The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When the artist got back home she found that her lock had been broken, her door broken in two, and that someone had rummaged through her things. She wasn’t worried, really; the artist didn’t own much of value. Truth be told, there was nothing she considered of value, nothing physical at least. She didn’t have anything physical which she cherished. Some would say she loved her paintings, but that is a false assumption; although she could never reproduce them, she could always create new paintings.

Her paintings. Even if they were considered valuable by some, and indeed were her means of staying alive in this world, she knew they were safe from anyone. No one could harm her paintings.

She closed the door as best as she could and ventured into her small apartment. She saw that the person had found a silver box, one which would’ve been somebody else’s treasure chest, but it was where she kept broken brushes of works past. Saw that he had gone through her handbags—the sixteen of them gifts she never used—and ripped them apart in frustration. This was obviously the work of someone who didn’t care if they were found.

The artist then walked into the room she used as a studio. The walls and floor and ceiling were covered with paint and charcoal and all sorts of colourful smears. The room itself was a giant, mismatched painting. Sometimes she would splash a wall with a whole gallon of a shade of red she didn’t like just because it wasn’t what she needed at the time. Other times, frustrated with her own skill, she would concentrate on painting something- anything—on those walls. But it didn’t have the power of her true paintings, her true work.

All around, hanging from the ropes, hanging on the walls, resting on trestles and tables, piled on top of each other, acting as palettes, paintings fought each other for space. The room was, simply, a place devoted to producing works of art.

She looked around, satisfied that everything was in her own chaotic order, and then turned to look at the thief; he was standing in the middle of the room, still, unmoving, staring at her unfinished work.

The artist smiled.

The thief was staring at a painting of black and red and blue and green spots on an endless yellow landscape. Spirals permeated the whole thing, twisting, merging, becoming one another and then becoming one giant spiral. It was an image you could lose yourself in... if you were not the artist. She was the mother to these insane worlds and she knew how to tread upon them.

The thief didn’t.

The artist rounded her work, to see the thief—a young man, of about nineteen, with clean-shaven face, and a placid smile that could disarm anyone—staring blankly at the painting. His mouth moved, mouthing something inaudible. She saw that she made a mistake with a red spiral and cursed herself. She saw the painting, where she needed to work more, and where she had already reached perfection. She saw him falling into the painting and smiled.

She walked next to him and said in his ear, “What are you?”

The thief gasped, as if the world inside his head had been broken. He had not realized anyone had walked inside the world in the painting. He thought he was alone in the wonderful world of colour spots and smears. Without peeling his eye away from a realm of red brushstrokes he said, “A servant to the painting.”

The artist nodded and looked into the secret world she had created within the painting. Hidden words behind hidden colour she had placed inside the colour world, hidden things that would shut, command, rewrite and rewire any mind intelligent enough to understand what she meant. Any mind but her own, that is—her mind was special, capable of such insane creations.

The artist turned back to the thief, running a hand with marks of unwashed paint on it over his shoulders. They were strong and fit... hmmm, a strong and fit man drooling in her studio. When had she last enjoyed her own body? Too long. Painting took up much of her life.

“What is your name, servant?” She whispered, a voice like violet shades.

“S-S-Stephan.” The thief whispered and kept muttering in silence.

The artist nodded and ran her multicoloured nails over his neck. He shivered. “This painting is beautiful, isn’t it? Absorbing, insane, amazing. It pulls you in, doesn’t it? The colours call out to you, call out for you.”

The thief Stephan nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“The painting is beautiful.” She whispered in orange.

“The painting is beautiful.” He repeated in a monotone.

“The painting is beautiful, the painting is absorbing. You lose yourself in the painting, you let your mind wander into the colours, you serve the painting with your eyes.” She whispered, smiling as his eyes darted from one side of the painting to the other, following her words. “There is much to learn from the painting, much to love from the painting. Let yourself fall deep into the painting, look into every detail, look into every colour, and let the worlds guide you deep.”

The thief simply nodded.

“The painting is beautiful, the painting is absorbing. You love looking into the painting, you love staring at the painting, you love losing yourself in the colour.” Her hands started to rub his shoulders and neck, helping him relax more. “The colours swirl in front of you, pulling you and pushing you. They are strong and weak, like you. They pull and push you, bring you closer and then repel you.” Her voice was like a drop of blue paint.

He nodded once more, his eyes focusing and then going to places both far away and too close to see. “I love the painting...”

She kept working on his shoulders, her hands going up and down his arms, his back and his torso. She wanted him to grow more relaxed, to fall into the painting. Once she started to rub he moaned silently.

“That’s it, feel the painting, not just look at it. It is deep, like a well. You stare into it, you fall into it... Look at the darks, at the shadows and fall into them.” Her voice was a kiss on his cheeks. “Now come out of them, relaxed, devoid of worries. The dark soothes you, relaxes you... and you come out of it, feeling like a cloud, feeling like a happy child. Stare at the painting, never let your eyes wander away from it, but into it. Let your eyes roam the painting, falling into the dark places, and floating over the light places. Look at the light colours, feel them pulling your eyes here and there.”

The thief’s eyes moved from dark to light, from middletone to shadow, from overtone to light source. His mind fell deep and then came back out, like a floating device sunk. It was straining and strangely relaxing, to let himself fall and float and then fall again.

“Love the painting, stare into the painting. Feel the painting pulling you deeper and deeper and deeper.” She heard him moan and repeat her words so fast she knew this painting couldn’t teach him anymore.

