The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Anyone under the age of 18, along with anyone offended by stories of a sexual nature or containing sexual situations or offended by the idea of mind control in any fashion, please do not read this story.

The people and events in this story are fictional and do not represent anyone or anything from real life.

If you enjoyed this story, please be aware that I write under the name Dark Wynd as well as the name Chrystal Wynd.

* * *

Synopsis: Welcome to The Electric Raven, where anything can happen and usually does.

* * *

Note—This was an entry in KhakiAchilles’ April 2019 contest—‘Ka-Ka Land’.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I turned off the main street and started walking down the alley.

I was in downtown Chrystal Heights, but this alley could have been anywhere. Different colored neon lights blinked above doorways and on signs jutting above the narrow alley, advertising various businesses and services. The types of businesses and services one uses a neon lit doorway in an otherwise dark alley to enter.

I found the doorway I was looking for easily enough. I passed through the door and walked into The Electric Raven.

Inside was somewhat better lit, but only slightly. Track lighting made some areas fairly bright, but there were a host of darkened corners and nooks where one could sit relatively unobserved. If one wished, of course. Tables of different sizes were placed haphazardly, with no particular order to them. Old couches sat here and there, along with the occasional loveseat. Quotes, graphics and artistic images covered the walls. In one corner was a small slightly raised deck with a single dim spotlight shining on a microphone stand with a stool next to it.

I paused for a moment. The Electric Raven was more environment than bar. It was smoky heat and neon mystery. Where the quiet and dangerous shared drinks with the casually intense. Where the lost and malevolent played darts with the virtuous and forbidden. A door between the known and unknown. A fun place to drink, but only if you knew the score.

I glanced around. It was a typical night at The Electric Raven, if such a thing existed. A group of Hell’s Choir bikers were gathered around a table, singing show-tunes in Latin. A 19th-century British safari hunter played backgammon with a dwarf wearing a ballerina outfit. An eight-foot tall man wearing a loincloth and covered with tattoos debated Nietzsche with an unspeakably beautiful succubus, her pointed tail punctuating her assertions. A female ninja, barely visible in the smoky shadows, shared laughs and hair tips with a bearded transvestite. A live marionette twirled about the dance floor, her unseen strings manipulated by unseen hands, as she danced to the music from a mime’s air-guitar performance.

Everyone was welcome at The Electric Raven and questions weren’t asked.

So it was a quiet night. I strolled by the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Evening, Craig.”

Craig was polishing an already-clean glass. He nodded back. “Elliot. ‘Ow’s tricks, mate?”

I tossed a pretzel to the gremlin next to the cash register. His name was Dexter. Then I gave Craig a non-committal thumbs up and headed toward my favorite corner.

The mime left the stage, replaced by an intense-looking man who didn’t blink enough. The man stepped up to the microphone and paused. Then he started speaking:

“The power to change;

the strength to not change.

They are the Originals.

The battle between Good and Evil continues;

light and dark conflict.

The teachers teach, but who watches the watchers?

They are the Originals.”

The man turned and exited the stage without waiting for the smattering of applause his poem had generated. The low buzz of conversation resumed.

I continued making my way toward my table. As I got there, however, I was stopped.

She was dressed in tight clothing, her lush curves packaged perfectly, with all the right parts on display. From her blue-dyed hair to her manicured bare red toes, she was pure heat. She gave me a smile that offered all kinds of promises.

“Hi,” she said, her fingers playing with my shirt. “My name is Kiki.”

“Hi, Kiki,” I said, feeling the heat racing to my already thickening cock. “What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to say hi,” she said, pressing closer to me, letting me smell her delightful perfume. “Maybe we could get to know each other a little, you know?”

I nodded, offering a foolish smile. “That sounds great.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her bare belly close to mine. “Maybe we could even have some fun.”

I smiled. She was good. My dick was ready to burst out of my pants. But she was too inexperienced to close the deal this time. Particularly against someone like me.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “Fun is good. So let’s have some fun.”

And then I turned her power against her.

Kiki’s eyes widened and her cheeks suddenly flushed. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. Her nipples were hard, thick erasers pressing out against the stretchy tightness of her top. She placed her palms on my chest, then slowly dropped to her knees in front of me.

Her face was inches from my bulging zipper. I smiled as the heat-bunny struggled internally between rational thought and overwhelming physical need.

Physical need won out, as I knew it would. Red nails found my zipper, pulled it down, allowing my rigid cock to spring free, nearly slapping Kiki in the face. Unable to help herself, she slid her warm, wet mouth over my cock.

