The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Synopsis:

Madame Sinterloo runs into trouble with a capital T that rhymes with P that doesn’t stand for ‘Pool’ (at least not in this story) when a ditzy super heroine visits her dance salon/secret underground volcano bondage dungeon (volcano optional and not included). Or is it the other way around? Tell you what, why don’t you simply read the story and we’ll attempt to find out together?

Author’s Notes:

For some reason, once I started work on this, the words started to flow really easily, at least to start with. It’s one of those tales that seizes your hands and practically writes itself, until you get half way through and it doesn’t, so I had to force myself to get it in a state ready to send in. Please bear in mind that it’s terribly, terribly silly.

If you’re looking for the typical heat I try to imbue my stories with, you won’t find it here. This is not a stroke story, and in fact, there is no sex either. If, however, you’re looking for a cheap laugh, this story has it in bucket loads. Truck loads. Ship loads, even. I’m slathering it on too thick already, aren’t I?

Those people who don’t like humor mixed with their erotica should stop reading right about…now. Or now. Or perhaps now. Anytime you like, really.

Dancing Queen

Oh. You’re still there? You haven’t given up yet? That is unexpected. Drat, now I have to try and tell an actual story, such as it is. I bet you just skipped those author’s notes and dove right into the story. Don’t complain that you weren’t warned. Or go ahead and complain. It’s definitely too late now. I must have entranced you by the extraordinary power of my written word. Yes, that’s it, look closer, closer as my writing slowly draws you in until you simply can’t look away no matter how hard you try. The words on the page are draining your will, sucking away even the simplest thought of turning away and forgetting that this piece of dreck ever existed.

Are you totally hypnotized yet? There now? Not yet? Double drat.

Okay, clearly I’m going to have to try harder, or you’re just not going to read this tale. Close your eyes for five seconds and repeat to yourself, ‘I really want to read this story!’ five times fast. Ready? Okay, good, I’ll just wait here for you to finish.

I am sitting here and counting every time you do it, really slowly. Once, this tale is getting more awesome. Twice, you’re actually starting to like these silly tricks. Three times, the lines are getting wavy. Fifth time, and you’re actually hearing voices in your head! Now I know you’re asking about what happened to the fourth time—I had hoped you wouldn’t notice.

You didn’t actually close your eyes and say the phrase, did you? I thought not. Simple tricks just aren’t going to cut it, are they? I’ll actually have to tell a story. That’s a real downer, I tell you what. It’s not even a very good one. Fine, fine, you came for a story, so I’ll just have to give you one. You’ll regret this more than me in the end, see if you don’t!

Ahem

It was an ordinary day, much like any another. Or, at least, you might think that. But if you did, you’d be wrong. Because this day a certain water tower in the city decided that its stilts were too long, and enlisted the aid of a local super-villain to chop them down to size. At least, that’s what the super-villain claimed, of course, when angry townsfolk brought him in, but the locals instead thought he had possibly drunk too much beer.

In actuality, his super ability allowed him to talk to inanimate objects. Inanimate objects, as you might imagine, have absolutely nothing interesting to say. When you have the intellectual capacity of a boulder, it’s hard to get any salient points across. That’s why over time this villain had become quite mad, in both senses. If he had possessed any more senses than two, those ones would have been mad also.

As a result of the unfortunate incident, five people, three cats, four dogs, and ten mice were injured, as well as various other sundry properties, including the local peep show. All involved opined that this was a tragedy of skin tight proportions. Well, at least two people did, but we can easily ignore those two because they live in their mother’s basements. So we will.

One of the people injured was an ordinary person. So ordinary, in fact, that this tale could well be an attempt to show how he encountered some toxic waste, a radioactive spider, reversed the polarity or other some such qualifying event that turned him into a superhero. In actuality, the only qualifying event that happened was that he had recently gotten married, and thus was able to adjust his health insurance.

