The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“He who is the cause of another becoming powerful is ruined.”

-Machiavelli, Il Principe.

She hadn’t walked these sands in a hundred years.

It would have been pointless to do otherwise. The Abbasid Caliphate was firmly seated in Baghdad, the Seljuks had swarmed to Egypt, and Salah Al-Din’s moments of rest were fleeting ones in Damascus.

The city of lost glories—if ever she knew one.

She’d followed her path regardless, letting the dance lead her steps. She closed her eyes and smiled, striding with sure footing along hills she fondly remembered.

The Knife was close to Salamander. Their scents mingled, but she could tell them apart easily. She stayed her course, true to her designs, but it made her intensely curious just the same.

The night was whispering to her again. She was halfway to Marquat when she realized she had lit no fires.

The memories were coming back to her, stronger than she had expected.

She gazed up to find the moon slipping into a crescent, and mirrored its enigmatic smile while her ears filled with ancient music.

She was close to home again.

Perhaps not all the of old glories had gone.

The murmurs that had echoed throughout the nave of the chapel during the service had vanished into quietude, but the sullen anguish remained. Scores had crowded in assistance, seeking solace and fearing distressing news from Acre, but it seemed to Master Thibault, head of the garrison of the Knights Hospitalier of Saint-John, that the hope had gone from their prayers, and that the dirges they had sung for the fallen Lord Roland de Vinsauf had sapped the very life from their hearts.

Thibault’s heavy steps shuffled along the central aisle, while his eyes scrutinized the empty spaces between the thick columns rising up with grace to support the vaulted ceiling. He shook his head in incredulity as he remembered the long funeral service. Where was the quiet sense of relief he secretly shared with all the dwellers of the citadel? There was no love lost on the part of the Hospitaliers, granted, but even Roland’s own men had refrained from mentioning their commander’s callous ways, as if they did not remember how recklessly he had used his authority to undermine everyone who sought shelter within Marquat, sending them out into the desert to die in hopeless battles.

Tragedy, it seemed, purged the bitter memories until even the despised were lamented.

The black and white robes Thibault wore, once a mark of pride, now fell over his mailed surcote like a burial shroud. The peaceful surroundings, strangely, did not provide him the smallest comfort. Candles and lamps shed a timid light against a darkness that permeated all around, flooding through the intricate stainedglass windows and filling the surroundings with monstrous shadows. The apses, aligned with the Eastern part of the chapel, opened up like cavern mouths, as if to swallow him in despair.

He pursed thick lips together as the figure of Lady Gelda, veiled in her mourning wreath, appeared aside, near the threshold of a freshly sealed crypt. She was as still as the likeness of Saint-Paul perched like an avenging angel above her—and she too might have been fashioned out of creamy-white Antioch marble. The old soldier pondered the grievous words that might escape the cold, still lips should the statue to come to life, but quickly shied away from adding to the burden of heresy that already tortured his soul.

The fury mounted in him as he approached the noblewoman. The sight of her alone was almost enough to cleanse him of his own guilt, but he knew the silence he had kept over the passing weeks to be as damning as the boundless depth of her ‘well-meaning’ ambition. The clatter of his armor carried on in a dying echo as he came still before her, rooting his feet to the ground to avoid pacing nervously.

She turned and bowed lightly, her hands clasped around the pendant that hung from her neck.

“What news, Master Thibault?” she inquired, her manner expectant.

His natural response fought against the knowledge of what was at stake. Her noble lineage made it easier to surmount his distaste at answering to a woman in matters of arms, but he wondered what black miracle had gifted her with an understanding of such things that rivaled his own.

“There are reports of Islamite scouts in the hills northeast. Rumors of fighting as well... it would seem the German knights are cleaving through the Saracens as if the great Barbarossa himself was still leading them.”

Lady Gelda’s smile grew cold, her eyes as gray and sharp as Damascus steel.

“Perhaps, one who will rise to greater glories than the dead Emperor, Master Thibault. This seems to bring you distress for some reason.”

