The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Death.

That was Cleopatra’s first thought, when she had passed down the ageless hallway. She had been on her way to Isis’ chambers, to begin the preparations for the Goddess’ midday bath of milk and honey, when she’d noticed the door was opened. The only door that Isis had forbade anyone, including her own daughter from entering, without her permission. Within the room, amidst the other treasures, an insignificant looking wooden chest lay on its side. It had been pried open, and was now empty.

Cleopatra paused, before gathering herself, and slowly pushing open the silk curtain that was the entrance to Isis’ private chambers.

Her mind was swollen with the sickness of fear. Please forgive me, Mother. I have failed you.

Isis was not alone. Nude, she lay across a scattering of silk pillows, a glass of wine in her hand. Three young girls had been invited to spend the night with her, and they were beside her, tied and joined together in pleasure, exhausted by the carnal ride she’d taken them on. A faint smile slowly slid its way upon her lips.

“Daughter,” she purred. The Voice of Isis was low, and sultry. It was a weapon, it was pleasure, it whispered into your mind, dark, and unnatural things.

Cleopatra shivered. “Mother,” she returned, subdued. She said nothing more. She knew Isis would ask.

The Goddess rose, smoothly. Yellow eyes, slit and luminescent contemplated the girl she’d raised and brought into the duties of her Daughter. Bathed in the torch light, her body became a dangerous erotic lure of temptation; succulent breasts with darkened nipples begging in Cleopatra’s mind to be suckled, a Temple between moist thighs that was more sweet than any drink of the Gods, and skin softer than silk bathed in milk and honey for eternity.

Cleopatra bit down on her lip, fighting against the orgasm she normally basked in, when Isis would press that close. She felt the tightness of her nipples stiffen, against the single piece black leather suit that sensually and closely held to her. Her knees shook. They knew the ritual, and yearned to collapse. Her tongue was swollen, aching to sup on the nectar of the Temple That Walks. I do not deserve this.

“Bast, Mother of Egypt, Great Isis—Mother to me,” her voice left her for a moment. She inhaled, sharply, clenched her fists and ignored the uncomfortable sensation of the trickle of blood that now leaked from her palms, dropped onto exquisite tiles of the floor below.

Isis’ eyes took on a different, more intrigued expression. In the in the games of light and shadow played by the flickering torches, her smile vanished. She waited.

There was no use in waiting. Let my punishment come swiftly, Mother. And may your next Daughter serve you more faithfully than me. “I have failed you,” she said, simply. “Your shrine has been violated.” The daughter winced, even as she said the words, inviting death to kiss her quickly.

Isis took a step back from her daughter. The Mistress of Egypt for a moment, was silent, surprised. Her eyes narrowed, dangerously, taking on a brighter luminescence than that of the firelight.

“What was taken?” She asked, her Voice full of daggers.

Cleopatra shivered, but did not withdraw from the intense pain of her Mother’s words. She clenched her fists harder, and gazed hard at the floor lest her tears be seen. She tried to be strong, to bear her justice. Still her voice wavered. She was only human.

“I do not know. One of your chests had been pried open.”

Isis nodded, as if somehow she expected that, and yet feared it at the same time. The Voice left her, but the anger was still upon her like lightning.

“You will come with me to retrieve what was taken. If you survive that,” she told the kneeling girl, “Then I will find no ill with you; whoever has done this thing knows me. Even I was played the fool against Raven, if you recall, my Daughter.”

Smooth fingertips passed through Cleopatra’s hair gently caressing, as Isis glided past her. The Temptress strode out of the room, murmuring, “You will remain chaste, until this Game is over.”

Cleopatra shivered, as she was left alone in the Ancient’s room.

Chaste. She ached anew. And yet to travel in the shadow of the Temple That Walks. Close enough to dream; close enough to burn without tasting. She knows justice well, my Goddess. Death would have been kinder by far.

