The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Blake Warren is in Athens. People whisper as they pass him, recognizing his face. He is the world-renowned philanthropist, founder and co-president of the “Kynthia of Themiscyra Foundation”. The Foundation, his life’s work, is dedicated to helping the community of Amazons assimilate with the outside world. He has found the damsels in distress who needed his help, all 75,000 of them.

A large portion of Warren’s considerable fortune had gone into the Foundation, but over ten times that amount came from an anonymous source: “The Jovan Farmer Trust”. No amount of digging—and believe you me, Blake Warren knows how to dig—could expose the person or persons behind the huge trust. But the funds the trust had brought to bear were larger than any of the largest known individual or corporate pools of wealth by a significant margin.

Much of that funding had gone into legal expenses and paying off the huge back debt the city owed to the rest of Greece. The Foundation’s legal team had managed to cap the backlog of debt at one century, back to 1914, but even so the payouts had been staggering. In fact, most economists agreed that the “Themiscyra Reconciliation” had single-handedly lifted Greece out of a crushing recession.

As it turns out, Blake had just come from Themiscyra, a place that has become a second home, but this time was special. He had been there to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the “Death of the Morlocks”, always celebrated in Themiscyra as the “Martyrdom of Kynthia”. This year the keynote invocation had been given by Powerhouse, now in her first rotation as chair of the League of Heroes. She is the first female chair since Kynthia herself. Blake considers himself a hard, analytical man, but Sadie’s speech had made him cry like a little child.

He had been in good company at least. His friend and occasional lover, Kalliope Kynthiakos, “Kalliope of Kynthia”, had been sitting next to him, crying even more than he was. It was strange how they had recognized each other when they were introduced at the Foundation’s first meeting, ten years ago. He had taken one look at her and something beyond reasoning just clicked. Before he could edit himself he blurted out, “You were her best friend.” Without batting an eyelash, she returned volley, “So were you.” It was the beginning of something special.

Kalliope had lost so much weight over the years, and she looked more buff than ever. More the runner’s physique than the brawler’s now. “I’ve only got 70 years left, if I’m lucky,” she had said to him once, “I’m gonna savor every damned second of them. I owe it to her.”

Sad remembrances aside, it had been a banner year for the Foundation and for Themiscyra. Just a few months ago both the EU and the UN Security Council had finally given approval to recognize the city as a small constitutional monarchy wholly contained in Greece. In order to achieve that, the Amazons had to make major social changes, including accepting men as free and equal citizens. That became easier to sell to the Amazons than he was expecting in the early days. Scant days after the death of the Morlocks, and of poor Kynthia, Heracles showed up on Queen Hippolyta’s doorstep to make suit for her hand in marriage. The Amazons eventually learned to accept him as the father of Kynthia, and then as the husband of their beloved Queen. Almost as an entire nation, they forgave him—and by extension all men—for his crimes against the Amazons.

So the world at large was finally accepting Themiscyra and the Amazons and vice versa. Of course, other international organizations, most notably NATO and the International Olympic Committee, had recognized and befriended Themiscyra years ago, although both of those had been for transparently selfish reasons.

NATO, because the concentration of military wisdom in this place was clearly unsurpassed. Just as a small example, military analysts around the world were already pouring over Kalliope’s Dubai invasion plan. They could see that for years if not centuries to come, war colleges would teach the fine points of that plan the way that art colleges teach Piccaso and Michelangelo.

The IOC, because the Greek Women’s Olympic team was suddenly was cornering the market on gold, silver, and bronze. In fact, Greece came just short of demanding that the new nation continue to contribute its athletes to the Greek team. It has become a source of inspiration and pride for the small country that considers itself the true home is the Games. Greece is actually building it’s new Olympic Training Center in Themiscyra, ostensibly a foreign country.

So now the work of the foundation is winding down. It has been hard work, but well worth it. Blake’s secret life as a superhero had ended years ago. Now he can foresee the end of his public career as a philanthropist. He ponders what’s next. «Kalliope’s working for the National Geographic Society now, living in Washington, DC when she’s not hacking through jungles or climbing mountains. It was good to spend time with her again at the festival. I should stop in to see her on the way home.»

Pleasant hopes for the future are softening the sad memories of ten years ago.

It helps that he has found a good place for his ruminations. A place to enjoy some down time. He is at his favorite restaurant here in the Greek capital, sitting at a sidewalk table, revelling in the warm, clear Mediterranean sky. It’s a glorious day in “The Glorious City”.

His reverie is interrupted when a young family bustles in to be seated at a larger table not far away. Mother and father are lovingly herding three unruly boys and an adorable little girl. The father is a giant of a man, 6’5” if he is an inch, muscular but not muscle-bound. He has short blonde hair and a stubbly brown beard just beginning to show some salt amongst the pepper. His gently smiling eyes complete the picture of a man deeply in love.

As well he might be! The olive-toned mother is one of the most beautiful women Blake has ever seen, and he has just come from a city teeming with gorgeous women. Blake inhales sharply as he sees her face and realizes that she is the spitting image of his long lost friend, the woman whom he had been honoring only yesterday. Yes, she could be Cynthia’s twin sister; not as toned and muscular, but then what normal woman is?

She’s even wearing that transparently happy expression that Cynthia wore in the last days that he knew her. And, also like latter-day-Cynthia, she moves as if she is dancing to music that only she can hear. She is wearing a lovely pale-yellow sun dress that matches her daughter’s, but hugs her delicious, voluptuous figure like a jealous lover. Around her neck she wears a thin silver choker with a heart-shaped locket. Blake gasps audibly when he notices it.

«No, it can’t be her. Not at all. She died in Dubai. The DNA on the street was a perfect match.»

She catches Blake staring at her and smiles warmly. She lifts a glass in salute. He returns the salute with his own glass and a wistful grin.

«Wouldn’t it be nice if it were her? Wouldn’t it be nice if she survived? If they both survived?»

Blake’s genius mind starts to churn as he remembers the incredible powers that Cynthia’s lover had demonstrated. His wild intuition is still nagging him even as he and the young mother continue to look into each other’s eyes over the rims of their wine glasses.

The woman’s toast to Blake is interrupted when hubby pulls her into a rough, enthusiastic kiss. A kiss that she returns just as joyfully. Their eldest son, perhaps a tall 9, covers his eyes and complains, “Ewww! Mom! Dad! Not again!".

Blake’s smile broadens. «Yes. Wouldn’t it be nice if she were alright? Wouldn’t it be nice if she wanted to let me know that she were alright? That she were happy? But how could she do that without breaking the cover of a being whose superpower is “keeping a low profile”?»

Mom, dad, and children are all involved with each other now. He can’t keep staring at them, so he looks away, out at the street, out at the city, losing himself in a daydream that he hopes is true.