The knight groaned an unintelligible answer.

She kept the icy stare squarely on him. “You had best remember he holds the banner of Christ higher than my husband ever could.”

There was too much rigor in her stance, he thought, too much hatred in the clench of her fist. Even now, she could hardly be made to whisper his name. Passion never breeds patience, and he whom your husband served would not have risked everything in such a crucial moment, merely to be done with a fool.

The Master of Knights shivered like a novice spearman hearing the thunder of charging cavalry, and wondered what the others in the citadel truly made of the shocking account of Roland’s death. The witless victim had been surrounded by his most trusted advisors in the main hall of the keep, discussing his latest outlandish stratagem to risk all of their lives in fruitless pursuits. His lunatic ravings had been silenced by the invisible terror that had struck him down.

Thibault had spoken to all of those advisors himself, listening as they recounted the event in every detail. Their voices had trembled as they described the leather bands, tightly wrapped along a silver hilt, which appeared upon the Lord’s white tunic in a fleeting instant. An invisible hand had removed it just as quickly, unsheathing the knife from Roland’s breast. The vanished blade had left its mark, the point driven into the heart with unerring precision, and the victim’s last instants had been agony, if the evidence of the grimace that froze upon his features as death took him was any indication.

In the knight’s eyes, there was no mistaking who was behind this. It was not the divine retribution of the One and True God, who fell horses, loosened stones or struck with thunder. Nor was it the wrath of Old Man in the Mountain, who used his order of zealots known as Hashishiyun to strike against Muslims and Christians alike.

Thibault had overheard servants, a day after Roland had died, speaking in frightened whispers of the curving horns that were said to crown the hilt of the weapon that had struck, and of the Hand of Satan himself, reaching from the darkness to strike.

It seemed the most popular assumption, one the knight could only meet with anguished laughter.

Would Satan barter in hushed voices with Lady Gelda in the heart of a consecrated chapel? Smiling a young squire’s smile under a tuft of gold-yellow hair, with stars of merriment shining in his pale-green eyes?

Perhaps they were right after all.

“Victory is not worth the price of eternal damnation,” Thibault mused wistfully, without the conviction of Faith in his voice. He failed to add a word about the unspeakable sounds he had heard in the night, once the accursed bargain had been struck.

Of all things, she smiled then, turning her head and searching in the patterns of shadow and stone for the likeness of a remembered sight. Her breath became shallow, warming the air with her lust.

His hand cringed, begging for righteous action. The blade of his dagger would plunge so easily in the arch of her neck, as quickly as the one that had felled Roland, absolving him of his sins even as it impaled her flesh. He would be free of to turn his back from the infernal path.

He felt for the hilt, imagining it warm inside his coiled fingers, and swayed on his feet when the walls hissed at him and made his soul quiver. With haste, he forced the cold rage out of his heart, lest it damn him further with the desecration of holy ground through the spilling of blood.

He cursed inwardly, shamed by the fears that pulled at him like a trapped animal. When had he, Master of the garrison, relinquished his courage and sense of duty? When had he traded his Oath and his Faith for the mere hope of survival?

He raised his head and saw she was staring at him, still smiling. He looked away, his cheeks burning, the deep scar under his bottom lip following suit with in its own shade of crimson.

She brought his chin back to face him. He stiffened at her touch.

“Send word to Acre that I will stay barricaded here until the road to Jerusalem is rid of Saracen armies. Conrad de Montferrat may be as struck with lunacy as my late husband, but he’ll be forced to call on the King to act. Coeur-de-Lion will not turn his back on a thousand Christian souls housed in a fortress that may welcome his wounded, should he be forced back from the Holy City.”

It left a bitter taste in his mouth to find no fault in her logic. Thibault nodded his assent with resignation, the only conceivable course of action once again outlined for him in perfect clarity.

He shuffled back, his limbs weak and tired.

Lady Gelda’s hand fell on his shoulder, this time. He paused in mid-step, clenching his jaw as he held off a moment longer.

