The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Guenevere felt the handmaiden’s brush tug away from her hair. She wore it long, as she always did in private. It was so difficult to keep coiffed, especially when Arthur was around—he kept tousling it.

Silly man. Guenevere stifled a giggle, not wanting to lose decorum in front of a new handmaiden—they were too easily shocked. “That will be all, Caetlyn,” she said, trying to keep the laughter from her voice. “I wish to be alone now.”

But the girl did not leave. Perhaps she wanted advice again, about that young stablehand. Guenevere turned to her, and smiled gently. “What’s wrong, Caetlyn?”

And Caetlyn’s face flickered. Blue eyes burned green, blonde hair darkened into a jet black, and pale lips turned blood-red, twisted into a thin smile. Something cold and dark blurred across the room.

Those eyes. That smile.

Le Fay.

Then the image was gone, and Caetlyn curtsied before her. “My mistress sends greetings, milady.”

Guenevere tried to stand. Tried to pull herself out of the chair. Tried to cry out, or somehow call aid—Arthur was away, but there was a guardsman outside her quarters. The silk of her peignoir felt frighteningly thin over her unmoving body.

The girl leaned forward. “My mistress claimed me last night,” she whispered. Her lips neared to a hairsbreadth from Guenevere’s. “She showed me truths. She spoke her bidding.”

Had to fight it off. Had to purchase time. But she couldn’t move, and the numbness was spreading into her mind.

Poor Caetlyn. She was so very young.

The girl hitched up her skirts, revealing a naked tangle of blonde curls. She sat astride Guenevere’s right leg and smiled. “I want to do her bidding so much,” she murmured. Her crotch rubbed against Guenevere’s right thigh, leaving a hot, sticky trail. “Do you feel how much?”

No. Please no. Arthur—

The girl bent closer, smelling of roses and tarnished silver.

Guenevere sat at her dresser, waiting.

She heard his deep voice behind her. “You summoned me, milady?”

Lancelot. Her staunchest defender and dearest friend. Guenevere fought back a shudder, and remained on the chair with her back to him. “Please enter, milord. There is wine on the table.”

“Thank you, milady.” The door closed. His footsteps paced behind her, to the side table where she had placed the goblet.

Guenevere licked her lips. They were bruised where she had bitten them, to keep from crying out. Her body was naked under the heavy robe, and her thighs quivered, spread slightly, still sticky from Caetlyn’s kisses. “I summoned you to request an indulgence, milord.”

“Anything.” A pause, as he sipped the wine. Good. “Your smallest whim is a commandment to me.”

Guenevere nodded, never turning to face him. Her left hand dipped down to stroke her crotch; it was still swollen and wet. Caetlyn had not let her climax, no matter how much she had begged. That was to be her reward later. After her task.

“Please. Finish your wine, milord.”

“It is...a good vintage.”

His voice faltered. It was time.

She rose and turned, letting the robe slide from her shoulders. The man’s eyes widened, and the goblet clattered to the floor.

Naked, Guenevere stood before him, her auburn locks falling to the small of her back, her nipples tightening into stiff points over the swell of her breasts. She stalked forward without a word, advancing on him, her breasts swinging softly with each step. He stumbled back.

“Milady...y-you are beautiful...but we must not...”

“I request an indulgence, milord,” Guenvere hissed through clenched teeth, pushing him onto the bed. “I request that you take your sovereign’s wife.”

She straddled him and pinned back his hands. Just as Caetlyn had done to her, on the same bed. “I would have your sword in this body, milord,” she whispered, rubbing her breasts against his tunic, just as Caetlyn had told her to. “I hear that none thrusts a sword better than you.”

And she bent down and kissed away his protests, ignoring the nausea that filled her belly.

Caetlyn smiled and curtsied. “My mistress sends greetings, milady.”

Trembling, Guenevere tugged open the bow of her peignoir. The garment slid to her feet with a whisper of silk, leaving her naked. She had perfumed herself for Caetlyn, and the heavy floral scent mingled with the stink of her arousal.

Caetlyn sniffed the air. “You smell like a whore, milady.”

Guenevere blushed with shame, but she felt her thighs clench.

“Ahhh. Milady likes it when I call her that,” Caetlyn said. Her voice tingled in Guenevere’s ears. “Tell me, milady. What are you again?”

