The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The prayers came readily upon Geoffroi’s lips. He had spoken them repeatedly every night since the first he had spent camped in the desert. The moon had been bright on that eve, and sparkles of its reflection had mirrored in the crunching sands beneath his feet. His words had been in the spirit of hope and good fortune in those times, before he learned the true face of war.

The new moon now offered its veiled smile in the heavens. He knew the land thirsted for his blood almost as much as the Saracen scouts they had slain with crossbows a fortnight ago. At least, there would be no threat from the shadows this night, and no discovery of murdered or vanished sentries upon morning.

The prayers came quickly. Easily. They were tinged with trepidation.

He felt too worn for his age, his face creased and wrinkled with the passage of years though he only counted three since his departure from the lush and tempered forests of his native Bavaria. The latter half of them had seen him rise in rank, to captain men in the field. His life as a common footman seemed a strange and distant time to him, and the days of despair, when his beloved Emperor had drowned in the waters of the Calycadnus equally so.

They had been five thousand, broken and battered as they entered Antioch, the pathetic remnants of a leaderless army. It was then that Geoffroi rallied to Heinrich’s banner, and was blinded by shining glory.

The spirit of the Emperor lived on in him, the captain was sure of it. Heinrich was of noble blood, knighted, with vast possessions of land back home. They said he had been at Frederick’s side every night, as they carried his body to Antioch. They said he had stood in the streets, calling on the knights that remained to follow him in the desert as only a king would, and finding his answer in the rise of shouts that thundered all the way into the heavens.

Thus had the scraps and remains of Barbarossa’s horde become the lean, shining blade that cleaved in the deepest reaches of Saracen territory.

They were nothing more than a band, but they had claimed their numbers in enemies countless times over. Heinrich used strategy and cunning. He struck and withdrew. He harried the enemy, and evaded his wrath at every turn. He stirred men to stand and fight when whole armies would have broken ranks in terror.

There was a touch of divine inspiration in him.

It had led them to Sapphar pass.

Geoffroi had swallowed his apprehension at the first sight of the narrow ramparts of coal black stone, spiked like jagged quills against the horizon. The path cut through mountains that stood across the road separating the Holy City from the reach of Saladin’s hand-occupying it meant the difference between the swift fury of Islamite reinforcements in immediate response to key offensives, and a tardy, futile action that would in no way dislodge the Crusaders from newly seized positions.

There was shrewd calculation in this action, but it was righteous beyond question. Even now, armies from England and France traveled and fought. Heinrich and his men would play the part of the rear guard, delaying the arrival of fresh troops to strengthen Saladin.

They would hold the pass for weeks to prevent this.

Their names would be blessed in all of Christendom.

Geoffroi paced slowly as he prayed, keeping count of his steps with the rhythm of his words. The shifting silhouettes of the sentries reassured him as they perched atop a few distant boulders and hilltops, and he signaled one by raising a hand, before turning towards the knight’s encampment.

The tents, broad and of squared shapes, were pitched in several columns. The customary singing that usually drifted from them had been forbidden from the moment the camp had been struck, the sound too easily carried by the echoes of the peaks. Stranger sounds now rose from the enceinte.

The Captain frowned against the shadows as he strode to investigate. The air in this part of the camp was heavy and sharp, like the rising wind before a storm.

He meandered through the maze of tarps and taut ropes, until he came upon a sweeping canopy, sparsely lit with torches settled on tall poles.

His prayers died abruptly, his mouth gaping open.

Geoffroi had heard tales of old Rome, of the degenerate pagan emperors who indulged in orgies before a time when the glory of Christ shone across the world. He had known of the depraved morals still thriving in the heart of cities, of knights reneging their vows and indulging in all manners of bodily pleasures, at the cost of their salvation. He had even witnessed debauchery on occasion, sickened by the lust that seized able bodied men and made them rut like filthy animals.

The scene stretching before him was unimaginably worse.

The first shock came as he caught sight of the women, voluptuous and rounded, writhing in passion amongst a sea of aroused males as if they belonged there. Geoffroi scarcely recognized the noble sirs as they threw themselves in the heap of bodies, their eyes mad, their mouths slobbering. Several of them clustered around each female, as if prostrating themselves before obscene idols. They groaned with desire, bewitched by the sinful creatures who drew them forth and allowed them to partake of their flesh without restraint. No part of the sirens was felt unviolate, their forms nothing more than temples dedicated to the purpose of fornication. With hands and mouths, the temptresses accomplished what their other parts could not. They were drenched in sweat and the mingling essence of their pleasure.

