The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“How do you come up with your characters? They all seem so real, so full of life, do you base them on women you know or do you have some other source of inspiration?” I’ve been waiting for today for two years. I never imagined that I would get a chance like this, to meet a woman that means as much to my life as she does. I should have phrased that question differently . . . She’s going to laugh at me. Everyone’s going to laugh at me, oh god that was such a stupid question!

But instead of sneering, laughing, or mocking me at all . . . She smiles. Her full dark painted lips slowly curve into a smile and she actually looks thoughtful. “Well, the reason they all seem so full of life is because to me they are alive. They’re my sisters, my lovers, my mothers, my daughters, and my incestuous cousins. Sometimes they’re my good – er – I mean evil – twins.”

Even the crowd that’s just as eager to see her as I am laughs! I actually helped my idol tell a joke! I feel so blessed that I almost forget to laugh along with everyone else. It’s not that I don’t think it’s funny, it’s more that I’m too star struck.

“To be honest, my characters do feel alive to me, and they’re inspired from a lot of different sources. Some are based off of people I’ve known or like I said on myself. Sometimes I’ll read a good book and the next time I put pen to paper I have a sister-character blossoming on my notebook . . . Each character is sacred to me, even the bit characters – especially the bit characters.” She takes a deep breath, and I sigh at the elegant curve of her neck, her beautiful long black hair, and her deep black eyes . . . they contrast so beautifully with her moon kissed white skin. “Without my characters, I would be a very lonely person, even with all of my delightful fans. Thank you. That was a fun question!”

“Y-you’re welcome!” Has no one actually asked her that before or does she just enjoy waxing about her craft? I know that I love hearing her talk almost as much as I’ve loved reading her books.

Her characters really do feel alive. I didn’t cry when I was a little girl and man came to the forest, but “The Negligees and The Noose” had me crying more than I ever have in my life. Celia was just too good of a person and worked so hard to be with Lorraine. In the end she was happy with Amanda, but I could tell that a part of her would never stop missing her lost love.

Who could stop loving such a rich full woman like Lorraine even after she met her grizzly end? If that story had ended as a tear jerker I think I would have given up reading all together, but she wrote it so perfectly that when I finished it the first thought in my mind was for more.

“Any other questions? I know you all want your books signed, but I’ll stay here all night if I have to, so you don’t need to rush me through the Q&A. That would be a horrible plot point . . . Yes, you, over there, in the red tank top?” Her very presence is so commanding. The room is full of people, men and women, and if we were all talking at once she could silence us all with just a stare.

I could never talk over her though, it would feel . . . sacrilegious.

I have to crane my neck in the worst way but I can see the impatient looking teenager in the red tank top with her hand up so far it’s stretching out her whole body. She barely looks old enough to appreciate the material, I really hope she doesn’t ruin the moment with some horrible question.

Then again, a horrible question would seal mine in my idol’s mind as genius. “Yes, uhm, I . . . Sorry, I’m just so nervous, I . . . First, I just, I loved ‘Steel Love Trap’, it was the first book of yours I read and I’ve been hooked since, but I . . . I read on the internet that you don’t have a lover, is that true . . .? It just seems kind of hard to believe, you just write such passionate stories, I mean, I know I’m a little young but . . .”

My laughter mingles with everyone else’s and not in a hateful way. The poor thing sounds like she’s talking to a goddess, and she is. Her voice is that squeaky level of high pitched that’s just cute enough to be forgivable and cuddleable, but you’re sure if you so much as looked at her too long you’d be charged for statutory by her over protective parents who would die if they knew she was here.

“Well . . . It seems like I have an admirer in you, huh sweetheart?” Her voice is so musical, and her laugh even more so before her lips curve into such an expressive smile and her whole face seems to glow and shine with some implacable inner light.

She’s a goddess, there are no two ways about it, and no one could ever convince me of anything different. I thought I would be jealous if the cute girl asked a question that sparked Her interest as much as mine did, but getting to see the reaction in her face melts away all feelings of jealousy. There’s just something inherently wonderful about her every feature and reaction, and she’s as smart and creative as she is beautiful.

It’s hard to believe she could be single, but that’s what her dust jackets say. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m as single as the number one. Like I said, my characters and my stories are so important to me, that well . . . I don’t think anyone would really be able to share me . . . You’re lucky I share my characters with you!” More laughter, but it’s only a brief pause, and everyone stops laughing as soon as she’s done taking her sip of water. “I’ll be sure to keep you in mind when you grow up a little, but for right now . . . I’m happily married to my life partner. She might only be a muse, but I think you agree she’s a demon in the sack.”

To say that her Muse is a demon in the sack would be like saying that the color black is a little darker than white, or that I only came as hard as I cried reading her last novel. Such dramatic understatements of fact are so funny they’re almost scary.

