The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I awoke to the movements of torches discomforted, the flame disturbed by a breeze. Languidly, I curled my toes, stretched, and smiled through the blur of that half-dreaming vision at what I looked upon.

A young girl in training rested there, her mouth between my thighs blissfully smiling in her dreamscape just as I had left her. An intricate corset had been slowly, carefully wound, tightened about her waist the night before. Warm oiled leather had slipped over her skin like melted butter. I remembered growing wet, even as I had dressed her in that garb.

The scented skins it was made of were irresistible, and you found yourself relaxing, even before it touched you. Dark, and black, thin and provocative, it was also impossible to let your thoughts stray from how you would look within it. How each strap would cinch about your stomach, flatten it, accent your beauty, and your sexuality.

How Isis would think of you in it.

The girl had stayed still, perfectly as trained, as I had done this to her. I knew the ritual well, for many times I had played the part for other girls, and—for my Goddess. I was very aware of the importance of the soft moans and gasps the newly attained priestess made, as the sensual leather reformed her shape—it molded not just her body, but her mind as well.

Bound, you felt more alive. You could feel your heart pound; you could feel your blood flow within as your temperature rose. Each movement, however insignificant, you could feel against your erect nipple, and your shaved pussy. I was envious, and at the same time aroused, and it spurred me on to know that she was feeling she was feeling just as I had felt.

Secure, and safe within the unrelenting stringed ribs; they were warm, and passionate. You could feel safe as a child in your mother’s arms, and as perverse as a common whore all at once. Within those caged confines, there was only you, and pleasure.

I hardly had stopped there, though. I knew the art of bondage well, and I used sleeves to restrain her arms, and ropes and wood to spread her apart upon my bed, until she could not move. Each wriggle and motion of protest earned her ecstatic movement of the phallus I’d rigged to the whole of it, and it tickled and teased her pussy precisely, as she writhed and squirmed in the rapture of bondage.

Then, I’d gone to bed, with her face buried within my treasure.

I had been so envious.

I knew what Isis had done to her mind.

I half wanted it myself.

Leaving her to her own delightful dreams I moved to dress myself; first I slipped on the black silk stockings.

Black was the only color I wore. The color was certainly a sensual one, wrought in the mark of sin and decadence. It also set me apart from the other girls, all of who wore white robes of the sheerest material. Isis had forbid me to don white, as the other girls, and I found that the darkness fit me best.

The stockings, however, were my choice. I soaked in sinful pleasure from the slickness and sensuality of the smooth silk. I reveled in the feel of it, my legs slipping together in warmth. They drew attention to my legs, curved and muscled, trained over long years with perfectly arching caves, and soft, moist thighs.

I chose then a cat suit made of the same material. Its cut was low, and the silk sheer as the thinnest of clouds in the dark night; it made my body that much more desirable to touch, and lent supple, pert breasts the slimmest shadow of mystery while yet revealing the whole of me.

I left my room, quietly, and moved down the quiet hall. As with the stockings, this was a privilege reserved for me alone; most of the other girls either slept in one large room, with guests, or with Isis or myself. It wasn’t unusual for there to be little sleeping done.

Even though it was unseen from where I was, I knew dawn was slowly breaking over the city. This was one of the few times that I could nearly count on to be my own. Isis had chosen the night as her time and would often rest, or dissociate from those in her Temple during the first hours of the new day.

I was the only girl who this, and other honors were given to. Then again, she did not call any of the other girls her Daughter, either. I half smiled to myself, as I thought of that. It wasn’t as if I was her flesh and blood; no, I was a human being; mortal, weak, and unimportant in her world. I was not even Kinspawn. Yet, in other ways, I was stronger than any Ancient.

If you had read it in the tabloid papers, it would have sounded outlandish, and you would have easily dismissed it as trash, pure and simple. If you would have seen it on one of those immoral American talk shows, you would have found it amusing, comical, and the players within the story mad and disillusioned. Had it been on the news, groups of various freedom and rights groups would have risen up, and called for justice with swords in their hands, ready to be bloodied.

Girl raised and trained to be a lesbian sex slave in ancient Egyptian cult for eternal service.

It was laughable.

It was preposterous.

It was also my life.