“One thing, Master Thibault. I’ve heard strange rumors shortly before the service... the noblewoman who was attending earlier...?”

She let her voice trail off, unwilling to speak on. He craned his thick neck and looked back.

“Lady Constantine? Yes. She rode in from Al-hamma, owing her survival from Islamite shafts to the fleetness of her steed and the Lord’s mercy. Sir Bertrand and Sir François caught up to her as she was making her way here.

“The master of arms made accommodations as best he could,” he added acrimoniously, “but there was no time to inform you.”

Gelda’s incredulity rankled him like the screech of metal against stone. “Alone in a desert filled with enemies, without water or food?”

Thibault sneered at the implication. “She carries her family’s seal, and my men have vouched for her.”

There was the strangest kind of trepidation in Lady Gelda’s eyes. “Well then... I’ll send one of my own servants to attend to her needs. Perhaps she could be escorted safely west at the earliest convenience?”

Her sudden worry, poorly masked by feigned nonchalance, filled the knight with unexpected mirth. The mere fact that this unexpected arrival had upset the Lady so made him forget the gravity of his concerns.

“Perhaps she could,” he reflected solemnly, “but we should not make haste to risk the treacherous roads yet. News of such a fortunate escape is lifting the spirits of the men. Friar Belvoir is already preparing a mass to thank our Lord for this small blessing.”

“Yes,” Lady Gelda said evenly. " ‘Tis truly a wondrous occurrence.”

Thibault’s eyes narrowed.

“It would seem,” he added with a biting smile, “that all manners of miracles occur in troubled times.”

The Knife had come. The Knife had struck.

She pondered this, and many other things. Mostly she reflected on dreams that weren’t her own. Visions from a bloody dawn she could not have witnessed.

It was always thus when she neared him. She had long wondered why.

The eldest among eldest was free. He stood by the dance, indifferent to its rules, as if harboring a slight disdain for mysteries that held no secret for him. He swaggered mischievously. He tricked the younger ancients. His purpose had guided him to mortal interests like no other of Clan blood, but he was Chosen after all.

His brethren watched him as they watched each other.

Watched. Fought. Feared.

Hope was always rekindled in her breast when she crossed his path. She knew not the shape of it, but Knife’s passing was almost certainly an omen.

She would glimpse its significance inside beautiful eyes.

“Please, Ursuline. Do not fear my presence. Has it not been long enough already?”

The servant girl swallowed as she willed her hand still. Lady Constantine’s palm had eased over her fingers, bringing comfort while the noblewoman’s eyes softened with a touch of amusement.

It was hard to look at those eyes for long. She held her breath when she did, and was always wrong when she tried to remember what color they were.

She managed a little smile of her own, and ventured an answer hesitantly.

“Milady... I’ve been in your service but for a day—”

“And night, Ursuline,” the noblewoman interrupted softly.

“And night,” came the servant’s meek reply. She was unsure why she blushed so furiously at the thought. Lady Gelda had dispatched her to these quarters early last evening, and her first service in Constantine’s retinue had been arrangements for a warm bath. Despite her shy manners in the presence of such a distinguished guest, the noblewoman had made her feel as welcome as her own personal chambermaid, not once complaining about the austere quality of the lodgings provided for her comfort.

It made Ursuline sad to regret the attention. There was something about the Lady’s speech, a melodious quality that made her think of angels filling the spheres with divine hymns. It was so easy to imagine Constantine rising to join the celestial choir—her head was even crowned with fire, flowing down her shoulders like a radiant halo.

Gentle consideration from a noblewoman of such importance almost seemed a dangerous thing. Ursuline had guarded herself from growing complacent, cursing her flights of fancy and missing the shrill screams of Lady Gelda, which at least served as a constant reminder of her proper station.

In a slow, half-hearted motion, she withdrew her hand from Lady Constantine’s, and stepped aside. The stone walls clustered tightly all around her, gray and harsh in the glare of a lantern hung on a rusty hook. She hoped the rosy hue was fading from her cheek as she noticed an open shutter, and immediately devoted herself to the task of closing it, paying scrupulous attention to the simple latch, all the while wishing for another chamber in which to flee.

