The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Waking up the following morning, Amberlynn isn’t feeling any better about her situation. If anything, as the cold light of dawn streams through the grubby windows in front of her, she feels worse. An old, scratchy blanket covers her lower body, and the goblin is spooned up against her back.

If she’s not careful, she occasionally feels his gross sheath press against her rear. But at the very least, Iktik hasn’t tried anything else with her. Not after spraying her down with his filthy, goblin seed. As the light shifts over her face, the body behind her moves as well, an ugly head lifting up behind her.

“Ahh... g’mornin’, m’lady. I hope ya slept well?“

Grumbling under her breath, Amberlynn tries not to reply, but... it didn’t seem like a rhetorical question. So, her collar pulses faintly, and she mutters a reply.

“Of course I didn’t. Stupid goblin...“

Iktik just chuckles, apparently not caring in the slightest, as his hand slowly slides up Amberlynn’s torso—and brushes over her nipples. Twisting away from him, because he thankfully hadn’t told her to stay still, the elf gets up and out of bed. She’s still naked, but the goblin doesn’t push the matter. Yawning and stretching, he gestures towards the wardrobe beside the bed.

“Mmmmhah! Anyway... there’s some clothes in there, so get dressed, eh? You’ve got your first shift in a couple hours, an’ I gotta earn back what I paid for ya somehow.“

Huffing, but not resisting an order to actually cover herself up, Amberlynn freezes halfway around the bed. She remembers something that Iktik had said last night, something about...

“You were serious?! A member of house Oriand... cannot... I am a... I would never willingly work in a... a tavern!“

Smiling up at her, Iktik waggles his eyebrows, as himself gets dressed—even if it is only a grubby leather loincloth, that doesn’t even cover his loins.

“That’s the point though, eh? You don’ have ta do it willingly. Yer just goin’ to do it.“

And yet, as Amberlynn pondered the horrible prospect—she realises that there are worse jobs that Iktik could have chosen. Could still choose. There was something Mr Grundle said... something about whorehouses...

“Ugh, fine! But remember this, goblin, I am a member of the nobility! Not some common wench!“

Opening the door to the wardrobe, and seeing her uniform laid out inside, she immediately regrets agreeing.

In a backroom of the Shackled Swan, Amberlynn finds herself being inspected by the tavern’s owner, Mr Keene. A thin, intelligent-looking man, his gaze is piercing and intelligent, and completely lacking any empathy for her situation.

“Hmm. A member of the elven nobility would certainly draw in customers... mm-hmm... and she’s certainly pretty, but I can’t help but feel like something is missing. Not much of a chest, for a start...“

Amberlynn looks down in indignation. Not much of a chest?! She’s rather well-endowed for an elf, as a matter of fact! Just because she doesn’t have the ugly, heaving bosom of a dwarf, doesn’t mean she’s any less of a beauty. If Iktik hadn’t already ordered her into silence, she would’ve responded with a few choice insults about the man’s eyesight. Circling her with an appraising eye, the goblin responds with something that sounds even worse.

“Oh, don’ you worry ’bout that! I got somethin’ planned, to really help ’er... stand out... if ya get my meanin’. An’ she’s gonna be a good girl, you ’ear that?“

Right now, Amberlynn thinks she’s standing out quite enough. The leather halter vest hardly covers her torso, and the matching leather loincloth is far too short, with much too high of a slit up the side, revealing legs clad in surprisingly silky stockings. Which Amberlynn immediately recognised as her own stockings, taken from her when she was captured. No other undergarments were provided—but she can at least wear sturdy boots on her feet.

“Mmm-hmm. But the name... Amberlynn. We shall see if another moniker presents itself, mm-hmm, but it will have to do for today. Now, listen close, girl—I’m only going to explain your job once, and it really isn’t very complicated...“

Stepping out into the dining area of the tavern, Amberlynn can immediately see that the job is indeed not very complicated, just like Mr Keene told her. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that it’ll be easy. The taproom is almost exclusively patronised by burly men, with more money than sense. And most of them don’t have all that much money—mercenaries coming back from a job, caravan guards between routes, and a smatter of wealthier merchants.