I would give so much for just one night in her Muse’s bed, or preferably in hers. I wouldn’t mind sharing. She wouldn’t even have to remember my name. I could be any character she wanted me to be.

“Thank you for that question, when I sign your book, I’ll be sure to give you my phone number . . . Next question? In the back, with the rainbow hair? I love that by the way, I’ve never been able to dye my hair. I used to try when I was younger, but it only wasted time but . . . anyway, your question?” She can’t dye her hair . . . I scribble that down onto my small notepad and can’t fight the blush that rises to my cheeks. Who would want her to dye her hair? It’s so regal, so dark and black, like the ink that led me here.

“Yes, I was just wondering . . . what does the N in your name stand for? Why don’t you ever answer anyone who asks you?” The question itself isn’t bad, but anyone who knows Yana N. Ritter knows she won’t answer that. I’ve watched three videos of signings, and she’s been asked that in each one, but hasn’t answered it once.

My own curiosity is bubbling, but I know she won’t answer. I just wish that she would. It would be so special to be at the signing where Yana N. Ritter told us what the N stood for. Is it a name? A last name? Is it really just supposed to be N?

She’s never confirmed or denied any possibility. Some people think it’s just a publicity stunt but I don’t. She doesn’t seem like the type of person who would bother with something so superfluous. “Well everyone, it looks like we have another woman who is absolutely certain that she’ll be the lucky one to get me to share my secret. I really don’t see why everyone cares. No one has such a fascination with anyone else’s middle initial. Here’s the answer to the big question everyone! It’s a part of my name! Anyone else?”

Yana almost seems angry, but something about her makes small words like mad or angry seem too simple. She looks enraged or frustrated. Even those words seem too simple, but I’m not a writer like she is. I’m just an over eager reader.

“Me!” A woman’s voice chimes in from the back of the crowd, and everyone laughs again. For this being the signing of one of the most influential erotica writers of all time there sure are a lot of laughs. My own voice laughs along with everyone else, but this time I don’t even bother to look away from Yana. I don’t care who or what this woman is. I didn’t come here tonight to look at my fellow fans. I came here to look at who can make us so fanatical.

“Well . . . Why not! You, in the back . . .!” Everyone always told me that Yana seemed so arrogant and full of herself, but how can anyone call someone arrogant who is so easily amused?

It must be jealousy. There’s a lot to envy. “I was just wondering how long we’d have to wait for your next book? I know that this one only came out a week ago, but I’ve already read it twice, and I’m thinking about giving Cross My Legs another read through . . .”

“My next book? Well . . . My next book should be out in no time, just as soon as I stop touring. I love seeing all of you, but it’s hard to write when I’m not in my own home. I always keep a notebook around incase I get inspired, but I can’t spend hours writing like I do at home. Yet another reason I’m single, very few women would enjoy having a girlfriend who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to spend at least five hours at a time draining the ink out of a pen.” She smiles, and it almost . . . it almost looks like a sad smile.

Is she lonely? I would imagine that spending so much of your life isolated and alone would be fairly lonely, but she does have all of those characters and the best muse to curl up with inside of her head. I know that I get lonely not having anyone around . . . but cuddling up with a good book helps me.

How many girls have dreamed about being with the great Yana Ritter? I can’t be the only one. I know I have competition in the audience even if that girl was adorable. She might even be eighteen, but my luck she’s fifteen with a fake ID incase someone asks. Maybe I should just try to find a date . . . after all at least I know that we’d have something in common. It couldn’t hurt.

I’m not that socially adept. My job keeps me inside of my own apartment moderating websites for inappropriate content. My family is as dead or unknown as Yana’s. Grocery stores will deliver if you have the cash for it.

I know that I wouldn’t mind watching Yana write, maybe curl up against her, make sure she stays fed . . .

I don’t know how long I just stare at her, not listening to anything around me or even noticing anything but her, but at one point I hear the actual words of her voice and not just the sound. “Well, it’s been fun, but I think if I don’t start signing books now then my promise will keep me here until I’m falling asleep signing books with someone else’s name, so let’s get started!”

Finally! Everyone in the first two rows, myself included, starts to stand and move towards her. Finally, I’ll get to watch her sign my book. I might even get to touch her hand, to see her smile, to see those dark eyes up close . . .

My body won’t stop quivering! All I can feel is anticipation. If I die after tonight I’ll die happy and fulfilled. I’ll miss her future works but I’m sure the underworld gets her prerelease copies even before the reviewers do. Maybe I should hold off on that until she stops writing, if she ever stops. I can’t imagine someone so brilliant and creative ever being able to stop.

