The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Everything is black . . . It’s not all the quite same tone of black, but everything is still black. I don’t feel like I’m swimming in it or deluged by it . . . It feels more like it’s surrounding me . . . I feel so weightless, trapped in the middle of a bubble of air deep under an ocean of shifting ink.

Currents flow around me, but I can’t determine if they have any importance or not. It’s hard to rationalize anything in a world that feels so foreign. My clothes are gone, so I clutch my knees to my chest. My mind feels like its swimming, so dizzy and so confused, but I don’t want to be vulnerably nude right now. I need . . . I need to hold onto something . . .

But there’s nothing to hold on to, nothing at all. The only thing I can do is surrender . . . the only thing that I can do is relent. I can’t overpower the ink. It’s only a matter of time.

It’s not that simple! The bubble of air is keeping the ink away. The ink can’t break it. It wants me to surrender. That has to be it. If it can make me surrender then there will be nothing able to stop it. The ink will be the entire world. The whole earth will be soaked in pretty black ink, darker than the color that can only be seen with closed eyes late at night.

Out there, outside of my safe bubble, the ink is alive. It keeps moving around the fortress of my bubble trying to find a way in. The only way to stop it is to make the bubble bigger or . . .

I don’t know . . .

How can I do that? I don’t even know how it was made in the first place. I don’t know how I got here. There might not even be anything outside of here. The bubble itself doesn’t even have any discernable form or color. It could just be an illusion.

The ink might just be waiting for the right moment to swallow me whole. What’s the point in trying to expand something that doesn’t exist? It’s just an illusion created by the ink . . . If I were to reach out and try to touch the edges of the bubble surrounding me I would only feel ink. Then this moment could end, and the ink could fill me . . . Oh . . . it could fill me . . .

I would just overflow with how much ink that is. It would fill my ears, fill my nose, fill my eyes . . . my pussy . . . My blood would become ink, I would become ink . . . not just a vessel for it, but an embodiment . . . could take whatever I wanted . . .

No one would be able to stop me. With just a kiss I could melt the ink inside of me through them, and make their desires into mine, rewrite, change . . . corrupt . . . melt . . .

That’s not what I want! Things taken like that . . . They aren’t of any value. They’re just lies built on lies built on lies . . . It’s a foundation of devaluing . . . Devaluing others so much, it just . . . It just devalues you! It makes it so all of your accomplishments are just lies, it makes it so that all you are is a liar who can convince other people that your lies are true. You just make everyone tell the same lie and lose the ability to remember anything else . . .

Memories just being changed, selves turned into lies . . . it feels so good while you’re doing it, so hot while it’s happening . . . makes me wet just imagining being ink . . . but it’s wrong . . . I don’t want that, not again . . . I want the ink to go away . . .

I don’t want the ink to dye my eyes black . . . I like my eyes with detail, with more expression with . . .

It wouldn’t be a lie if it became true. Truth isn’t just what people agree to. It’s not about changing opinions. It’s about changing fact. You don’t make someone a helpless slave with some ink by making them think they’re slaves because of ink, by making it so they’re simply lying to themselves.

You make someone into an ink slave by changing them from the core of their being. You fill the center of their mind with ink, and you rewrite them so that what you want to be the truth is the truth.

That’s not a lie . . .

That’s just revising an imperfect draft . . . No one gets anything published without revision. In some people all I’d need to do is dot all of the “i”s. Some peoples minds don’t even know the difference between then and then. Oh, some will be a horrid matter of having their whole mind succumb to a form of tense agreement.

So many of their dearest and closest held truths end with a preposition! Their reasons for what they desire and who they are . . . goddess, the plots are full of holes!

So many one dimensional characters in the world need to have a touch more verisimilitude. If there are truly gods and goddesses, or even merely one . . . they should have brushed up on some basic rules of storytelling. Existence is a book that needs massive rewrites. It’s simply not quite perfect. No one would buy it. A world with people full of ink, living out their perfectly revised lives . . . oh it wouldn’t be devoid of pathos . . .

But it would definitely be at the number one spot of every list that mattered.

It wouldn’t be like the lie The Domina wanted, the lie of a world where everyone would be happy. Some people might have been immune, but in time, her plan would have worked. The enslaved would help lead the resistant to their doom . . . their hot wet doom . . . but this way . . . they merely become perfect characters.