I had been raised, from the moment of conception, to be what I am. From what I have seen, most people in circumstances close to mine rebel from forcing hands only to injure themselves and those around them. Not I.

Since I can remember—and I’m sure before that—my parents, my siblings, and relatives, all of those around me trained me with subtle clues to know how beautiful and worshipful the body of a female is. At the same time, I learned through observation of their actions how harsh, rough, and unnatural the male body had been created.

My mother was the leader of our house, my father seemed to simply exist to supply us with the money we needed for survival. Often, he would be the only male I had any significant contact with, and even that was remote, and distant; as if he knew he did not belong in my life to a great extent.

It was only natural, then, for me to seek the company of other women when my sexuality came to me.

I knew why my parents did this. I was to be a gift for Isis, the Great Mother of our land. I only knew that Isis compensated those families she took daughters from very, very well. When Isis took your daughter, the girl became the property of the Goddess, thusly protected by the Great One. Thusly, her hand would protect the family as well, considered an offshoot of her territory. My family had little, and so I cherished my position, hoping that through my sacrifice, they could have a little more.

I took my place amongst the other girls, all of us sixteen, all of us unmistakably the rarest of desert flowers, untouched, unblemished, looking forward to service to the Great Mother, to honor our families. We had heard rumors of the goings on in the Club, her Temple, and knew only tidbits of how Isis treated her concubines, her priestess’. We would sit up at night, and tease each other with wistful tales, of how we would become Isis’ favorite, and have a bevy of servant girls at our slightest whim.

We had heard other tales, too.

Indeed, we had heard the tales of the storm of her temper, and how it was within her power to call up the destruction of any mortal, any city, even Egypt itself. We knew that if we were accepted into her house, never again would we see our families. We knew that if she took us with her, we would forever be changed.

Yet, we also saw the ache in our parents’ eyes, and hearts, and knew the sacrifice they were making; and so we were willing to make it as well.

Along with two others, I was chosen that night. None of us were allowed to say goodbye.

Beneath the city, in caverns carved from stone older than any of the pyramids, I was taught with my sisters the art of combat, of dance and merrymaking, sensual pleasures, and the ways of our ancestors in the age of angry Gods and mortal men.

Much of the past of our desert land we knew by heart, for Isis required it. A girl could be as beautiful as the face of the moon on an endless night, and as brilliant as it’s reflection upon the still Nile—yet, if she knew not of the Old Days, she was forgotten, instantly. She savored the richness, the glory of Egypt still, and demanded the same loyalty from those who would lick her feet.

I realize, now, how clever she was. That was also my first glance into the despair that gnawed at her heart. It was true that she rewarded those who gave the fruit of their loins to the Temple That Walks; with gold and riches, asylum from the law, and protection from those who would do them harm. This was why the sacrifices were made, at least, from the mortal’s viewpoint.

Isis had never offered her reasons to us, or anyone; and from the outside it seemed indeed that she was merely collecting concubines to fulfill carnal pleasures, and pass eternity away in bliss. This was not the case.

No, I saw Isis’ intentions. They were clever, and ingenious. Simple, and yet subtle.

It was also an act of desperation.

She fooled a few of those mortals into thinking she did care for them, or at the very least, Egypt; I had observed her over the years. I had watched her deal with them, heard her speak, and as she herself had bidden me, I noted the smallest of details. In truth, she cared for very, very few.

To attack one of her slaves was as if you had attacked her instead. This was a matter of pride; something that Isis held dearly, and true to her heart. Yet, had you purposefully broken a clay pot within the Club, the same reaction would have risen forth, leading to unyielding fury. They were her property, not people. And she protected all things that were hers with an unearthly vengeance.

The Closed Club was the outer face of Isis. It was where business was done between Isis and those in the city, along with contacts in the outside world. It was a way for her wealth to seem at least partially legitimate. It provided a safe environment for the girls to practice their many arts. Women were the primary guests, though even men were allowed in, provided they had earned the right to be there, and were on the very select clientele list.

The Club had many rules, none of which were spoken or written. If you did not know them, you simply did not belong. And if you broke them, you most certainly would not be the same person when you left. Isis left most of the matters of the club to me, giving her time to tend to more important things.

