The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Darkness doesn’t make for good conversation anymore than ink does. It might just be my imagination but the ink feels a little looser. Struggling doesn’t get me any freer, but at least I can actually struggle and squirm. I wonder if I would give away the small amount of freedom to be clothed. I was really getting used to wearing my Silver Girl uniform again.

I loved the skin tight Patina uniform too, but well . . . Amethyst and I ruined it. It’s no wonder the suit didn’t stop my sparks – they weren’t really sparks at all! She must be more impressive magically than I would have guessed.

Quillspawn is probably part of the reason Silhouette knows as much as she does . . . Aniela . . . I never even thought to truly ask her name.

Really, in the end, I don’t see why she didn’t just do this from the start. Why set me loose only to reel me back in? That doesn’t even make me a Shakespearean tragic heroine. This whole situation feels more fitting of a made-for-lifetime movie.

When Dust and I were trapped in that room by Yanuka, I remember her saying she wasn’t going to kill me, I wasn’t a witch, and she was what covered the walls of a crypt. She was at least half right . . .

“As I recall, you tried far more desperately to escape my grip, even as your body began to drip, and your mind began to rip. It would seem you’re drawn to strings as strings are drawn to you, be they of silver or a darker hue.” Some voices when I hear them, even if it’s barely been over a year since I’ve heard them, I could swear it’s been at least ten. There was only one time that I heard that woman’s voice before outside of my nightmares. It would appear that in the Nesatealia coven, or at least in Yanuka’s circle, it is still in vogue to speak in rhyme.

She steps out of the darkness, her orange flaming hair the same brilliant color it was before made all the more so by the purple wide brimmed witch hat and matching “traditional” robes. It’s the same thing she wore after discarding the Milly façade the first time we met, but now that outfit just strikes me as being something Valerie might like.

“I did . . . Then of course I wasn’t trapped up against a wall, I had my sparks, and I had Dust with me. It was a little different, Yanuka.” Even though I try it’s impossible to keep the contempt out of my voice as I struggle in the ink more. It tightens occasionally, but doesn’t stay that way.

It’s like she did this just to have some good struggling to write about later. I’m sure that’s what this is, so she can cash in on the “heroine in peril” aspect. Though I can’t see her including Yanuka . . .

No, I really don’t think even with all the rest of her lies that Yana lied about her hatred for her mother. If I’d fallen due to that, and it had been a lie, I’m not sure that would be nearly as good of a story. Well, maybe so, but I know I wouldn’t read it. Then again, seeing as how I’m the “antagonist” I’m not sure that I’m supposed to want to read it anyway. Books usually aren’t aimed at the person viewed as the main reason the hero or heroine can’t just simply be happy.

Yanuka slowly steps closer, and looks distastefully over the ink. “That is very true, silver. However, you gave me your sparks, just like you showed no objection in my possession of your duplicate. It seems that now I have a choice to make, a decision of the fate for both you and I. I can rescind some of your strings, letting go a stipulation or three, and have you be the one to play with the mouse before devouring it. I can tie the rope yet again, seal you up tight and keep you in my collection, and deal with my wayward daughter on my own. There is of course the option that I’m missing something, that something eludes me, is there a hidden option that you can see?”

Strings, ropes . . . It’s funny, most traumatizing events that happen to me imprint me with a near perfect memory, but this time . . . Oh! She’d used strings to describe the conditions of my freedom. The rope was the option of her keeping me like a pet or well .. . a stuffed toy.

I agreed to the strings.

The metaphor with the cat and mouse go to when I suggested she should be a good example for the other cats and let me go. So some stipulations would be changed for taking down Yana?

“That would depend on the strings but well . . . I’m not really fond of the rope, but I’d rather know the strings before just agreeing to it. Would it be better if I rhymed too? I know that the LaSilvases and the Nesatealia don’t really get along—“

“None of that is important now, now is it? We have a mutual problem, and I’m not about to let that problem actually concern me. So one way or another, you are going to take care of it. If you don’t want to do it without a tether between you and your goal, then I am more than capable of arranging it. After all, even The Domina probably still thinks to this day that her escape was her idea.” She smiles, and its not cruel, or satisfied, it’s simply amused.

Yanuka reaches up and adjusts the brim of her hat just for the sake of doing it. I can see her point clearly enough. Accept, or don’t, and accept when she ties that rope around my brain.

“Agreeing without knowing the strings attached still bothers me. You know I’ll choose the strings, but I want to know what’s going to be tied around me. Please?” If she threatens me with the rope one more time I might just be worried enough to just agree without being told first, but it’s gotta be better than the alternative.