“A queen.”

Caetlyn nodded. “And?”

“A...whore.”

Caetlyn stepped closer, her long serving skirt brushing against the floor. Guenevere lowered her gaze, thinking of Caetlyn’s naked crotch under the skirt, wondering if Caetlyn would let her lick it.

“My mistress would break your kingdom, milady,” Caetlyn murmured. Her hands cupped Guenevere’s breasts. Guenevere gasped, and pushed her chest out at the girl’s fingers. “And for that, you will be my whore.”

Guenevere moaned as the girl stroked her nipples. “Please. Oh please.”

Caetlyn pushed her to the dresser, shoving her over it and kicking her legs wide. “Hush. My whore will only speak when I tell her to.”

Guenevere fell atop the wooden surface. She felt Caetlyn’s fingers pry apart her buttocks, and her breath caught with anticipation. The need was driving her mad...

“Yield for me, whore.” A finger pushed deep between Guenevere’s buttocks.

Bent naked over the dresser, Guenevere jerked with pleasure, her mouth open in a soundless, mindless cry.

The tower walls cast long shadows over Guenevere as she paced and waited for him. She touched her fevered cheek, looking down at the courtyard that sprawled below her, with the hard-faced men who smiled when she walked by, and the laughing children who so loved to play in her lap.

She could still smell Caetlyn’s musk. On her fingers, from when Caetlyn had taken her hand and taught her how to touch; on her legs, from when Caetlyn had sat astride them and rubbed herself up and down their smooth length; on her lips, from when Caetlyn had squatted low over her face and told her to lick. She had not bathed since.

Guenevere paced, feeling her heart flutter. Maybe he would not come; maybe he would spurn the rendezvous, and Caetlyn would not—

No. Lancelot would come. He was the noblest of men, but he was still a man.

And when he touched her, she could pretend it was Caetlyn.

The bed shook with Guenevere’s thrashings as Caetlyn played with her body. Guenevere’s face glistened with sweat, her arms spasmed uselessly at her sides, her legs jerked in the air. Caetlyn had been touching her since dawn, keeping her on the edge, never going further. Long caresses of Caetlyn’s palm, quick thrusts of her fingers, fleeting brushstrokes of her fingertips. Touching nothing but Guenevere’s crotch.

It was nearly noon.

“Good whore,” Caetlyn cooed. Her hand clamped tightly around Guenevere’s mouth. “Yield for me. Now.”

Exquisite waves of heat washed through Guenevere as she ground her crotch harder into Caetlyn’s fingers. Her body arched, her fingernails dug into the silken sheets, her mouth screamed release against Caetlyn’s hand, and she collapsed back on the bed, panting.

“Are you ready for your next lesson, whore?”

And Guenevere nodded, already eager for more.

Caetlyn brought out a hand’s length of carved wood, and lifted it to Guenevere’s face. It was three fingers in width, with a rounded end. Guenevere sniffed at it. “You already have a whore’s cunt,” Caetlyn said. “Now you will have a whore’s mouth, too.”

Guenevere grunted, and began to lick the carved wood.

They walked through the orchard together. Guenevere rubbed herself against him as they walked, thinking of Caetlyn.

“This must end, milady,” he said, pulling away. “Arthur will return this month. You are his queen, and I cannot bear to—”

Guenevere touched a finger to his lips. “His queen?”

She laughed—a lyrical, tinkling sound—and pressed against him, making certain that he felt the soft curves of her breasts. Then she slid down his body, until her lips hovered at the crotch of his breeches.

She looked up into his eyes. “Would a queen do this?”

Then she said no more, and began to undo his breeches with her teeth. She was a whore, and a whore’s mouth was best when it did not speak.

“My mistress is pleased, whore,” Caetlyn murmured as she licked between Guenevere’s legs. “If she rewards me, I may choose to reward you as well.”

Guenevere moaned and pulled against the silken ropes. Her head thrashed about, threatening to unseat the silver circlet that was pinned atop her coiffed hair. It was the symbol of her office, an old gift from her father. Caetlyn had asked her to keep it on.

Her other finery lay strewn about on the floor. A robe of soft fur, a silken petticoat from the east, a gown made from clothe-of-gold—she had discarded it all in a hurry. Caetlyn had said that this day’s lesson would take time, and Guenevere was anxious to begin.

