seen them tangled in her duvet after a restless night, her legs bared by ruined spandex rather than rucked t-shirt pyjamas, golden hair a halo about her head.

Her eyes part and she groans as if greeting unwelcome morning, not agonising pain. When they open, her first look is for ‘Trancica and the other not-hostages she’d tried to rescue.

I’m amazed that she can find the strength to rise to her knees, spit out blood and a broken tooth as she fights her own body to be able to fight for those who need her.

She’s an amazing person. A better one than I, if I’m truthful. Heroes are supposed to be better than the villains, and she is, but she won’t beat me today.

Plastic crunches under my bootheels as I approach her, suitably ominous and her unwilling head is drawn by strings so much older than magic. I can feel my gaze track up my legs, and I imagine that it lingers over the bare flesh of my thighs before meeting my own.

“I won’t go gentle into that...” she says perhaps meaning it firm but it comes out a broken whisper, as just a breath of the windstorm she’d intended stirs my hair.

“Goodnight.” I finish the paraphrase, dropping her with Slumber. Her eyes droop closed and she sighs, a breathy expulsion of will and responsibility, as she collapses into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

I check on Nightmare, who is definitely not so good, and find Klystron a few seconds later. So much for the itch, she was too close to the tank-explosion, her spandex shredded in several interesting ways. Alive, but unconscious.

Superb! A whole bunch of prisoners to play with!

Oh. Crap.

I get them out of here how exactly? Nightmare’s in no fit state and though he can probably fly for himself loading him up like a pack mule is completely out of the question.

Sure, I’ve got a Fly spell for myself. Which means I can escape and maybe I can carry one person with me. Three prisoners, one casualty and one tag-along reporter.

Of course, I can call and summon help from my remaining resources, it’ll only take them... fifteen minutes?

I glance over the side of the building. A dizzying distance below, FBI officers can be seen streaming from the neighbouring Government Tower into this building. Dimly I can hear rotor blades and far away I can see the Boston Police Department’s A-Star helicopters closing in.

I could fight and slaughter them but there would always be more. A Federal MCU team, or one of the Police Department’s own MCERT teams borrowed from nearby New York. Local flatfoots have to stick together in the face of metahumans, mages and the FBI.

Bad publicity and no profit. No sane villain would do that, not that there aren’t a few insane ones out there to keep the PD and the Feds on their toes.

I know what I ought to do. I’m the villain, the Wicked Witch of this piece.

I should abandon my Slaveslut – I can always make another – and take whichever one of the Mayflowers I want. Kill the rest. Or keep Slaveslut, and kill them all, if I’m more of a loyal-to-ones-minions Mistress. And isn’t that a slightly ridiculous idea anyway?

I know I’m not going to do it.

I’m evil, but in more of a darkly-cool, looking great in leather, turns nice girls naughty, mindsmoothing kind of way.

I’m in it for the perks, basically. The wage of sin is sin itself.

So even if it means a rematch and probably letting a warned ‘Trancica get the drop on me, even if I’m effectively letting her mindsmooth me till I’m nice and straight and good again, I’m not going to kill her, or any of the Mayflowers.

The Police A-Stars are closer, the FBI already off the street, pouring up inside the skyscraper by stair and elevator. On screaming tyres, from the wreckage around the Starbooks, the few surviving PD cruisers are arriving, heavily laden with heavily armed officers.

If I’m going, I need to go now.

The idea of mindsmoothing, of being mindsmoothed under ‘Trancica’s delicate touch dampens me. Or maybe she won’t be delicate. It doesn’t matter. Maybe she’ll order me to lick, I think, and that just makes me even wetter, as I cast Fly and prepare to flee with Slaveslut. Or maybe I shouldn’t flee. No. I’d so much rather go to ‘Trancica’s sweet prison of flesh than the State’s freezer.

The rotors are much loader, too loud, too close for comfort, though I can see the A-Stars are still some distance off.

Perhaps I’ll practice lapping at Slaveslut till ‘Trancica comes to take me. Perhaps I won’t resist at all.

Then the Blackhawk comes round the corner of the skyscraper.

Oh doublecrap.

The unmarked, night-black chopper slows, levels off, sidling up to the roof right beside me, it’s rotors whirling overhead, inches from the concrete of the rising skyscraper.

Its side-door is hauled open by a pretty girl in battle-dress maid’s uniform. A puffy-sleeved shirt and button-down navy dress that reaches up to support her breasts and down to brush her thighs conceals sliver-thin armour inserts. Calf-high boots marry with sleek leggings, supported by the merest hint of garter at the thigh. Not only does this outfit give most men second thoughts about shooting it’s wearer, it also offers decent protection.

And if that’s not enough, the Heckler and Koch G11 rifle in its shoulder-sling, the CZ-75 holstered at her hip, and the wearer’s hard amber eyes show she’s far more than merely a paper tiger. The door bangs against its stops, and beside her I look into the piercing eyes of her mistress. My lover and servant who loves her servitude the heiress Olivia Toscane.

That’s when I realise that it’s my Blackhawk and we’re all getting out of here.

Oh. I own a Blackhawk. Didn’t I mention?

Payment for a little off-the-books job I did for Central Intelligence in a sandy country. It’s a bit of a white elephant actually, but not quite as much as they’d perhaps expected it would be.

Not after I absconded with the talented and beautiful pilot Raven (think the hot-chick in Top-Gun) who’d flown this very helicopter for me on that mission. It wasn’t so much the pay as the benefits package I was offering, apparently. I think Langley might still be just a little pissed off.

She’s very good, anyway, so much so that I’m not even worried the blades are passing just over my head, swirling my hair oh-so-coolly around my face as two cute and heavily armed maidservants gather up the incapacitated Klystron and Twister.

Slaveslut’s got her arm under ‘Trancica, and is supporting the staggering Mayflower towards the waiting Blackhawk. I doubt ‘Trancica even knows where she is. They reach the ‘copter, and the heiress helps haul the punch-drunk ‘Trancica over the seven-story gap – it’s only a long way if you fall, are dropped, or pushed by the rotors downwash – and then they’re both in.

Well how about that. I’ve nearly got the full set.

Gotta catch ‘em all though.

Beneath the thunderous roar of the engines and the howling wind, I beckon to the reporter girl. She rises, less than half as composed than as my coffee-house hostage but easily twice as cute, and staggers against the down-wash towards the Blackhawk.

Everyone’s aboard now except she and I. A few more seconds and we’ll be safely out of here and it’ll be time for fun.

That’s when the first bullets crack off the Blackhawk’s armoured cockpit.