I smiled, enjoying the wave of pleasure generated by Kiki’s firmly-wrapped lips stroking over my dick. No doubt the patrons of The Electric Raven were enjoying the show and Kiki was dying of embarrassment, but Kiki couldn’t have stopped working my cock any more than she could have grown a second head. All she could do was see it through to the end.

This being Chrystal Heights, people are occasionally born with some random abilities. These abilities can take different forms. Sometimes that form is the ability to amplify someone else’s arousal to extreme levels. In males, it’s often found in Alphas and will usually result in any number of swelled bellies in their wakes. In females, it’s pretty much an amplification of a female’s natural ability.

Of course, some women try to use it as Kiki did. Give a man a rock-hard dick, promise him pure bliss and get him in private. The man’s so revved up by the time the woman actually touches him, he absolutely explodes and then passes out from the amplified intensity. The woman then helps herself to the contents of his wallet and makes her way home. It works on women as well, but men tend to be easier and far more predictable marks. These women are usually referred to as heat-bunnies and are typically found in alleys or bars like The Electric Raven.

It’s an easy way to make quick money and it’s not even illegal. Just another social peril to be aware of in Chrystal Heights. But as Kiki was learning, it was only fun until you run into somebody who can turn it around on you.

Blue hair bobbing, Kiki’s mouth continued stroking over my shaft. She wasn’t bad, just inexperienced. To be fair, of course, it was unlikely she ever had to go this far with any of her marks. With her ability to raise a man’s arousal to maximum levels, a stroke or two with her hand would be enough to leave her mark snoring. It was even possible she was giving her first blowjob ever.

By using her power on me, she had given me the ability to use it on her. Being a power mirror, with the ability to reflect one’s power back at them, made it easy. And now I decided to turn her arousal all the way to maximum as I filled her mouth with my semen.

She moaned around my cock, making me explode harder and longer. Her throat worked as she helplessly swallowed my seed, my throbbing dick not giving her a moment to catch her breath. Her orgasms would likely have been shrill had my cock not been in her mouth.

After what had to be endless moments for Kiki, my ejaculation finally slowed, then stopped. Whimpering, Kiki swallowed the last of my thick semen and finally slid her mouth off my cock. Still on her knees, she looked up at me with wide eyes, a hand on her full belly, breathing through her mouth.

Everyone in the immediate area applauded her efforts. Cheeks flaming, the heat-bunny leaped to her feet and fled.

I chuckled and sat down. Kiki had put me in a better mood.

“That was disgusting,” said a voice. “She should have beat your ass.”

I chuckled and said, “Hello, Tempest.”

Tempest was a five-and-a-half foot tall bundle of anger and bad intentions. She was dressed head-to-toe in black leather, denim and spikes, complete with black boots. Her arms were covered with sharp-lined tattoos and beaded bracelets that contained any number of hexes and protection spells, complementing the daggers strapped to her waist. Even her haircut was angry. What little hair she had, anyway, as her head was shaved almost completely smooth except for a two-inch wide strip of hair running from her forehead to the back of her head. All-in-all, she projected quite the intimidating picture.

She was also the waitress.

“Fuck you, Elliot,” she said. “I’m still not talking to you. What the hell do you want?”

I grinned. “You’re not still mad about that poker game, are you?”

Tempest glared at me. “You got me wasted on fucking Stoneberry Wine!”

I gave her an innocent look. “I thought you liked wine.”

“You know damn well Stoneberry Wine isn’t actually wine, dickhead! It’s fucking radioactive moonshine made to taste like wine! I couldn’t fucking walk for two days!”

“It actually made you likeable, Tempest,” I said. “Almost…adorable, you know? Especially afterward, when we—“

Tempest drew a dagger and pressed the point against my throat in the same movement. “Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Nobody knows about that, all right? Nobody! And it fucking stays that way or I stick this dagger right up your—“

Craig’s voice suddenly said, “Tempest!”

Tempest glared at Craig for a moment, then exhaled and sheathed her dagger. “Fine. What do you want?”

It seemed imprudent to make any more references to anything non-drink related. “Let me have a shot of Diamond Cutter.”

Tempest nodded, then turned and stalked away. I admired the way her hips moved, but I knew enough to keep my observations to myself.

* * *

A few minutes later, I was enjoying my drink in relative quiet. I entertained myself by listening to three men discuss their upcoming trip to San Francisco on their search for some artifact lost or hidden there in the ’40s. Not that that was unusual. Chrystal Heights was a common stop for those looking to buy or sell objects of power.