There were too few of the females to service all present, and many took turns. Geoffroi’s eyes fled the spectacle, to witness several of the men collapsed on one side, pressing against each other, their arousal plain and unmistakable. Some had not satiated their hunger for female lust, and sought its taste upon each other. Their lips searched out rigid members and savored an embrace as passionate as it was unnatural.

Geoffroi sprang forth, sickened by the sight blasphemy. He could not bear to yell sharp orders or chastise knighted sirs, but he could do something about those who had invaded the camp and beguiled men of valor into unspeakable sin.

He fought shoulder to shoulder, until he was upon one of the harlots. She paid him no heed as two others rode her from behind, her lips dancing obscenely over manflesh, drawing forth a burst of seed that filled her cheeks.

Geoffroi’s hand wrapped around her elbow with disgust. It was hard for him to comprehend what followed.

The foul taste in his mouth was already dissipating as the thrill in his arm climbed upwards and crawled into his shoulder. The stirrings of his desire surprised him only momentarily as he began to shake, his hands already fumbling with his girdle.

A hazy fog filled his head. The very idea of distaste proved a quaint and bizarre notion as he loosened his garments. The harlot, finally done with the man she was worshipping, immediately found another to take his place. She drew the stranger into her insatiable mouth.

Geoffroi made soft laughter as more thoughts vanished from his mind.

With brisk, awkward motions, his garnache fell behind him. Other hands were helping him undress. There were joyful sounds all around. His drawers followed in the next instant, and the drift of mountain air wrapped deliciously around the throbbing rise of his manhood.

His vision blurred as he felt hands touch him. He was already hard. Thick fingers snaked around his sex and stroked it. He felt a tremendous jolt, and almost spent his seed forth.

He edged forward, pressed on by the push of bodies behind him. The pounding of his heart became the only sound he heard aside from the lustful moans that rose from his throat. One of the men on his right staggered back, his sex still pulsing in climax, exposing the sweet, inviting flower of the woman he had touched.

She squirmed, but managed to stare back at Geoffroi.

Her eyes held seas of lustful eternity.

Geoffroi sallied forth, as firm and unthinking as a golem. He filled her as another filled him, and lost what was left of himself in the howl that greeted his pleasure’s culmination.

The moon had taken refuge behind the mantle of stars.

Hekate gazed upwards, the fire coursing beneath her forgotten momentarily as her eyes sought the invisible sphere and beheld its shadow. Even its hidden beauty outshined all of what this world could forge or shape.

Luna was untouched by the earth, aloft above infinity. It held the secrets of her undying heart.

Ripples of heat were swallowed in the fierce hunger of her sex. She gathered herself in a single breath and felt the River’s currents yield to her desires. Her will traveled underneath the soil, and bound her to her concubines in the orgy below. Scores of voices chanted the song of their lusts in the distance, slowly consumed by the torrent she had unleashed.

She did not smile at the ease with which she had swayed them. It had taken little to spark their interest in the maidservants she had brought with her from Marquat, and even less to whisper with the River’s voice. Her touch had filled her servants with obedience; now it ruled the knights who touched them in turn.

There was a trace of old hatred still lacing her thoughts. She glimpsed a memory of Salamander riding on horseback, brandishing a spear warm and dripping with the blood of her clansisters. Her lips grew paler.

Ursuline cooed somewhere below, sensing the pain that lay underneath her breast. Her fingers moved like a spring breeze, parting the tangled folds of Hekate’s robes until they exposed the smoothness of her sex. The heat of her breath was refreshing against Hekate’s passion flower, flushed with the blaze of the River.

Ursuline’s eyes closed in reverence as she kissed Hekate’s folds with exquisite tenderness. There was no fear in her soul, no fear of the power that tickled and numbed the tip of her tongue as she slipped it deeper inside tender mysteries. There was no fear of the warmth that attacked her own womanhood as she ground her hips and squeezed her legs around Hekate’s naked calf, making it slippery with the flow of her juices, as if to drink up the ebbing flow of the River that coursed through the Ancient Witch.

The fire-mane enchantress hummed her pleasure feebly, as the stab of one pain replace another. The price all her brethren had paid was the same, but there was no memory vast enough to account for it. Ursuline’s whispers of adoration sang out to her with the frailty of a candleflame, a glow of brief and delicate beauty so easily snuffed out. Faces came to watch the witch from beyond the shadows, all of them as loving as Ursuline’s, all of them trusting and teary-eyed as they chose the stab of swords over the renunciation of their love for the Moon Goddess...