All of them are enjoying the Shackled Swan’s speciality, though. ‘Exotic’ girls, who don’t want to be here. Amberlynn, an enslaved elven noblewoman, isn’t even the most surprising employee. There’s a red-haired halfling girl, a race rarely seen outside of their small homeland, carrying a large beer stein in both hands. A scaled lizardfolk woman (or maybe just a small man? It’s hard to tell), is behind the bar, tongue occasionally flicking from her mouth.

Most surprising of all is a dark-skinned human woman, with the distinctive golden face tattoos of an Amazonian—a clan of virgin warrior women, renowned as a nigh-unbeatable force. Except this woman also has a massively swollen belly, obviously with child, and a metal collar around her neck, much like Amberlynn.

Her body is soft, although not unfit, but definitely nothing like that of a toned warrior—and her large breasts are exposed to the room, while a patron openly gropes them. And, what’s more, the collar is quite noticeably not glowing.

“Ugh... this place is barbaric.“

Shuddering in distaste, Amberlynn just takes an order with as little fuss as possible, then fetches some beer for the men. She knows how to deal with the common folk, of course, as every noble is taught, although they seemed to think her magnanimous attitude was amusing.

Her shift continues like that, walking to tables to take orders, then bringing the orders from the bar or kitchen. Not many of the customers seemed especially... interested... in her, though. Which is just as well! All of them seem to enjoy fondling the Amazon, and even the halfling is pulled under tables a few times, for some unknown purpose. Amberlynn doesn’t look.

But not all of the customers treat her with respect (or at least indifference). Because one of them is an orc. The natural, ancestral enemy of elvenkind, despite her personal burning hatred for goblins, Amberlynn still has plenty of disdain in her heart for their larger green-skinned cousins. Especially when they decide to openly grope her rear.

“EEEK! Hey, get your hands off me, you brute!“

A hush falls over the tavern, and it’s only after the fact that Amberlynn realises she pushed against the collar’s magic. Just for a moment of surprise, before she had a chance to think about it, she wasn’t a ‘good girl’. Standing up, a stormy expression comes over the orc’s face, and Amberlynn then realises that she still can’t use magic to defend herself.

Her face pales, but she’s a proud, strong elf, who can easily hold her own against-

“Woah there, big guy! Let’s... let’s all calm down, huh?”

Suddenly, with a level of grace and dexterity that you might not expect from her gravid form, the Amazonian is standing between them. Looking up at the orc, the dark-skinned woman leads his hands to her chest, defusing the situation with promises of free drinks. It’s a relief to Amberlynn, as she quickly realises that there’s no way that she could’ve beaten the orc if he was actually after a fight.

Although when the Amazonian turns her head to raise an eyebrow at the indignant elf, she can’t help but feel her anger deflating. She hadn’t escaped, she’d just passed the buck onto somebody else. Up until now, Amberlynn was hardly even aware that could happen.

“Are ya stupid, girl?! Pickin’ a fight with an orc, over an ‘armless arse-grope?“

Her outburst had signalled an early end to her shift and a forfeit of her wages, so Iktik was not in a good mood. It still seemed unfair to Amberlynn—what sort of tavern gets annoyed at the victim? The Shackled Swan, as it turns out.

“W-well... that’s still not okay! He can’t just... you can’t let beasts like—“

Iktik cuts her off with a stern expression, before moving over to his locked chest again and starting to have a rummage through it.

“Yer jus’ lucky that Akaza was there to deal wi’ Mr Rucktusk. But... what if I said I could help yer with the butt-squeezin’?”

Against her better judgment, Amberlynn pauses in her rant. The goblin could stop those damn orcs from feeling up her rear? That would obviously be a good thing, wouldn’t it? Maybe the fellow greenskins could talk to each other, come to some kind of understanding. Not that she thinks diplomacy would work on an orc, at least not an elf’s understanding of the term, but maybe there’s some trick to it.

