The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Amil fell through darkness. She had never entered Amata’s palace before, but she knew from stories and tradition that the pathway to it was supposedly a quick, gaudy, comfortable affair like being carried by the hands of a dozen or so gentle lovers through an ornate hallway full of eye pleasing sculptures and paintings. No such experience greeted her senses there in the abyss where she found herself descending slowly. Instead, her body seemed to lurch at strange and inconsistent angles and velocities- save for a strong trend downwards- through a cavernous void. Her elven eyes had no difficulty seeing in the dark most of the time, but this passage seemed…different. Darkness did not obstruct one from seeing, here, so much as darkness was what one saw. The dark had a shape, a form, like some kind of inky shadowy fluid had flooded the formerly bright hall. She experimentally tried swimming motions, in an attempt to claim some form of control over her passage through this space, but her efforts proved fruitless. Try as she might to stroke through the dark with her arms, they refused to move the way she instructed.

Amil’s hand brushed against something. It felt wet, and alive, and squishy…and hostile. An almost liquid aura of indifferent malevolence seemed to trickle along the alien surface she felt but could not see. She tried pulling away her hand and this time, her limbs did as they were told. As Amil continued to fall she heard a strange humming sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once, ringing and resonating as if passing through specially made shards of glass. She tried to focus in on the noise but her mind felt a sharp pain that increased the more her thoughts honed in on it.

The dark pressed down on her and she felt something drawing nearer to her which she tried to reach out towards. A familiar aura drew her in- that of the lingering sensuality her goddess left in her wake. As the entrance to Amata’s sanctum, it should have had a much stronger power radiating from it, but under the circumstances this clearly did not currently hold true. By focusing on that warm familiarity which did still remain, Amil willed herself closer bit by bit to that entrance. The darkness felt less and less oppressive the more the distance between Amil and the entrance shrank. She extended a hand and felt it touch a door. She had to grope around some to find the handle, but once she had she gripped it and pulled. She met some resistance for a moment before managing to slowly wrench it open.

Amil tumbled inside.

Amil felt a dark fog seeping slowly but steadily out of her head. It must have crept inside of her while she was floating through that…void. The tile beneath her body felt cool to the touch, but also utterly sterile. In fact it had almost a…stale quality to it, somehow. Amil slowly lifted herself up onto her feet and looked around. Despite the aura and lighting of the place not resembling the warm welcoming grandeur they ought to have, Amil knew on an instinctive level that this was the right place. Amata’s light, albeit as traces worn down by time and absence, greeted her from beneath every tile and within the material of each wall, vase, and sculpture. The residual influence of her goddess penetrated deep into everything in sight no matter how you looked at it.

In that context, then, it became obvious to her: Amata wasn’t here. She certainly had not graced this specific spot in a very long time. Amil could search the palace for clues, but she had no idea how big it was. Her tradition’s canon held this place’s size to be anywhere from “big” to “the size of a large country.” She didn’t know how the laws of physical space operated within its walls, either. These things became convoluted in the immediate domain of the gods, after all. No two deity’s places of command had rules which functioned exactly alike. She might experience a second in here for each that passed in the mortal plane, or five, or for each day that she spent here she might unknowingly allow a week’s time to come and go there without her. Regardless, she couldn’t afford to waste time. She’d have to find the innermost sanctum of sanctums- Amata’s bedroom (obviously)— as quickly as possible in the hopes it might have answers. She muttered an incantation and found to her shock that the spell worked.

Amil’s awareness of Amata’s influence heightened in its sensitivity, allowing her to see the faintest of differences. She saw a few small spikes here, mostly in decorations (relative to one another). The ones she treasured the most and/or had put there the longest time ago, likely. Amil moved in what instinct told her might be the most inward direction. Her theory didn’t stay unconfirmed for very long. As she turned a corner, she saw a painting of Serenade in a golden frame. Small, with long blue hair and dainty little eyes. Its aura dwarfed everything else she’d seen so far…which made perfect sense. Amil smiled in spite of herself.

She approached the painting as if to rest a hand on it, but stopped herself short. If she smudged it with her dirty mortal hands, Amata might never forgive her- and worse, if she did, Amil would never forgive herself. The elf caught herself and yanked her hand down to her side. She had a mission. She turned and continued her search, finding that the average impression left on the decorations seemed to be rising. The most likely explanation was one of two things: either these were more dear to her, or this part of the palace was older and thus the things inside it had been there absorbing her sublime radiance for longer. Either way, Amil figured, she had guessed correctly which way to go. Her confidence increased and she even felt something resembling hope. She knew this feeling wasn’t rational, but that did little to deter her.