“I fear I am imposing, Ursuline. You should be tending to your other duties with Lady Gelda—”

The unequivocal “No!” resounded loudly in the narrow confines, and Ursuline’s heart skipped a beat. She abandoned all hopes of presenting an unruffled facade.

“T-That is... Mistress Gelda has discharged me of my regular duties for the time being. I am to see to your every need...”

Her voice faltered again, and she buried her dimpled chin downwards. A noblewoman showing such concern for a servant’s obligations? She marveled at the eccentricity of the thought, immensely flattered by it. Her brow furrowed a trifle when she realized her outburst might be seen as an improper opinion of Lady Gelda, and she chastised herself inwardly for such conceit.

And yet... Ursuline recalled the thin, pale lips of her Mistress, drawn tightly as she instructed her before sending her across the citadel, to the chambers above the Hospitalier barracks where Constantine resided for the time being. What else could she make of those words, full of menace and sinister implications? Lady Gelda had spelled out in clear detail exactly how unpleasant her fate would be if she did not scrutinize Lady Constantine’s comportment, or if she failed to provide her mistress with all manners of details about the guest. Details that could only be of use if the intent was to engage in pernicious intrigue.

“Very well, then.” The Lady replied agreeably. “I am delighted to have you stay...”

Ursuline’s guilt vanished in a start as hands grasped her small shoulders. She felt faint as the noblewoman slid behind her, worries showing plainly in her features. Somewhere underneath her tousled frock, the swell of her bosom brushed deliciously against the coarse fabric, and it was all she could do not to betray a tingle of desire at the feel of fingers resting so tenderly on her skin.

“Milady... I...”

“Shhhh,” Constantine whispered, making the sound a caress that trickled down her neck with the heat of her breath. Ursuline swooned on her feet as arms clad in rich attire enveloped her and kept her from slipping down. Her mouth tried working some kind of feeble protest, perhaps an apology for her momentary weakness, but she could only moan as she settled into the embrace of soft folds, her swirling mind fancying them of a kind of silk so costly not even Lady Gelda’s wealth would be enough to purchase it.

“What... is... happeni—”

“Nothing, Ursuline... nothing is happening... your mind is soft and empty... empty save for the feel of me...”

Ursuline listened with all her heart. She felt safe in those arms, safe enough to slip into lustful thoughts while crimson cascades draped down her neck. She thought of angels again while Constantine’s hands captured her waist from behind, rising up with deliberate idleness, making Ursuline’s hips twitch of their own accord. Pleasure undreamed of assailed her senses when the delicate touch followed the rise of her breasts, and began to knead the flesh with delicate attention.

“Ooooohhhh!”

The ill-mannered fumbling of knights and squires could in no way compare to the bliss that Constantine’s touch brought. Ursuline could barely recall the feel of thick, greasy fingers bruising her flesh in the wake of firm but gentle strokes, tearing pleas and gasps from her every time they centered around the hardness of her nipples.

“Yes... listen... listen to my voice...” Constantine urged softly, pleased by the cries the pretty servant girl made. “You adore the sound of it... you adore the way it makes you feel... the way it shapes your thoughts... such precious, heated thoughts...”

Ursuline moaned her assent. She had not fathomed that a woman could visit such delights upon her, had been warned by priests and friars of the call of strange animal lusts, and cared not for either as whispers echoed sweetly inside her. Innocence was quickly giving way to the knowing rhythms of passion shared by lovers consumed in joint embrace. Her lips yearned to search out Constantine’s, desperate to yield to her desire and offer the silent pleasures of torrid kisses. The hands caressing her were already loosening the strings of her dreary garb, hungry for the feel of her naked flesh.

She fought to hold on to her thoughts. They slipped away, faster, faster.

The noble mouth kissing the nape of her neck began to lick her skin in long strokes, and Ursuline whined as if currents of lust poured from her womanhood. Behind her closed eyes, shapes of light and dark fed her raging desire, exploding with the heat of the zenith sun with each languorous caress.

