The witch Scryer has a simple way of dealing with her tight-lipped hero.
The deep whisper all around him came in waves to wash over his senses, rousing him to pleasant wakefulness. It was pleasant enough to offset his predicament – naked on his bed, comfortably still, body unwilling to move at his request, bedroom filled with candle light and an air of mischievous magic.
The rigors of an afternoon workout and patrolling, rushing and exerting himself toward mostly needless false alarms seemed absent to his resting body. All he knew at some point was a dark, dreamless sleep was inexplicably peaceful and positively serene, and he suspected it had to do with the voice that just woke him. He noticed it felt a little deeper than before because he was awake, and noticed that a part of him was awake ahead of him. It helped that a wide-brimmed witch’s hat covered his more awake self, let him feel a void filled with wafting pleasure, caressed by a smoky substance, seemingly getting thicker at every feminine uttering.
He didn’t have to move or ask or guess who it was, which probably annoyed compared to any other scenario.
“Tell you wha…mmmm”
He noticed right away that speaking increased the sensations, prompting him to want to open up which would mean more, all on top of her words deeply caressing him. Each letter and syllable was more solid than the smoke, running along his skin. He knew her game now, but still didn’t know what she wanted. Such a vague command made his head spin with what blood was there keeping it running. Fear began to surface with searching for what she wanted.
“I can’t move,” noticing his physical imprisonment by the cultured, accented voice sapping his energy to move.
“Tell Me.” The voice lacked approval, leaving him to search more.
“You’re a witch,” he stated not as an insult, but maybe insulting enough with how obvious it was. She responded with the same deadpan he did.
“I can’t remember much before how I got…here.”
“Tell Me.” The repetition allowed him to detect the smallest indicators in her voice, including a miniscule sense of interest in her voice.
“What I do remember is having dinner, working out, going on patrol-”
“Tell Me.” Her interruption said enough.
“Average patrol. Stopped one petty thug from accosting a civilian before the civilian was even aware of what almost happened, ran into Psi-”
Striker stopped himself, afraid to invoke that name in Scryer’s presence for fear of creating another scenario where the witch thought retribution was in order.
“Tell Me.” The insistence was thick in her voice.
Striker remained silent, trying to think of a way to spin the conversation in a different way.
“Tell Me.” Much more insistent.
Nothing came to him for how to avoid mentioning the heroine’s name, so he just stopped trying and tried to remain as tight-lipped as possible, even if it was the dumbest play he had and he was already more vulnerable than ever with someone so insatiable.
A sound that he didn’t catch was made; his attention caught the tail end of it, like a hum in a rising pitch. It was singular and seemed deliberate enough that he thought it was supposed to trigger something, but he neither thought nor felt differently as a result. That scared him since he never noticed his arm raised on orders from the witch, rising as tall as it could, holding a chain at his fingers, attached to a familiar blue crystal that swung by his soft wrist motionings.
There was nothing to stop it from moving, and very little in his head muscles to turn away. Before his eyes could retreat, a glimmer inside it from candle light caught his attention, inexplicably fixed on it to see if the swinging could make him find it again. With every other swing, he found it again, finding it more rapt each time, ignoring even words that filled the space around him.
Eyes distracted the attention to take away the need to keep his lips tight. They loosened, quivered, and spoke the name almost breathlessly.
Striker’s mid-section convulsed as Scryer’s voice conveyed what he believed to be slight scorn for speaking that name so close to passionately.
“Mmmmm, Scryerrr….” his reaction was undeniably breathless, and felt elation in the smile of the next repeating.
The blue, shiny crystal swung at his eyes until his mind was just focused on telling whatever there was to tell. Psiana had met him again, looking to probe him verbally this time rather than using her powers to scan his mind. She asked about Scryer; apparently she was gaining a reputation around town, a point of concern amongst the city’s superheroes. Claims ranging from strange black outs, periods of time missing from memory, and just plain strangeness seem to surround reports of the sorceress. Just like with Striker, it scared them that she neither definitively identified as heroine or villainess. The consensus sent Psiana to investigate the person she was closest to.
Striker’s words reflected exactly what he told Psiana, how he understood the concern, but there was no immediate cause for it with her. She seemed more curious than anything else, certainly not malicious unless provoked. The hero spoke to the point of defending the witch without even realizing it. Suddenly becoming aware of exactly what he was saying, his mind came back to him as the crystal opened his mind to the memories of earlier in the day.