She followed the halls, guided by a mix of instinct and educated guesses informed by her magically enhanced sense for Amata’s light. She tried to remember which turns she took, in case she had to backtrack. This turned out to be unnecessary before long, though. She felt, through multiple walls, the unmistakable golden beauty of her goddess. The glow felt powerful even with the walls and distance lessening its effect, and despite the palace’s decayed state. And it was decayed: Amil started to notice cobwebs and dust in places now that her tunnel vision could be discarded. She suspected that if she looked even vaguely in the light’s direction during the goddess’s better days, she’d have to turn the spell off or her eyes would boil.

She navigated to the room without much trouble. Only then, standing just outside the entrance to the bedchambers of the goddess of love and sex, did she realize how quiet and barren the palace was. Nobody, no celestials or angels or other visiting mortals, roamed the halls as she did. No hum of gentle magic greeted the ears, nor the distant joy of harps. Those had always been Serenade’s favorite instrument, and that made them Amata’s as well. Damn it, Amil thought to herself, I should have brought a harp! I came all this way with no gifts, nothing to raise her spirits, no invitation… she forced those thoughts aside.

Amil opened the door to Amata’s chamber and something in her mind instantly shattered.

The chamber attacked Amil’s eyes with the sight of itself, utterly trashed and obviously the site of a struggle. The sheets had been torn to ribbons, and they lay in tatters all about. Giant gashes in the ornate wooden bedpost glowed with malignant remnants of a wicked power Amil could not easily identify. She let go of the enchantment that had helped her locate this place, to avoid being overwhelmed. She stepped inside and gave the room a cursory investigation. Some of it had not been disturbed, but most everything- even the walls, the floor, and the ceiling- bore visible damage. Strangely even burrow-like holes in the floor, shaped like half-cylinders, caught her attention. She ran two fingertips along the inside edge of one such incision, and noted mentally that it was every bit as smooth as it looked. Dressers, books, and other such things lay all about the room, smashed by whatever violence had been done here. Rage flashed through Amil’s body at the inherent sacrilege of any kind of violence that occured in this room.

She took a deep breath. She calmed herself. She began to look for clues. The Pravus, a mythical knife that her goddess wore as a necklace at all times, was nowhere to be seen. It made a kind of sense- for Amata to relinquish it, she’d have to die first. The room did not contain a corpse. Although…

Hair raised on the back of Amil’s neck. If the Pravus, legendarily made of such fowl magic that it could permanently harm even the rotten god of poison and falsehoods, killed a god (which, it was known, it could do)...might it not leave a body? No, no, she assured herself, that couldn’t be. She would know. If she stood in the very room where her goddess died, where her goddess’ murder had occurred, she would know. Amata had to be alive, or at least, she had to have survived whatever did this. Amil continued to inspect the room, and found…something. A crystalline prism which glittered with a benevolent energy. Amil picked it up off of the ground and focused her mind onto it.

The gem had a beautiful foggy sort of sky blue color to its surface. It was smooth, yet undeniably solid. Whether it more closely resembled a gemstone or a piece of crystal, Amil lacked the expertise to say. It had a rounded diamond shape and took up about half of a palm. She held it in one hand and ran her fingers across its surface. The feel of an almost perfectly even plane of material greeted her fingertips, cool and reassuring. She knew this object to be magical. It did not belong to her goddess, she knew that much. It followed, then, that…

that…

Amil’s head hurt. She felt an invasive-

She felt-

She felt-

Amil emerged from a foggy, half-entranced daze. She stood fondly rubbing a crystal she’d used to help herself enter the palace where her Lady, Amata, resided. Her mind slowly but steadily regained its ability to focus. Something felt off to her as she continued to search the bedroom of her goddess. She knew something had gone wrong but not quite what. Her usually sharp intuition for these matters felt sluggish and dull. She examined damaged dressers, cleanly made grooves in the walls and floor. They almost seemed like burrows dug by the mouths of small creatures- worms, perhaps.

Something sparked, painfully, inside of her. The thought she’d just had- whatever it had been, it had immediately vanished. Almost…violently. The crystal in her hand glowed. She gripped it angrily, her arm shaking. In a fit of frustration, Amil stomped one foot and hurled the stone against the floor. It shattered, but the spot where it had struck solid ground seemed to shimmer weakly like a splotchy portal into the night sky.