This, unfortunately, is not a tale about ordinary people overcoming extreme obstacles while under the thrall of extreme terror. In fact, there really isn’t anything more interesting to say about this fellow, so I think we’ll ignore him and forget that he was ever mentioned.

Let’s move on, and attempt to locate a more suitable victim for our comedy of errors. Just outside the blast radius of our little accident (which as you can see, is so far turning out to be irrelevant to the story), there existed a dance studio. In it, people liked to dance. A lot.

You might think dancing in a dance studio is nothing if not ordinary (and therefore completely unworthy of a tale), but you’d be wrong about that too. Instead, the dancing was due to the owner being another super-villain. Self-proclaimed, of course, but only to her bedroom mirror, because mirrors generally can’t tell you that you’re crazy, especially if your superpower doesn’t involve talking to inanimate objects. Which hers didn’t, although sometimes she wished it did (but only sometimes, and only when she was sufficiently drunk enough to think that talking mirrors were a good idea [in actuality they aren’t]).

Four score, and well, only a few years ago, she had discovered that it was easy for her to dance. And when she wanted to dance, everybody just simply had to dance. It was a veritable walking dance party whenever she tapped her heels on the floor. An inevitable crush of people would surround her and it would become a bit of a farce. Somewhat like line dancing the Macarena down the streets of Manhattan. Perhaps not strange at all if you liked the Macarena, which most people don’t.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion that she wanted to get more out of her dancing (as if she had actually put something into it, which she hadn’t). As a result, she had opened ‘Madame Sinterloo’s Dancing Booteeeeeek!’ a terrible name by any measure. It was supposed to represent the amount of pleasure someone might experience when dancing at her studio, such that participants screamed with joy, but it instead turned into the butt of local jokes about how much she enjoyed shrieking. People could be cruel sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean all the time, every time.

Unknown to the casual dancer at her studio, she didn’t enjoy shrieking, that was just what people said. On the other hand, she really did like making other people shriek, but that was private knowledge. Well, not exactly that private, as her client list was constantly expanding, unlike her bust line (what, did you think her superpower was going to be magically expanding breasts? This isn’t that kind of story, you know. In fact, it’s not really much of a story at all, but I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that until the last paragraph.)

All of this bothered her greatly, but not greatly enough for her to abandon her passions. Yes, there was more than one, and those lucky enough to start dancing with her would find out eventually what those passions were. In her dungeon. Several times a day. Multiple hours…well, you get the general idea.

Yes, indeed, in addition to being the local dance mistress, she also moonlighted as a dominatrix. Which is not to say that she didn’t also do it during the day between dance sessions. It was too much fun to not do all the time. You would probably do it too if you had her looks, libido, and voracious domineering attitude. And ability to quickly switch ward robes. Don’t deny it.

It was almost comical (much like I’m hoping this tale will be), the clueless people dancing above to her tune while those below shrieked with pleasure. Sometimes she had to turn the music up a little to mask the noises her alternate customers made. “What’s that?” the dancing customers would ask. She would smile darkly and reply “just a few little blind mice, squeaking for their food.” (This wasn’t entirely inaccurate, as some of her patrons enjoyed blindfolds. And lots of other things, but we won’t get into those now. Or ever. Ewww.)

The dancers didn’t exactly buy this line of reasoning, but if you were one of them, would you really try to pull an answer from a drill sergeant dance mistress who thought nothing of sticking her patrons in uncomfortable poses for indefinite periods of time? There were, of course, a few of them who liked holding strange poses, but those ones usually toddled on down to the dungeon sooner rather than later.

If you’ve held on this long, I suppose you’re wondering where this story is actually going and if it has a point. I’ve been wondering that since the first sentence, so bear with me as I make up something sufficiently humorous for the next paragraph. It’s going to be really good, you know. Alright, that’s a complete lie, but I at least had to try.