Yashra watched the young British girl walk out of the museum through scope. In her mid-twenties, perhaps, the young girl was lithe and thin, small. Her blonde hair was the most intriguing attribute, however. Even after these thousand years, it still remained a passion in her blood, it still made Yashra wet.

That, coupled with the rush of blood in her veins at playing the Game again, this girl had proven the perfect Toy. A certain pleasure she found at seeing the girl suffer and fight the ‘poison’ that was working its way through its victim’s veins.

The Toy aches for her family. She hates me. She despises herself because of the arousal that stings her, every time she follows what I have told her to do. Perhaps if she plays well, I might keep her.

Yashra moved the hood of the robe over her head, and pulled it closely to herself, sitting in the shadows, unseen.

Now, it was time to wait. Death had perfected waiting long ago, before time was counted. It always knew the right time to strike. Death was rarely, if ever, denied its prey.

The pieces were on the board; everyone would know the prizes at stake. Soon, the players would arrive.

She smiled lewdly to herself. She felt the familiar ache between her thighs. Her cunt couldn’t wait to eat again. This Dance is going to be very worthwhile. I’m going to—enjoy myself.

Turning from the window, Yashra slowly closed the blinds. She licked her lips predatorily while her dark brown eyes ravished the woman on the bed. Lady Scorpion knew how to pass time in waiting.

She watched the woman tremble, in fear. She savored that terror, drank of it deeply. The smell of it was intoxicating, and there was no better aphrodisiac. Any of the Old Ones could flex their wills, and bend or break a mortal to their fancy. It took delicate skill, a slow dance of seduction—a slow and steady rhythm of seduction and horror, wrapped within the blanket of pleasure and confusion to raise that game to Art.

The back of her dark hand passed down the brunette’s cheek. The woman stood straight, unmoving, lips and eyes twitching. It was obvious the woman wanted to run.

Yashra let her arm snake around the woman’s neck to rest on her back, a soft kiss planted itself at the perfect lobe. The Scorpion lived for this moment, to watch her prey squirm, and writhe, helpless, already knowing their fate, but unable to prevent it.

She could feel the heat of the woman’s skin; hear the increasing slamming of the heart through her body. The terror was delicious, potent, and its taste was divine. She pulled teasingly at the woman’s nipple, twisting it, whipping her prey into arousal as she whispered, “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Lips unable to move, the girl could only whimper, like an injured puppy.

Yashra smiled, pulling out her favorite dagger from a velvet sheath laying on the nightstand. So many throats of the slavers of old had fallen to you. Balanced, cold and cruel, tempered in the heat. It compliments me beautifully. She allowed the blood to flow from the slim cut she gave herself, upon the blade’s edge.

Yashra traced its’ length across the woman’s cheeks, the blood staining pale cheeks red.

Lady Death answered her own question, “Nothing. You’re going to do it all to yourself, little girl.” The robe fell to her feet, revealing nothing beneath.

She murmured, softly, voice barely audible. “I told you to stay in place. And you are.” The dagger traced itself around her victim’s breasts, encircling and spiraling around the curves of flesh over the shirt. The woman shivered, in terror, the knife was brutal, cruel. It made her wet. Yashra already knew that.

“You could leave, if you really wanted to,” Yashra told the woman. “But instead you’re staying. In fact, you’re staying put.” She leaned close, pressing herself suggestively into her prey. “Not even moving. Oh, little girl, you want to stay. And you want to do whatever I tell you. It’s in your blood.”

The woman shivered, whimpering uselessly again.

“But I’m not going to do anything to you, little girl. You’re going to do it all yourself.” The knife slit the waistband of the woman’s skirt. It crumpled to the floor.

“In fact, right now you’re going to go tie yourself up for me, and you’re going to beg me to use you. There’s no use in me putting forth the effort, when you’re already so wet, and willing.” Her tongue slid out of her mouth again, as she pressed her lips to her captured mouse.