Go in, some instinct of Amil’s requested from the back of her head in a smooth buttery voice. Or…in two of them, perhaps? She squeezed her eyes tight and did nothing. Her body, despite her instructions, listened to those instincts and lurched forward. Amil fell into the pool. She lost consciousness on the way down.

Amil woke up in a cave. She could hear water dripping off somewhere not too distant from her location. She rose from her position lying on her back to sit up and rub her head. It hurt, but only a little bit. Amil continued and rose onto her feet, her eyes adjusting quickly to her surroundings. The elven eyes in her sockets, which saw exceptionally clearly and were bothered little by conditions of low light, showed her that her surroundings consisted of ordinary rock bathed in a faint ambient blue glow.

She felt a twinge of annoyance with herself for falling- quite literally falling, at that- into what was quite obviously some kind of trap. Her competence at survival far exceeded that of the average mortal but if this was set by someone who could invade Amata’s most precious sanctuary…no, she had no time to dwell. She moved cautiously towards the sound of the dripping. The rule that moving water often led to civilization didn’t hold true as often underground (outside of dwarven territory, at least) but she had no other leads. The cavern proved almost suspiciously inhabitable, with no tunnels or corridors that even forced her to stoop. She made her way around stone corners, past stalagmites, up a short cliff. She felt something. It seemed to be her Lady, but something seemed…different. Where Amata usually radiated easygoing confidence, instead there was…grief.

It physically hurt. The divine emotion invaded Amil’s brain and tore at her like the hands of hundreds of ghouls grasping for her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her ears. She forced it out somehow and pressed onwards. As she drew nearer, the dripping got louder. She thought to herself that perhaps Amata had followed it as well. This gave the woman a spike of motivation, and she drove herself forwards. Answers were within her reach! At last, she could break the curse!

She came to a chamber. A circular formation of stone, almost resembling a tub, glowed with a powerful azure light that sparkled beautifully. An almost sky blue aura wafted off of it like pretty, harmless smoke. Within that haze, grids of white light danced. The light emanated from a pool of water that filled the stone. Above it hung a stalactite with an unusual, talon-like curve to its shape. Bright blue droplets of water trickled along its side down to its tip, then dripped from there into the pool below, their light presumably fueling the bigger one that emanated gently from the body of water they fed. The rest of the room seemed nondescript. Amil stood in place momentarily, almost stunned by the water’s beautiful soothing glow, before she started looking around for anything else. What she found when she did, shook her to her core.

Amata, her hair still yellow but robbed of the divine golden hale and glow it usually had, sat in the fetal position by the chamber’s stone wall. She faced away from Amil, shaking with the exertion of repressing heavy noisy sobs. Amil approached automatically, as though her goddess’ presence had taken control of her legs away from her. At the sight of her Lady reduced to this, the woman’s heart sank and rapidly plummeted into an ice cold bath of liquid dread. She felt goosebumps emerging warily from her skin as her mind raced.

“A-Amata?” Amil sputtered out, her words just as shaky and infirm as she felt. They died in the air inches from her mouth, nowhere near loud enough to wrench Amata’s attention away from whatever horrific tragedy held it captive. She drew nearer, saw more of her goddess, saw her in the flesh for the first time in her life, tried not to think about the almost blasphemous idea that this could be anyone’s first impression of the goddess of love and passion. Amata’s body bore scratches and bruises and filth, and splotches of dried blood had discolored it in places. Amil felt pity, something she had somehow not expected to happen if she ever found the goddess- alive, especially. “Amata?” She asked again, in no less of a frightened whisper this time but spoken from closer. Still, her pleas fell before they could hope to reach Amata’s ears.

Amil paused. Her outstretched hand called her to notice that she did not remember reaching out, nor did she remember instructing her body to do so. Neither of these potentially worrisome details caught her attention. She dropped into a crouch to put herself at about the same height as her goddess, and took a few final steps closer. Now their bodies existed mere inches apart from one another, so close that if Amata threw her head back to wail she might knock it into Amil. Still, the goddess did not see or hear her. Amil raised her hand tentatively, unsure how to proceed…but then, she couldn’t push things back any farther. She glanced at her hand, which lay suspended in the air by indecision…and then, a moment later, she placed it on the goddess’ shoulder and forced her own face to make an empty facade of a reassuring smile.

“Amata,” she whispered, barely any louder this time but much braver. The goddess jolted away and twisted her body to glare at Amil with two eyes that burned…no, not quite.