Ursuline, too, was crying. She raised her head and lines of silver rolled down her cheeks. Her lips were moist with the love her Mistress held for her.

“Will... she return?” she asked, her anguish for the departed Gelda all the more poignant.

Hekate felt the trappings of her Ancient nature coil tendrils around her heart. She saw a hundred futures as a player of chess might, once a piece had been moved. She smiled quickly, before the distant drum that pounded the final moments of the Dance stirred her blood and soured the moment.

“She will be in Salamander’s hands shortly... the Chariot will not harm her when he hears the call.”

Her tone was filled with deadly certainty. She knew of Salamander’s thirst for knowledge. She had studied his character well, and the moon had shined upon her for a very long time.

Her senses grew acute as the River swelled. Salamander would come for her soon.

Ursuline’s mouth returned to her, with lips cooled by the wetness of her tears.

Once again, the hounds had remained silent.

The one who called himself Heinrich shook his head, a mirthless smile mocking his own vile fortune. He had once spoken to an aide about keeping geese penned up on the edges of the camp, and the perplexed expression that had been his answer had provided the leader with passing amusement.

Fowl instead of hounds, to keep a vigil against the night—the warlords of the world had forgotten old wisdom, and would laugh... but Roma herself had been saved thus when she was still suckling her she-wolf’s teat.

He inspected his tunic briefly, and moved to the other side of his tent, his thoughts sharp and clear though he had only stirred from slumber moments ago. Two candles still burned over unfolded maps, their light turning the paling ink drank by the parchment into sinuous lines of blood-red.

An unremarkable shadow was cast by his solid frame, sweeping across the walls of the tent as he shifted to the table. He gazed and pondered, noting the indications of troop movements and positions. His hand reached for a marker, and felt its rough wooden edge dancing between his fingers.

Strange reports were already filtering through from the eastern part of the camp, and there was no doubt one of his kind was responsible.

He was being called out.

The move in itself was of little concern, but the apparent senselessness of its purpose was far more infuriating to him.

He listened to the turmoil of squires outside the tent. He had called for shield, armor and sword out of habit, but even now wondered if it was at all necessary. There were many paths to his ruin, but he knew the blade was not one of them.

He felt the cold tickle his spine, the ground underneath him suddenly treacherous. He had given much through to what misfortunes had befallen Cat, and to the strings she’d been pulling from her beloved cradle before someone severed them.

The meddling hand had turned to him.

He turned briskly when the River whispered to him. He was facing the entrance even before the flap of the tent was pulled open. It revealed the blanched face of one of his squires, followed by a nimble figure that strode in with measured impunity.

Heinrich’s eyes narrowed.

“Leave us,” he said, without bothering to glance at the boy.

A thousand questions begged to be asked, but the youth scrambled out of the tent with a hurried a bow, eyes wide with a fear he didn’t care to understand.

Lady Gelda gazed quietly at Salamander.

“One of the Chosen awaits you in the hills due east.”

He folded his arms carefully. His eyes were still on her, tracing curves barely hidden by the colored silks that draped tightly around her form. Orbs of gold had been painted above her long lashes, and her lips were colored in fire. She filled the tent with a scented mixture of jasmine and lotus, and her limbs were oiled in the fashion preferred by high-priced whores who serviced landless and disfavored nobles stranded in Byzantium.

“Who waits for me?” he ventured calmly.

She shook her hear in silence.

He had not expected much else, but he could gather things even in her silence. The beat of his heart quieted down, now that he was sure that alabaster Bitch of a Seer was not playing a game to thwart him.

“What news of your husband, then?” he asked, his tone pleasant and unconcerned. “I doubt he’s the sort to leave his wife to brave the sands when he makes such a clumsy job of it himself.”

Gelda’s lips twitched for a second. He watched her hands travel over her veiled breasts.

“The Knife has claimed him.”

He froze his face into the mask that had concealed his joy when he was told of the fires that swallowed Carthage. His undistinguished features showed but a hint of passing interest as he brushed the underside of his chin with a finger, casually contemplating the black fate he had devised especially for this hated enemy.

The silence from Marquat had not troubled him especially, but his curiosity was growing by leaps and bounds. He still remembered the hellfire that once burned in Lady Gelda’s eyes, the quiet, desperate rage of ambition foiled by incompetence. Roland de Vinsauf had sworn fealty to him easily enough, insuring a convenient haven should retreat force him back at some point in the future, but he now saw his slip in the way he had cared little about the fool wedded to a clever wife.