She had scarcely listened at the banquet for the Kentish emissaries that Arthur had entrusted to her care. How could she listen to Brychan’s prattle when Caetlyn was standing behind her the whole time, smelling of roses and tarnished silver, whispering about what she would make Guenevere do?

So Guenevere just sat there in her royal garb, her perfumed body elegantly poised, her lips frozen in a perfect smile, her mind thinking of nothing but her wet crotch.

And now she lay bound to the bed, moaning and naked except for her father’s circlet.

Suddenly, Caetlyn’s lips pulled away. Guenevere gasped at the loss, and looked down to see Caetlyn smiling.

“We must move on, whore. It is time for your next lesson.”

Guenevere nodded. If she learned the lesson well, maybe Caetlyn would allow her to finish, later.

Caetlyn reached under her petticoat. Her hand emerged with a folded strip of leather, tied to a wooden handle. It uncoiled with a harsh crack.

“Now you will have a whore’s body. And a whore’s body must love the whip.”

Guenevere licked her lips, shifting slightly in her bonds.

The garden was like any other in Glastonbury Tor. It was where Arthur had romanced her so many years ago, where she had first worn her crown, where she had consented to become a rose for a silver land. The hedges and fountains offered little shade against prying eyes, and others had already begun to talk. Gareth. Mordred. Aggravaine. And Arthur was coming home.

But that mattered little to her, now.

The butt of the whip weighed heavy in her tapered fingers. She lifted it and licked her tongue over its coiled length—she could still taste herself on the damp leather. Under her dress, she could barely breathe. Tight straps bound her breasts, pushing them out so her nipples stood clearly against thin white cloth. Her thighs were bound as well, though the straps were slipping from her copious wetness.

A shadow flickered across the garden. Lancelot?

No. Perhaps it was Kay, watching again as he always did. Maybe he would join them. Lancelot was too gentle, no matter how much she begged him.

The shadow moved closer, and Guenevere’s breath quickened. Her fingers unclasped the front of her dress, exposing her bound breasts to the cool night air. Her eyelids fluttered as she pinched her right nipple. She could wait for Lancelot no longer. She was just a whore.

The shadow was behind her now. Good.

Eyes hooded with lust, she turned to face him, her breasts jutting out, her hand offering the coiled whip.

It was Arthur.

Camelot fell soon after.

She did not protest when they sentenced her to the pyre. Lancelot freed her, coming through the flames and cutting down his closest friends. He retreated after, to contemplate his sins at Dolorous Guard.

Bereft of its greatest champion, Camelot was picked apart by vultures. Arthur fell in the final battle. His body disappeared into Avalon, and his sword was thrown back into the lake.

None knew what became of Morgan le Fay.

The woman’s face drifted closer: long hair that was black as night, eyes burning green in the darkness. The lips twisted and moved, blood-red, speaking words without sound—

Guenevere screamed.

She bolted upright, breathing hard. It was just a dream. She had fallen asleep again. Her prayer book lay open beside her, and the candle was burning low.

Guenevere closed her eyes. It had been a year since Arthur died. A year since she fled to this cold abbey to do her penance. A year of listless dreams—of Morgan le Fay; of Camelot unsullied and still shining; of a lifetime spent loving her Arthur, wanting to wake in his arms and touch him, and hold him, and bear his son.

Her once and future king.

She blinked back tears and looked at the iron crucifix on the wall. Every night grew longer, despite all her prayers that Jesu would forgive her. And that someday, Arthur would forgive her too.

The wooden door to her little room creaked open, and an old woman looked in. The prioress—had she heard the scream?

The prioress lowered her head. “Many pardons, milady.”

Guenevere gave a wry smile. Despite her protests, the nuns still addressed her as nobility. To them, she was still the rose of Camelot. Not the whore that had damned it. Yet another reminder of her sin.

“No pardons needed, Reverend Mother. I was merely...praying.”

The prioress nodded, and stepped back to usher in another figure. “This is the new initiate who will share your quarters, milady.”

No. Dear Jesu, please...

The door closed. The figure stepped forward and curtsied in the candle’s light. Guenevere backed away, sobbing and pushing her body uselessly against the wall, already feeling the familiar wetness at her crotch.

“My mistress sends greetings, milady.”

And the girl bent closer, smelling of roses and tarnished silver.