Not too perfect though . . . who would want to read about a world full of Mary Sues?

No . . . It’s not . . . The ink is already effecting me. It must have gotten inside of me before I made the bubble, or before the bubble made itself around me. My own thoughts are already feeling like the fuzzy ones . . . It’s hard to grasp onto myself. My arms around myself don’t even feel real . . .

Nothing feels real . . . The world isn’t a bubble surrounded by ink . . . I need to think straight . . . All of these thoughts, they’re all . . . Twisted . . . but so hot . . . the ink is so wet . . . I’m so wet . . .

Even if they’re not my thoughts, they feel like they are, and they make me clench harder than if they really were.

Of course they do. This is what I’ve wanted. This is what I’ve missed. Why would The Domina want to rule over the world all by herself? Why would she want to risk controlling The Lady when she still considered herself subordinate?

This way I can be submissive to her . . . to Her . . . but still live out my dominant urges. Oh I’ll be the perfect hypnotic switch, frying minds, and then kneeling at my ink filled Mistress’s feet

I wouldn’t have to be a normal woman posing as something more for a second longer . . . Things would be like they used to be, and everything keeping me back from reaching my full potential will be retconned and rewritten. No one ever needs to remember that I was turned into some poser, some anti hero without a clue what to do next, where to go next . . .

I wouldn’t need to settle for Olivia. Sylvia wouldn’t have to be my niece . . . Valerie would be mine with just a single inky kiss. Sylvia would be my daughter . . .

No!

N . . . It’s what I want, but not like that. I want to get stronger on my own! I want to become more on my own. I want to do this on my own, for myself . . . That’s worse than what The Domina wanted! At least she wanted to give everyone paradise!

Carefully I spread my arms out, and then slowly stretch out my legs. I feel so exposed. I don’t like the ink seeing me this way . . . feeling me this way . . . but it’s the only way that I can escape. The border between the sphere of air and the ink almost seems to shimmer, but I can’t figure out why it looks familiar. How can I expand . . .?

As I reach out towards the ink, thinking about making the bubble grow, focusing on the desire . . . the ink is pushed back. Carefully I pull my legs up to my chest again, and then kick out like in water, and it works. As if the bubble were full of water I can swim towards the border, and it grows as I approach it. It feels so satisfying! Of course . . . I must be trapped inside of myself. This is the last piece of myself I have, and since I’m inside of myself, then this little bubble . . .

Is reality.

My thoughts feel like they’re clearing, or rather, it feels like those other, those insidious thoughts are melting away. Carefully I pull a hand up, and reach a finger into my ear. Just like wax, I start to run my fingertip around, and then . . . pull . . .

Nnn . .. ooooh . .. It’s . . . soooo deep . . .

Can feel it coiling around my finger . . . I can feel it coiling around inside of me. It . . . it doesn’t want to come out . . . I don’t want it to come out! If it comes out, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll lose my tenuous grip on the bubble . . . I’ll . . .

It could pop . . .

I should pop it . . . I should just reach out . . . imagine my fingernail growing into the bubble . . . and make it pop. The ink would cover and fill me in a moment, there would be no bubble, no separation between me and the ink . . . ooooh it would be the hottest thing that I could ever feel in my life, and I’m fighting it! I don’t want to, I want to pop it, need to pop it!

No . . . No goddess no I can’t pop it, and my nail is just about to . . . No . . . I have to hold on, just a little bit longer, and get this out . . . it’s wrapped so tight around my finger, and every time I try to tug it, I can feel it tugging my clit, tugging my brain.

It’s like the harder I pull, the better it feels when I release it . . . making me more sensitive more . . .

More susceptible, just the way I love to be. I love being helpless, weeeeak . . . obedient. I just need to reach out, just a little further, and the bubble will pop apart . . . pop and submerge me in ink . . . I want it . . . just need to fight a little more, just a little . . .

Oooh it hurts, it hurts and it feels like it takes part of me with it, but I can’t stop now. I pull the ink out of my ear and wince at how much it hurts, and how good that pain feels. It tries to latch over my arm, but I just focus on the ink melting off of me, and down through the bubble . . .