Getting back on track, one day (this is actually still the same day as the day the water tower came down, but I thought that first bit would be a good start for this next section), Sinterloo (that isn’t actually her real name, but ‘Jane’ doesn’t sound nearly as exotic) was dancing in her studio. It was mid-afternoon, so she had a full crowd of patrons doing Rhumba moves (it’s all the craze these days). She was a big fan of exercising, which is why the slaves downstairs were on exercise bikes, hypnotized and groaning into their ball gags (she had finally started to learn her lesson about noise spillover after getting tired of explaining one too many times).

She had just bent into a stance on one foot (her classmates following her every move) when a large river of water flowed down the street right outside the studio. Fortunately, her doors were air tight and several inches thick, so the water had no effect on her studio (thanks to the usual over-planning villains do when they expect upstart heroes to visit). She remained in the same pose as she watched a hope chest, several boxes, a few tchotchkes, and a watermelon float by (someone was likely having a fruit party – or perhaps Gallagher was stopping by for a visit).

This was followed by a military macaw, clearly a bit upset by the state of affairs, perhaps a bit knackered because he wasn’t able to sit down for afternoon tea and crumpets. He was probably saying ‘Polly wants a cracker,’ but sound couldn’t possibly penetrate the thick doors of her studio unless the writer says so (at least for now we’ll try to retain at least a semblance of internal consistency in this tale – all bets are off for later, however). Also, its name wasn’t Polly (and if you even suggest that it is, he will definitely get revenge by talking your ears off—literally).

Shortly thereafter, a lady dressed in a one piece spandex outfit appeared to be passing by (not floating by at this point, as the water had quickly receded), looking a tad confused. She stopped and struck a heroic pose, the upward facing waterspout. This, of course, had to be our heroine, because superheroes absolutely needed to announce their presence by wearing silly costumes and striking ridiculous poses (at least, that’s what she had read in The Hero’s guide to good society, volume IX [a greatly respected volume, only slightly higher rated than Being a Hero – for dummies]). She stood outside and looked around for a while before entering the studio, her body language stating that she was in complete control of the situation (it was utter pretense, but the guide also said that ‘confidence is the best policy,’ and she wasn’t about to naysay its advice now. It had cost her a seriously pretty penny, and she needed to get the best bang for her buck.) She struggled with the thick doors, the solid glass proving difficult for her to open. Once she got inside, she struck another heroic pose (sideways snapdragon) right before the door swung closed and hit her on her pretty little derriere, making her stumble into the room like a clumsy oaf, her spandex outfit stretching enticingly.

Sinterloo laughed heartily, but maintained her pose with discipline. Her class was helpless to resist her evil dancing magic, and they all stood stiffly mirroring the same pose, albeit with some moaning that was completely ignored by their taskmistress. “Who might you be, and why are you visiting my insignificant dancing studio that is completely and utterly unremarkable and not interesting at all?” She asked this in a rough voice that was oozing insincerity all over her nice clean floor. Fortunately, at least in this story, nobody has to clean up the bad metaphors (unless you’re volunteering?)

Stretching with limited dignity into another pose (standup lark), the heroine put her hands on her hips and pouted prettily. “My name is Lustra, and I am here,” she declared slowly in a determined southern drawl, “to locate a lost parrot NOT named ‘Polly.’ Have you possibly seen one nearby?”

One eye twitched subtly as Lustra mentioned the name ‘Polly.’ She subtly pushed her butt forward, displaying her not ungenerous assets to the leering audience of eager readers.

The Madame quickly assessed the situation, and decided she liked what she saw. Several members of her class turned red in the face and keeled over on the floor. Sinterloo sniffed at the gross display of gymnastic deficiency, and dismissed them from her generally mischievous thoughts as being worthless. She needed a new female star for her musical, and this daft heroine appeared to fit the bill nicely. There wasn’t anybody else in her bedraggled class that could possibly fill the role.