Amata had a preference for how she looked by default, so said the canon of her followers: blonde, fit but not especially visibly muscular, with an untamed mane of wild blonde hair that fell past her knees. These all held true, but her eyes did not. Art depicted this shape of hers with many eye colors, but they usually took one of a few: red, purple, hazel, gold, and neon pink being the most common. Amata’s eyes also matched. Heather, the goddess’ adopted daughter, had heterochromia, but the Divine Passion did not, not in any of her countless forms (although she fully possessed the ability to take it on herself temporarily to become more attractive to a given partner). Yet, the eyes staring into Amil had two different colors. One was purple, that one made sense, but the other stared into her through a haze of pale, glassy blue-gray. In fact, even that eye’s sclera didn’t seem quite right. It lacked the opaque milk white that it ought to be- in fact, it almost seemed to be made of…glass.

Amata’s right eye- the one that seemed normal- regarded Amil with wide horror, but something about the other…the wrong on-

Something inside Amil’s brain shifted. She sprang mentally after it, to find what had changed, but the instant that adjustment completed the whole shape of her mind became an unquestionable whole, such that finding what changed became impossible. Every gear and cog constituting her thoughts sat exactly where it ought to be, cranked identically to the way it had been built to crank, turned and ground precisely as they had been intended. Not a single thought in her skull was out of place by so much as a neuron.

Amata’s original eye shifted quickly from horror to recognition to a kind of tragic, beautiful relief. The other one- the divine prosthetic she’d always had, that all of her art excluded out of reverence- stared blankly into Amil’s very soul, as if to strip her of not just her clothes but her very flesh.

“S…Serenade? Is that…you?” Amata’s voice crackled with desperation. She obviously had to fight to force the words up out of her throat, which was hoarse and scratchy. Amil opened her mouth to deny it.

“No, no, I’m not your sister I’m sorry,” Amil said with an apologetic grin, looking exclusively at Amata’s flesh-eye out of respect (and fear- too much direct eye contact with the other risked one’s self being disassembled by its uncontrollable insight and cast in pieces to oblivion). “It’s me, Amil. I’m here to help you.” She felt yet another twinge of dread. Amata had been so beset with grief that she’d mistaken a mere mortal for her sister…

Gears turned inside Amata’s head. Her eye, glossy with tears but somehow miraculously unreddened, wiggled in defiance against some unseen force…despair, in all likelihood. It seemed not to win that battle. She spoke again, her voice raspy and emotionally painful just to listen to.

“N-no…you have to be…sweetheart…” Amata’s face contorted with sadness. The goddess hugged her body with her arms and sighed, and some of the pupating aura of malignant sorrow she’d been entombed within subsided. Amata shakily rose to her feet with her hands clutching her face. She groaned for a long time before her voice gave out. “Need…water.” Amil nodded and turned towards the pool, but Amata seized her wrist in an instant. “No. Not that. Evil. Full of…eggs. Parasites. Can’t be trusted.”

Amil froze as her mind- which seemed to be whirring back into motion (when had it stopped?)— recoiled from the idea of parasites so vile that the most powerful deity alive would be so afraid of them. She stared into the beautiful, inviting glow of the water and felt sick to her stomach. What if she’d drank from it before…? No. Mission. Mission came first.

“Yes, of course,” said Amil. She muttered an incantation and conjured a beautiful globe of pure, refreshing, divinely spawned water. The goddess greedily seized handfuls of the stuff at a time and shoved one after another down her mouth with the ferocity of a starving beast. Amil watched until Amata had devoured all of it, standing with a faint grin. One of Amata’s eyes had closed. Something…something had been off about that one, righ-

Something…something had…

What had she been thinking about? Amil gripped her forehead and winced with annoyance.

“Where are we?” Asked Amil.

“Somewhere treacherous and wicked,” Amata spat with some of the anger which was her second most famous trait. “An evil place. Nothing good can come of it. An old one, with horror stained deep into the stone. I’ve never seen or heard of it, but it carries the stench of my father deeper than my palace does my own.”

“Well,” said Amil, “we need to get you out don’t we?”

She reached forward. For a split second, Amata’s left eye shot open, but then she forced it closed with great effort. Then it forced its way open again, but the eye was nothing but sclera.

“N-no,” Amata stammered. “She’s- she’s here!” She forced her eye closed again but this time she failed to regain her composure.

“Serenade is still here,” Amata whimpered, clutching at something hanging from a necklace. “We can’t leave her.”