Her tongue pushed past the woman’s frozen lips, snaking into her mouth, twisting with her tongue. Snaking down. She felt the pulse of the vein at the tip of her tongue. She trigged her tongue prong, and slowly withdrew dark red drops.

Wiping off her mouth with a sly, dangerous smile, Yashra threw the woman a rope of braided silk. “Tie it good,” she said, quietly. A faint slow smile of satisfaction creased her lips, “Or else you might end up hurting yourself tonight.”

She drew the dagger across her own skin, sinking a finger into herself, as she watched the woman she’d caught and held in ultimate terror bring her own worst fears upon herself.

Yashra sighed blissfully at the sight of the helpless woman victimizing herself by wrapping the silk braids slowly around her legs. She wouldn’t be able to complete the task, but under Yashra’s predatory smile, the prey would certainly do her best.

The sinful tension had built itself up, Yashra smiled to herself. Yes. She will be perfect.

She slid out of her position, and lowered her waist over the woman’s face. Looking down, the Old Ancient grinned. “Now the fun is really going to begin, Little Mouse.” she slurred, huskily.

She lowered her cunt over Mouse’s face, muffling her, suffocating her, until her prey could do nothing but open her mouth.

Mouse’s body was suddenly hers again, free from it’s supposed self-imprisonment and she screamed, as her tongue was caught, the sweet ebony lips snapping closed like a trap.

Atop, Yashra moaned in sexual heat, arching her back, pressing the dagger tightly into the under swell of her dark breasts. She felt good as the orgasm ravished through her body. She shuddered, and relished in the fact the night was still very, very early.

Waiting was so much fun. Especially when you had a Mouse to play with.

Below, on the street, Bridget fidgeted between want and need, and the awareness of what was right and wrong. Something was happening to her. She wanted to run back to her family, to embrace them-but every time she thought of that, her thoughts instead wandered to suckling on ebony breasts like a hungry infant.

She didn’t know why these thoughts were there. She didn’t know why she’d gone to Egypt, broke into an old temple, and stolen a valuable artifact. She certainly had no clue why she took that artifact to France, and gave it to the curator.

And now, sitting on the park bench, she had no idea why she had a sudden urge to strip down, and ravish her own body here in public.

Tears streamed down her face, as again, she seemed out of control. She wasn’t herself. But she wanted it.

A small crowd encircled Bridget, as she began to sway her hips, shedding the pants that were suddenly too tight, uncomfortable. The soft white complexion of her skin was now stained with the flaming red of shame, as she pulled her simple white cotton panties down around her ankles.

She posed there, for them. Wriggled her ass.

She fought the words that slipped out mouth. They made her so hot. “Can Toy play with herself?”

At the risk of getting arrested, one of the younger males in the crowd shouted, “Go for it!”

Four fingers dipped into her snatch, spread against her walls. She trembled in pleasure, and terror. Why I am I doing this? What is wrong with-Oh. Yes. My Snatch. The trembling hand brought the sticky prize from between her legs, to her lips. Greedily, she licked them off. It’s my Snatch. Got to snatch all that lovely stuff. Of course. All for me. Can’t let any get away...

She awoke, in the prison cell. Her head hurt.

“Where am I?” She mumbled, mostly to herself.

“Prison,” the officer at the desk answered, looking up from his work. He shrugged, “What do you expect for lewd and indecent exposure, girl. No passport, no I.D. You are going to have a lot of questions to answer.”

She cried, again. What was I becoming? Why can’t I remember anything? What vile, perverse thing had I done? She pulled her knees into her chest, trying to think of something that could explain this. Everything. The last she remembered, she was in Africa ...

The rough material of the prison pants started to irritate her skin. She scratched them through the material, but it only worked for a few seconds. Sighing, she burrowed under the thin sheets of her cold bed, and took them off. Her legs still itched.

She sniffed in the darkness, feeling utterly alone and abandoned, searching her clouded mind for a clue to her newfound madness. Instead, the itch at her legs moved up her thighs.