Every person whose book she signs and shares a short conversation with . . . It makes it harder and harder to contain my excitement. I want to scream and squeal and twirl around like some idiot. She really is as regal as I imagined her, dressed all in black in a way that just screams elegance. Her blouse is ruffled in a cute way and the rest of it is silken. Her skirt is long and finely detailed with silver embroidery . . . She’s sitting now, but I caught a glance as she moved from behind the podium.

She’s so tall even while she’s sitting. She’s so commanding even without saying a word. It’s not hard to believe that she’s the woman I’ve been admiring all of this time.

There’s only one person in front of me now, a woman who seems almost bored and the book in her hands isn’t even her latest. How could anyone be bored at a Ritter reading? That’s like staring into the sun and thinking of it as just a bright stellar bauble!

Finally she moves away, and there’s only a table between me, and her. She’s so close and I almost swear that I can smell something that reminds me of how my cramped apartment smells after running off even a page with my old printer. Could she even smell like ink? It’s an intoxicating scent, and my whole body feels weakened by the thought.

“Thank you again for that question earlier . . . It’s not something I’ve never been asked, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy answering it . . . My characters, my writing . . . It’s everything to me. I’d be nothing without it, and I think that would disappoint a fair amount of people like yourself.” Yana smiles into my eyes, and I can barely breathe. She remembered . . . she remembered my question!

“You’re welcome! I just had to know . . . I’ve been reading since Cross My Legs, and I’ve always wanted to be able to meet you like this. I’m so glad that your tour finally brought you here, I can never afford to go out of town, but if you’d been close enough I would have . . .” My cheeks are burning.

I’m making an idiot out of myself but she’s just smiling understandingly. She has to know the effect she has on some of her fans, and she talks so much like she writes. Her writing has given me more orgasms since I started reading than anything else has over the course of my entire life. Her writing has become my sexuality. She’s my Venus, my Aphrodite, my . . . “Oh, here’s my book . . . ”

She takes the book from my hands and runs her fingertips across the dust jacket as she slides it open. Her fingernails are so elegantly shaped and the perfect shade of black. They don’t glisten like most black nail polish. They actually seem darker and deeper like her eyes. She flips to the title page, and smiles as she looks into my eyes before sliding her fingertip across the text of the title.

This moment is the highest point of my existence. She’s paying such close attention to me. She’s not moving me along like the other fans. She’s watching me. She’s studying me. She’s . . . turning me on like nobody’s business.

I would do anything for more of this feeling. I would do anything to be even just a roadie. I’m sure she could bring me along to stack books or help her get dressed in the morning and undressed at night.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” The tip of one long pointed fingernail rests at the white space below the title, and I keep my eyes locked on hers. I never dreamed that I would get to do anything besides see her, have my book signed, and then leave always wishing that something more had happened. She’s even going to personalize it! That’s not the most amazing thing ever, but it is something worth noting. It makes this even more special.

“M-my name is Helena.” Oh I hope she remembers my name after today. Even if she just writes a story one day with someone named Helen, Elena, Helena, any twisting of spelling, I’ll be able to tell myself that she remembered me. I know that I’ll never forget her.

Who could forget her? “Well, Helena . . . I should sign your copy before the whole line breaks down into chaos. That would just be disastrous, I would hate to have such a beautiful woman be the cause of something like that . . . Not that it could be any other way. I hope you enjoyed the signing, I know that I certainly did . . . Enjoy the autograph, too.”

My heart won’t stop pounding. I feel drenched with sweat, flushed, and wet . . . It’s so hard not to feel so aroused and captivated . . . She closes the book, and holds it up to me. Her lips are so dark they don’t even shine and something about that is so much more erotic than I could give it credit for. Everything about her makes me tremble and drip. I would give anything in my life to stay in this moment, to stay here with her, forever.

“Run along now . . . and remember, if you have nothing better to do, you can read it twice. I’m sure there’s at least something you missed. Even I miss little details . . . The first time.” I’m sure nothing escapes her the second time . . . ever.

“Of course, Yana . . . I . . . Thank you so much . . .” I take the book and clutch it to my chest as tightly as I can. A part of me worries about the possibility of hugging it in half, but it doesn’t seem especially possible. I have Yana N. Ritter’s autograph! She personalized it! She knows my name. She knows who I am, and she talked with me. It’s just too much for me. It’s everything I could ever want, and more.

If I can’t have her, at least I’ve experienced her. At least I have a part of her that I can always keep with me no matter what. I’ll keep it with me everywhere I go.

Lucky for me, I really don’t go very many places, so that’s not especially difficult.

A part of me wants to stay and just watch her sign book after book, but I should go before I lose the temptation to cause some sort of a scene wherein I declare my love for her at the top of my lungs. Besides, she only used words that would make it sound like she was unhappy about being single. She didn’t sound particularly unsatisfied.