“Class dismissed!” she barked sharply, and the rest of her class slowly dropped to the mats like limp noodles, the invisible strings on their shoulders cut. Sinterloo looked at Lustra with a calculating expression on her face, mincing her way carefully through the debris on the floor that used to resemble an exercise class. Stepping on the limp noodles would definitely mess up her cute, red boots.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen any sign of a parrot named Polly,” she said in a deliberately misleading manner. “However, if you would just step this way, we can review the security tapes and possibly locate your missing parakeet.” She gestured towards the back of the dance studio with one hand, sinuously moving her body discreetly into a dance pose.

Sinterloo wasn’t actually being terribly discreet in her interest (because Sinterloo was not really the type of super villain that did subtle), but our naïve heroine had no idea what the Madame really meant. Maintaining her existing super hero pose (standup lark, if you’ve already forgotten, which I’m sure you have because it’s completely inconsequential), Lustra retrieved her thin volume of The Hero’s guide from her bosom where it had been tightly nestled. Please don’t ask what else has been stored in her bosom, because I simply don’t know, and it would be quite rude and unprofessional to ask. No, I’m not omniscient, I don’t know everything about these people. Seriously, quit asking!

She looked at the volume studiously for a short time while Sinterloo tapped a toe, then changed her superhero pose to defiant manticore. “No, I’m afraid not!” she said with false confidence. “If I don’t continue on now, I’ll never find the parrot and achieve my parrot-finding destiny!”

Why she thought that finding the parrot would confirm her prospects as a superhero were murky at best, even to this author. The story has to have a plot, even if it’s hanging by a thread. If not, then it isn’t really a story, is it? More like a random jumble of words without purpose. Oh dear.

Maybe she simply had a misplaced sense of idealism? We’ll have to roll with that one and move on, I suppose. I’m already out of better ideas.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” Sinterloo replied, moving quickly into a dance pose, her power suddenly suffusing the room. Lustra’s body uncontrollably shifted clumsily in its attempt to match Sinterloo’s position, The Hero’s guide to good society volume IX dropping to the ground in a clatter (unfortunately, our heroine hadn’t yet read chapter 13, ‘how to handle villains who unexpectedly start dancing’ [if she had, she would have known that the advice was simply to ‘run and definitely don’t enter dance emporiums,’ decidedly unhelpful advice at this particular moment]).

“You will follow me,” Sinterloo declared as she waggled her butt in a provocative manner (she’s probably bisexual, but this author doesn’t really know for sure [this story hasn’t really been thought through very well, if you hadn’t noticed yet]). She snapped a finger, and the unfortunately familiar, but grainy strains of the ‘Macarena’ song began to softly circulate like a funeral dirge.

With every shuffle, glide and twist, Sinterloo maneuvered her unwilling prey towards the basement staircase, much like a spider pulling its prey towards the center of a web (except there aren’t any spiders involved here, thank goodness). Lustra’s body obeyed every dance move jerkily, conveniently making any outside observer believe that she was simply doing the ‘robot.’ “You’ll never get away with this!” she exclaimed, using the oldest and most trite phrase in the book to protest being manhandled (or perhaps more accurately, woman handled).

As she navigated the stairs, Sinterloo paused every so often to rest, her pauses punctuated by sudden loud exclamations of ‘Hey, Macarena!’ “I’m afraid, my dear, I already am getting away with this.” The required counter reply to the heroine’s original statement tasted sweet on her lips. “It never gets old saying that,” she said with a small smile.

Maybe not for her, but I’m sure you feel like it’s old already. You thought it was old even though I’ve only used that phrasing once in this entire tale. I suppose there’s no getting around that one, except to say that there won’t be any more clichéd statements or hackneyed comments throughout the rest of this tale. I’m sure you believe me this time. I’ve never lied to you in the past.

Lustra struggled against the insidious power of the dance, but was only able to make herself look like she was emulating a metal stamping machine. Her body jerked awkwardly in time to the music as she shuffled in line behind the Madame, making precise movements as she continued down the stairs. “I don’t remember reading about this in the manual,” she squeaked as Sinterloo danced her through a set of doors and onto what appeared to be a stage built into the basement of the studio.

