The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

By the time Derek finished his business in Stonehaven, the sun hung dangerously low in the sky. He would not make it home before dark. The wisest action would be to keep his room for another night and set out in the morning, but the winter had been long, his finances stretched thin. Rather than draw attention to his lack of funds, Derek refused the calls to stay the night, joking that he could not have anyone thinking he was a superstitious fool, afraid of the dark and abduction by the Fair Ones because of some backwoods tales he heard as a boy at his grandmother’s knee.

His ruse worked, and after another round of beer, his clients sent him off with hearty laughter. Everyone knew the only threats to travelers in these modern times were bandits and pirates—real enough threats, but the bandits in the area knew the trading seasons well. Laden with nothing but promissory notes and contracts, Derek would be safe enough, even if it was the night of the new moon, and even if his grandmother’s stories about the Fair Ones now stalked his thoughts.

Having to pass by Kinskill Forest did not ease his mind. So many of his grandmother’s stories started with a fool wandering into its dark depths, and rarely did they end with the same fool emerging. Though none of the stories were true, the woods were still dangerous. The road from Stonehaven curved well clear of the trees, but even so, when the forest loomed before him, inking out the stars, Derek could not stop his shudder.

His mount reacted to his unease, snorting and jerking against the reigns. “Steady, girl,” Derek said, patting her neck. The dark would not bother her if he could keep himself from being a fool. She came from Night stock and could carry on in far worse conditions.

Instead of settling down, his horse grew more agitated. “Easy now,” Derek said, but he had to give up on stroking her neck when she reared back and nearly threw him. “What’s gotten into you?”

She whined and resisted his efforts to calm her. Then Derek saw why. A pair of wolves sat on either side of the road ahead of them, visible to Derek only because the pewter tint of their fur seemed to glow.

Derek swallowed back coppery fear. “Careful now,” he murmured to his horse, easing her slowly around. “We’ll just find another path, eh?”

The wolves rose in unison and loped towards them in eerie silence. Derek’s horse reared again with a panicked squeal. Derek fought to stay mounted, but he was thrown, landing hard on his back, stunned and gasping for air. For a moment, white and blue sparks filled his vision. Then the night was dark again except for the silver wolves approaching him.

Derek rolled to his hands and knees. The fall had knocked more than his breath from him. Fragments of his grandmother’s stories flittered through his mind, the lessons flaring to life as brilliantly as the sparks that had just cleared from his vision—always stay on an iron-shorn path, never accept aid from one Fair of name and blood, avoid all travels on the night of the new moon.

He bit back a laugh. Well, it was a little late to avoid traveling on the night of the new moon, but the road had been cut when people thought the Fair Ones a real threat. In recent years, however, the Royal Engineers had come and collected the remaining iron spikes for more useful purposes.

Derek’s pulse surged when the wolves stepped onto the path. He turned and ran blindly. It was only when the first branch whipped his face that Derek realized he ran in the wrong direction, but it was too late to turn back. He could hear nothing above the roar of his pulse in his ears and the snap of twigs beneath his feet, but he could feel the wolves behind him.

The forest seemed to cling to him. Branches sliced at his face and neck and caught at his clothes. The air, so cool on the road, felt thick and heavy, cloying, even, though Derek knew it was his panic cinching around his chest, making every breath a struggle. He tripped over a tangle of roots. A hot bolt of pain in his ankle tore a ragged scream from him.

Derek tried to rise, but his ankle would not bear his weight. He sunk back down, his breath fast and shallow. He could still feel the wolves, but as long as he did not turn to look, he could believe he could escape. Derek crawled towards the base of the tree that had tripped him. It was a cedar, and the ground beneath his palms was spongy with old needles. Wide, deep grooves lined the tree’s trunk. Derek clawed at them and found one possibly wide enough for him to burrow into.

He pulled himself to his feet and turned. The forest ahead of him parted, and the wolves padded towards him. “No,” he rasped, forcing his shoulder into the gap, ignoring the new flare of pain in his ankle and the scrape of bark against his skin.

The wolves stopped and sat in front of him, watching him with expectant yellow eyes. “Stay back,” he said, wiggling further into the opening.