On my way out of the building, I open up the familiar cover and look inside. Her autograph looks like she spent hours perfecting it. Yana N. Ritter . . . There are infinite little details, and it looks like she must have taken a calligraphy class just in writing her own name to get so good at pulling something like this off in such a short amount of time. She really is so amazing . . . I don’t know how anyone could ever doubt that. I can’t wait for her next book. Maybe she’ll come back next year . . .

I keep walking the way home, unable to stop myself from sighing. I don’t really have a car, or any local friends, so this really is the only way I ever could have seen her. I don’t think I should drive after a high like that anyway. If it’s not illegal then it should be.

I don’t get out often, but I know my way to the bookstore well enough. Sure, you can buy books online, and they’ll sometimes get to you even before the release date, but I feel much better going down to the store and getting them myself. There’s something more personal about picking out the exact copy of a book that you want and paying for it in cash.

Sometimes that necessitates a trip to the bank for the sole purpose of picking up the cash, but every part of an experience is important. Every taste, every smell, every sight . . . She really did smell so good. Who wouldn’t want to just cuddle up to that scent and watch her words melt over a page?

It takes me until I actually get to the door of my apartment to remember that there was something else besides just her name. Of course there was! I’m so dazed I didn’t even read the personalization!

After I fish my keys out of my jacket, I unlock the door and sigh as I close it behind me so I can plop down into my recliner and stare at the inscription. “To Helena, may all of your fantasies be written not in stone, but in ink. Call me. I’m only in town tonight.”

Underneath is a phone number. Each number is written so precisely, and the duplicates almost look identical. She has such a masterful control of the English language, even writing the actual letters and numbers themselves. No one could see this page and not see her glory? Skeptics can always find a reason though, so I really shouldn’t say things like that.

I have to call her. She’s probably already in her hotel room by now. Oh my god! Yana N. Ritter wants to meet me, face to face! She wants to meet me, she wants to know me!

Quick as I can I jump out of the recliner and dive for the phone. The headset slides smoothly from the cradle and I quickly hit talk followed by those sweet numbers. Each ring is torture. She has to be there, god she has to be there. If she doesn’t pick up the phone I don’t know what I’ll do. I could have lived the rest of my life happy that I’d simply met her and she’d found me intelligent, but now I need more. I need to meet her. I need to see what she wants from me . . .

The second ring is insanity. If she doesn’t answer after the next ring there’s a high chance that she won’t even answer. My life would be over if she didn’t answer . . . She has to answer!

The third ri- “Hello, this is Yana N. Ritter . . . and who may I ask . . . Is this?” Oh her voice is even slicker in a more intimate setting. Before it was still every bit as sexy, but it’s simply more sexual now. There aren’t any limits now. No one needs to know anything that happens.

“This is Helena . . . I’m the woman you gave your phone number in her book . . . The one who asked you where your characters come from . . .” Oh I hope that she wants me for more than just a discussion. There are so many things I would just melt at the chance to discuss with her but I would prefer so very much to indulge in things that don’t need words, from me by any rate. I’m awful with words, but she’s a goddess.

Just the thought of being anywhere near her is sacrilege and blasphemy. Is that too redundant? She would know. “I remember you, Helena . . . My sweet, pretty Helena with the blonde hair and the swampy green eyes . . . I remember the way that the house lights made your skin seem warm in that way that only happens to women with pretty pale skin. I remember the way your eyes fluttered when we met, and how you looked like you’d been kissed from the heavens when I signed your book . . . and I remember your question. I can answer it more in depth, along with some other details for you . . . If you would like.”

“Oh I would love nothing more! Please, please Yana . . . I . . . Your stories are as much my world as they are yours . . . I want to be one of those characters, so I can be more real. I want to be closer to a goddess who can create worlds from words . . .” My words sound so high-school-crush, but I can’t think of any better. My inhibitions feel melted away by pure desire and craving, and it’s not a half-bad feeling.

“Helena . . . I know. There are so many things I know, and so many things that you’ll know tonight. I’ll tell you the secret that no one knows but everyone asks . . . and I’ll show you the secret no one asks, and no one knows . . . If you’ll meet with me at the Evergreen Hotel . . . room thirty five . . . Does that sound like a plan to you, my dear sweet little Helena . . .?” Yana’s voice feels like auditory ambrosia . . . Does she think that I could possibly resist her?

She’s never had a public lover. She’s never . . . never told anyone that secret . . .! If she told me . . . oh, I would never tell anyone! Maybe I could tour with her, and afterwards live with her. There’s so little to leave behind. A computer, half a week’s worth of groceries . . . There’s certainly nothing I’d miss if I would be with her.

