The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Perfection

Walking towards her apartment, Sara could feel the heaviness of the day’s work settling onto her shoulders. It had been a long shift at the restaurant, and a long day of classes before that, but she was glad it was over, and even more glad that her roommate, Jessica, was away for a couple of days, giving her the place to herself. Well herself and Biscuit, the irritable cat that shared the apartment with them. When she reached the door, however, she was surprised to see a package waiting for her. She hadn’t ordered anything online recently, had she? Maybe it was for Jessica. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands—A nondescript cardboard box about a foot square, maybe four inches deep, not heavy. She scanned the label—her name, her address, no mistake. Strange. She shrugged, unlocked the door and shuffled inside.

It was one of those evenings where the warmth from the apartments downstairs managed to seep into Sara’s apartment, making it uncomfortable. She dumped her bag and coat on a chair by the front door, and then picked up the package, and wandered through the flat to her bedroom. Pausing briefly to absent-mindedly stroke the tabby cat that tried to entwine itself around her legs meowing and wailing.

“Not now, biscuit! I’ll get your dinner in a minute!” Sara thought as she picked her legs carefully around the feline. Taking full advantage of her solitude, Sara left the door to her room open, tossed the box onto her bed and began stripping off her outer layers of clothing. When she was down to just her plain white cotton pants and cami top she flung herself onto the bed with a relieved sigh. The warmth of the apartment was almost bearable now. Pulling herself upright into a cross-legged position, she pulled the mysterious box towards her. Sara looked at the package, turning it over in front of her. It didn’t rattle. Wondering if maybe someone had sent her an early birthday present, even though her birthday was still two months away, she grabbed a pair of scissors from her night stand and slit the tape holding the box closed.

In the box was a layer of black tissue paper with a credit card sized rectangle of plastic resting on top. The card was completely black, mostly matt apart from a stylised face in the center picked out in gloss. Sara Lifted the card, flipping it over in her fingers—maybe this would give some clue to the box’s origin. On the reverse was the same design, but this time in matt and gloss white, with an address printed over the front of the face. Sara furrowed her brow, trying to think if she recognised the address. It wasn’t far, but it didn’t seem familiar. Not obviously one of her friends’.

Making a mental note to look up the address later, she returned her attention to the box. She pulled aside the layer of tissue paper, and was greeted by the sight of ... a pair of gloves? The smell hit her shortly after—the vaguely familiar smell of warm plastic, normally associated with cheap fake leather, but somehow as Sara breathed it in, her brain interpreted it as a deeply savory sensation, filling her head. she almost didn’t want to breathe it out again.

The gloves were a glistening jet black—looking almost like they sucked light into them, except that they simultaneously reflected the whole room around her, twisted and distorted around the curves of the fingers. Despite herself, Sara’s eyes widened as she inspected the gloves. Not usually her style—she much preferred natural fibers—there was something fascinating about them she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Without realizing it, Sara breathed in deeply again.

Exhaling, she reached out and lifted the first of the gloves from the box, and was surprised, first by the cool smoothness of the material against her fingertips, and secondly by how the material snaked out after the wrist of the glove, revealing a long sleeve of the same, almost liquid—looking, material. Sara had never owned, or wanted to own, anything like these opera length gloves, but now she had an overwhelming urge to slip them on to see how they would look on her. The urge was so powerful it almost felt alien to her, and for a moment Sara jolted back to herself—her surroundings coming back into focus, her eyes darting, almost panicked, around the room. Biscuit was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, seemingly wary to cross the threshold, watching Sara intently. The moment Sara’s gaze alighted on the smooth reflections shifting on the surface of the gloves, however, the calm, enraptured fascination returned. Sara breathed in again.

Almost before she knew what she was doing, Sara had slipped the first glove onto her hand and pulled the long sleeve up the length of her arm. It pulled on in a single fluid motion, flowing up her arm, stopping mid-bicep in a ring that gripped tightly into her flesh, contrasting starkly with her pale skin. Sara could feel the sleeve constricting her arm—holding it tightly, compressing it into a perfect slender form. The Black material maintained its reflective sheen, resisting any fingerprints, scuffs or marks. It was perfect.

