The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Ditched

(mc / ff)

Description: An art gallery is a strange place for a date, and an even stranger place to get ditched by one. She can’t really remember why she even agreed to come.

This is a work of fantasy, which involves magic, mind control, and sexual situations. If there’s any legality preventing you from viewing pornography, or you think you would find such a story offensive or inappropriate, please don’t read it.

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One might think there were only so many places that a girl could drag you to for a date in Virence. Eventually, after so many trips, they would have to start overlapping: Maricia takes you to her ‘secret little luncheon spot,’ then five months down the line Hortense does the same thing. I start thinking I’ve seen every single interesting spot in the city, and then next week, I’m pulled off to another.

Cafés, taverns, restaurants, wineries, two different carnivals, four holy shrines, three bookshops (my favorites of the bunch), and at least a dozen theaters. My dating skills had always left… something to be desired. I was far better once I was in a woman’s home, after the whole date bit. However, getting that far means completing the date, means going to wherever in the hells a pretty lass likes to go so she can feel out if I’ll be good later on.

An art gallery, though, that was new. Like I said, I’ve been to a lot of these places—but seriously. Wandering around marble halls and glancing at weird paintings on the walls was nothing like sipping wines made from some Banahkia, or watching dancers prowl about a stage. It was making me confused, and annoyed, but really mostly lost. I don’t know how that woman could find her way in all these twisting corridors and… diminishing crowds and… tiny little doors…

“Oh, hells.” I sighed and looked down each direction of my current crossroads. There were only a few people milling about, and none of them were the gray-haired-and-green-eyed-Keld-with-the-fiery-dress that I’d walked in here with.

Great. Lost another one. I hung a left and dropped onto the first stone bench I saw (probably another art piece, but I couldn’t give a damn about it at that point), distracting myself with the folds of my purple skirt while I replayed the evening in my head. Picked her up. Walked with her. She was smiling and laughing—I thought that was a good thing, but apparently not? Came in here. She wanted to talk about the art, and I don’t know shit about the art. Maybe that was it? Not high society enough for that pointy-eared little…

I exhaled and let go of the bunches of skirt that my fists had seized. Nothing to do about it. She wanted someone to critique art with. I wanted a great evening with a gorgeous woman. Apparently those two things were irreconcilable for her, so…

“Ditched, again.” I had to smile at the folly of it. And that little voice in the back of my head kept muttering, ‘none of this would be a problem if you could just land a real catch. Hold a relationship. Succeed in something more than one night’s companionship.’

Well no shit, idiot brain, but sex is the first concern here. Get the thing I know I want, then start worrying about the big question of—

“How do you feel about the piece?”

… that wasn’t exactly the question I was thinking of, but I turned my head up at the sound of a woman’s voice anyway. The voice came from behind me, not in front of me, but given that the painting in question was smack in front of me, and that I’d been ignoring it for the past five minutes, I needed something to say for when I did look at her.

My first impression of the painting was that it was enormous. Everything else in the gallery had been small, or what I thought was large for a painting. A couple feet on one side, maybe up to four for some of those sprawling landscapes. But this one was twice as long and tall as a person, maybe more. It dominated the entire wall before me.

“It’s white,” I said, overcoming the initial shock. I hadn’t even noticed it when I’d sat down: the painting was almost pure white, same as the polished walls and floors and ceilings. Only where the marble reflected like a mirror, the painting just… was.

“Of course it is.” The woman behind me chuckled. “Did you know that this painting was made by a sorcerer?”

Nobles. This one will be dropping names and who’s-whos in half a minute. I rolled my eyes and sighed. “I didn’t even know this painting existed.”

She laughed again. “She was one of the first arcanists, a fairly experimental spellcrafter.”

“Listen, miss,” I said with another sigh, “I know even less about magic than I do about art, so could you please just explain it simply?”

“Hm,” she tutted from behind me, “I suppose I could simplify it.” How could anyone make a blank canvas even simpler? I assumed, correctly, that this fine gallery-dweller was about to try. “She wrote that this painting was meant to be a perfect reflection, to capture and replicate the viewer’s emotions through all sorts of enchantments and, thus, create a truly unique image at any moment of viewing.”

“So… this is what my emotions look like?” I questioned.

The woman laughed. “No, no, it didn’t quite work out for her. It became stuck, you see; the arcanist couldn’t get the magic quite right, and it’s always in the same mode of emotion.”

“Huh. And what emotion is that?”

“You tell me,” she prodded. “How do you feel about it?”

“It’s… big?” I offered, shrugging helplessly.

“Yes, and…?”

“And what is this, a test or something?” I snapped back. “I told you I don’t know about magic.”

“Hush, now,” she chided me, “we’re in a private gallery. Does the painting make you angry?”


“The painting. Does it make you angry, or perhaps irritated?”

“No, it doesn’t. You’re doing a fine job of it, though.”

She laughed again and put a hand on my shoulder in the most posh and annoying way; like we were friends, or like we had to be, because of how rich she obviously was. I could just hear it in the tone of her vowels.

“You’re funny,” she said.

“You’re strange,” I replied.

“And the painting?”

Right. That. My eyes went up and down its height, scanning the few imperfections, changes in texture, strokes of pale color… “It’s boring,” I decided.

“Really? Why do you say so?”

“Because it’s just… that.” I thrust a hand out towards the wall of white. “It’s blank,” I said.