The tree soften around him like warmed wax. Derek stumbled. The cedar enveloped him, and the last thing he saw was the wolves watching him, lips drawn back from their teeth.

Derek woke in a warm room thick with the scents of supper—fresh bread and hearty stew seasoned with rosemary. He half-rose, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and ankle. Straw rustled beneath him, its scent clean and sharp. Derek settled back down, letting his fingers play over the soft sheet beneath him.

A thatched roof slanted over him, orange in flickering firelight. Derek closed his eyes and let out a dry laugh. The cedar hadn’t swallowed him. It had just been his fear playing tricks on him. Likely the wolves hadn’t followed him, either.

No, he had just collapsed, and a hermit woodsman or solitary crone had stumbled across him and brought him home to recover.

“So our guest wakes.”

The low, sultry tone was not that of a hermit woodsman or solitary crone. Derek opened his eyes. He had not seen the shadow of the woman sitting near the hearth a moment before, but he had not been looking for his host.

Derek swallowed to moisten his throat. “You are kind to take in a stranger.”

She rose, clutching her furs closed at her breasts. Dark hair spilled over her shoulder and glowed ruby in the firelight. “The night is long, the forest dark, and you fell at our door. Tell me, guest, what were we to do?”

He could not answer, only stare, transfixed, and she sat at his hip and leaned over him. “Though perhaps you remember the old stories and wish to remain a stranger.”

“The old stories?” He remembered scraps of the stories of the Fair Ones his grandmother used to tell him and his brothers after they were tucked in bed. Derek shook his head. He should remember more, but when he tried to focus his thoughts, they danced away from him.

The woman was staring at him expectantly, so Derek said, “I think those stories were meant to keep little boys in their beds.”

The woman smiled. “Then tell me your name, guest.”

Derek blushed and remembered his manners. “I am Derek de Brodie, and I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Thank my mother when she returns. She is the one who freely offers it.” She pulled back, reached for something, and then brought an earthenware mug to his lips. “Drink, Derek de Brodie.” Her voice flowed over him like water.

He sipped sweet, clean water, but instead of refreshing him, Derek felt his limbs grow heavy, his mind more sluggish. He blinked up at the woman and she leaned over him again, letting her furs gape open in favor of stroking his chest. “Tell me more about yourself, Derek de Brodie. The de, you are a merchant?”

Derek nodded slowly. “Yes. A merchant.” His thoughts moved as if trapped in sap. “I trade in sheep and wool.”

“How lovely.” Her hand dipped lower, and she raked her nails lightly over his thighs.

Then she took him in her hand. That touch jolted Derek’s thoughts back to normal. “Lady, please! I have a wife!”

Her hand stilled, though she did not let go of him. “A wife?”

“Yes.” Though she was not the one waiting to greet him upon his return. Derek smiled at the thought of Mullen, his wife’s brother and the true reason for their marriage.

“She is a fortunate woman,” she said, resuming her stroking.

“You are kind to say so, but lady! Please, stop.”

“Hush, Derek de Brodie.”

His mind slowed again, and Derek’s body joined in the warm, syrupy feeling.

The woman smiled. “Take what is freely given,” she said, sliding down so her breath was hot on the head of his cock.

The air in the room suddenly turned cold. Derek shivered, and the woman looked up past the head of the bed. “Sister.”

“Mother must approve of him.”

The woman straightened and adjusted her furs. “You cleaned his wounds.”

“And you bathed him. Now make him sleep.”

She pouted. “Very well.” She placed a hand on Derek’s forehead. “Sleep, Derek de Brodie.”

Derek slept.

When Derek woke again, the pain in his shoulder and ankle was gone, but his skin felt hot and stretched too tight. Someone dabbed at his forehead with a cool cloth. “Rest easy, guest. You had quite an ordeal.”

It was not the same voice as before, though it had a similar effect on Derek. His body relaxed of its own accord. He opened his eyes and found another woman sitting over him. Fever had to be clouding his mind, because her hair was the vivid color of fall leaves, with the streaks of yellow and orange and red blending into each other.

“Who are you?”

She dabbed at his face and neck. “I am this mistress of this house.” She smiled down at him. “My daughters tell me your name is Derek de Brodie.”