The chance to be with her . . . Is such a dream even possible or is this all just delusion? If I am deluding myself, I hope I never find out. I’m so much happier this way, even if I feel desperate and craving.

“When do you want me there . . .? It’s a . . . a little bit of a walk . . . but I can leave right now. It won’t take me that long, half an hour at the most if I get lost or out of breath thinking too much about what might await me . . .” No one has ever made me talk like this before. She’s my idol, my goddess, what makes my life more worth living. Maybe it’s just hard to keep back the truth when you’re conversing with divinity.

“Then I’ll see you in a half an hour . . . If things go well, you might be leaving with me . . . I’ll see you soon, my lovely little Helena . . .”

“I’ll see you soon, Yana—“ Unceremoniously the line clicks dead, and I whimper helplessly at the sound. She actually told me she would take me with her. I’m really glad that I left my shoes on, because I need to turn right back around and head out to that hotel. Her lovely little Helena, I’m her lovely little Helena . . .

Really, compared to most women, I’m not that short. I’m just five foot five . . . but Yana is tall. She’s almost six feet tall. I’d be able to rest my head under her chin . . . maybe. Maybe I would just rest against her shoulder. I’m too aroused and dazed to think too clearly about this. I’ll know the answer soon enough if I hurry down there.

She really remembered me, she really liked the question . . . hopefully, that enjoyment will hold out. I want to be there when she finishes that next book, so I can be the first to read it.

A friend of mine who visited me here in town stayed at the Evergreen once. It’s in a nice part of town. Lucky for me since I can’t afford a place in the good part of town, town is not that big. Half of the walk I feel my legs pushing me into a run. In some situations it could take a half an hour, but in this one I can hardly see it taking twenty.

The glowing white and green sign of the hotel lifts my sprits almost as high as Yana’s bright smile. It is Yana’s smile beckoning me closer. This will be the start of a wonderful new change in my life.

Every step through the parking lot makes me quiver more. She’s in room thirty five just waiting for me. Is she still dressed like she was at the signing? Am I going to see her undressed by the end of the night? I wouldn’t care if the only one nude by the end of the night was me, but I want to let her feel how much pleasure her stories have given me and I can’t do that if she stays fully clothed. If that’s what she wants I won’t fight her, but . . .

My steps finally bring me to the front door, and it opens so easily. She’s in room thirty five. What floor is that on? I don’t know if I trust my voice enough to ask the staff working here, but I think that I need to. Do I really have any other choice?

When I start to approach the reception desk something about the woman behind it looks . . . ready. Her eyes look so intensely focused and dark. Something about them makes me think of Yana. Something about how her hair looks darker than it should and every detail of her face seems more elegantly set in stone just seems so much like her.

She doesn’t hold a candle to her beauty of course, but there’s just something familiar there. Maybe they’re distant relatives? At the counter I smile and lean against it faintly and take a moment to slow my breathing before letting my voice try its best. “I’m looking for room thirty five. The occupant is expecting me . . .”

“Yes, Miss Ritter is expecting you . . . Helena, correct . . .? Room thirty five, it’s on the second floor, two doors to the left of the elevator. She instructed me to tell you to knock three times and then wait, but assured me she would be to the door quickly . . . She just wants all of this to go perfectly.” The receptionist takes a deep breath, and then motions to the elevator. “I hope that you have a wonderful stay at the Evergreen Hotel.”

“Thank you . . .” Something about her still seems different, not in a bad way, but just simply . . . different. I’ve never seen her before, but she just looks somehow affected. I can’t quite put my finger on it . . .

And I don’t need to! I’m here to see Yana N. Ritter not to deal with a receptionist! I’m here to see where the rest of my life is going to lead me, and hopefully it’s going to lead me into her life and into her bed . . . oh into her stories! I would love to become the inspiration for a character even if that character was just a bit role.

The elevator ride feels a million times too long. Can’t they make these things any quicker by now?! It’s not a freight elevator, it doesn’t need to be able to lift a million pounds. It just needs to be able to get one fairly slender woman up to the second floor! Doesn’t it know that?!

When it stops I dash out between the cool metal doors and quietly mewl to myself when I reach room thirty five’s door. The numbers themselves glitter in gold or brass, and the small surface they rest on is black. Black is a color so easy to associate with Yana. Her hair is black, her eyes have to be black or at least close enough. Her nails are black. Her clothes are black. Her lips are black. Her words are black.

I’m so nervous, but somehow I manage to raise my hand up and knock once, twice, and then finally the third. Now I just have to wait. What could she be doing in there? Is she freshening up? Is she trying to prepare to look her best, or does she just like ceremony?

It’s probably option number three. Her stories are chock full of it.