“I would be... ah... cautiously optimistic? But through what method could you reason with an orc?“

Her goblin master snorts with derision, before emerging from the chest with a small wooden bottle. Climbing up to kneel on the bed, he beckons Amberlynn closer, and she reluctantly obeys. Then, as he talks, he deftly undresses her.

“It ain’t about reasonin’. It’s about presentin’ a more appealin’ alternative. Now hold still...“

And with that, the final words freezing her torso in place, Iktik pops open the stopper of his bottle, and upends it onto her chest. Drizzling it from one side of her torso to the other, a viscous, sage-green liquid seeps out, spreading over her bare skin, which starts to tingle upon making contact.

“Wh... what... what is this foul concoction, Iktik?! I demand that you tell me at once!“

Of course, as usual, the goblin only laughs as Amberlynn gives a command, tossing the bottle to one side as the potion runs out. Because, as the elf swiftly realises, that’s what it is—she can feel her body starting to react to it, but deliberately raises her magical defences. Elves have remarkable control over their internal mana, and their resistance to spells and potions is-

“An’ don’t resist, eh?”

As he says it, Iktik reaches around behind his slave, and grabs her chest in his greasy hands, starting to massage in the potion. It’s likely that the goblin only meant physically, but the Control Collar doesn’t care much for semantics. Just like that, her carefully honed techniques become useless, and the potion is practically welcomed into her pores.

“Nngh... s-stop it! You... foul... besmirching my body...“

Potions are generally made with a specific race in mind—due to elves being so magical, potions made for them are commensurately more powerful. So, when she doesn’t resist at all, the effects are rather more pronounced. Under Iktik’s grasp, encouraged by the kneading, her chest starts to swell. Fat accumulates, and tissue multiples, in the accelerated manner of magical transformations.

Amberlynn knows full well that while a change like this is indefinite, it is thankfully reversible. It won’t wear off on its own, as her flesh has literally been sculpted into a new form, but skilled elven healers could revert her to her true form. Of course, that doesn’t mean Amberlynn is particularly pleased...

“Y-you... my... my chest! How could you?!”

Iktik keeps on groping as the transformation slows, with his slave’s bosom ending up round and perky, like two grapefruit sitting high on her chest. Even before, Amberlynn was fairly well endowed for an elf—but now it’s just silly.

“Hmm... these’re a good start, at least. It’ll stop ya rear being groped, eh? Now, about—”

Cutting him off, even as his hands are still kneading her new chest, Amberlynn scoffs derisively.

“Ugh! If I knew that you were going to ha-aaahn~!“

And the goblin interrupts her back, by pinching one of her nipples, also enlarged, and giving it a tug. A frisson of pleasure, unwanted and unexpected, short-circuits her speech, allowing Iktik to continue.

“Hem-hem! As I were sayin’, you still gotta ’pologise to Rucktusk fer today. An’ he should be...“

There’s a clump at the door, of a fist which could probably break it down. Finally releasing his slave’s new assets, Iktik jumps down from the bed and answers the knock, to reveal the orc from earlier. Ducking down to fit through the door, he gives Amberlynn a leer, then looks down at the goblin.

“Hrmph. Iktik. She gonna clean ’em, hmm? Ain’t had one since Harvest Feast.“

Puck, while waiting for a message from his lord, didn’t have much to do in Kanzibar. He knew that he should’ve been working to free Lady Amberlynn, but... he’d already tried that! The goblin can’t be reasoned with, there’s no way he’d get her out using force, and he has no idea who he can even trust here.

So, he sits in a tavern (not the one he watched Amberlynn enter earlier), and he waits. Cupped between his hands is a glass of apple juice.

“Didja hear? ’pparently’a filthy gobbo got ’old of’n ’ighborn knife-ear lass...”

Taking a few moments to puzzle through that sentence, Puck works out that some people in the city have found out about Lady Amberlynn. That shouldn’t be a problem, as the Kanzibar guard will work to keep slaves from being stolen. But he’s also aware that, just because he doesn’t have the manpower or money to evade them, it doesn’t mean nobody in this city has.