Everywhere the material touched Sara’s skin was infused with a delicious coolness that flowed from her arm up into the rest of her body. The best way she could have described it was that it felt exactly like the material smelled. She brought her black, plastic coated hands up in front of her face. A moment of confusion as she wondered when she had put on the second glove was extinguished immediately as she saw her face reflected in the dark mirrored hands floating in front of her. the familiar reflection distorted and perverted by the curves of her hands, the look in her eyes hungry.

Something in the back of her mind drew her attention once again to the mysterious box. Beneath the gloves there was another layer of black tissue paper. Sara reached out her hands, her new skin glistening under the electric lights, and drew back the paper. The sensation of touch seemed paradoxically to be heightened through the gloves, and she could feel her smooth fingers sliding over the rough paper. As she discarded the paper, she was met with another, stronger wave of the synthetic smell as she unveiled the Box’s contents.

In the bottom of the box, staring silently and eyelessly into Sara’s enraptured face with an almost seductive gaze, was a slick, glistening, plastic face. Something like a mask, but with no openings for either eyes or mouth. A hood that promised to engulf Sara’s whole head, erasing her individual features and replacing them with smooth, shiny, plastic perfection. Sara saw herself reflected in the face, her eye’s wide, pupils dilated, mouth hanging hungrily half open. Her hands moved of their own accord, first caressing the mask’s cheek—the smooth plastic of her fingers gliding frictionlessly across its surface, before lifting the Mask reverently out of its container. Sara Breathed in deeply.

At that moment, a crash from the apartment’s small kitchen broke her concentration on the dark face in front of her and she looked up instinctively to see what had happened. Biscuit was standing in the doorway amidst a scattered litter tray, his hackles raised, back arched, hissing and snarling. It was in this moment of clarity that Sara’s panic returned. It wasn’t even so much Biscuit’s reaction but the realisation of the feeling of loss of control, like nothing she had done since she had opened the strange box had really, truly, been her choice. Like she had been a train running on tracks laid out in front of her.

Sara dropped the mask, and went to take the gloves off. She pinched at the fingers of her left hand with her right, but couldn’t seem to get any purchase between her finger and the material of the glove. They fitted so perfectly that there was simply no gap anywhere, where she could begin to draw herself and the glove apart. The panic rising further in her throat, she gave up on the fingers, and began clawing at the point on her arm where her skin met that of the glove. She scrabbled with her slick black fingers at the sharp border where the shiny black skin transitioned to her own, pale arm. Once again, there was no gap, no purchase, no way of forcing her fingers between herself and the glove. It was as if the gloves weren’t a layer placed on top of her skin, but had become the skin on her arms from mid bicep to fingers.

Sara brought her arm up to look closely at the line dividing herself from the glove, That was a mistake. In her hyperventilating panic she drew several sharp, deep breaths of the scent of the plastic into her lungs, and it soaked into her. The panic withdrew, her breathing became slow, steady, deep. Biscuit hissed and ran from the doorway.

Sara ignored the departing cat, and let her eyes slide down the length of her arm again, enjoying the sight of the room reflected in her arm. All the familiar pieces of furniture twisted and corrupted in the contours of the perfect black skin. When she reached the hands, she once again saw her face with a serene look of inevitability. She saw her face smile slightly. Looking back down to the bed, she saw the mask where she had dropped it, looking back up into her own face, it’s flawless perfection gazing at her. Her hands lifted the mask, turning it so that the opening at the rear faced her. It was like an optical illusion—it didn’t matter if you were looking at the front of the hood or the back, the features were identical.

Sara’s hands brought the mask up to her face, her eyes defocusing as she saw her reflection approaching closer and closer. A small, muffled, part of her mind noticed that there were no breathing holes in the surface of the face, and felt like that should worry her. But it didn’t. If there were holes that would break the smooth perfection of the face. The smell of the plastic engulfed her head as her hands pulled it tight across her face, her short, dark, curly hair tucking neatly into the back of the mask as her fingers closed it, and it sealed, seamlessly, from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck.

Sara’s body lifted itself from the bed and moved gracefully to the mirror hanging on the wall of the bedroom. Sara couldn’t see anything any more. But that didn’t matter. The plastic could see, and what it saw was perfect.