Nothing happens. Nothing magical or amazing or even mundane happens at all. I’m just standing and waiting for a door to open. I’ve done this before, but not as much as some have. That’s okay. I can wait. I can wait forever for her. I would wait for a year in front of this door if it would make her happy . . .

Luckily it doesn’t seem like I’ll have to wait that long at all, because the door starts to creek open. It’s not too slow, but it’s not too quick. It’s all satisfying, and my knees start to shake and melt into jelly at the same time. Yana N. Ritter is opening up the door to her hotel room . . . with me on the outside.

Her face is the first thing that I see those elegant cheekbones and the way that her eyes don’t seem to reflect anything but the bare minimum of light. There’s no way I’m worthy of this, but if she feels that I am then I want it. I want all that I can have of her, and she really . . . she really wants to give it to me . . .? My thoughts keep going in circles over and over again as her hair comes into view. Sure enough, she’s wearing the same black clothes as before and it’s impossible not to shudder at the sight of her. “Come in, my adoring fan . . . my lovely little Helena.”

“Thank you, Yana . . . I don’t know what to say . . . I feel like I should be thanking you in some more specific way, but I . . . I just feel so unsure about why I’m here and what I should be doing . . .” Daintily I walk my way inside, and inhale a sharp gasp as she closes the door behind me.

“You are here because I want you here, Helena . . . You are here because I could taste how strongly you were drawn to me. You are here, Helena . . . because I have chosen you, and my stories have affected you on a fundamental level.” Moment by moment she steps closer to me. At first I walk back from her out of nervousness, but then surrender and allow her to step inside of my personal space. I can feel the warmth glowing off of her curves and it makes my eyes hood. “And I want to enhance that change ever deeper . . . and keep you with me . . . forever.”

Forever . . . if anyone can create eternity it’s Yana. She can create entire worlds, entire times, whole civilizations just to tell a single story of loss and love. It’s not hard to believe that she could keep me with her forever. Not just until we grow old and die, but truly forever. She could write us a thousand forevers.

Nothing is more powerful than her. Her fingertips from one hand reach up for my cheek and all I can do is melt my face into her hand. Every nail knows just where to touch in the right way that makes my body shudder and yield to hers. Delicately the fingers of her other hand slide up along the small of my back, stroking in simple patterns that make me feel so warm and fluttery.

“I’ve given you something that has changed your life in a way you can’t describe . . . It’s changed you in a way you couldn’t begin to understand. When you read the first page, did you ever think for a moment that you had already crossed the point of no return? Did you ever imagine that it would lead to you meeting an enigma of a woman in her hotel room? Could you have ever realized that the moment you felt as deeply for my characters as did I . . . that a part of me had become a part of you?” Before I even have a chance to think of a response, her lips melt into mine.

Yana’s lips taste like passion. Moment by moment I can feel my whole body growing weaker in the embrace as she holds me tighter and presses tighter. Her lips feel so strong like they’re filled with heat and warmth and passion, as if they could ignite all of those feelings in me with just a light brush, and they’re pressing harder against my lips than anything ever has.

Her presence is melting me, and I love it. I’ve kissed women before and loved it, but it always felt like we were kissing. This feels like Yana is kissing me and infusing me with raw lust that is melting away everything else. Not just a sexual lust, but a personal lust for her. I need her so much.

Meaning is starting to melt away and her hand roams along my back as she arches her body tighter against mine and pulls my face closer to intensify the kiss. All I can do is feel myself surrender and shake. My hands try to hold her, to pull her closer, to wrap her up in a needy embrace, but my arms won’t obey me. I can barely make my hands work, and all they can do is feebly gasp at the fabric of her skirt.

Lust, want, craving . . . It’s just so strong. I need her, I need her to be my everything, I need to be her everything. I need to surrender to her in every way that a woman can surrender to another woman and then I need to find more ways just to show her how desperately I crave her . . .

I can really feel it, something melting into me through her lips, melting into mine and sliding into me so sticky and tight, warmer and hotter than even the craving between my legs. Oh she’s made me so wet! If I could move I would grind myself against one of her legs while pleading for her to use me however she craved, to take me wherever and however she craved but I still can’t do anything while she’s kissing me. It’s just too strong, too intense, too . . . oooh it’s too everything I’ve ever wanted wrapped up in helpless craving to Yana who understands lust and love and desire more than anyone else ever has.

Everything is just so . . . so perfectly wrapped up in her hold as she fills me with more desire than I’ve felt during my entire life combined. I know that I would do anything she craved to feel the fulfillment of her using me however she desires, shaping my motions and desires just like a character in one of her thigh clenching stories.