She heard secrets slip out of her own mouth. She needed to tell Constantine everything. She needed to warn her.

She was burning with lust. She couldn’t remember what she was saying. She sizzled as Constantine’s lips continued their wanton worship.

Her frock fell in a heap, but the night air howling past the shutters she had closed did nothing to cool her need. The hands on her breasts, unfettered by fabric, began a brazen dance.

More secrets fled from her, between rasping breaths.

She lifted her own hands and clasped them over Constantine’s, guiding them lower as she tipped back. Her legs, scrawny but strong, quivered as the soft touch neared the blazing mouth of her sex. Constantine’s fingertips, already moistened by the slickness of her skin, sank delicately lower, obeying the anxious guidance offered by Ursuline’s hands.

“Do you love your mistress, Ursuline?”

Faces flashed inside her mind. The fingers played with her folds. The tongue lapped at her neck.

“Loooove... yeeessss... yeeeessssss...”

The crashing waves inside her mind vanquished all restraint as the peak of her pleasure brought blissful surrender. In thundering instants, lashes of light coursed over her body, twisting it with the pull of invisible strings. She lowered herself on the fingers and pried herself open to allow them to fill her. She thrashed against the hand, feeling digits slipping in and out, owning her.

She made them wet with the torrent of her desire, and wished for nothing else.

The moon shined its bright crescent in the servant girls’ empty eyes.

“Tell me what you saw...”

She didn’t wait for Ursuline’s response. Her touch found the servant’s sex again, and she summoned the River. They shared thoughts for a brief instant, the flare of pleasure swelling between them.

She let it carry them for some time. They were both wet. Ursuline’s hand was matching her strokes.

“Now... Give me her likeness...” she whispered again, while Ursuline bit in her shoulder to stifle her moans.

The River flowed, and gave her the image she sought.

Ursuline followed with rapid footsteps, her arms flapping a light veil as if she were a swan soaring through the sweeping arch of the sky.

The floor was more uneven that she remembered. They had crossed through deserted kitchens, past the innermost fortifications, to dive inside the maze of passages and casements. The rasping of sand left out on the tiles made too loud a sound if she carelessly shuffled her heels, and so she took to standing on her tiptoes. The excited beat of her heart kept her aloft, the mysteries she had been taught still buzzing warmly in her mind.

Constantine pranced before her, between dark and light. The pale whiteness of the moon shone in narrow bands on one side of the corridor, its rays shaped deceptively into tangible ether as they squeezed past the arrow slits facing north. With each step into brief illumination, Ursuline stared in wonderment, aware of the eerie changes in the noblewoman’s appearance. Fire-red hair became black and slick, shining even in the deepest shadows. Rounded shoulders narrowed and sloped, presenting an even daintier figure.

With each passing step, Ursuline’s enchantress was changing.

The servant girl felt prickles at the base of her neck. Her lips were feverish, her desire stirred by such a miracle, as though witnessing its manifestation alone pulled her into warm currents.

She was unperturbed when the face of Lady Gelda turned and stared back at her, smiling wickedly. There was no cause to fear, and no mistaking the hand that brushed her lips with that of her former Mistress.

She blinked, and was following again, slipping in and out of waking torpor. The path to the eastern tower was obstructed by sentries, but Ursuline’s confused eyes could not glimpse their faces. Sometimes, the coarse voices she heard would convey a sense of bafflement, muttering of their certitude that Lady Gelda had already retired to her quarters, before stepping aside and allowing passage.

Her world became a blur.

They chanted like sisters.

The moon was speaking through them. She graced all of them with a touch, felt the ebbing flow of the River, and smiled when they pleaded for her teachings with warm tears.

It was as if time had stood still... as if the sands still welcomed the nights of celebration... the flow of wines... the telling of ancient tales and mysteries.

The hills whispered to her. The old glories had not gone.

Cat was in retreat, without eyes to guide her hands. Salamander was already moving to fill the void.