He remembered in detail why of all heroes she chose him, and hoped she remembered half of the exploits she centered around him and only him, hoping that her curiosity with him would be contained with just him.
Scryer obviously wanted to know what was on his mind, so he stuck to the day’s events rather than his thoughts.
“Psiana was surprised at my defending you, she seemed to be in telepathic contact with some of the other prominent heroes about our talk as we spoke, directly reporting back to them, or letting us hear the conversation in real-time. I guess the heroes weren’t satisfied enough with what I had to say, so the next phase was to stealthily probe my mind. It would’ve been stealthy, and I guess I wasn’t even supposed to know it was happening, but I did.”
“I knew because something struck me the moment it happened. Not something she did; something you did.”
“Tell Me.” Such glee in her voice; she knew exactly what he had to tell, but was quite enjoying hearing it from him.
“You set some sort of trap in me. If she tried to access things, some spell you planted in me would guard my mind, putting me back under your power, and reflecting off me and into her. Before my lights went out, I saw her eyes go wide, like something had hit her. The way her shoulders sagged, and the light in her eyes dimmed, I knew it was you that hit her.”
The clear accusation in his voice did not approve of an admittedly crafty trap Scryer laid, not as intense because he wasn’t done thinking of the breadth or effect of her plan.
“But she recovered quickly, and…”
The arm that rose to brandish the blue crystal again didn’t agree with him, because he knew he was trying to lead the narrative elsewhere. His speech paused as he followed the crystal, futilely fighting sinking back into a mindless state. Thinking was hard as his eyes went back and forth over and over again, concerned more with the shining facets, then closing his heavy eyes, then giving an accurate account against his will.
Scryer’s trap sprung when Striker and Psiana were still linked mentally. As their conscious selves dimmed, they became aware on the inside. Striker felt the strong part of his mental self, the part that Scryer always sensationalized about him, form his avatar inside Psiana’s mindscape. It seemed less sensationalized as he found Psiana’s avatar looking blank and vulnerable, practically in her own domain. She floated rudderless in the void of the colorless space, unaware of even Striker’s presence. Shaking off the effects of Scryer’s magic was frustrating, urging her awake by the shoulders, his yelling and pleading way to minor glints of hope in her eyes, only for those to flicker away at the pleasure of her trance state pulling her back down. Striker never gave up, finally believing she was only the right encouraging word away from resistance, until he said the witch’s name aloud.
The blonde suddenly gasped, as if realizing why she felt so mindless. Her pink lips didn’t move, but her mind whispered Scryer’s name into the expanse, muting nearly everything else, Striker’s voice gradually drowning out. None of his words or efforts registered to the psychic anymore, just a boost of pleasure making eyes rolling in the back of her head, as the head slumped forward. Striker brought her head back up to see a dreamy smile plastered on her face, how she must’ve looked if Scryer would reward her for obedience. Soon, the sound of whispers filled the mindscape again, but from a voice that was in-control of the situation, and gaining control of those there to listen. Another gasp make the vigilante look down to see Psiana’s hand stroking herself through the costume to the prevalent words, the wet spot of the fabric growing more soaked. Striker realized that it was Psiana broadcasting Scryer’s whispers, making all of this happen, reacting to being in Scryer’s power.
The mental connection Striker felt expanded, as others were connecting to their link. She was somehow reaching out to others amidst her bewitched, aroused state; outlines of other figures looked vague at first, then grew more detailed as he noticed capes, gauntlets, helmets, armor, weapons – the city’s heroes, the ones requesting Psiana’s interrogation of Striker. Worry hit Striker harder as he realized Psiana might have been connected with the heroes the whole time to report her findings directly, leaving them open to her in her compromised state. His worry came true as he paid attention to the forming facial and bodily features he could, acknowledgment of Psiana’s link to their minds, then confusion at how her powers went beyond mind speech, and imprinted feelings, a specific disposition she was more than happy to share, pushing away rational thoughts they became as blank as their avatars became fully-formed. All the while, Scryer’s voice was the dominant occupant in the space, pushing everyone ever deeper into trance, with Striker being the lone resistor. He watched in utter defeat as they all smiled and stroked their arousals shamelessly and all on the witch’s inadvertent behalf. He knew being the last made no difference, that eventually he would be overcome like the rest. It was a minor surprise to find his own hand also beginning to stroke himself, being surrounded by Scryer’s voice, cognizant of nothing else, no one else.
