The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mistress Cleopatra da Vinci had no response. She had been so cocksure she was right. Both of them knew otherwise. There was no way for her to rescue her reputation on this point. Her metaphor had blown up in her face.

“But I was so.”

“You were so certain you could not be wrong,” he interjected.

“Yes.” This was the only thing she could say.

“Do you assume you are the only person I have ever encountered who thinks (though she plainly deserved it, he refused to say what his evil side urged him to) as you do?”

This was another item she had not considered. She had never before met anyone who could not see. Depending upon how long he had lived without sight, she speculated that he may have interacted with many kinds of sighted persons in various types of situations. She had also believed she knew far more about sightless people than any of them could possibly know about her. After all, she could see. Now, her certainty about some long held and deeply entrenched beliefs was not so stedfast, rock solid, and sure.

“I assumed so,” da Vinci responded.

“I am the only sightless person in my entire, extended family. Except for those individuals I met before any of my family members knew them, there are no blind persons amongst our familial friends and acquaintances. I was almost always the sole sightless person in any of my classes during my secondary school and collegiate education. I am usually the only nonsighted person wherever I travel. Before you imposed yourself upon me, how many blind people did you actually know?”

“None.”

“For how long have you lived without vision?” He intended the double-entendre.

“I have never been handica I mean blind.”

She had laid herself wide open for an obvious counterattack pertaining to her mental abilities. It was tempting to press the opening da Vinci presented to him. He, again, reluctantly restrained his killer instinct. “So then, the number of interactions you have had with sightless individuals is virtually, if not actually, nil. Yet, you firmly believe you are able to know that placing Braille markings on a drive-up ATM is overkill to the extreme, needlessly surrendering to the ridiculous demands of the political correctness movement, and the height of asininity. Do you also assume yourself to be in a position to render an informed opinion concerning the capabilities of those who do not see?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess, your logic goes along these lines. “Fact, I use sight to perform a given task T. Assumption, sight is required to carry out T. Conclusion, anyone who can not see can not do task T."”

“That is what I think.”

It was becoming intensely frustrating to forego so many opportunities to drive in the verbal knife past its hilt. “Your poor representation of reasoning is nothing more than specious sophistry. Sight is your primary sense. It is probably the only sense you were taught to use. I have heard estimates that between 60 to 80 percent of all the sensory data a sighted person processes is visually perceived. You are controlled by, nay, enslaved to, your precious vision. And you presume that you are capable of knowing whether or not a certain activity can be done by someone who can not see? And tell me, you who are not intellectually fit to bear the revered name of da Vinci, do you regard this as wisdom?” He put forth no effort to ameliorate or disguise his feelings. To him this contemptible creature was certainly and certifiably the crème de la crème of the coarsest kakistocracy.

“I will not be talked to like this,” she protested. As she spoke, she knew her statement consisted of only empty words.

“Then, go! twat, depart, and do not further waste my time, twit!” He used his cane to gesture toward the exit. “Cow!ward!”

Like Obi-Wan Kenobi using Qui-Gon Jin’s lightsaber to tare through the chest of Darth Maul, so Homer’s last word clave her ego and rent asunder her consciousness. She remained in her chair. She knew what her leaving would signify. She longed and sought to maintain her grasp on her dignity. She must find some way to best him. It was the only way.

“I am capable of knowing far more about you kind of people than any of you could possibly ever even hope to begin to learn about Me.”

“On what basis do you believe such a preposterous and foolish twiddle of drivel?”

“I can see and you can not.” After closing her eyes to provide herself a respite, something occurred to her. “I was blindfolded for one hour in an experiment for a graduate-level psychology class.”

“You have absolutely no idea how many times I have heard a sighted person say such a thing,” was his thought after her first sentence. He would have used a far more gentle approach, had she not been so egotistical, overconfident and imperiously overbearing. One who is self-classified as superior often interprets meekness shown by anyone who is categorized by the former as inferior as a sign of the latter’s capitulation to the formers greatness. Homer suspected, the self-designated Mistress, Cleopatra da Vinci subscribed to this premise. Being nice to someone of her clearly manifested mindset would only serve to encourage the retention, and perhaps stimulate the expansion, of her undesirable traits—if it had any effect on her at all. This pompous, pestilent, pedantically pedagogical, puerile, pretentious, pestiferous, pedestrian pretender to, the pale of puissance and, the potency of a perceptive psyche must be conspicuously and completely crushed. Until her shell of presumption and arrogance was cracked, the hammer of darkness was the only suitable means of successfully dealing with such a one as her. He knew this from experience. Only after she had been broken and was willing to acknowledge the same could she be ministered to with tenderness.