His focus would blind him.

She touched the River again, and waited.

Ursuline’s world became orderly again, to sounds she newly cherished.

A few of the maidservants stood aside, eyes as rigid as their backs, while others piled on the hand-woven rug, a mass of limbs as winding as the pattern of roses and vines stretching across its surface. The canopied bed loomed in the corner, its massive shape dwarfing the standing pair of figures, with a third kneeling before them. Ursuline’s smile showed her wanton approval—with a twinge of envy—at the sight of Lady Gelda, on her hands and knees, her mouth whoring a young servant’s glistening flower with devotion.

She raised her eyes and pinched her engorged nipples when Lady Constantine, bearing her true face once again, held the lithe waif in her arms, stroking the length of her back as she shared Luna’s mysteries in a furtive voice.

The blank expression on the girl’s features made Ursuline’s legs weak, and she fought to steady herself. Slow change crept in the other’s visage, her eyes shutting like curtains. Gelda moaned somewhere below, the sound of her lust rising up between the licks and matched by the waif’s dreamy supplications.

The girl’s head fell back as she yielded to ascending pleasure, and Ursuline joined her in a savage climax.

The thrust of her fingers was deep and rewarding. She cried her wonderful agony, knowing the joy of her enchanteress’ true name for the first time. It was not until the rush subsided that she realized the others had all joined her in the blessed chant.

Hekate’s eyes swirled with colors as she gazed upon the kneeling Gelda.

“Worry not,” she offered kindly, “I have not yet taught you all there is...”

The waif she had attended to joined Gelda on the floor. She licked Hekate’s hand and made whimpering sounds. Ursuline’s eyes went back and forth between all three, her fingers still dallying.

“There are no secrets among moondaughters,” Hekate intoned.

“No... secrets,” Gelda repeated.

“No mysteries kept.”

Gelda trembled. “No... mysteries kept.”

Hekate’s eyes glinted. “Tell me of him.”

“The Knife took my husband’s life,” Gelda confessed happily, “and asked but for a touch of my thoughts in return. I had offered riches. He smiled. I had offered myself; he laughed and his response was strange and unspeakable. Finally, I did agree and his eyes froze my body while he took his price from me.”

Hekate gestured intricately before Gelda’s eyes, drawing her in a trance. Ursuline, too, was caught in the sway of fingers, spellbound by their graceful ease. Her breathing slowed and deepened. Her head filled with the scent of her own arousal.

“Salamander knows nothing of this?”

Gelda’s answer came from deep behind round, vacant eyes. “N-noooo.”

Hekate’s amused silence spoke at length of her thoughts on coincidences.

“The Knife’s mark is upon you now,” she noted finally. “I doubt Salamander would be forgiving, even if this was not so, but the issue is now moot. Knife has plagued him too much already, and he would sooner drink your blood than suffer you to live.”

Gelda mouthed soundless prayers like an orphan child. She mewled and nestled between Hekate’s legs, her tongue darting in lustful hope. She was rewarded with a sweet taste.

“What of the Salamander’s movements, then?”

“He rides south, to the Saphar Plateau,” Gelda answered.

“Ah. He leads then. Three hundred knights, loyal and steadfast under his banner?”

“With as many footsoldiers,” Gelda added. “My husband spoke of his zeal in conquering Egypt... of the way he would ascend to glory by striking at Saladin’s vital lines, luring unwary commanders onto the field of his choosing.”

Hekate’s smile widened with understanding. “I see. Just enough to force the Saracens to retreat, giving Richard the time needed to strike and entrench himself. He would be rewarded with growing influence of course... maybe even enough to steer things to Egypt... assuming the Venetian and Geonese aren’t already at his feet, anxious for a chance to do it for him.”

She laughed, clearly delighted by Salamander’s cunning.

Her gentle hand pressed Gelda’s mouth back against her sex. Her smile grew thoughtful and shrewd.

She glanced towards the window, where a white crescent had begun its descent towards distant hills.

She watched it for a long time.