The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Spring’s Second Waning Half Moon

Gaen had taken Ketch’s old room, snuggling into the worn blankets on her bed and giving her favorite wooden doll the prime location of the windowsill as her new home. The room still smelled slightly of sword polish and resin and I could feel my heart twinge both with the longing for my eldest and the familiar loss of a daughter to her own room. Now it would just be me in my bed.

The new privacy made it easier to work with popo, however. I was less concerned about Gaen walking in on us. popo had survived castration and was walking fine, though not often, since I kept him on his knees most of the time.

Our first whetting had gone better than I’d hoped. He gave a sigh of relief when we stepped into the Whetstone House. Without my prompting he knelt before the circular stone, eyes roving over its surface to start to understand its cracks and pockmarks.

“When were you last whetted?” I asked.

He thought a moment before answering. “Two Autumns ago. It was a new moon.”

I nodded and understood. New moon whettings were important ones. The sky outside would be pitch black with no moonlight and, most likely, too much cloud cover to let through any starlight. The coals would have been banked and covered. He would have seen the whetstone in his mind and it would have been enough. How could he go from that much devotion to free slave, even in one and a half cycles?

“The whetstone sharpens the knife,” I began. He was silent, not ready to give in, however desperately his body leaned in towards the stone, however greedily his eyes drank it in.

“What does the whetstone do?”

“It… it…,” he swallowed. He started to shake and a tear rolled down his left cheek.

I squatted behind him and touched the crown of his head with my fingertips. I made shushing sounds as I would to an infant while I let my fingers drift down to the base of his skull. I would start the litany without bothering with call and response and he would fall into it like a leaf into a river.

“The whetstone sharpens the knife. The whetstone sharpens the mind. The mind is bound to its master. The master sharpens the mind.

“The whetstone sharpens the knife. The whetstone sharpens the mind. The mind is bound to its master. The master sharpens the mind…”

I repeated the stanza softy, over and over again, letting my voice drop to a whisper in his ear. Soon he was whispering along with me. I went quiet and let him continue chanting to himself. His tears starting flowing even faster but he didn’t notice. He cried and chanted long enough for the sun to shift noticeably in the sky. Finally he was done crying and he sat silently, still gazing at the stone.

“What does the whetstone do?” I asked.

“The whetstone sharpens the knife,” he answered.

“What does the whetstone do?”

“The whetstone sharpens the mind.”

“To whom does the mind belong?”

“The mind belongs to itself.”

I paused for a moment. Why would a Whetstone prepare a man for freedom? Or, how would someone not a Whetstone know how to do that? How would she… I bit my lip and admitted to myself that perhaps there was a he… how would they have access to a stone to do that?

“The mind belongs to its master,” I chided softly, “Who is its master?”

“The mind is its own master,” came his reply.

“Who told the mind it was its own master?”

“The Whetstone.”

“Two Autumns ago at a full moon?”

“Yes.”

“What was the Whetstone’s name?”

“Niokos.”

Again I paused. I didn’t know any Niokos and I thought I knew all the Whetstones in my land.

“Describe Niokos to me.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I was asked not to tell anyone about Niokos.”

“You’ve already told me her name,” I pointed out.

“His name,” popo corrected me. A look of pain crossed his face but he did not surface from the depths of his mind.

I swallowed and tried very hard to keep my voice from betraying anything.

“His name, that’s correct. I was only testing you. I am a friend of Niokos. You need not fear me.”

“But I must. I was not to tell any woman about Niokos.”

“Things have changed since two Autumns ago. It is safe to tell me all about Niokos.”

He thought about this silently. Finally he started to talk about his male Whetstone. I was pleased I hadn’t challenged him on being master of his own mind. Considering how quickly he had succumbed to the whetstone after nearly two cycles it would be easy to bind his mind to my will at a later time. For now, leaving it free gave him a reason to trust me.