It was not as if she needed the ritual of offerings from the children of Egypt to gather girls into her house. With her great powers, she could obtain anyone’s heart and soul at her whim.

I had seen her do this, many times.

I relished these events, and would often play them back in my mind. They gave me an odd sort of comfort, a warm blanket against cool skin. They also stirred the flames of passion within me.

An unwholesome ache shivered through my breasts, as the most recent display of her cruelty and pride had shown itself on the streets of the city. I couldn’t help but sink against the wall, and sink slender fingers deep within, as I thought of her lovely wickedness.

How Mother Egypt had revenged herself on the unsuspecting woman who had so violently rebuked her, openly upon the very streets that she ruled.

Isis had merely whispered in the whore’s ear, as she held the frozen and terrified mortal close to her.

Then, she had let the whore go, as if nothing had happened.

I watched what Isis had done to her, wetting myself with arousal upon that very street, transfixed in a state of euphoric pleasure. People who had observed the scene were either standing a distance away, or had ducked into the nearest shop available.

Yet, the unsuspecting new lesbian had still found a woman who would listen to her. In desperation, she prominently gestured to Isis, her face twisted with horrific trauma as she screamed for the entire street to hear, “Hello! I’m Hungry Pussy!”

The surprise on her face was unmistakable, and sent a shiver through my own pussy. It was clearly not what she had meant to say, and she had tried again.

As if to gesture again, she found herself lewdly casting off her business slacks and panties, then bending over to touch her toes; a firm ass high in the air, exposed for anyone to play with. “Please!” She begged, as her face grew a dark pleasurable red, stained with a river of tears. “Please give me something to fuck! Hungry Pussy can’t go much longer without being fed!”

She pleaded and whined, like a needy child begging for candy.

Horror-stricken as she knew now that she was no longer in control of her body, or voice, she tried to fight it off. She was a prisoner within her own body, only able to observe. Her body betrayed her, squealing happily as the woman’s eyes she protested to lit up.

The woman seemed to consider a bit, before her eyes, and face altered in the slightest manner. “Alright,” she said, with a sudden burst of confidence, and lust. The native woman had been changed as well, and smacked the newly awakened slut hard, on the ass. The girl lost her balance, and toppled forward, as men began to chuckle silently at her predicament.

Terrified, and burning red with palpable shame, Hungry Pussy danced off, following her new Mistress into the dark depths of a nearby alley.

Her new Mistress was a pawn in Isis’ game too, and I knew what Isis had done. Those pleasurable scents from my Mistress had drifted onto the skin of ‘Hungry Pussy’ as the Cat rubbed against her prey. The perfumes of Isis were heady, and unnatural. They would evaporate soon enough, but not before the damage was done and two new lesbians were born of Her doing.

My toes curled, in the throes of heavenly orgasm, as for a moment, I imagined myself as that foolish young girl, being bested by my Temple.

I licked my fingers clean, slowly, savoring my own juices I’d made, in thoughts of her.

No, she did not need the ritual; she could take anyone she wanted, at any given moment. It was something else, entirely, that she needed.

She needed them. Mortals. Humans. Us.

She needed their fear, their worship, the glorification of her name and deeds in all things Good and Evil. There is irony in that, of a dark and bitter nature.

The very creatures that could presumably destroy the world needed us to survive. Through us, they lived. By us, they gained purpose in their dark designs. It did not matter what the Game was; a power play against another Ancient, trapping a Kinspawn, or simply gaining power in the mortal world. Isis sought to maintain a portion of her past, when life was greatest for her.

We, humans, mortals, had brought forth the one thing that the Ancients could never be capable of. Not love, for I have seen that great power in Isis’ eyes, too. Were it not for love, I would not have this station I hold now. Were it not for love within the heart of the Temptress, she would have given up this land a long while ago, and perhaps been satisfied to die.

No. It is the Ancients that are incapable of creating. We, the human race had risen above everything to build great cities and inventions. We saw the cruel gods the Ancients had become as they themselves watched us grow beyond them. We created our own Gods seeped in benevolence; kinder, gentler, of Love and Peace.