Then the lights dimmed and smoke began swirling around an unoccupied table in the middle of the floor. Still swirling, the smoke thickened, then thinned out and misted away. The lights regained their earlier intensity. Such as it was.

Left in the remnants of the smoke were two figures sitting at the table. Both were robed and hooded, one in black, the other in red. Between them sat what appeared to be an ancient chess board. The various pieces were intricately carved and spread about the board, as if in mid-game.

The figure in the black robes glanced around. No face could be seen in the darkness under the hood. The figure in black then nodded and a voice sounded from inside the hood. “Well chosen, old friend.”

The red-robed figure gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said. His voice, like the other, was low, but vibrant with power and knowledge, and it carried to all corners of The Electric Raven. “We are agreed then?”

The black-robed figure said, “Agreed.”

As the sound of the black-robed figure’s voice faded, a single red square appeared on the floor next to their table. The square expanded, growing larger, and then and other squares appeared, expanding from the original square. As the squares expanded, any chairs or tables in the way were simply moved by whatever unseen force was creating the checkered floor.

Soon a ten-foot by ten-foot chess board occupied the space next to the table, the squares alternating red and black. Both robed figures nodded their satisfaction.

“The battlefield is set,” said the figure in red. “Your move, old friend.”

At any other establishment, this would be considered extraordinary. But here at The Electric Raven, it was merely unusual.

The black-robed figure was silent for a moment. Then he moved a piece on the board and said, “Black knight attacks red rook.”

A swirl of smoke appeared on the black figure’s side of the chessboard. Then the smoke cleared, revealing a cute cheerleader with a sweet smile and evil eyes. There was a horse-head on the front of her sweater and the words “Go Knights!” embroidered on the back.

I glanced around. I recognized the cheerleader as one of a pair that had been discussing Emily Dickenson over shots of Jagermeister with a pair of nuns.

There was another swirl of smoke on the opposite side of the board. When the smoke cleared, a young woman stood in a paint-smeared smock, an easel standing in front of her.

“An art mage,” murmured the black-robed figure. “An interesting move, old friend.”

“I find your choice to be just as fascinating,” said the red-robed figure. “Shall we begin?”


And then the battle began.

The cheerleader leaped forward and launched into a complicated series of backflips and summersaults. She seemed to be moving in all directions at once. Then she suddenly shot forward directly toward the art mage.

The young woman had not been idle, however. Her paintbrush had been flying around the canvas at an incredible speed. The art mage suddenly stopped painting and reached out to touch the canvas. She made a single motion across the canvas just as the cheerleader’s attack arrived.

The cheerleader leaped forward, the blade of her foot extended. It struck a trampoline that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. The force of her attack caused her to rebound high in the air. She landed on the ground with a loud thud.

“She very nearly landed out of bounds,” said red robes.

“Nearly is not the same as did,” said black robes.

The art mage began working again on the now-blank canvas and the trampoline immediately faded away. The cheerleader struggled back to her feet. Then the art mage swiped across the canvas again.

Immediately a battery of missiles appeared on either side of the art mage. One-by-one, they began launching, directed at the cheerleader.

The cheerleader leaped, whirled and summersaulted over and around the missiles as they flew past here, striking an invisible wall at the far edge of the chessboard with low-grade explosions. The cheerleader continued her lithe display of acrobatics until the final missile passed. Then she stopped and began concentrating on the art mage.

The art mage began smiling. The more the cheerleader concentrated on the art mage, the bigger she smiled. Soon the art mage was humming a happy tune, seemingly in her happy place.

Everyone went silent, trying to understand what was happening. And then they understood.

The cheerleader was an empath.

The cheerleader was able to control emotions. It was a handy ability for a cheerleader to have, all things considered. And what she was doing now was using her ability to make the art mage happy. Very, very happy.

After all, artists typically drew from their angst, from their deepest emotions to create their art. By robbing the art mage of her angst, the cheerleader was draining the art mage of the fuel needed to power her ability. The cheerleader moved in to finish off the art mage.

But happiness itself can be an inspiration, and as the cheerleader leaped for the art mage, she suddenly found herself bouncing off a soft cloud that appeared between them. A cloud in the shape of the number 9.

Furious, the cheerleader narrowed her eyes. Once again she moved into the art mage’s emotions, pulling, pushing, shaping. And then she settled on her attack.