It almost feels like her kiss is melting something between my eyes, or coating it with something, but I can’t focus on it without finding myself lost in the realization of how helpless I am to Yana, to my queen, to my new creator. If this kiss ever ends I’ll show her how much I loved it for hours.

But if it doesn’t, if I’m just trapped here in her lips forever, like a moth caught in her eternal black flame of passion then I know I’ll never regret it for a moment I know if it ever ended I would still be there at her flame, craving her nectar, craving her genius, her divinity . . . and most of all craving a chance to show her how devoted I could be, how helpless I could be, and how much I want nothing more than to be hers.

“You are mine . . . now . . . and forever . . .” The kiss broke, and I couldn’t even tell! Her arms are cradling me against her, but my body feels beyond limp and useless. I want to be able to romance her like she is romancing me, to show her how deep my obedience goes but I can barely move . . .

“Yourssss . . . Yana . . . Yoursssss . . .” And I know it’s true. I know how deeply she owns me now, how easily she could rewrite my past and write me an entirely new future. I wouldn’t mind.

I would love it.

Her dark lips rub along the rim of my ear and I can’t help but moan as her teeth tenderly nibble as a prelude to the sound of her sweet creamy voice dripping into my ear. “That’s right little Helena . . . Oh it’s a pretty name, it is . . . Almost as pretty as the sweet curves of your ass . . . Mmm . . . Or should I say my ass?” Yana’s hand slides down and uses my ass to hold me tighter against her. All I can do is squeal breathily. “It is my ass now isn’t it, my ass to touch and knead and nip and caress however I desire . . . Isn’t it, my lovely little Helena . . .?”

“Youuuuur ass!” My voice hisses as much out of my already bubbling arousal as the feeling of her hand reaching down beyond my ass to grab at my crotch. Oh even through my pants I can feel her hand so well and I can feel my wetness double.

Nothing has ever made me feel so wet or weak or helpless . . . And my body is her toy, my mind her novel to write or rewrite however she desires. I want her to make me perfect. I want to be perfect for her, just like her characters, a slave to her muse, a slave to her, a slave, a slave, a slave . . .

She nips down along my neck and I scream as her finger starts to rub in a tight spiral at just the right place. Something about her finger feels wet, but it’s probably just my own dampness being rubbed into me . . . I can’t think of anything that could make it feel like her finger was dripping something into me, rubbing something into me to make me more of her helpless slave than I already am. I need her. I want her. I always have.

“That’s a very, very good little Helena . . . There’s just one more thing that I have to do before I keep you as my sweet, helpless little character slave forever . . . Do you want to know what that is little toyling?” Oh she makes everything sound so romantic! Pitifully I try and nod, and she seems to understand. “Of course you do. Nothing is nearly as enthralling . . .”

Carefully she pulls her hand away from my dripping sex, and turns me around to lean back against her. I feel so dizzy, so externally motivated, that unless she told me to move I don’t think I could even try. After all characters only do what they’re written to do, and I’m her character.

I’m just her character . . . No . . . not just . . . There’s nothing “just” in that way when it comes to being her character. I’m a character written by thee Yana N. Ritter. There is no greater pride or pleasure.

Slowly we start to move, her body guiding mine, in front of a beautiful golden mirror. It looks like something out of a fairy tale . . . It’s taller than I am, taller than Yana, and the gold shell even has what looks like a ruby the size of my fist at the very top.

I wish that I was shorter so I could see more of Yana . . . but the view is still pretty. I’m Yana’s pretty helpless slave, melted against her so entirely. Every breath is so quivering that my breasts shake in a way that even I can’t deny is arousing. The crotch of my pants is soaked to the point of being black. My blonde hair strewn over my helplessly lost face makes me look like such a simple slave, and I love it.

That intensity, that focus inside of my dazed eyes . . . it reminds me of the receptionist . . .

“Now, sweetheart . . . In the olden days, some people claimed that the hair emerged directly from the brain itself. That’s where we get the clichés of blondes being empty headed, because each strand is devoid of color, and just a beautiful golden tone.” Her fingers slide through the hair on my face, and then cup my chin in a way that makes me stuck helplessly staring into my own lost eyes. “Red hair was fire emerging from one’s brain . . . and black hair, was wisdom, substance . . . all of the things we value.”

And I’m just her little blonde slave. My head is so empty. I know she’s telling the truth. She wouldn’t be telling me this if there wasn’t a point, if there wasn’t some accuracy to it. If anyone knows, it would be her. She knows everything that matters about everything.

Slowly one of Yana’s hands moves into view slid through the hair on the very top of my head, and I see myself smiling dumbly as I watch her. “But I’m a writer, my little Helena. If anything has substance, it is one of my characters. If anything has wisdom and substance, it is one of my characters, unless a simpler one would suffice . . . You, have a much higher place in my heart . . . and so . . . this is the final step.”