Before the erotic haze of remembering what happened in the mindscape could blur his senses any further, panic set in as he woke up back to being bare and still on the bed.
Striker’s eyes went wide not only with the implication that she’d struck the city’s superheroes yet again, but also realizing there was a gap in his memories from Psiana’s interrogation to Scryer’s interrogation; for all he knew, they were still under Scryer’s power at that moment.
He ignored her words and pleasure they tried to elicit in him. Striker felt he had to as a lot more seemed at stake now; she probably could have taken the heroes at her leisure all at once, but her personality seemed barely interested with what she found. Having them all and not knowing it, who knows what kind of puppet show she’d suddenly be inspired to conjure up.
“Uh…you probably pissed them off with your little stunt. Your reputation with the heroes doesn’t seem favorable anymore.”
“Tell Me.” The measured sternness in her voice told him she wasn’t buying it, laced with utter amusement in why he bothered trying to deceive her anymore.
“They’re probably as upset with me now as they are you, I’m probably not invited to any more super meetings.”
“Tell Me.” Her voice chuckled at his attempt to turn the conversation elsewhere. At that point, he hated how someone who’d been in his mind time and time again was slowly extracting information out of his willing and unwilling mind, letting his consciousness stew in how helpless he was.
“Enough with the bullshit already, ok? You’re getting exactly what you want out of me. It’s not enough this time that you have to emba-emb…eemm”
He had trouble completing his sentence as he looked up absently to see his arm was up again, never noticing the triggering hum that time, pendant swinging, the light catching it that certain way. In his eyes, there was a shift in color, from the orange of the flames, to other colors in the facets, until it hit blue and made it seem like the inside of the crystal glowed in blue power, glowed like the pendant’s owner’s eyes did, like they glinted magnetically as she would say that eye fixation trigger. He heard her say it somewhere deep in his own head, and it was enough to make him follow the azure glow of the crystal without fail.
Mindlessness came much easier this time, and yet Striker could still make the distinction of the faint memory of an uttered trigger, and the hot whispers of
against the skin around and inside his ears, setting his insides on fire. Under her hat, vigorous stroking rewarded his need to speak. He could literally feel the letters of each word wrapping themselves around him, giving him no choice but to talk.
Barely conscious heroic panic let him hear “all under your power” before he slipped back down. His virtuousness and sense of justice pushed at the thick spell placed over him like a wool blanket that couldn’t be punched, clawed, or forced through. It tired itself out trying, and fell only to have that blanket cover and comfort him. He knew this was exactly the kind of potential jeopardy that required anything it took to prevail, but he quickly reasoned that of all the perpetrators and instigators worth panicking over, Scryer was a league over her own – overwhelmingly powerful, and yet nowhere near half as interested in even a medium-level threat to the heroes or the city. The need to fight Scryer of all people dampened the fight in him.
The last time he tried to force himself awake, he found himself still on his bed, but in a blacker void, with other heroes nearby, laying somewhere as he was, but blank faced, practically still, all chanting something in unison, all connected by some pink-hued force swirling around them that he’d never seen before. The closest to him to his horror was Psiana, the source of the pink energy, her psychic power manifested in Scryer’s void.
He could turn his head and open his eyes enough to notice that their voices and movements were almost in unison. Whatever they all said and did, Psiana said it first, and it filtered down to the rest. As the lustful haze of Scryer’s control sunk him back slowly into thoughtless pleasure, it shocked him less to see Psiana’s hand stroking herself through her pink costume in time with the inaudible words of surrender to the witch, and to know that heroes and heroines alike stroked their bulges and wet spots in the same rhythm.
Not only did it not shock him, it turned him on to know that the result of being Scryer’s pawn gave her all the heroes she could ask for accidentally. It was then that his will capitulated and let him enjoy every sensation under the hat.
Burning his ear with her words and nibbling his ear, his whole body shook and gave in to the excitement of being hers and being a vessel for her to have others.
Inbetween moans, he let words of worship form when not spouting incandescent gibberish due to his nerves and senses being on pleasure overload. The air under the hat felt tropical, pushing the arousal further and harder than his body could ever remembered bearing.
His screams of pleasure were reduced to sharp whispers and whimpering moans, and yet they drowned out all of the other heroes reactive noises. They were all so close, Striker could feel it, and for the first time, their needs and well being were not his concern. He wanted to grip the covers and feel his toes curl up, but didn’t go beyond labored breathing and hard rocking of hips.