“Yes.” He swallowed to clear the rasp in his voice. “You and your daughters are quite kind to take in a stranger.”

“What else were we to do? Besides, you have given us your name, so you are not a stranger, Derek de Brodie.”

“No, I suppose not, mistress.”

She brought a cup to his lips. “Drink, then.”

The water was cool and crisp and cleared the stinging in his throat. “Thank you.”

“It is freely given, as is our food.” She offered him a bite of stew. Derek could not remember the last time he had tasted something so wonderful, the lamb so tender, it flaked on his tongue, the broth so rich, it could be a meal on its own.

When he had had his fill, the woman set the bowl aside. Derek licked his lips. “Forgive me, mistress, but how long have I been here?”

“This will be the third night.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Do you wish to leave, Derek de Brodie?”

He did not have the energy to sit up. “I have obligations.”

“Such is the world.” She continued to stroke his hair. “It is why I asked if you wished to leave, not if you felt you must.”

The distinction was almost too subtle for Derek to grasp in his muddled state. “What kind of man would I be if I forgot my obligations?”

She smiled. “A disappointing one.” She shifted so she was nestled against him. “Tell me why you must leave.”

Derek gasped when she ran her thumb over his lower lip. “My wife. I must return to my wife.”

She leaned down and sniffed him. The sleeve of her dress brushed against his shoulder, waxy and cool like ivy leaves. Derek blinked. It was ivy, and when he watched, the collar of her dress seemed to recede, revealing an elegant, pale neck.

“A wife you say?” she murmured against his neck. She drew back to stare at him. “Yet the only women I smell on you are my daughters.”

He blushed. A man in his position could not afford the truth. “A wife,” he repeated.

“She is not the one waiting for you.” She dipped her head back down to the crook of his neck and sniffed him again. “No woman is.” She bit at his collarbone.

Derek gasped, then yelped when she raked her nails over his belly. “Mistress, please!”

She scratched him again, deep enough to draw blood. Derek hissed. Surely he was imagining this, he thought as his hostess slid down him to lick the scratches. Her tongue was rough against his skin, a sharp contrast to the smooth hand she circled around his hard cock.

Derek groaned. No, this was real, despite the fact it could not be. No woman had ever made him hard, but then, his hostess was not really a woman, was she?

She pricked at his cock with her nails, drawing beads of blood. Derek shuddered at the rasp of her tongue on him.

“Please,” he begged as she swiped her tongue over the head of his cock. “Please, I have a—” he screamed at the rake of her nails down his thigh, but he stayed impossibly hard and thick in her mouth.

She toyed with him, bringing him to the brink before backing off and settling back on her heels to lick her fingers clean. “You have the debt of hospitality.”

The ivy of her dress parted as she moved to straddle him. She raked a nail along his collarbone and suckled the wound. Derek gasped at the sharp pain and arched up against her.

“You have given me your name, Derek de Brodie,” she said, her lips red with his blood, “You have taken of my food and drink.” She slid along the length of his cock, the folds of her sex wet and slick.

Fragments of his grandmother’s stories returned to him. Derek knew he remembered more, but he could not force his mind down the right paths, so he had to make do with what he could get. “And you have taken of my blood, mistress.”

“I am not yet sated.” She shifted and sunk down his length.

Derek tilted his head back and groaned. Nothing had ever felt like this, slick and tight and rippling along his length, not even Mullen, who sometimes rode him in the same manner. “Please,” he begged.

She raked at his chest, nails hard and sharp, and the pain sent a thrill straight to his cock. Derek moaned.

She kept her hand planted firmly on his chest, smearing his blood with her palm. Derek watched as she raked her own breast with her other hand and used her blood to smear a fertility rune above the scratches.

“I wish for sons.” She slid her first two fingers into Derek’s mouth. Her blood tasted of earthy musk and lingered on his tongue even after he had sucked her fingers clean.

“Sons, Derek de Brodie,” she said as he shuddered and came. She clenched around him, milking him dry, and then rode him until she came.

She collapsed on top of him, fingering the wound along his collarbone. “You will bring me your man so I will have two sons to match my daughters.”

Derek licked the rune from her breast. “Yes, mother,” he said, though a part of him mourned for Mullen. “You will be sated.”