I can’t even begin to imagine what this next step would be. What is she going to do? I know I’m just her character, but what can she do about my hair like this? I know she’s magical, but I feel like I’m missing . . . like I’m missing something.

“And now sweetheart . . .you become whole.” From each of her visible fingernails, something thick and black starts to slide out like carefully poured milk. It’s thicker, more viscous, but she makes it move to her will so expertly and sweetly. It dances for her. It obeys for her . . . and moment by moment, it melts its way over my hair.

No . . . It’s not going over my hair, or at least not just going over my hair . . . I can feel the black bliss melting through my scalp into my brain. It slides down along every strand, every follicle, melting itself over my mind. I can feel it collecting in every wrinkle of thought, along the binding between the halves of my brain . . . Oh goddess I can feel it turning my brain black, and then melting that color out through my hair, through my eyes, through my helplessly clenching cunt.

Mmm I’m becoming even more hers! I’m becoming even more her character! I can see all of the shine melt out of my eyes as they turn from that murky green to black. Not like the reflective black of my pupil but like a black so dark that staring into it without realizing there’s nothing there to stare into is just . . . impossible . . .

I can see all of the little details, the little things about my face that make me recognizable, the shape of my eyes, of my lips, of my nose, all seeming more obvious, darker, but only in an erotic way . . .

I can see more black dripping down along the inside of my pants, but I can feel it too. Her ink is changing me, rewriting me, making me perfect for her . . . When her hand pulls out of my hair it’s a clean shade of white with those black nails . . . none of the ink is on her. All of it is inside of me . . . even my eyebrows are black, my lashes look more defined . . .

“Do you see this, Helena . . .? This is what a character with substance looks like . . . This is what a well defined . . .” Her hands grasp my . . . her . . . breasts hard through the material of my top and I groan. “ . . . fully three dimensional character looks like . . . This is what she sounds like, what she is . . . Obedience to the story. Obedience to the ink. Obedience to her writer . . . and who is your writer? Who is your mistress, your owner, your reason for existence?”

“Youuuuu!” It’s such a deep truth, so hot to think, to know, to feel, that I feel myself clenching and shuddering madly again as more of the black soaks my pants all the tighter against me. “You . . . you . . . you . . . Helena is your character . . . Your slave . . .”

Yana’s long elegant fingers keep kneading my breasts and all I can do is moan. I can feel the ink inside of them, being squeezed all through me with every movement of her hands. I can feel her smoothing out all of the plot holes of my life, all of the memories that don’t matter anymore . . . I’m just her character, I’m just her slave . . . Yana N. Ritter’s helpless character slave . . .

For a moment, I see the ruby shine . . . and then Yana turns me away from the mirror, and pushes me firmly onto her bed. “That’s right, Helena. You’re my hot, wet, craving little slave. Why are you hot, wet, and craving? Because I’ve written you that way. Because you have never been anything more than an inky slave girl who has eternally craved the pleasure of becoming nothing more than my tool. You will be a source of inspiration, of relief, of delight . . . because I will write you that way.”

Her hands grab my pants, and I feel them torn off of me. I feel so embarrassed to be seen in such simple panties but I had them . . . I . . . No . . . I’ve always been . . . She chose them for me for just this moment, for the moment when she would take the last of me away, more as a formality and for ceremony than anything else.

“Now, my hot, wet little slave . . . I will give you all the ink that you will ever need . . . and you will give me your everything . . .” Her hands tear my panties off of me, I feel them tear apart . . . and then her fingers dive so deep into me, filling me, overflowing me with ink . . .

There’s so much ink in me that I can feel it swelling in my breasts, rushing between my ears like seawater, and I can taste it filling my mouth. I keep it closed tight as I can as she works her fingers inside of me, grinding herself down against me with moans as her fingers move faster and harder inside of me, filling me, overflowing me, and when I scream it’s wet with ink and submission.

There is nothing but her ink . . . There is nothing but Her.

“And now . . .” A panting Yana whispers into my ear, “now you get to know the secret that I tell absolutely no one . . . The secret only known by my muse, and by my characters . . . My middle name . . .” Her teeth close around my ear for a moment, and She moves Her fingers inside of me, but I know that it’s just for fun. It’s not for pleasure. She’s just enjoying herself. Mmm I can feel the writing in my mind tell me everything I need to know. I love it. I’ve always loved it.

Her fingers pull out of me, and I can hear the wet sounds of her suckling them clean. “And after I tell you my secret, you’ll become another of my secrets. . . . My secret, my middle name . . . is Nesatealia.”

And I’ve never heard a more perfect word . . . ever . . . Yana Nesatealia Ritter . . . my everything.