He had no delusions of grandeur. He was cognizant of most of his faults. One of these was his temper. During his exchange with this woman, he, for the most part, had managed to rein it in. This time it was not to be. That last sentence she uttered finally sent him over the edge, rattled his cage once too often, and pressed his hot button for the last time. Enough was enough. In his heart he could feel Darth Vader’s disgust with Admiral Ozzel’s clumsiness and stupidity. In his mind he did picture military nuclear scientist Dr. Bruce Banner’s metamorphosis into his verdant-complexioned, brutish, violent, and destructive alter ego. The time had come for the dark side to be unleashed.

“You are as arrogant as you are ignorant; as presumptuous as you are preposterous; and as inconceivable as you are insufferable. You were blindfolded for one! whole! entire! hour! Hurrah, hurray, and congratulations unto thee. This, of course, makes you the foremost expert on living without sight. I have never seen anything in all my years of life on Earth. You, on the other hand, actually had to endure the most grievous hardships, torments, sufferings, agonies, deprivations, and tortures of being without vision, in a perfectly safe and completely controlled environment, for 60, count them 60, minutes. How could I, or all blind persons put together, know as much about sightlessness as you do? Suppose the sum Toto of all blind people’s knowledge about blindness was compared to that which you know. It would be like matching a single hair pluckt from an electron’s eyebrow to the mass of all extant and theoretical universes. You have spent far more time sleeping than you did behind that blindfold. Are you, therefore, knowledgeable about what it is like to journey beyond the veil of life? Because you have been unconscious, are you the cornucopia of esoterica concerning that which is hidden within the vale of death? Sooooooo, you can see. Wow!!!“‘ Your eyes really work. What an amazing, astounding, astronomical accomplishment. Your optical receptors are functional. Did you receive the Nobel Prize for your heretofore unheard of and unspeakably unparalleled achievement? You have the glorious gift of sight. So does a cock!roach!” Each word was infused with the vitriolic venom of sarcasm.

How dare he diminish and demean her precious gift of sight! He had publicly placed her on the same footing as those disgusting, six-legged vermin. She could not allow him to go unpunished. Spewing a stinging series of searing swear words would not be sufficient. She must show, once and for all and for all to see, her greatness. She would prove she was his superior. She would not deign to condescend to even think of herself as the mistress of anything like the it seated across from her. She collected her thoughts, then jabbed her finger in his direction. “I would never date anyone who looks even half as ugly as you do on your best possible day. I wouldn’t even be seen in public with any troglodyte like you. You are a son of a misbegotten jackanapes and the offscouring from the Untouchable Caste of the Yahoos. A disemboweled, disintegrated neutrino couldn’t be submerged in your carnal knowledge pool nor balanced on the entirety of its desiccated, mortified, torpid physical manifestation.”

Homer was silent for some time. Tears started to fall from his eyes. “You stupid bitch!” he sniffled several times. “I hate! you!” He could not perceive the victorious smile her countenance displayed. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and gently wiped his face. “I wish you! were! dead!” He picked up his cane and forcefully struck the table. Only someone livid with unabashed fury and seething with murderous rage could show forth such an expression as that which was seen on Homer’s visage. Any sighted person would have known anxiety now flooded her soul. “I’ll kill!” He burst out laughing. “I can’t keep this up.” He dropped his face in his hands. “So what do we have here? A woman in whom I have expressed no interest thinks I am ugly. Woe is me! Woe! is me! What is there to live for? “To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?” “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt ..."” For a second time his laughter came forth. “Someone, who does not even know my name, has belittled my manliness, and my manhood. I shall never again experience the sensual touch of a woman. Shall I become a misogamist—correction a misogynist? Is it time for me to try the other side of the street and come out of the closet? Could this rejection by someone I do not desire in the least be a sign that I am meant to take my vows of poverty, obedience, and celibacy? Yea, verily, confusion doth reign within the boiling bowels of my tortured soul. O to embrace that sacred and blissful peace and the sacrosanct purity of oblivion that cometh after I have shuffled off this wretched mortal coil! Should I search for that manual on Hara-kiri? Why are you so intrigued by something which does not concern you?” For a third time he laughed at her. With some difficulty he, at length, composed himself. “I have learned two things about you. First, you are a comedienne without peer. Second, you are such a liar.”