In fact, it was a stage. As a sop to her ego, Sinterloo had decided some time ago to stage erotic musicals for her own pleasure, and had converted existing parts of the dungeon by mounting a small wooden stage, complete with stage lights and teleprompter. Currently mounted to the center of the stage were two identical chairs, except one of them was positively overflowing with leather straps and other bondage gear, and the other was bare bones. You probably only need one guess to figure out who was going to sit in the comfy chair (I’m sure somebody expected that one).

As Sinterloo continued to dance, she snapped her fingers again, and the floodlights turned on, making the stage clearly lit (It wouldn’t do for her performing victims to clothe themselves in shadows, especially since some superheroes had the annoying ability to make shadows do their bidding [and super villains – competition was always a problem when attempting to put on erotic dramas]). As she was about to line up with the chair that didn’t contain any bondage devices, she snapped her fingers authoritatively. Several male figures clad entirely in latex appeared from the shadows as if from nowhere (in this case, simply offstage – Sinterloo wasn’t actually a magician, even if she would have liked to have been). They rushed forward, and gently helped to strap Lustra down into the matching chair with a ridiculous number of stretchy latex straps. Sinterloo had recently read A Villain’s guide to catching and keeping superheroes, and wasn’t interested in making rookie mistakes, especially since such mistakes usually meant serious and unavoidable time in jail without time off for erotic dancing.

Lustra simply wasn’t going to be going anywhere any time soon, and although she had already resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the dry cleaners later and needed to clear her calendar, she wasn’t quite willing to give up yet and let Sinterloo win. “Wait until mphmph mhmm murph mmmph!” she exclaimed in protest as one of the black figures strapping her into the chair helpfully stuffed her pretty mouth completely full with a ruby red ball gag, efficiently strapping it behind her head to effectively end her conversational tendencies.

Sinterloo wasn’t really interested in the talkative types when she could simply melt their brains and make them do just about whatever she wanted. She crossed her legs and looked at her prospective slave speculatively, envisioning just precisely how she would manipulate her new puppet to greatness. She was enjoying the site of Lustra uselessly struggling to no avail, her cute spandex body flexing appealingly under the straps. The sight caused Sinterloo to become introspective, and she immediately proceeded to violate rule 15 of A Villain’s guide—never discuss your nefarious plans, simply do them and let your actions speak for themselves.

“As you may have noticed, I’ve upgraded my customers from the bondage package to the slavery package. They are under my every command, whim, and desire.” One of her slaves, dressed in a gimp suit, whispered quickly, but quietly in her ear. Sinterloo frowned momentarily, but decided to look on the bright side of erotic drama and mind control. “Okay, maybe not quite absolutely everything yet – banana floats on tightropes are still right out. We ARE working on that.” She stared daggers at the figure who had dared to interrupt her petty and unnecessary gloating.

She continued revealing her plan to the bound heroine, in direct contravention of the convention of evil overlords (of which she was not currently a card carrying member). “These nameless slaves work great, but I need more fresh blood, more slaves to fill out my cast. You fit the bill perfectly.” She leaned forward, tapped a wrist, and tugged her left ear. “To that end, since my dancing powers simply aren’t sufficient for complete mind control, I was forced to outsource some of the work to a foreign country. You would be amazed at how cheap it actually is to install and maintain mind control systems these days!” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and sat back to watch the show.

Sinterloo’s secret signal took a few minutes to be deciphered by the slave at the master console, but once it was the stage lights started to flicker in a hypnotic pattern, a laser system spelling out ‘dance at Sinterloo’s’ on the back wall (the Madame was still experimenting with various subliminal advertising techniques [Are they working? Do you want to dance yet?]). Lustra felt dizzy, blinded by the bright lights, but unable to stop looking. She moaned pitifully, sucking gently on the ball gag as if it were a pacifier. In this case, it was literally the truth – if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting ball gags for your victims, why not coat them with relaxing drugs? This all seems perfectly reasonable to me.