He surprised himself with a grin as he eyed Lady Gelda once again. She gazed back at him with limpid eyes.

He wondered what secrets hid in a mind too smooth, like a still pond. He sensed another of the Chosen had graced her with a touch. This puzzled him.

The breath of the Great River made his words strong. He moved to her as he spoke. His hands found her. Felt her. She stared numbly over his shoulder, feeling his palm leave imprints of heat on her flesh.

He sensed how wet she would become if she was made to tell him everything. The Ancient Salamander’s smile grew pleasant and obliging.

“Let the flow of my words guide, you, Lady... let them take you...”

Gelda’s lips parted. Her hands vanished under silk.

“Let them fill you with love and trust...”

“Love... T-Trust...” she uttered, making pretty little sounds.

“Free your hands, Lady Gelda... let them roam freely while we talk... forget about them and concentrate only on the sound of my voice...”

“y-yeeeesss...”

“There’s no need to think... only to listen... to speak... to answer... it gives you immense pleasure...”

Lady Gelda’s forgotten hands tore at her hard nipples. A patch of silk became damp and sticky against her sex.

She listened, spoke and answered without hesitation.

His silhouette strode forth, outlined against the fires of the camp burning like yellow stars below. He wore black over his chain mail, and the only flashes came from the metal lining of his gauntlets, and the silvery pommel of the sword hung loosely on his left hip.

She waited for him, near the rockface.

His was a thin smile in the veil of darkness.

“I half-expected a golden chariot pulled by royal steeds, leading a column of soldiers and standard bearers,” Hekate confessed, without a trace of sarcasm.

“I half-expected an old witch, with face and limbs withered by uncounted years,” Salamander retorted evenly.

He glared at her, and saw the well-aged beauty that he guessed was her favored incarnation. The rumors had been conflicting on this point, but he had collected them diligently over the centuries, before making a weighted and careful opinion.

She appeared still ripe in her years, but past the frailty of maindehood. Her hair lustered like the infernal hearth, its striking splendor just as damning. At her feet, a girl wrapped thin arms around her legs, silent and fearful. Her eyes were half-moons of blue, catching the distant lights behind him.

The silence was as full of expectations as the tense moments before a joust.

Salamander’s words filled the tense air with the sound of a forgotten tongue. “The Dance brings us together, but there is no need for unpleasantness when agreements can be reached.”

He watched her puzzle over his prudent request, his eyes mindful of the most trivial of details in her disposition.

Her smile held simple curiosity, followed by amusement.

“Are you so sure there can be such a bargain?” she answered, her use of the language as proficient and nuanced. “A bold statement when you’ve not heard my intent.”

His thoughts fled back to old schemes, and he found disdain for the faces of the Chosen who preferred to cower like mortals. For all of her plotting, this witch was no better than the Queen of Golden Vermin.

He met her smile, his courtesy gaining a sharp edge.

“You’ve not left the shadows for nothing,” he hissed “but I see no lust for blood in your eyes.”

“Look again,” Hekate warned quietly.

The ground carried the hostility of her tone, and sizzling whispers rose around him like the buzz of crazed insects feasting on dead flesh. Salamander’s eyes narrowed in fury as the invisible currents of the River coursed along the rings of his cotte, prickling his flesh.

The calculated smile reflected a perfect note of amusement, as he circled about with a feint of words. “Ah. I see. You wish to keep Isis to yourself, then.”

She did not deign to parry his thrust, meeting his words with silence. He studied her a moment and took another step.

“It’s a mistake to corner her, then,” he remarked casually. “You’ve left her puppets scrambling after the English and Franks, without a thought for Egypt. Once Christendom is firmly entrenched, it will be an easy journey for me. I doubt you possess the might that I’ll use to drive the Ancient Cat out of hiding.”

She seemed to shift uneasily, and he pressed on with renewed vigor. “This worries you a great deal methinks. No doubt the lure of her lips over yours has made your days longer and warmer.”

He had no choice but to indulge in the image he had conjured, and forgot his own possessive lust an instant, while the dreamy likeness of the immortal Queen, kneeling and broken, lapped Hekate with her divine tongue.

He settled back on his heels, giving the terrain a casual sweep. Confidence brimmed in his heart, Hekate’s silence betraying her hopes as surely as if she’d blurted them out. Perhaps they would struggle in the rage of the Great River if she grew desperate enough to challenge him, but every instinct in him knew the end would be a stalemate.