A picture of niokos [here author corrected herself in the use of the diminutive symbol for “ni”] was starting to appear: Goreka, tall, lighter-skinned than popo, womanly in his forcefulness, strength of character, and assumption of freedom. He had appeared at popo’s former master’s homestead, bound and unconscious, with a returning warrior sister. niokos had recovered quickly from whatever damage he’d suffered on the battlefield and had picked up our language fairly quickly. The warrior had sent him to the village’s Whetstone and she had sent him back the very next day, complaining that he was too overbearing, too impolite, and they should at least castrate him, if not rip out his tongue, before bothering to send him back. Warrior had mulled it over and decided that her new slave was too fun in bed to castrate and too witty to be mute.

So niokos had stayed at the homestead and had used his charm to win over most of the household. A year later he seemed a humbler, gentler, slave and was sent back to the Whetstone. From there popo’s memory became softer, less focused, and I started to understand just how sly this niokos was. If I was correct in my conclusions, he had learned whetting and used it on not only the Whetstone but also the household, once he’d had himself returned. The women submitted to him without realizing it and the men were freed without their consent. Everything was turned upside down but as in a hazy, otherworldly dream for niokos kept everyone within their minds, as if always being whetted. And, as a much-whetted knife wears out, they were slowly driven mad.

The women were strong enough to kill themselves after being raped repeatedly and the men, whether through niokos’ prompting or of their own volition, turned into a roving band of thieves. Upon catching another man unawares between villages they’d bring him to niokos, who promptly whetted and “liberated” him. The household fell into disrepair and a neighboring homesteader paid a visit to see if everyone was alright. The men set upon her and murdered her. Her attendant was also killed. Her kin sent for warriors to investigate and the small skirmish in the courtyard left a few men dead at the feet of bewildered women. niokos and nine others escaped.

Here, then, was a cunning man, but clumsy with his whetting. He was behind the attack on my po and was undoubtedly the unconscious man in my medicine house. popo was not to blame for anything. His weak mind, as all men’s, could not fight the whetstone no matter the sex of the whetter.

His story ground to a halt and we were silent. The sun moved, a breeze briefly brightened the coals. A servant quietly entered and tended the coals. popo and I looked at the whetstone and thought. Finally I decided to free him from niokos, quietly bind him to me, and hide my influence on his mind until I needed him to know he belonged to me. ‘Til then he’d believe that he willingly desired to serve me because I spared his life.

“The whetstone sharpens the blade,” I began, pausing to let him answer back. I worked carefully, picking my way, trying to find any traps niokos may have laid. He had not been subtle enough, or perhaps he simply lacked the knowledge, to do so. There was nothing there by his hand save a sense of self-ownership and a strong loyalty to his liberator. His half-trance state, after nearly two cycles, would be the hardest thing to mitigate and would take at least one more whetting to remove.

I took him through the litany again and he replied, correctly, that I was his master. Then began the final phase, building the errors back in so that both he and niokos would believe I had failed to whet him.

He blinked his eyes rapidly when I brought him back to awareness. I saw him hide a small smile and I had to hide one, myself. Instead I assumed the look of a puzzled, exasperated Whetstone and I yanked him up to his feet by the elbow.

“If whetting won’t get you to submit, I have the physical means to break you. But for now I am hungry. You will serve me in my room.” I whirled on my toes and marched out of the house. He followed quickly but not very meekly.

“Master,” he called. I turned and he knelt, head bowed, “I wish to serve you and repay you for your mercy.”

I walked back to him and yanked his head back by the hair. His eyes were half-lidded in an attempt to avoid my eyes.

“There is mercy, and then there is my mercy. You may serve me until po is better and then you will be the slave of a slave. How merciful does that sound?” I sounded as vicious as any thwarted Whetstone would but inside I was elated. He closed his eyes and held his breath until I let go of him and stepped back.

“It is fair punishment to serve the man I injured,” he replied softly, but he was pale and his hands had started to shake. How demeaning it would be, to kneel before another man. How shameful, how lowly, how much more like a dog than a man he would feel. Even if he felt glad that I had not whetted him he would still see me as a strong and intelligent woman, someone he wouldn’t dare attack until his precious niokos was well.

I had whetted him twice since then and had po’s pallet moved to the foot of my bed. popo slept on the floor at the foot of the pallet. I used every physical cue I could to constantly remind popo of his fate. It seemed to work to break down his sense of self-worth and even the false wall I had built in his mind was starting to crumble.