The room started to get hazy as a bright polka belted through the basement, livening up the dreary interior. Several gimp suited figures sang a chorus and did jazz hands as the lights continued to flicker in mesmerizing patterns, each slave now adorned with ‘awesomely cool cat’ (TM) sunglasses. “We are your mind control partners, partners in the M to the C!” They sang in a barbershop quartet. “Where is the Con-trol in Mind Control! Who is the mind con-troller?” They harmonized perfectly, their long training sessions putting them in perfect pitch and cadence with each other as they gestured towards their mistress.

Sinterloo looked like the cat who had gotten into the cream. Lustra’s mind was quickly becoming toast (medium to well done), her slaves were gelling together as a well-oiled drama team, and soon she would be able to open her own erotic competition to Broadway! She was going all the way to the top, baby, and nobody and nothing could possibly stop her delusions of grandeur from growing until they broke through the glass ceiling! ‘The man’ couldn’t possibly keep her down once she unleashed her growing dancing troupe of slavery on the unsuspecting world!

She was going to need a proper name for her act, though, she mused to herself. “Sinterloo’s silently snapping slaves?” No, too silly. “Sultrily shivering slutty slatterns?” No, too many S’s. This would require deeper thought. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be much more time for her to think.

This was the point at which the power to the building shut down, the hot stage lights being exchanged for red emergency glares and green exit signs. Unbeknownst to our anti-hero, the water rushing by from the water tower earlier had managed to pass her studio by, but her outsourced mind control machine had been a rush job, and not all of the conduits had been run to code. Water was able to seep into the main power supply for the device, ruining it before it was able to fully control her intended victim. One simple electrical short had not only sabotaged her plans, but utterly ruined everything. She just didn’t know it quite yet.

Now I know you’re asking how I knew it before she did. That is an artistic trade secret, one which I cannot in good faith share with the reader. If I did, then everybody would want to know how to see into the future, and you must agree that being able to see behind the curtain is never quite as fun as continuing to guess what’s happening.

The music died awkwardly as Lustra crumpled into the only chair on stage, her face distorting in alarming ways as her breasts started to expand, as if being pumped up by a pair of bicycle pumps. Sinterloo couldn’t help but watch with two parts concern and two parts lust as Lustra’s boobs started to stretch out the latex straps that constrained her enlarging tracts of land in appealing ways.

Yes, you guessed it, one of the components of her super power happens to consist of magically expanding breasts (it turns out that I’ve been pretty much wrong about every part of this tale so far, so why do you still trust what I’m saying?) As it turns out, Lustra’s power was that of pure, unadulterated lust. This was a very helpful power in the bedroom, as you might imagine, but not so helpful in an enclosed space which nobody can escape from.

As Lustra’s breasts expanded, the temperature of the room started to noticeably increase, along with the libido of everyone in the room. Sinterloo licked her lips lasciviously as all of the backup dancers became uncontrollably hard, and thoughts of orgasmic joy started to dance through her mind, making enjoyable pirouettes. Waves of lust bounced off the walls, forming standing waves in certain locations where the lust (and therefore temperature) was doubled in intensity. Sinterloo was just about to rush Lustra and perform multiple erotic acts on her defenseless body, when the plot of the story took a different and unfortunately less sexy turn.

With a sudden rush of air and a high pitched squeal, the double doors to the basement literally burst off their hinges and blew away in two different directions. Into this little drama strode a figure dressed entirely in plate mail. He strode a few steps inside and struck a heroic pose (fresh smelling swan dive). Behind him in a chevron formation were several members of the metropolitan police force for backup purposes only. One of the two police figures looked suspiciously like a frog dressed in patrol officer clothing. “Honey, I’m here for you!” he shrieked at the top of his not insignificant voice. He stepped forward briskly and unstrapped the gag that had prevented Lustra from making intelligible noises (unknown to any one at the time, he quickly stowed it away [for future play time, of course!]).