“Huh... dere was a rough lookin’ fella askin’ around ’bout her. I fink ’e was one’a dem bounty ’unters.”

Hearing that, Sir Puck doesn’t need long to think. But he freezes in place, hand halfway to his sword, as he forces down his initial reaction. The same things that stop him from rescuing Amberlynn would also stop him from protecting her.

And besides, he thinks, how credible are two half-witted drunks in a tavern?

“Yup! I got some silver off ’im, after tellin’ him what I knew. Said somethin’ about the, uh... Lundar! Tha’s it, an’ that he’ll pay for more dirt.”

The man has hardly finished speaking by the time Puck’s chair hits the pressed earth floor of the tavern, a few coins on his table, and a distinct hurry to his stride.

“Now, get down on yer knees, put those lips to work, an’ give Rucktusk’s balls a nice tongue bath, eh?”

Freezing in place, Amberlynn’s eyes flick down to the orc’s loincloth. Not... not that, surely?! He smells awful! And if what the brute said is true, it means he likely hasn’t cleaned them in months. After a moment, as the collar flares and tries to force her down, Amberlynn realises that...

That she’s not moving. She can resist! Not enough to actually summon some magic and burn down this awful hovel, but-

“Ohhh... did I forget ta mention? I told Rucktusk ’ere that if you don’ wanna clean him up, he’s free ta fuck ya mouth. An’ I don’t think he’ll ask nicely, like me.“

Rucktusk grunts in the affirmative, and his gross shaft (albeit not as nasty as Iktik’s) starts to twitch and harden, pushing the rough covering out of the way. He’s obviously not the sharpest spear on the rack, but the prospect of demure elven lips wrapped around his shaft is enough to get him wanting to thrust.

To push the metaphor even further, perhaps it’d be better to stick to polishing...

With that thought, Amberlynn drops to her knees with a thud. She can hardly believe herself, giving in like that, just at the threat of force! What sort of magic is this?! Her master might as well say ‘do this or I’ll kill you’ and be done with it.

“Heh, looks like you was right, li’l gobbo. Yer elf’s an obedient slut after all!”

Except. She knows that Iktik wouldn’t kill her, so the threat would hold no weight. She’s too valuable for that. Nor would he physically rape her, even if he were able to—because the goblin is playing mind games with her, gradually getting her to comply with his increasingly depraved commands. His end goal isn’t clear, but it certainly won’t be nice.

And after she’s given into something once, it’s a lot harder to resist in future. He’s won again, this time, as clearly demonstrated by her mouth making contact with Rucktusk’s grimy scrotum.

But Amberlynn, even as her tongue extends and starts to swirl over the disgusting, wrinkled surface of the orc’s genitalia, knows that time is on her side. All she needs to do is hold out until her father arrives to buy her, and then Iktik can burn.

“Don’ worry, this ain’t even really sexual for orcs. It’s just, uh... well, intensely degradin’. Somethin’ they tradishnally make the wives o’ their conquered enemies do, an’ only then with a wet cloth.“

It occurs to Amberlynn that you’d likely need a lot more than just a wet cloth to get something like this clean again. Her spit-shine will have to do, though.

“Hrrm. She a... regular elf, right? Not one’a you goblinses’ horkh’nilta?“

Inside, Amberlynn is seething, as she’s forced to clean this monster’s testicles. He’s not even using her for sexual pleasure! Which is... it’s good, that he’s not doing that, but also a little insulting. Weren’t orcs all meant to be lust-driven savages? And what did he mean by that comment? Something about a regular elf...

“Yeah, I ain’t had her long ’nough for that. All in time, though... all in time...”

By the time Rucktusk is satisfied, Amberlynn feels sick, and thoroughly degraded, which is probably exactly what Iktik intended. Still, he wasn’t completely heartless, and handed her a new top before sending his slave off to get them both some dinner.

It’s quite a revealing top, and definitely nothing like what she’d ever wear back at home in the Golden Forest, but she also knows what it’s like to walk naked through the streets. And that was before the potion.

