The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In an enjoyable moment of quiet, the Artist bestows some of her knowledge upon a young girl. She finds the girl’s desire to be an artist intriguing, and gives her more than the skill to draw and paint.

The Fruit of Power

As she was roused from sleep the following morning, the Artist was surprised to find a young girl intently staring at her. The girl—twelve or thirteen, she couldn’t tell—looked exactly like Brown, if only smaller.

“Who’s making breakfast?” She asked, softly as to not wake anyone. She had slightly slanted, greyish eyes.

The Artist stirred and looked to the other side of the bed, where Brown slept soundlessly and deeply. A lopsided grin painted the Artist’s face as she recalled their adventures of the night. After a long instruction into the art of dildoing, after the long bike ride, and after the insurmountable peaks of pleasure the Artist taught her to surpass, the amateur sportswoman must’ve been exhausted. The Artist stroked Brown’s cheek and decided to give her short-lived lover one last favour before slipping out of her life forever.

“I will.” She said, turning towards the girl.

The younger version of Brown—who the Artist named Vermilion—smiled broadly; she didn’t seem the least phased by a strange woman sleeping with her mother.

The Artist started rising, but seeing no movement from the girl she stopped. “Hmm... may I have some privacy?” She asked.

“Mommy never covers herself when I am around.” She said, matter-of-factly.

The Artists smiled, wondering if it was simple love for being naked or something more devious that prompted Brown to let her child see her flesh.

“Well, unlike Mommy, I am a bit embarrassed when people see me.” The Artist whispered, not being entirely dishonest.

“Mommy says you shouldn’t be embarrassed of your body.”

“Mommy is right,” The Artist said a bit annoyed. “But I want privacy. Now, go to the kitchen. I’ll be there in a minute.”

That made the little girl turn around and briskly get out of the room.

Sighing, the Artists soundlessly slipped out of bed, then stood and slipped an intruder out between her legs. She looked for her clothes, but remembered that they had ridden themselves of the coat somewhere in the hallway in a fit of passion. The Artist instead decided to raid Brown’s closet. She found a pair of jeans that fit her, but was unable to find any long-sleeved garment save Brown’s tight biking spandex shirt. It’ll do. The Artist thought as she slipped into the tight, tight garment. She was a couple of sizes bigger than Brown, and thus the shirt fitted her as if a second skin.

Quickly the Artist walked down into the kitchen.

She found Vermillion silently playing with around with some paper and colouring pencils and her heart soared. A child showing inclination for art! What a wonderful sight. The Artist suddenly felt a rush of energy and delight.

She looked around the kitchen, examining it. Silently she walked towards the refrigerator, smiling at Vermillion.

“What would you like?” She said, amiably.

Vermillion kept scribbling and doodling half-human shapes. Without raising her eyes, the little girl answered: “I want eggs. And fruit. I like fruit.”

“All right!” The Artist said and started preparing a meal. Of all the skills she had, the Artist considered cooking to not be amongst them. But boiled eggs and a bowl of fruit didn’t seem too difficult. A clank of pots, a rush of water, the chopping of a knife, and the clatter of glass. The Artist sat down across Vermillion as the water started to boil and the fruit salad cooled down in the fridge.

“What are you drawing?” The Artist said, recognizing basic tree-like shapes and rocks on the child’s paper.

Vermillion smiled. “A forest.”

There was a prolonged silence as the Artist looked at the girl work. She had talent, that was for sure, and skills. Like every nascent artist, Vermillion lacked instruction and someone to point out the fallacies of how our own brains interpret the world.

“You know, I can draw too.” The Artist added suddenly,

This brought out a wide-eyed grin from Vermillion. She stopped drawing and seemed to stare at the strange woman for the first time. “You do?” She said, cautiously, as if used to being lied to. The Artist had to congratulate the kid on her healthy use of distrust. Similar doses had kept the Artist alive and sane for the many, many years of her existence.

“I can show you.”

Vermillion didn’t say anything more. She pushed a clean sheet of paper and some crayons towards the Artist. She looked at the tattooed woman with a sudden glare of admiration. Thee water started to boil and six eggs were drowned with a quick flick of the tattooed woman’s wrist.

The Artist sat back down and took the sheet. “What would you like me to draw?” In her hand was a dark green crayon. Eighty percent blue. Twenty percent yellow. Specks of charcoal black. Texture appropriate, horrible weight. Wrapping is useless. Stains fingers. Careful. The information reached her brain before she could realise what she was holding. A look, a touch, and she knew everything there was to know about the crayon.