“Oh Percy, you came!” cooed Lustra, still slowly shaking off the effects of the mind control as her bust continued to expand. Her face made a small moue of dismay as her mind focused on the most inconsequential detail. “I just couldn’t find your parrot. I’m sorry, I swear I looked everywhere!” She gasped as her assets began to reach watermelon size.

Sinterloo was simply stunned. “All my plans ruined? Due to that freaking parrot?” She was simply flabbergasted.

“Oh yes,” replied Lustra, her face flushed with arousal. “I wasn’t really into the super hero thing until he decided to teach me how. I was looking for his parrot, you know, he simply adores that guy even though that parrot drives me insane!” She gasped, her breasts threatening to break basketball size.

Sir Percy (Shouts a Lot to his friends and enemies) paused in his attempts to undo the straps securing Lustra, simply stunned as he was hit by a veritable wave of lust and heat simultaneously (all of his frustration was neatly contained by the plate armor, though he shortly wished he had brought a change of underwear). “My dear, forget about the parrot right now, I might simply have to come several more times if you don’t dial down your powers NOW!” This last bit was in a loud, high pitched squealing voice as he became instantly and uncontrollably hard down below. Yes, it is what you’re thinking.

At about the same time as this last loud exhalation, the floor started to crumble and glow and become immensely hot, cracking the wooden stage and causing most of the people in the basement to shriek in ways that were completely orthogonal to any kind of arousal.

We will stop at this moment and try to explain precisely what is going on, simply because it’s gotten so silly that I’m having trouble keeping track myself (and I’m not entirely sure I still want to). Lustra’s powers of, well, lust, managed to create a massive temperature gradient in a small area of the floor surrounding her, which forced the concrete in the underlying floor to crack quite rapidly. This temperature difference, combined with the shrill volume from Sir Percy’s super hero grade voice box caused the floor and the stage to fail utterly, turning parts of it into a glowing goop, setting fire to the stage and various furnishings, and rapidly drawing this story towards a close.

Conveniently for this story, if not realistic given the local geology, Sinterloo’s dance studio happened to sit on top of a naturally active magma layer. As the concrete plug (also known as the floor) was shattered, the magma naturally oozed up, creating quite the hot foot situation. In a matter of seconds, Sinterloo’s underground lair became a secret underground volcano lair.

I vaguely remember saying something in the synopsis about volcanoes being optional in this tale? I lied about that too. It is definitely included, and quite volcanic. Apologies, but if you expected the end of this particular story to make any sense, you’re trying to get something out of this story that it isn’t. Better adjust your expectations quick before we reach the end!

Fortunately for all involved, the police quickly arrived to arrest the author of this story and take him away, charging him with story malpractice. The rest of the characters in this sordid tale luckily were able to escape from the dance studio’s basement (now rapidly filling with toxic gases) via the back staircase.

Sinterloo was forced to watch in dismay as her studio slowly descended into the depths of a volcanic soup, a sour frown on her face as she was cuffed and frog marched away.

* * *

Madame Sinterloo sighed as she was ushered into a temporary holding cell, her evil schemes shuttered in order to provide a satisfactory ending to this story.

“The mirror says that you look pretty,” her jail mate said in a matter of fact monotone, his serious but crazed expression indicating that he was absolutely, positively not insane. “Pretty Polly wants a cracker!” screeched a parrot from his shoulder.

Madame Sinterloo scowled and sincerely wished she was in an entirely different story.

* * *

You’re still here? You read every word in every paragraph? I’m simply amazed. Astounded! I feel like there should be a prize at the end for wading through this morass of silliness. But there isn’t one. Sorry.

End Dancing Queen (I can’t believe you’re still reading this, you can stop now!)