“Please,” he begged, knowing permission was needed.
“Please,” he pleaded close to tears in his eyes.
“Tell Me.” Scryer sing-songed, ramping up the feelings harder.
“Tell Me,” she teased again.
The rising pitched hum rose like a whistle to bring his attention to the swinging crystal, as mind followed immediately and started to go blank from trance rather than over-stimulation. That lasted for nearly a full minute before the hum pitched from high to low, and his wrist had stopped swinging the crystal, and its chain eventually slipped from his fingers, the cool, fortunately light crystal colliding with Striker’s forehead, taking him swiftly into unconsciousness.
Sabrina knelt next to the bed with her arms folded to cradle her head, watching her boyfriend like she used to watch her favorite TV shows in her youth. It was fascinating to see everything but his arousal go to sleep, and to see it convulse and throb on its own, still waiting for her. She smelled the witch’s hat she placed on her head, loving the aroma of his controlled arousal, glad she’d removed it before he could stain it, even with the condom on. Not that she should complain since his head was plenty stained with her juices every now and then.
It was supposed to be a pretty laid-back date night. Food, conversation, and some superhero stuff on Netflix. When they got to the viewing portion and realized it was down for the night, both were a little bummed out, but Sabrina a little more since she liked those shows so much. Not one to stay in a slump forever, she used her pendant to create her own little superhero drama that night, with a cast she was very familiar with.
This time, instead of her planning, she was impressed with the lengths Jon’s own mind had gone to create one hell of a mind-control plot for another episode of their super-powered role-playing. She figured programming his mind to creatively think of a scenario with a simple prompting command might be fun, but she got more than she bargained for, watching him bright-eyed and with soaked panties. Of all the hands that went to crotches in his story, she didn’t expect hers to join in, until she looked down and found her hand had slipped into her jeans.
She noted that as much as she loved planning these games, she should get his input prior to playing as well. Jon would most likely consciously feign that he wouldn’t even begin to know where to take their role-playing, as much as she directed even the smallest details.
She also noticed that a flicker of light from the living room told her something had appeared on the TV. It seemed like her regularly-scheduled interest had re-appeared and was ready to go, but looking at the sexy, mindless storyteller throbbing hard for her, interest obviously changed that night. What’s more, despite as erotically ramped up as she already was, something seemed lacking. Her libido was still strong, but her strokes grew gentle as she thought why.
It didn’t take long to realize that the story Jon told as Striker seemed incomplete, like there was more to it, but where it could go from there seemed a mystery.
Sabrina kept to her own rules of furthering the story only with “tell me,” but she was at a loss of where things could go. Like her favorite X-Men comic, where Mesmero gained control of all the heroes through their resident psychic, after successfully seizing control, the mind controller had no idea of what to do with them once she had them. Such a stupid problem, but not too far from reality since Sabrina couldn’t remember controlling so many people at once, at least without a plan or some foresight. She concluded she was too charged to think of something worthy, and Jon’s creativity deserved to rest after laying some excellent ground work.
A wicked thought struck Sabrina, as she used her free hand to reach for her phone while her stroking hand picked up the pace in anticipation.
Jesse huffed on her couch as she noticed her Netflix had come back up.
Before she could give it her full attention, she noticed her phone ringing. Her mind clicked as she saw the number, answering it quickly to converse with her best friend, the only one who knew her secret identity as Psiana, who she trusted more than anyone else.
“Hey girlfriend, home alone tonight?” the cheerful voice greeted.
“Hey silly,” Jesse greeted back. “Yeah, just me and binge-watching tonight. Or attempted. Did your Netflix go out too?”
“Yeah, mine just came back up. But I’ve been pre-occupied with this wild story I just heard.”
“Wild, huh? How wild?”
“Put it this way, you should really concentrate on this one. I mean really concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate fully and well on everything I have to tell you.”
Jesse did before she realized she started, feeling the wild story become more real, more perilous as reality warped around her until she was dressed as Psiana, coming off the high of a magical trance, bound to it somewhat, connected to fellow heroes still under a devious spell, fearing she was the conduit for the spell. She knew why she was there, to satisfy the whims of the magical deviant who tricked her. She could sense beyond explanation that she was the inevitable key to everyone’s eventual orgasm, including the witch herself. And if she was already in as deep as she was, fighting her was likely a forgone conclusion.
Dread and elation rocked her body and mind as she heard a breathless whisper giving an irresistible command.