Mistress Cleopatra da Vinci felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She was enraged. She knew he had thwarted her desire and need for conquest. Mistress da Vinci scowled at him. She was humiliated. She was aware he had snatched another victory from beyond the chitterlings of defeat. Cleopatra’s eyes showed forth the emotions of anger, embarrassment, fear, and confusion warring within her. She sensed his first reactions to her insults had been play acting. She clenched her hands into fists. She yearned for some kind of retribution. Even a reprieve would be sufficient. She was certain he was merely toying with her now. She was meticulously scrupulous about her honesty. She would not let his misrepresentation and assailing of her character go unchallenged. “What do you mean by calling Me a liar?”

“You said you would never be seen in public with someone as ugly as you say I am. Unless you can make yourself invisible, rather than simply lacking an umbra as doth the ancient, evil, and parasitic Transylvanian nobleman thou callest thy overlord—I speakest of none save he who is also called, ‘Tepes’ or “the impaler”, you are being seen sitting with me as we speak. In the best case scenario, you are inaccurate. In the worst case scenario, you are a liar.”

“You have not, and will never, have any kind of relationship with anyone as attractive as I am. On a scale of one to ten I am a 54.40″ She determined he would never know how that number was connected to her physical appearance.

He withdrew from his case a talking notetaker possessing a Braille display and a braillewriter-style keyboard. He surreptitiously turned up the volume control before he began to write. Anyone within earshot could very clearly hear the letters as they were entered. The machine said, “m i s t r e s s c l e o p a t r a d a v i n c i a t t r a c t i v e n e s s l e v e l m i n u s f i f t y f o u r p o i n t f o u r z e r o” and nothing else. He saved the information in a file, closed down the device, and returned it to its place.

“What was that all about?” she demanded.

“Oh, did you hear that?” he inquired.

“Yes, I did. I’m not deaf! What do you mean by giving Me a rating of minus fifty-four-point-four-zero?”

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to eavesdrop on people’s talking notetakers or computers?” he inquired reprovingly.

“No! And don’t try that trick of attempting to change the subject. How can you give Me such a low rating? Come to think of it, how can you evaluate My looks at all? You can’t even see!”

“My blindness is precisely the reason you received your proper score. Many people who see believe the following statement is true. “I can tell a blind person anything I want to. Because that individual cannot see, this person must believe whatever I say.” This attitude is sometimes a topic of conversation when I talk to my other blind friends. We also discuss other examples of sighted person presumption or weirdness. Suppose I know, or even suspect, the aforementioned assumption is to any extent the basis of a seeing person’s report to me concerning the level of someone’s attractiveness. My assessment of the evaluated person’s physical appeal will be reduced in accordance with the following two formulae. If the evaluated individual’s attractiveness is declared to be within the range of a given scale, then that individual’s assessment is divided in half. If the evaluated person’s appeal is said to be above the uppermost limit of a given scale, then that individual’s assessment is multiplied by the quantity i—which is also known as the square root of negative one.”

“But, you can’t do that. You can’t even see.”

“Exactly how are you in any position to tell me what I can and can not do?”

“Because.” The word was out of her mouth, before she had given any thought to his question. She had no relationship with this man. How was it her province to tell him what he could or should not think? There was no connection between them. From his perspective, why should he ascribe any importance to her or to any of her opinions? Mistress Cleopatra da Vinci determined she would be the only human being who would ever know she had pondered such questions.

If she stayed stoically silent, she suspected he would press her for an answer. “No comment,” she grumbled grudgingly.

“Indeed. I will give you credit for one thing. You fascinate me greatly!”

She was flummoxed, flabbergasted, and floored. Considering his statements, the kinds of questions he asked her, and the tone manifested in his pithy diatribes his most recent admission was the last thing she had expected to here. “Why?” was the only word she could clearly enunciate.

“You may hold the answer to a riddle wrapped in an enigma which is surrounded by a conundrum.”

“Which one is that?”

“As it is with everyone, you know yourself better than you know anyone else. We are aware of the depth of your knowledge pool with respect to blind people. Please open and illuminate the eyes of my mind by revealing the answer to this query. How can Mistress da Vinci possess such a dearth of self-awareness and, yet, believe you have an overflowing cornucopia of expertise when it comes to those who are different from you in a very fundamental way—specifically, blind people?”

“I know.”