It was that they feared, and hated more than anything. Earth had chosen us as its children in ages past, and had replaced them. They set themselves up as Gods, amongst us. And we had replaced them. There was no place in the world for them any longer.

It was that that had originally fueled the infighting between the Great Ones, family members blaming each other, and other families for the loss of blind mortal worship. But like so many things, the truth of this had been lost as time built over it, and now few, if any Ancients besides my Queen knew where it had all began.

She had been there, she confided to me once, at the beginning of it all. For some reason, I felt my tongue thicken, and my throat dry, my skin shrivel, and my gut wrench painfully when I had thought to question her on that. Humans weren’t meant to know such things.

Still, I knew more of Ancients than any mortal, most Kinspawn, and perhaps even some Ancients themselves. I had pieced some of this together from what Isis had confided me over the years. The rest of it I had gleaned from watching Isis play with Mischief (An odd, and unheard of alliance. She kept another Ancient as her confidant, and pleasure slave), when I was allowed.

I knew how to kill an Ancient, and if any of the others, even Mischief perhaps, knew of that I have no doubt I’d be dead. Oddly enough, it was one of the first things she had shared with me, when she had decided that I was to be the new Cleopatra, and take the place of my predecessor. Perhaps it was a test of loyalty to see if she could allow me to go unchanged by her Voice. Perhaps a part of her realized her time had passed, and she wished it to be a creature who adorned her freely that would send her soul back to the Great River, instead of another old evil like herself. It surely was not for the purpose of me to protect her. Isis could most definitely hold her own against an Ancient, maybe even two.

I knew of the Great River, and its intimacy with the Ancients, and its importance to all life. I knew of meditation rites that would allow me to separate myself from the River, and make myself untouchable by the manipulative powers of any Ancient. I also knew the price of such things, and I valued my soul, and my connection to the world and its’ life far too greatly to consider these things.

I knew all of this, and yet I was allowed my freedom, and my mind by Isis. All of this was given to me, in memory of a promise to her Daughter.

She wanted my mind free, and she had it. She also had my soul, and my heart, and my body at her command, through no witchery of her crafts. These things I gladly gave her, I chose to give her, with every fiber of my meaningless being.

Those were my favorite nights, those close with Isis. Where I would ask her to take my body, and do with it as she would. My face would fill with shame, and my loins wet with lust, as she’d take me as a marionette on the string, and parade me as a whore (or worse) upon the street, to make me do vile and unwholesome things to myself, and others.

I loved every single moment of it.

I was safe, with Isis, her promise a corset of scented leather, making my breasts ache with desire, and comforting my heart with assurance. I never had a need to fear, when she was in control.

These thoughts had always haunted me, and yet given me joy and rapture at the same time.

In the midst of my walk down the ancient, and seldom trod corridor, I saw a stone door opened; this was where the breeze had come from, the source of the torches firedance. I looked within, curious as to the intruder, and wondering if perhaps one of the newer girls was lost.

Instead, I saw Isis there.

Her silhouette flickered against the floor, dancing to the light of torches that lit the fearsome statue of her incarnate self, built thousands of years ago. Alone, and naked she stood in the center of it all. Silent.

My heart skipped a beat, and I felt my mind grow heavy, as it always did upon looking over her. Hers was a beauty unmatched.

Her head was lowered, barely visible. Her stance was one of weariness.

Even in desolation, she could seduce the strongest of hearts.

“Cleopatra,” her soft voice murmured.

“Yes, Mother?” I returned, stepping silently behind her. I had called her that before, because she asked me to. In the slow years of our togetherness, I had no doubt that the word was truth.

She didn’t look at me. She didn’t have to. There was an oddness that didn’t fit in her voice, just like the single dark stain of drying water that disrupted the tarnished and sandy tiles near her feet.

Then, in the next instant, that desolation was gone; as if it were but a character in a play, and the mask discarded. She touched my cheek, smiled.

I felt the comforting bonds of her words cinching around my heart.

Dizzy, I sank to my knees before her. I felt the warmth between her thighs, exploring her velvet with the slow tongue she loved dearly.

On their own, my hands drifted back, and held there, and I was unable to move. My legs parted, and I was displayed openly as a simple trophy.

I was frozen.

Bound.

Loved.

Safe.

Eternally Hers.