The art mage gasped as pure heat raced through her body. All other emotions fell to the side as pure lust burned through her. She could feel herself lubricating helplessly, her belly muscles trembling, jumping in need, the ache of need in her sex. She needed immediate satisfaction, needed relief now.

The cheerleader smiled and again moved in. The art mage’s brush suddenly flew over the canvas.

The cheerleader leaped up to strike the art mage a final blow, but she suddenly found herself dropping to the ground, bound from head-to-toe in layers of bondage items. The cheerleaders arms were behind her, forced into a long sleeve and tied together. Bondage straps were wrapped around her lush, athletic body, showing off her now bare breasts. Leather belts were wrapped around her legs and ankles, preventing her from moving. The cheerleader tried to protest, but the gag in her mouth prevented any sound.

Realizing her position, the cheerleader tried to focus, to move a new emotion in the art mage, but then a number of tentacles began molesting her. She squirmed and tried to roll free but, secured in place by the tentacles, the cheerleader was unable to stop the tentacles from penetrating her suddenly bare available orifices. The tentacle penetrating her pussy pulsed, appearing to be inseminating her. Her belly now swelling from the endless flow from the tentacle, unable to concentrate or escape, the cheerleader could only moan into her gag as she began to helplessly orgasm again and again.

The cheerleader’s strategy had been sound. She had miscalculated the depth and width of the art mage’s intense sexual fantasies, however.

Red robes said, “Well?”

Black robes sighed and removed a piece from the board. “Yield. Your point.”

The tentacles and bondage gear faded away. There were two swirls of smoke as the cheerleader and the art mage disappeared, apparently returned to where they had been when the robed figures began—or rather, continued—their match.

Red robes looked across the board. “I believe I now hold the advantage.”

Black robes said, “You do, but only at this moment. Your move.”

Red robes was silent for a moment. Then he moved a piece and said, “Red bishop attacks black rook.”

I watched the board, waiting to see who would appear. Then I smelled smoke and suddenly I was standing on the chessboard.

I blinked, taking a moment to get my bearings, waiting for the jolt of sudden teleportation to pass. Then, finally settled, I finally glanced across the board to see my opponent.

It was the female ninja I had seen earlier. I nodded amicably in her direction. I wasn’t sure how this would go, but it wouldn’t hurt to at least start off on a friendly basis.

I wanted to move around, get limbered up, but my feet were stuck to the floor. More specifically, they were stuck to the chessboard. From all appearances, the ninja’s feet were stuck as well.

Black robes said, “A good choice on your part.”

Red robes said, “And yours as well.”

“Shall we begin?”

“Indeed, old friend.”

And just like that, I could move my feet. I didn’t know what was going on, but it was time to take care of business.

It wouldn’t be easy, though. My opponent moved well, with good form and an economy of motion that suggested she was as good as the red robed figure obviously thought.

I put up my fists in a traditional boxing stance. I was extremely adept at a number of martial arts, but there was the possibility that my opponent was unaware of what I was capable of. I wasn’t going to give anything away I didn’t have to.

She moved toward me, feet making no sound on the floor. Then she leaped and twirled in the air, her foot flying toward my head from an unexpected angle.

I leaned forward, rather than back, and let her foot sail over my head. Then I pivoted on the ball of my foot, catching her with a whirling back-kick that knocked her back a foot. It was a solid kick, but she remained on her feet.

She snapped a front kick at me, which I blocked, and then another snap kick at me with the opposite foot, which I blocked as well. Then she dropped low and whirled, leg extended, trying to kick my legs out from under me. I leaped up, allowing her foot to pass under. She rolled away and got back to her feet in a single motion.

So far, so good, but I knew this exchange had simply been a test run. Ninjas were traditionally shadow warriors, not front-line brawlers. This arena did not play at all to my opponent’s advantage. She had needed to see what I could do. Satisfied she had my measure, It was now showtime.

I dropped into a fighting stance, as did my opponent. My opponent, however, suddenly backflipped away from me.

I paused for a moment, wary of tricks. My opponent rolled to her feet, her hands busy near the sash of her uniform.

And then her hands flashed and too late I realized the purpose of her backflip. She was putting distance between us. I leaped straight up and twirled on the axis of my hips in a desperate attempt to dodge the silver shuriken streaking toward me.

I was only partially successful. The first shuriken sailed past me and struck the invisible wall at the edge of the chess board. The second glanced along my shoulder, slicing open my sleeve and drawing blood. The third lodged in my thigh.

I landed on my feet and waited, but my opponent made no move. I pulled the shuriken from my thigh and hurled it at the ninja in one motion, but I was no master of the throwing star and my opponent easily evaded.