She reaches up for her hat again, but this time reaches under it, and pulls out a familiar looking pen. It could be a million years later, and I know I would recognize that pen. “The strings . . .” Yanuka deftly flicks her wrist, and the pen turns into a daffodil, “will be the defeat of Yana, Quillspawn or whatever she wants to call herself. Then, you will see to it that the book is burnt, as well as her precious imitation mirror broken. I will lower you from the wall and . . . give you back that pretty silver spark.”

“The spark in my heart?! You mean . . . you’ll give me back . . . my sparks? For doing something that I would do anyway?” To say that I’m amazed would be an understatement.

“Yes. Unless of course you find the strings too confining, in which case I’m sure you’ll enjoy the freedom of being on a long, long rope.” This situation is so much more than what she’s letting on. She might not want to dirty her hands, but I can tell it’s more. Something about that book or Yana is actually dangerous to her.

I can deal with that after I’m done taking care of Yana. I couldn’t care less for now. Having a mutual enemy is something I am not about to pass up, at least when it means everything turns out okay. “Sure . . . That doesn’t sound too bad. I can’t take the daffodil from you like I did last time, but if you could hold it up to my nose then I’m sure I could take a sniff. Those strings don’t sound too bad to me at all . . .”

“I know.” The petals of the flower rub against my nose, and for a moment I hesitate. Her eyes look cold and devoid of some natural part of emotion, of feeling. It’s almost as if there’s just a part of her she’s let die, or . . . that’s probably just what it is. It really doesn’t matter. My eyes close, and I inhale.

Nothing about it smells like an ordinary flower. The scent tingles its way into my nose, and I can feel it slowly spreading through my body as if I could physically feel the scent moving inside. It feels like pure electric warmth as it slides into me through my nose, and up into my thoughts. Every feeling, every thought, every shudder in the ink makes me feel and smell the scent more and more. It smells like . . . like . . . like life, or freedom, or . . . something beyond understanding.

Unlike when I felt the ink in me before, this just feels like . . . something from a dream, not something I’ve always known. It makes me feel like I did all those years ago, lying just in pajamas on top of my covers, hands above me, just wishing, for something, wanting something special to happen.

Something . . . special . . .

It’s not natural, it’s special, it’s . . . Oh, it almost feels like pollen, the way I can feel it expanding inside of me and slowly spreading out, filling me . . . pulsing with each beat of my heart, making it beat right, keeping it on time again like it always used to. It’s an ethereal feeling, not quite solid, not quite energy, but it’s so special. Pollen . . . it’s such a special flower.

“Good girl, silver . . .” She says my name just like The Lady used to, and it feels so passionate, so real. Yanuka moves closer, and the heat of her body so close to mine makes me quiver to her. She’s the one holding the flower, and her hair looks as vibrant as I feel. Every second that smell is becoming more me.

In my chest, in my heart, in the center of all that I am, I can feel myself blossoming, opening up, accepting, embracing . . . and then the ink starts to pull away, uncoiling and loosening it’s grip.

Just as it feels the ink is going to pull enough back into the wall to make me fall hard onto the floor, Yanuka moves closer and catches me in her arms, wrapping them tight around me as she does. The feeling of her breath on my ear makes me quiver as she cradles me against her. Every fingertip is touching me in just the right way to make me shudder and twitch. It’s not sexual, it’s tender, and my dazed mind feels far too dizzy to be able to help me stand on my own.

One hand slides down, and at just the right moment I feel her nails clawing along the inner curve of my ass. My whole body clenches, and I groan as her finger teases the lowest point of my slit, just barely, so tenderly. She keeps breathing into my ear, and then she speaks, and my toes curl so hard. “After you succeed . . . we will discuss my motives . . .”

“I . . . ooh . . .” Her finger teases inside of me, but it feels like more than anything Yanta ever did, or Lida, just pure magic and pleasure. “You . . . you’ve been . . . watching mmmmeee, haven’t you?”

“My daughter isn’t the only one. . .” Yanuka slowly lowers herself down and then props me up against the wall. All of the ink is gone, and the floor feels so soft, and warm. Her finger tracing the rest of that line feels so good, so pure . . . and then her finger rises up, and gently flicks both of my nipples ever so tenderly and completely. “Who knows to keep an eye on a wayward heroine . . .”

That must be the ink I feel, still inside of me, leftovers from my time with her . . . “I look forward to it . . .”

She grins at me, and tips her hat low before dropping the daffodil at my feet, and then turning away in just the right fashion to make her skirts swirl around her like liquid clinging together by sheer force of her will. “I know. To think I said you’d be unhappy to see me again . . .” She steps out of the shadows, and I raise a hand in front of my face, and will the spark to the tip of each finger slowly. It doesn’t feel all powerful like the ink made me feel, but . . . it feels like mine, and I just hope it’s enough to stop Quillspawn.