“Draw a cave.” The girl giggled and pulled her knees against her chest. She was smiling broadly.

The Artist smiled. “I can draw more than just a cave. Actually, I can teach you how.” A pause. “Would you like to learn how to draw a cave?”

The little girl nodded.

Robotically the Artist’s head lolled down to look at the paper. She stared at it, visualising, thinking, imagining. A mental image formed, appearing as if an ancient film projected against the page. She raised her hand, the tip of the crayon kissed the blank sheet.

What followed was beautiful. Her hands moved on their own, fluidly, ghost-like. Scratches, straight lines, curved lines, light traces and heavy traces. She used the dark green crayon, then a red crayon, and then a brown crayon. Colour and shape took place simultaneously, shadows and light soon following. Heavy traces on the top most places; light, fading ones on the lower places. Simple shapes that turned complex and lifelike when the shadows and light played on their bodies.

From her twisted imagination to her arm the images flowed. From her twisted imagination to her lips the instructions took shape. The Artist moved, naturally, magically, and she explained to the little Vermillion.

Staring from afar one would see two persons completely, utterly transfixed upon a piece of page. Deep breaths, careful blinking. They were in a Trance, powerful. The Artist only drew and only instructed. Vermillion only listened and only learned.

The techniques that had taken the Artist and her mentors before her years if not centuries to master and then perfect flew out of her in a clear litany. It was a perfect lecture. And Vermillion absorbed it all.

Finally the drawing was done. Looking at the image one could swear it was a window into a real cave. Water seemed to move in pools, shapes seemed to move, shadows stirred. It was art. It was beauty.

“Now try and draw something.” The Artist said, giving Vermillion a sheet of paper and her crayons.

Vermillion smiled. “Oh, I will draw a truck!” She squealed in delight and entered a Trance of her own.

She learns quickly. The Artist thought and rose to attend the eggs. When the Artist placed a bowl of fruit salad on the table and the eggs on a plate, Vermillion had finished with her drawing.

The giggling girl showed the Artist a leap in skill that would’ve otherwise taken years to accomplish. Although the truck didn’t look as lifelike as the Artist had hoped, it was a massive improvement. She had taught the girl about perspective, about shadows and shapes, and how to simplify what she presented on paper. The Artist didn’t know if to feel proud or giddy.

At that moment the Artist noticed Brown coming down the stairs. She was dressed for a short bike ride, and her steps were wobbly, her breathing ragged, her look one of lustful mindlessness. Without looking at anything, or worrying about anything, the Tranced woman left.

The Artist, grinning widely at her work, turned to Vermillion. “Say, do you like what you just drew?”

The girl nodded vigorously. She was ecstatic, happy, and proud. The advancement she had taken! How good it felt to improve. “I do. I really do! Thank you, miss.”

The Artist started serving breakfast for the child. “What if I told you I could teach you something else?”

The little girl nodded as a slice of watermelon disappeared in her mouth.

The Artist pulled up her sleeves and showed, with a spectacle of dancing wrists, her tattoos to the little girl. In a second Vermillion was deep in a trance.

“I am going to teach you how to hypnotise with art.” The Artist whispered and did just that.

* * *

When Brown returned from her bike ride she was nearing a climax. Every step she took was a slap of heat deep into her core. Each step was a mistress she wanted, needed to surrender to. But she couldn’t, because she didn’t know how to find that mistress. She could feel the intruder inside, could feel it moving with every step, but she ignored its existence. It was as if a ghost lover of the past was pistonning her insides. She had no idea nor cared as to why and what. Brown simply did as she had been commanded.

She walked to the kitchen, ate an egg and some fruit, and then walked into the living room. The sexy lady she had picked up yesterday was sitting on the floor, drawing and apparently teaching her daughter something. There were papers and images all over the place. Brown frowned at the mess, but then smiled at a surge of pressure inside her and at the happy expression of her daughter.

With wobbly steps she walked up to the two girls.

“What are you two up to?” She asked in a husky voice.

The Artist and Vermillion shared a look, and then grinned widely. “Why don’t you show mommy what you have learned?” The Artist told Vermillion.

“Alright.” Vermillion said, asked her mother to lean closer, and then showed her a picture that zapped the woman’s will and mind away.

Smiling broadly, The Artist stood, told the little girl goodbye, and left their now more interesting lives.