He cut off her response. “Not nearly so much as you suppose, da Vinci to the ith power.”

“Prove! it!” she sneered combatively.

“How long have you resided in Southern California?”

“All of My life.”

“Who is Rodney King?”

“What kind of an idiotic simpleton was he?” she wondered. A caustic remark was on the tip of her tongue. An augur nudged at the back of her mind. She had underestimated him before. It would be wise to proceed circumspectly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Perhaps. But, for the sake of discussion, who is he?”

“The African-American motorist whose beating by some law enforcement personnel in 1991 was videotaped and shown around the world.”

“Correct. Rodney King was arrested and beaten on March 3rd, 1991. In February of that year, there was an incident in which two unarmed, Samoan brothers were shot and killed by a police officer in Compton, California. Can you name either, or both, of these brothers?”

She lowered her eyelids and searched her memory. In her opinion, this was becoming a bit thick. How was he able to come up with questions like this one? Why did he test her over and over? Where had her confidence gone? When would he relent and acknowledge her superiority to him? What compelled him to mercilessly probe her memory, mental processes, and attitudes? Who would bring his excruciating inquisition of her to an end? She had no answer to his query.

He seemed to sense her burgeoning disinclination to answer his question. This time, he would not let her off the hook. “You can not name either of these brothers?” She continued to say nothing. “Is it your belief that one person who is beaten is of more significance than two people who are dead?”

“No.”

“Why then can you not name either of these brothers? Your access to printed materials, such as newspapers and magazines, is far greater than mine. I was aware of what happened to these two brothers and of what transpired with regard to Rodney King. Why did you not know about both of these incidents? After all, you can! see! and I can! not!” His emphasis of certain words was calculated.

She had no adequate reply. Again he had turned her thoughts against her. “Why do you believe My sight enslaves Me?”

He recognized her tactic. She was desperately attempting to steer the conversation to another subject. She wanted to put him on the defensive. He was cognizant of her reason for resorting to this strategy. Her ploy would be successful. He would answer her query. Much to her regret.

“I have already told you most of your sensory information is visual. Most of the skills you were taught were presented to you in a primarily visual way. Written communication, identification of objects, most if not all scholastic subjects, homemaking, grooming, personal hygiene, and any industrial arts training you may have are but a few examples. Your family gave you pictorial descriptions or showed you still pictures, videotapes, or home movies when they wanted to acquaint you with familial friends or other relatives. It is highly unlikely that they would give you solely audio recordings. Rarely, if ever, did they describe the voice of the person they desired you to recognize. Correct me if anything I have said is erroneous.”

Integrity demanded she admit he was accurate. She grudgingly did so. She had not considered any of the possible ramifications of approaching this stranger. She fervently yearned to take her leave. Mistress Cleopatra da Vinci silently pleaded with the cosmos or its Creator(s) or both for LADY MESMER’S swift return.

LADY KRYSTAL MESMER was joyously jubilant SHE had overridden HER initial impulse to intervene. SHE took note that SHE was not the sole spectator of what was transpiring between Mistress Cleopatra da Vinci and Mr. Homer Teeter Herreshoff. SHE smiled broadly. SHE was acquiring a wealth of useful knowledge about and wisdom from HER sightless and sagacious subject. SHE was deliciously delighted by his interactions with this underdeveloped, unsophisticated, unprofessional, haughty, headstrong, hapless hypno-domme. Someone of her ilk, barring some radical and positive changes in her personality or character or both, would most assuredly and certainly give KRYSTAL’s career choice, art, and science a very, very distastefully foul name.

“Why do you have difficulty dating men who are much shorter than your height?”

“Because.” The disturbance in her psyche was rapidly growing in strength. She wondered if he was telepathic? “How did you know?”

“In this way you are like most of your sighted sisters. Now, answer my question.”

“I am not attracted to short men.”

“The question is why?”

He was prying into her innermost thoughts and feelings. This she would not allow. Her pride and the desire for self-preservation kicked in. Who did he think he was? She would irrefutably prove, to one and all, he was not so knowledgeable as he assumed he was. “I suppose you know My reasons for My preference for tall men?” She sneered as she posed this query.

“Perhaps. I am almost certain I know at least one reason for your preference. There are three elemental reasons for a person’s desire for a particular aesthetic trait. The significance of any of them is probably incognito to you.”

“Put your money where your overconfidence, your over-inflated ego, and your underdeveloped faculties reside.”