Trying to hurry along, Amberlynn is momentarily surprised when she almost walks into someone coming from the other direction—and even more surprised when she realises that it’s Sir Puck, the knight that was meant to be protecting her.

“Ah, m’lady! Greetings! You- oh, um... y-your...”

Stuttering for a moment, Sir Puck struggles to pull his eyes away from Amberlynn’s ‘updated’ breasts, although he commendably doesn’t mention them. That would have earned him a stern glare, at least. As it is, though, he does well to ignore them, as they’ll be gone as soon as she gets back to her family’s healers anyway.

“Yes, yes, spit it out. I’m in a hurry!”

“Ahem! I have relayed the updated situation to your father, m’lady. I unfortunately have no news from him yet, but...“

That part wasn’t so surprising. Even the fastest pigeon post wouldn’t have reached the Golden Forest by now, and Kanzibar has no instant magical communication links with the Elven Kingdoms. The way he continues, though, makes her heart sink.

“I have heard that the Lundar family know that you’re here.”

He doesn’t need to say any more than that. The Lundars are an old enemy of the Oriands, but a formidable one all the same. And a political enemy at that, which at least means they won’t want to hurt Amberlynn, but... they wouldn’t be above holding her captive, to use as leverage against her father. Or working with the goblin to do the same—and as long as Iktik doesn’t specifically ask, she won’t need to tell him.

Nodding sombrely, the collar starts to glow around Amberlynn’s neck, hurrying her onto the task that her erstwhile master gave her. But as she leaves, Sir Puck reassures his lady that he will continue working to protect her and keep her apprised of any news. It’s a scant reassurance in the face of her situation, but it’s better than nothing.

Back in the cabin, Amberlynn perches on a stool, nibbling at the skewered meat that she’d bought with Iktik’s money. He’d given her free rein to get what she wanted for them both, and it’s quite indicative of the quality of Kanzibar street food that she got ‘meat on a stick’. The only reason she chose it was because it had onions, while most of the rest either didn’t have any vegetables, or she didn’t recognise them. None of the meat is recognisable. She tries not to think about it.

The goblin seems more than happy, though, and wolfs his down while reclined on the bed, taking a rather odd approach to slave-ownership. When he’s not fondling her or doing other nasty things, he seems to more or less treat Amberlynn as a guest. Not that he has much to offer, but aside from fetching dinner, he’s not making her do any menial chores. Even if the place could do with a clean...

And he doesn’t seem to mind his slave talking or asking questions. Which allows Amberlynn to find out more about the comment that Rucktusk made.

“Iktik, um... what did the orc mean by... hurk, um... nilta? Something in the goblin tongue?”

The goblin chuckles in response to her question, talking with his mouth full of course, but not ignoring the question.

“Heh, well... there ain’t no goblin tongue, as it were. Most o’ the gobs out in the sticks do talk orcish, though, which is where that word’s from. Nilta means a lady elf, which I thought yeh might know.“

Dimly, Amberlynn thinks back to her political studies—she remembers lessons about orcish protests in the Golden Forest, where that word cropped up from time to time.

“But the other one, uh... well, it means ‘swine’. Y’know, like a pig—specifically a female one, used for... say, d’ya know how goblins are made?”

Of course, the high-born elf wouldn’t know things like that, although she does have the general gist of how elves are made. From how Iktik asked the question, it seems that there’s a difference, and he’s all too happy to elaborate.

It is written in ‘The Species Of The World, Both Elven And others’ that female elves cannot interbreed with any other race. Assigned as a textbook in all the best academies of the Golden Forest, goblinoid reproduction was barely covered, except to say that it was known to happen between goblins and humans, and that any good elf would avoid such topics.

A lesser-known volume had other things to say, though. ‘Goblinology, An Empirical Study’ by Verity Q. Xenathim had only a single printing, funded by the author herself, and was not taken up by any elven publishers, large or small. Bankrupted and discredited, Verity faded from academic society, although it turns out that her work was by far the most accurate survey.