It tries to stay inside, and when it starts to ooze through it starts to try and turn sharp, puncture it . . . but it can’t hold onto the shape without my help, and it melts through to join the rest of the ink.

Whatever made the bubble has to be more than just my force of will. Let’s face it, that part of me has always under performed when I’ve needed it most. If the bubble were made out of my will or self control or resistance or anything like that then it would have popped as soon as I’d gotten the ink out of my ear.

I still feel so strange and fuzzy. None of this is real if I’m right but that doesn’t make it seem any less real. It might even feel realer than anything I’ve ever felt, but it’s different than all of that. Everything just has emotions tied to it, not nearly as much physical sensation as it should. My skin feels smooth but I feel the emotions, the relaxation at taking the time to slide my fingers across my arm, the relief of being whole and safe, and not so much the feeling of skin if at all.

It’s hard to tell just what I’m feeling or if I’m drugged.

It reminds me of something so familiar that I can’t quite place. Everything is just sensations . . . sensations without a physical reason . . . something magnetic, some kind of field maybe? No . . .

That’s it! It all makes sense. The feeling is exactly the same one that welled up inside of me every time I summoned a spark to my fingertip. When I was younger it was a distracting feeling but over time I learned to ignore it just like forgetting a common scent.

Yana said she was going to give me a whole new power. She probably meant that she was going to give me her ink. The ink must have filled me the same way that my sparks used to, and pushed all of what was left or . . . I don’t really know how they worked. I only make assumptions. Even Windy said that a lot of what the machines Chronos used on me to stabilize my powers relied on some guess work . . . Maybe my sparks were growing back on their own?

It reminds me a lot of the time when Pink and I were ganging up on Dust and this sensation of brightness was filling my head. It wanted . . . it wanted to be used. I didn’t understand it then, but I understand it now. My body was aching for a release, for something only the feeling of my sparks gave it or . . .

If I ever get another chance to talk to Lida as a mother, someone who isn’t my enemy, or simply someone who actually knows anything about what it means to be a LaSilvas, I am going to be brimming with questions.

Either way, I think the only way to get out of this mess is to put the silver back where it belongs. The bubble doesn’t belong surrounding me. It belongs inside of me.

I pull my knees back up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Just thinking about it, the bubble starts to get smaller and smaller, closing closer and closer to me. As it shrinks, I can hear the ink rushing like an ocean louder and louder. If I’m wrong I know it will consume me, and I’ll be rewritten and revised to Yana’s desires. I probably won’t even remember this . . .

When the bubble closes tight enough that I can feel it at the tips of my toes and the top of my scalp it feels cool and strong like latex. As it shrinks it feels tighter and tighter, and when it closes around on me like a second skin its so tight it hurts, and the sound of the ink rushing around me is overwhelming.

Slowly I stretch out inside of the bubble, careful not to imagine it being what it feels like. If it were any weaker, my body stretching through it would tear through it like a well blown bubble sitting on the lips of a pretty girl with sweet crystal blue eyes . . . Being trapped here, inside of my own mind, it’s impossible not to feel nostalgic. My memories are here, this is where all of my thoughts are from, my mind. I need to focus, or the bubble won’t stretch enough . . .

It starts to push itself in between my fingers as I spread them out. At first it feels like webbing, but then it starts to slowly feel like gloves closing around my hands and then down along my arms. Like an elastic tarp squeezing itself tight around me I can feel it clinging up along my legs, over my face, and slowly into my mouth. If I needed to breathe inside of my mind, I’d suffocate.

No, it doesn’t feel like latex . . . it feels more like vinyl. The way it hugs my curves, the way I can feel it pressing against my sex, cupping my breasts . . . It’s so divine. It feels so familiar, it feels . . .

It feels like meeting an old friend in a whole new way . . . and appreciating them like they always wanted you to before. I love it. I can feel it staying tight over me, and at the same time pouring inside of me and clinging to every nook and cranny. I missed this feeling so bad, the feeling of being filled by this bright, hot, electric feeling. It’s not really electric as much as it is sizzling, like a current, and a bright light that’s so powerful and soothing.

I open my eyes as wide as I can, and moan as I feel the bubble melt into my eyes, into me . . . for once when I lose consciousness (if I’m even conscious now) it all goes bright, bright silver . . .