The artist took his hands and guided him towards another painting. This one had more sense, in an abstract world. It was an eye now and then a spiral; it became a castle in the sky and then an underwater city—if you looked just right you might have seen your childhood dreams made pigment, or your future nightmares turned pictorial representation.

“Now, look at this one, servant. Look at this new painting. It is so beautiful, it is so captivating, like the other one. But this one doesn’t pull you in or push you out, no, you already know how that is. This one teaches you.”

“Teaches... me...” He wanted to close his eyes and let the feelings wash over him, but he had to stare at the painting to learn.

The artist slowly ran her hand down his body, down his belly, and towards the front of his trousers. It had been so long since she last had flesh, since she last felt the skin of another... yet she still knew how to treat it. Her fingers found his sex and started working on it. “Yes, the painting teaches you. It teaches you to follow your desires, to follow your dreams... the painting teaches you that you must serve your wants and needs.” Her voice was growing redder, more breathy by the word.

“Follow my... desires...” He whispered, moaned and groaned. Her touch was majestic; sadly he didn’t feel it, not in the traditional sense.

The artist nodded, her breathing coming faster. “Yes, your desires. You must follow your desires, your needs, your wants. The painting teaches you, tells you what your desires are... Follow the words. Feel them inside you, hear them inside you, taste them inside you. They are inside your mind, crawling and echoing. Every time you fall into the dark—” The thief’s eyes fell into a spot of dark blue. “Your mind is swarmed by the strokes and spirals. Every time you stare at the lights—” His eyes followed a green spiral and feel into a spot of pink. “You resurface, your mind filled with the words in the painting.”

“The painting teaches me...” He moaned the words, his unconscious desire growing with her expert strokes.

“Yes, the painting knows what your desires are, doesn’t it? Oh, it knows. Look deep inside it and find your desires.” Her voice was like red—carnal, powerful—and yellow—explosive, intense, and bright.

The thief nodded. Inside the spirals, inside the colours, the brushstrokes, the smears of paint... he could read it, he could feel it. Inside his head his desire floated without control, and he didn’t care. He wanted to experience that desire, to enjoy that desire, as the painting told him to. Slowly he felt more aware of the hand inside his trousers, but then he would feel her voice in his head and stare at the painting and he would return to where he belongs: the world of colour that was her.

“My desire...”

“Yes, yes, yes,” She moaned in a spark of green and purple and cyan. “Your desire is in the painting, find it, need it, want it... it’s in there and you serve it.” Her hand had found a second sex and this one she enjoyed better.

The thief closed his eyes, sparks of colour streaks behind his eyelids, and then he opened them. He smiled pleasantly—he knew what his desire was. He knew what he had to obey, what he needed, what he wanted...

“... is you.”

The artist stopped touching him, much to his groaning complaints, and stepped back. She was feeling... wanton, lusty. Aching. Yes, she was aching... aching for what she needed. It had truly been long since she had last enjoyed the flesh. She called out, whispering in violet, red lust “What are you, love?” The artist whispered, her hand moving faster and faster inside herself.

“I am... your slave.” The thief whispered and then moaned and then screamed. His body jerked in an explosion of pleasure. Of desire. He desired her, he served her, he wanted her. The painting had told him.

“You are a slave to the painting. You are a slave to me. You are mine.”

“I am yours.”

“You obey me.”

“I obey you.”

“What am I?”

He hesitated and then said: “My painter.”

Silence.

She removed her clothes, fast, as if they were fire. Not that she could feel fire, in any state of conciousness. Her body was colourful, even more so than her paintings. A thousand thousand pictures were on her skin; a thousand thousand colours covering her from the neck down. She was a painting, a walking painting. Not her best work, for she could never create her best, but her most powerful painting. On her body she had placed all which she needed, all that she desired. And all which anyone would desire.

“I am what you desire.”

The thief screamed in lust. “Yes!”

Silence again as she allowed his eyes to roam the blue and green and lightning purple of her breasts.

“Undress.”

Moments later he was naked.

She allowed him to stare at her cyan curves, at her vermillion bellybutton, at her sunburst shoulders; just like she stared at his erect manhood, at his hairy chest, at his golden bush, at his smooth legs. She wanted him. She really did.

She then started to walk around him, inspecting him, thinking what to do with him. Inspiration struck her like lighting to a lightning rod.

The artist smiled and picked up a brush, thick and long; it was wet with a thick glob of red paint. What sort of paint, that was something only the artist knew. She walked towards him, holding the brush as if a sword. One swift stroke and his back was a wound of a horrendous battle... or an abstract in red.

The thief moaned as if, in the span of a second, a hundred hands had brought him unimaginable pleasure. It felt good to be painted by his painter.

The artist kept throwing strokes; red now, then yellow, now green, then ochre; black and Prussian blue and a pink with a hint of grey. She painted him, in colours and patterns that made sense only to her... she painted him the way she desired him to look, to thing... to be. She painted power and words that would remake him.

When she was finished he was no longer a thief or a man or Stephan for that matter. He was a painting. Her painting. He had been a canvas for her and he had loved it. He didn’t want more in life.

Once she deemed him dry enough she called him forth. “Lie down.” She whispered, her naked flesh glistening with desire.

“Yes....” He whispered, his body hers, his submission near complete.

He lied down, his manhood a spiral of black, white and emerald green with a painted shadow of red. The artist looked at the former thief, inspecting his new skin, criticising her own work.

The artist realised that she was pleased by her work.