She couldn’t help it.

She moaned loudly, muffling her screams of shame into her pillow, so the guard wouldn’t hear. She imagined how erotic she looked, arching her back against the bed, fingers slick, and her breasts pushing up into the air proudly. She hoped the guard would see her, see the points of her nipples pointing at him through the thin fabric of her blouse.

She orgasmed, thinking of him taking her, pinching her breasts, chaining her to the cell and fucking the living shit out of her, with anything he could find.

She licked herself clean, reveling in it, and hating herself for it.

Exhausted mentally, Bridget soon fell asleep to nightmares. Images of her, married to a husband, with a house, and family, a job where she made decisions plagued her through the night.

“Excellent.” Fredrick turned to the man sitting next to him, folding the newspaper into a small half. The slender finger jutted out, pointed to a small, seemingly insignificant line. The tone to his voice was more than pleased.

“It seems our assistance with the Scorpion has paid off, at last. The Cat will be arriving soon, and we can finally put an end to that misery.”

He frowned, slightly. “Make sure everything is in place. I don’t trust Scorpion any more than I do Cat. She is obligated by tradition to repay a debt, and she’s done that. Now it becomes the Game. And there are no obligations there, except to get out of it alive.”

Trent nodded briskly. He half-smiled at his Master, “As you wish, sir.”

Frederick studied the maps of the museum on the desk, “At last, old bitch, we’re playing on my home ground. I’ve learned my lessons from the many times we have Danced, Isis. This time, you will see that your methods are only good in your own sandbox. You should never have left Egypt.”

The Ancient Salamander glanced at his paladin.

“But it was always going to end this way, Trent. She’s made a fine opponent for many centuries. But now we’ve struck a nerve and she is coming. This will be a fine show. We’ll see, then. Won’t we.”

He nodded to his own words.

“All information on this is a priority, Trent, and it comes to me first, day or night. Activate our Gray network for backup communications in case Lady Death decides to play in the Game as well.”

Trent clicked his heels together, snapping his head. “At once, sir.”

Salamander opened the desk and removed a sealed folder. “Some instructions for you, Trent. Not to be discussed with anyone else on the Team.”

The narrow eyes gleamed with excitement, “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Salamander laughed, “I see you were hoping there was more to this than what I had outlined so far. Yes. And your part will give us some considerable insurance the outcome is delicious.”

“This is history being made, sir.”

Salamander nodded, “Yes. Again. My hand moves the game pieces and makes history. It feels right.”

A dark, silent robed figure crouched outside the airport.

She watched as four girls, dressed in solid white robes, were all escorted out by a young woman dressed in a black leather body suit. In the middle, a striking woman of immaculate composure, grace, and elegance wore a slightly different white garment, more regal and exotic.

She smiled to herself.

How brazen, Cat. You’re not in Egypt, and you show your cards, before the hand is dealt. It is true you have style, Mother Egypt, and you know that the Dance has begun. Still, I won’t treat you, or the Salamander lightly. No. I think it’s time to go collect my little Toy. And to check up on my insurance.

Yes, Death was patient. And it would all pay off in the end.

It always did.

Lady Scorpion’s hand reached down, to stroke the dark hair of the pale woman attached to the leash. She had the end of it coiled around one thin ebony hand, the other end to a choker collar around her prey’s neck. Little Mouse trembled in anxiousness, and fear, wondering what horror was going to befall her next.

Yashra’s voice was silky, and full of perversion. “We’ve time, my Little Mouse. Why don’t you take a little nibble, mm?” The cruel smile was impossible to miss, “But of course, I won’t force you to do it. It’s all by your choice, Mouse.”

The pale girl trembled, felt her tongue stick out of her mouth on her own accord, as she leaned forward between the folds of the cloak.

The screams of terror were soon muffled, and Yashra closed her eyes in pleasure.

Everything was good. As it should be.