Covering the physical qualities of goblins as well as the magical and genetic, the book is nothing if not thorough, with detailed diagrams and descriptions. There is no mention of the methodology used to research the data, although the specificity of the later chapters could lead a careful reader to some rather unsavoury conclusions.

But, most notably, it reports that there have been exactly zero recorded female goblins. Not as such, anyway. Instead, goblins have a small amount of natural mana production, centred in their testicles—the sole purpose of which is to convert recipient wombs into compatible breeding grounds.

In most goblin villages, usually situated far from what the taller races might call civilisation, they use pigs for that purpose. As many as two dozen ‘goblings’ (young goblins) are birthed from each sow, every three months, with barely any recovery time needed. In fact, part of the wide variation in goblin morphology is due to a significant portion of their genetics coming from their mother’s (albeit tainted) eggs. This helps explain why most goblins are snub-nosed and indifferent to personal hygiene, like pigs, whereas some have more... developed... characteristics.

As written from an elven perspective, ‘Goblinology’ also makes it clear that elves are most definitely not immune to this process. While it may take multiple ‘applications’ before the process is complete, the result is inevitable—and, to poor Ms Xenathim’s detriment, politically unwelcome.

Suffice it to say that Iktik’s explanation of this phenomenon was not quite so academic, although he still managed to get the point across just as well. Which also explains, once he’d finished off his food, how he manipulated Amberlynn onto her back for some after-dinner ‘fun’.

A wet schlopping sound fills the cabin, as Iktik slides his shaft between his slave’s breasts, easily lubricated by the precum covering his knobbly shaft. At the same time, his arse is pressed down against the face of Lady Amberlynn of House Oriand—while she’s grateful that he didn’t order her to clean there as well, it does prevent her from complaining.

His testicles are right up close to her now, and the clear presence of mana inside of them corroborates the goblin’s explanation of how the blasted things reproduce. She obviously didn’t want to do anything with him before knowing that, of course, but it just gives her an even more pressing reason to keep his disgusting shaft out of her pristine hole.

And, incidentally, it gives him even more leverage over her. Because while she knows that the goblin wouldn’t kill her, Amberlynn doubts that he’d hesitate for a moment before attempting to sully her womb with his fetid seed...

“Nngh~! Damn, yer new tits are real good fun! Those orc boys ain’t gonna be able ta resist ya... an’ ye’ll need a new name, o’course. Somethin’ like Jiggle-jugs, or Nut-slurper. I’ll... mmf~... think on it.“

So, for now, the collar is able to keep her in position, as Iktik titty-fucks her new bosom and ponders a new name for her. It’s a doubly degrading end to her first full day as a slave, and she’s certain that it’s only going to get worse. Her goblin master speeds up a little, balanced on the edge of the bed frame with a crate beneath him, as he’s not quite tall enough to straddle her properly.

All the while, he’s groping and squeezing, sending shivers of unwanted sensation through her body, causing an unwanted, and purely physical reaction. Making it even more humiliating, her every breath is full of the pungent stench of his sweaty, musky taint.

“Now, let’s see dat we don’t waste it dis time... open wide!“

Nearing his peak, Iktik rears back, withdrawing his cock from Amberlynn’s cleavage—and repositioning the flared tip at her suddenly gaping mouth. Plunging forward one final time, the greasy precum lubes and relaxes her throat, as he forces 10 inches of prime goblin meat down it. Then, leaving the elf with no chance to evade, he grunts, and then unloads.

Rope after rope of repugnant jizz flows into her stomach, porridge-thick and laced with corrupting magic. Thankfully, the mana dissipates harmlessly when it doesn’t find its target, although that still leaves a heavy load of gross semen in Amberlynn’s belly.

“Aaaaahn~... oh, Amberlynn... mmf... did I forget ta mention... nngh~... that goblin spunk’s also an aphrodisiac?“

Once that unwelcome news percolates through the elf’s perfectly pointed ears, she knows it’s going to be a problem for future-Amberlynn. But right now, all she can think is that Iktik never did explain what a ‘horkh’nilta’ is. Or, as you’d say in the common tongue, a Swine-Elf.