The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It should’ve been simple to keep out the monster.

Sarah could’ve lowered the heavy, creaking window before she went to bed. She could’ve turned its rusted brass lock and pulled shut the moth-eaten velvet curtains. She could’ve pushed the hefty walnut bed to the far corner, away from the window and its treacherous whispers, and buried herself under the duvet, safe in the knowledge he couldn’t enter her room without an open window to invite him in.

It should’ve been so simple—but Sarah never remembered to do any of it.

Instead, each evening as she retired to her inn room with the day’s research notes, she opened the bedside window. She tied back the curtains with a cord with ragged tassels. As the night breeze stole into the room, bringing with it the smell of old linden trees outside, she smiled.

By the time she lay down to sleep and the night-singer’s whispers began, she remembered everything, but it was always too late.

As always, his presence startled her awake, like the snap of a hunter’s boot startled a sleeping doe. Sarah shot up to a sitting position, duvet clutched to her chest.

“No!”

Memories rushed in, in a dizzying flood of fear and longing. Their intensity froze Sarah—or perhaps it was the spells the night-singer wove in his rustling whisper. No sooner had it reached her ears, that her limbs grew leaden, under the duvet. Even as heart raced, languor seeped into her body, pinning her in place.

“No,” she gasped. “No, please...”

As he did every night, the night-singer began drifting in, in the shape of dense, white smoke streaming over the cracked windowsill. Heavy and silent, the smoke spilled down the scarlet wall tapestry under the window, then pooled around her bed. Sarah whimpered helplessly as white, ethereal tendrils began creeping up the bedframe.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you. I’ll stop—I’ll give up my research. I’ll never write about you, or tell anyone—no!” Her voice broke as the fog mushroomed outward, coating all four room walls and the ceiling. All she could see, now, was white, dense smoke. “Not again, please...”

The smoke on the ceiling swirled in a slow, lazy vortex right above her bed, then began to seep down toward her. Sarah moaned as it brushed the top of the duvet, and the soft whispers intensified.

I am here. Listen to me. Come to me.

“Stop,” Sarah begged. “Just—leave me be. I’ll give up. I’ll burn all my research. Just go away...”

Each night, she hoped someone in the inn might heard her pleas. But the walls were old river stone, sturdy and sound-proof, and the singer’s power prevented her from screaming. All she could manage were frightened moans. Like trying to shout in a dream.

Hush. I am here now.

The familiar numbness of the night-singer’s spell tingled in her mind. With effort, she pushed the duvet aside and tried to sprint for the door—

The fog lunged for her hungrily, like a striking snake. White plumes struck at her arms, her shoulders, her torso. Sarah’s body went limp, where they touched her. Her legs quit working. Her knees gave out, and she toppled forward, into the swirling fog. It welcomed and wrapped her, until she hung, helpless, in a cloud of thick, white tendrils.

My maiden, whispered a timeless voice in her head.

Sarah wrenched her neck sideways, a last, desperate attempt to turn away. But the smoke fluttered gently over her shoulders, up the sides of her neck, and her muscles melted under its touch. Her head rolled forward, chin falling to her chest.

Mine, the night-singer whispered. Mine. Mine.

“Mmnn.” Sarah’s tongue had turned thick in her mouth. “S-stooppp... I’ll...I’ll...stopp...”

Phantom fingers tickled her collarbone, slipping playfully under the fabric of her long-sleeved pajamas. A last, hoarse plea tore from her throat. A fog tendril brushed her mouth, slipping between her slack lips.

Silence, now. You speak only when I tell you, my maiden.

Sarah’s mouth fell open slightly, as her body’s resistance vanished entirely. Her vision began to fog. Head still loose on her neck, she stared down at the white smoke swirling over her pliant, heavy limbs...

Sleep, maiden. Sleep and fall into my dream.

Sarah plunged into his spell like a pebble rolling off a cliff into a foggy mountain precipice.

Mine. In my power. Under my command.

She fell deeper, his spell smoothing the edges of her mind as she sank. Her thoughts became flat, silent, as she glided into his power unresisting. Down. Deeper down. Lazy blankness padded her awareness. Distantly, she knew she didn’t want this, didn’t want to be here. But she couldn’t fight. Couldn’t even think about fighting. Couldn’t even... think... at all...

Mine.

She was his.

Come deeper.

Sarah kept falling, silently, like snow on a deep, moonless night.

Here you are, at last. Here with me.

As he always did in this bespelled slumber, the night-singer returned to her awareness of her body. But her body was no longer bound to her mind. Instead, it floated, disconnected and adrift in the fog, while the singer’s whispers commanded her mind.

My curious maiden, who wished to know of me. You’ve traveled so far to learn about me. Here I am. Watch me. Know me. Open your eyes.

Sarah opened her eyes and saw only fog.

Do you understand what I am?

“No.” She understood nothing. Only that he was everywhere, and he was all-powerful, and she was his.

I am the one who seeks out maidens at night. The whisperer at the window. The bringer of desires. Feel me.

Heat spilled through Sarah’s body. Her nipples hardened and her pussy became soaked. Her mind, numb and awed, observed her body’s awakening from afar.

Stand for me. Look around.