Her laugh caught him off guard.

“To the Dance, then? Shall I give you the River’s kiss and burn your flesh? The iron and steel you wear is already boiling with its fury.”

The Ancient Salamander steeled his grip on the pommel of his sword. Flames coursed under his skin, through his muscles and bones. He willed harrowing pain out of his mind.

“Not enough, Witch,” he warned her gravely.

His sword arm already knew the path his blade would take to her heart.

The sense of danger struck him then... in her stance... in her open, relaxed posture...

“You’ve done well in pulling your own strings, Salamander,” Hekate began, “but you’re a creature of habit. You’ve mastered your fears. You lead in glory—a point of pride that strengthens and weakens you. You forget the days of miracles are long gone, despite what your men would believe.”

He searched his thoughts in alarm, feeling his control slip as he glimpsed her reasoning. His miscalculation was clear now, but its full extent evaded him. He forced himself still, trying to glimpse the answer to what he’d missed.

“The devil’s curse hangs about you, Salamander. We shall not Dance until the River claims one of us—the time has not come for either of us. But if this is so, you’ll struggle back to your camp when the fury has died between us, and your men will see you rise in a week from mortal wounds that would have felled any of them in an instant. The hushed whispers will hang about you like a cloud, until the old fears guide their hands. They may not even await the end of your recovery...”

Hers was a tone of maddening courtesy. “You know the dangers as well as I... Not even the Great River will save you then.”

The Ancient’s stoic expression crumbled as he bared is teeth. The risk had been his the moment the Emperor had died, and he’d been careful in every instant in the field...

He spat a foul curse under his breath, one that had not been spoken in three thousand years.

“What price then?” he asked, his voice one of soft fury.

“Leave Sapphar. Withdraw. Let the loyalty of your men count in battles to defend your German fiefdom. This Crusade is Richard’s now, and he’ll face Saladin alone... he’ll struggle months or years for a handful of cities, and he’ll prevail in the end. Or not.”

Salamander swallowed back another reply, his mind assessing every detail of his predicament in excruciating detail, hoping for an edge he might have missed. The glory of the world slipped between his fingers at the sound of a handful of words, and he watched it all go.

Hekate had lost interest in him, petting the girl at her feet. She kept her smile modest.

No answer left Salamander’s lips as he stepped back and began the short stroll back to his camp.

None was needed.

The new moon had gone, replaced by a waxing crescent. It’s light was too pale to drawn shadows on the sand, but it made Ursuline’s cheeks glow, and Gelda’s eyes glitter.

Hekate had followed Salamander’s troops for three days. They kept a steady course for the coast. The Islamites that would follow through the mountain pass would be too burdened with arms, supplies and siege weapons to catch him, but they were fast on Richard’s heels, and wouldn’t bother with anything else.

Salamander was not without trickery, even in defeat, but he hadn’t counted on the bloodhounds which had fled in the chaos of the raised camp, along with the handmaidens led by Gelda. They still called Hekate the Dogwitch in some corners of the world, and she kept the beasts that had served her earlier with their silence on a short leash. She had chanted a Moonsong as she worked her magics, letting them shadow her movements once they became as obedient as the wolves that had once filled the hills around them.

When war parties of men from the west sneaked their way around dunes, wearing leather armor, bearing clubs and makeshift wooden weapons, their shrill cries did not endure for long.

There was little left of them once the dogs were finished.

Another lesson for Salamander then. He and Isis would find other ground to quarrel upon. Their Dance would endure for another century at least.

She doubted either would thank her for it.

She thought of her own search, and let her fingers brush Gelda’s. Ursuline and the others lowered their heads as the pair kissed, asking for Luna’s blessings in the way they were taught. The desert once again knew the joy of the ancient prayers, at it seemed for a moment that the stars had not changed and that the Old Clans still ruled the world.

Father Knife would remember it best. Hekate was sure of it.

He was hiding beyond the horizon. Waiting, perhaps.

She remembered the dreams again... the times when the Knife and the Horror were still young, and her mother hadn’t been born, but Gelda’s tongue searched hers avidly and made her think of other things.

Yesterday slipped away quietly. But this time she wouldn’t let it go.

She reached out to her moondaughters, and touched their minds. Their bodies writhed and she joined the circle, feeling their hands and lips against her.

The bliss that lived in their voices carried across the desert night far and wide.