“But it’s been painted,” she corrected me. “Enchanted. It’s baked with emotion. Art is all about communicating emotion, after all.”

“But there’s nothing to look at. No landscape, no portrait, no houses or women in hats or men in funny clothes.”

“But you’ve been looking at it for… how long has it been?”


“How long has it been?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Five minutes?” That seemed too short. “Ten?” Still too short. “An hour?” Was that too long? “Two hours?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“I just want to know,” she whispered, her voice as smooth and sweet as a sultry barmaid’s bare back, “how long have you been staring?”

“Well, I don’t remember,” I muttered.

“What about when you sat down?”

“I don’t remember.” Something in my skull felt strange, a fog like I’d been drinking.

“What about when you wandered into this wing?”

“I don’t remember.” Why was I saying that? Of course I could remember, it was right after I was talking to the girl, which was...

“What about when you entered this gallery?”

“I don’t remember.” That was after we… where were we? We must have been in a tavern. I’m just drunk. That explains it.

“What do you remember?”

“... I don’t…” But were we? Was I?

“Do you know what the painting is?”

“... uh…” I didn’t have the happy buzz, so maybe...

“Do you know what ‘oblivion’ means?”

I really didn’t know that. And I think she could tell, because I couldn’t say anything to it.

“Let’s take it slow,” she giggled. “Where are you?”

“In an art gallery.”

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to—” Her hands squeezed on both my shoulders, and I felt a shudder zapping up my spine. I leaned a little closer. “Staring at art.”

“How does it make you feel?”



“Like I’m drunk, but I’m…”

“You’re not drunk. You’re perfectly coherent. You’re just feeling forgetful.”


“You’re feeling a bit oblivious.”


“And this painting, don’t you think it’s maybe got a bit of oblivion?”


“And you know that the painting is magical.”


“And if it’s a painting of oblivion, that must be why you’re forgetting, yes?”


“So, you can’t remember why you’re here.”


“And you can’t remember why you’re staring.”


“And you can’t remember why you’re feeling forgetful.”


“Fascinating,” she whispered. Her voice sounded so intrigued, and her hands kept dancing over my elbows and fingers. “Do you want to know?”

“Do I…” My voice sounded so flat, compared to hers.

“Do you?”

“... uhh…” Lifeless. Empty.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Her hand stroking excitement over my warming cheek. “You forgot again, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” So blank. Like the painting.

“What did you forget this time, dear?”

“I forget.” So empty. Like...

“You forget what you’ve forgotten?”

“Yes.” So blank.

“And you forgot what you forget?”

“Yes.” So empty.

“And how do you feel about the piece?”

“I forget.”

“Because the painting makes you feel…?”

“So blank. So empty.”

“Mmm… again, for me?”

“So blank. So empty.”

“Let me hear that again”

“So blank. So empty.”

“The painting makes you forget, yes?”


“And I help you to remember, yes?”


“So remember this: you stopped staring at the painting five minutes ago.”

I blinked, then. Because I thought I’d just be seeing white, but instead I was blinded by green. Gray hair. Two eyes. A fiery dress straddling me from my lap. Two hands encircling her breasts.

Teklanaya. That was her name. That’d been her name the entire time, how could it have slipped my mind?

As soon as her words reached my ears, I knew how. “You’ve been staring at me.”

“Yes.” My mouth was dry.

By the seventh syllable I had already forgotten it again. “And that makes you forget.”

“Yes.” My breath came a little faster.

“And why do you stare?”

“Because you’re gorgeous.” The words just float free.

“And why are you here?”

“To stare at you.” I didn’t mean to say them...

“And before that?”

“To stare at a painting.” But I didn’t have to mean to say them.

“And before that?

“To go on a date with you.” I still said them.

“And after that?”

“To sleep with you.” They were still true.

“And how many times have we done this?”


“And how many times have you begged for it?”

“Twenty-six.” I moaned.

“Begged for me to make you forget again, bring you somewhere new, and make you forget again?”

“Twenty-six.” My hands were on her chest.

“And how many times have I taken something, something like a painting, twisted it in a way you never would, you never could expect?”

“Twenty-six.” My hips were twisting against hers.

“It wasn’t even magical,” she giggled, “there never was a sorcerer, never was a spell of oblivion. There was just you, and just me, and just how easily you fall into the words that I whisper. Even when they’re as nonsensical as an arcanist creating art. And how many times have you taken me home, on these twenty-six little trips of ours?”

“Twenty-five.” My lips were pressed flush to hers, kissing, licking, making her moan in the way I remember that only I can. In the way that only a forgetful lover with a foggy mind and a pretty dress does.

“Good. So good.” She stroked through the curls of my hair, enjoying my passion until I moved to do more than kiss. “Not here,” she chuckled, “it may be a private gallery, but it’s not that private.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Forgot?” Her whole face was like a knife. Edged, like the shape of her jaw. Gleaming, from the purity of her skin. Slender, the cheekbones. Graceful, her makeup. Sharp, in the corners of her lips and the light in her eyes and the points of her ears.

I just nodded. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was.

She took both my hands, brought me up, licked the trail of drool off my chin, felt my shudder. “Just follow me, now. And every ten steps, you can forget where we’re going. And every ten more, you can remember what we’re doing. And the rest of the time… you can just stare.”

I can’t remember if I agreed. But when remembering what came after… I like it better that way.

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