I didn’t bother looking at my wounds, both of which I knew were bleeding. There was little pain involved and what pain there was wouldn’t overly interfere with my movement. It wasn’t the pain that concerned me. It was the lack of pain.

Both wounds were numbing, or seemed to be numbing, and the sensations were moving away from the wounds. The shuriken had been coated with something. I had been drugged.

I clenched my teeth. I was going to have to finish this quickly if I was going to have any chance at all. I was going to have to do it the hard way.

My opponent backflipped and summersaulted toward me. I swung a blow timed to strike just as she arrived, but she leaped straight up over the telegraphed blow, twisted sideways and drove the side of her foot into my ribs.

I absorbed the force and rode the kick, allowing it to knock me back and give me some separation. The drug was affecting my reactions—that kick should never have gotten through—but I could already feel my enhanced immune system burning the drug out of my bloodstream.

She followed up with a series of strikes and blows. I blocked most of them, although enough got through to hurt me. I was using only blocks and re-directions at this point. The drug was taking full hold and my reactions had slowed to the point that I was using only the most basic protective and evasive maneuvers. And I made sure she knew it.

She began a new assault then and I weathered it the best I could, blocking what I could and absorbing what I couldn’t. My opponent maintained a steady attack, making sure not to over-extend or over-exert herself. She knew it was only a matter of time before attrition extracted its price.

My opponent finally tired of playing with me and she decided it was time. She launched her business attack.

I ducked under the initial kick and blocked the follow-up reverse-punch. Then I feinted a kick to her knee, shifted my hips and side-kicked her in the jaw.

She stumbled to the side, trying to recover, but I pivoted, whirled and back-kicked her in the mid-section and she tumbled back.

She shoulder-sprung from the ground and tried to launch a counter-attack, but it was too little, too late, and she knew it. My opponent may not have known about my body’s enhanced ability to burn drugs and neutralize poisons, but she had no doubt figured out by now that I had been feigning the worst effects of the drug and the advantage was now mine.

We exchanged a few more blows, then separated a moment to catch our respective breaths. And that’s when she reached into her sash and pulled out a small vial. She opened it and drank it before I could stop her.

And then she was inside my mind.

You have lost, her voice purred in my head. I could feel her thoughts, tendrils of her presence moving through the channels of my mind. I could feel her trying to take control of my limbs, to make me drop to my knees.

I don’t think so, I replied.

Your resistance is adorable, she said. Impressive, even. But now you’re mine.

Actually, I’m not, I said. And then I reflected her power back at her.

My opponent gasped as she felt herself suddenly evicted from my head. Then her eyes widened as she felt me moving through her mind as fluidly as she had moved through mine moments earlier.

She stumbled back a step, desperately trying to keep control of her body, but I was too deep. Against her will, her hands stripped off her ninja uniform, leaving her naked. She dropped to her knees, unable to stand, her lush body on display. Kneeling on the chessboard.

I glanced over at the robed players, looking for a sign. Black robes looked at red robes.

“Your point,” said red robes. He reached forward and removed a piece from the board. “Well played.”

Black robes nodded his head, accepting the compliment.

“An excellent round,” said black robes. “Shall we shift for the next turn now?”

“Indeed, old friend. The selection is yours.”

There was once again a swirling of smoke, circling around the table faster and faster until the players were completely obscured by the smoke. Then the smoke billowed out, encompassing me and the ninja. When the smoke cleared, the players were gone. So was the chessboard that had been under our feet.

I was out of the ninja’s mind now. The potion she had drunk to give her mind-control abilities had been short-lived. I locked eyes with her for a second to see if the battle was going to resume despite the lack of need now, but she gave a slight shake of her head. She saw no reason to continue either.

She got to her feet and walked to her pile of clothing. The fight was over for tonight, but I made a mental note to watch my back when she was around. She wasn’t likely to easily forget the embarrassing loss she had suffered at my hands.

I glanced over at the cheerleader, who was leaning back in her chair, moaning softly. Her belly was still heavily swelled from the inseminating tentacle. She was breathing carefully through her mouth.

I walked slowly back to my table. Tempest the waitress was there. She had a first-aid kit.

“C’mon, jerk,” she said, pointing to my still-bleeding shoulder and thigh. “Let’s get you patched up. I don’t feel like cleaning blood off the table.”

Conversation around us was already resuming. Now that the players were gone, everybody was ready to get back to drinking and scheming. Just another night at The Electric Raven.