"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.
"Tell Me."
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
"Tell Me."
"Tell Me."
"Tell Me."
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.
"Tell Me."
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.
"Tell Me."
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.
"Please..."
"Tell Me," she teased again.
"P-plleeeasssseee..."
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.