Sarah flowed to her feet. She didn’t know where she stood, or how. Her body followed his will without her involvement. When she looked, as commanded, fog still filled her vision. But by the singer’s will, she understood she stood in her inn room, beside her bed. Her calf touched the bedframe, and her bare feet sank into the padded bedside rug.

We are in your chambers, maiden, the singer confirmed, And here you will give yourself to me, once more. Bare yourself.

Sarah’s hands worked the buttons of her pajama blouse, then the waistband of the pants. As her clothes fell away, fog crept up her body, snaking up her legs and licking at her soaked pussy. Her legs gave out again, and she sank forward into the haze that felt solid and warm like strong arms.

The singer leaned her back, gently, pressing her shoulders into the carpet. Beautiful maiden. Give me your pleasure.

His touch returned between her legs, and pleasure exploded at her core, hot and liquid. Sarah’s back arched violently. Her head fell back. Her mind plummeted deeper into his spell.

Yes, he whispered. Mine. More.

Her body convulsed, every nerve alive and vibrating with pleasure.

“Yours,” Sarah repeated mindlessly. “More.”

Beg me for more.

“Please,” she gasped. “More. Please—”

Scream for me.

Sarah screamed in mindless joy, until he bid her silent once more.

Be quiet, now. The smoke enveloped her body, and its soft touches drained all sensation again, leaving her floating, heavy and silent, in its hold.

Then the smoke took the shape of a man, lying over her limp form, his skin warm against hers. He withdrew and stood, pulling her up by one hand, and she flowed to her feet seamlessly, by his command.

Now you will please me, the night-singer said. On your knees, maiden.

Sarah fell to her knees. Her hands touched his hips. Her mouth sought out his cock. He told her what to do and how to move, and she obeyed, staring up at him with fogged eyes.

At last, his presence withdrew, allowing her mind and body to connect again. Heaviness washed over her, as she found herself back on the bed with no memory of how she’d gotten there. The night-singer stood above her, white fog rolling off him.

Tomorrow night, again, he said. And every night after. Forever. You are mine.

“Please,” slurred Sarah. “Let me...let me...leave. I’ll never return. I’ll never tell...”

My maidens never leave. They are my pleasure, and their pleasure is mine. He smiled and touched a gentle hand to her cheek, then trailed it up her temple. Her vision began to grey out. Forget the world, now. Rest in my dream realm, until the sun comes.

“No,” murmured Sarah, but fog had begun to fill her head. Her tongue turned heavy, her thoughts slowed. The last thing she heard was his whisper, commanding her to follow and forget. Then the fog enveloped her completely, and her mind obediently dissolved into it.

The innkeeper scoffed as she unlocked the room and saw its guest naked and prone on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Told you—there was something about her this past week. I was sure she found the Night-Singer’s cave.” She shuffled to the bed, rolling her eyes as she poked the prone woman and got no reaction. “Just like the others. Stupid foreigners. With their degrees and their field grants, looking down their noses at us when we say don’t go looking for the legends...”

“If not for the stupid foreigners, we wouldn’t have a business,” said her partner. He walked to the bed, as well, and touched the guest’s shoulder. “Up, lady. Stand up.”

The woman on the bed stood as bidden. Her eyes remained open, white fog swirling in their depths. Her arms stayed limp at her sides as the innkeeper draped a short, black silk negligee over her slack body.

“She can’t hear us, right?” asked the man a little warily. “She won’t wake up?”

“Does she look like she’ll wake?” The innkeeper snapped her fingers before the woman’s face, then tapped her cheek. No response. “The singer-touched never wake until dawn. And she can hear us fine, but it doesn’t matter to her what she hears. She’ll do whatever she’s told, until his spell wears off and she forgets.”

“Wow.” The man studied the bespelled woman, gaze lingering over the taut nipples that showed through the negligee. “Lucky us that our inn is so close to the night-singer’s dwelling.”

“Lucky us that snooty foreigners don’t believe in the Old Folk,” muttered the innkeeper. “And eyes off her; she’s for paying clients only.”

He laughed. “What if she needs warming up? Our clients like to see the ladies ready to go.”

“The Night-Singer doesn’t leave his women needing warming-up.” The innkeeper leaned down, touching a hand between the blank-eyed woman’s legs. An aroused moan broke from the slack lips, and her legs squeezed together.

The innkeeper snorted and pulled back. “See? All ready to go. Just get her downstairs and see who’ll pay highest for the night. Just the approved clients,” she reminded him. “The ones who know about the singer-touched.”

He nodded and grabbed the woman’s arm, passing his other hand around her waist to guide her to the door. As his fingers pressed gently into her warm flesh, her head tipped back into his shoulders, her slack mouth letting out another moan.

She was ready to go, alright.

“I’ll check on her assistants,” said the innkeeper. “They all went with her into the Singer’s cave. He probably visited all of them.”

“Three singer-touched here at the same time.” The man grinned. “We could have fun with this.”

“Let’s see how they do tonight,” said the innkeeper. “And we can start getting creative tomorrow, if it all goes well.”

“Can’t wait,” he murmured, and he led the woman out into the hallway.

He’d get her downstairs eventually, to their small pool of knowing clients who showed up whenever another eager academic came chasing the Night-Singer legends. These clients kept the remote inn in business, and they had to be kept happy. But first...well.

He stroked her cheek, smiling, and led her into one of the empty guest rooms at the end of the hall.

First, he was going to taste the offerings for himself.