The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A cool stiff breeze blows consistently over the long flat plain of short grass and hard grey rock. The sheep huddle together in a small depression, a twenty yard diameter area that drops down, the height of a sheep.

She pulls the buffalo pelt around her, bouncing it to fully wrap the heavy cape in front of her. She often tended the sheep unclothed, but the winter chill rides these winds, and so the buffalo hide and wooly sheep boots adorn her. Long platinum hair like silver, blows wildly about her head as she caries in the empty buckets, once full of feed. The heavy wooden buckets swing in time with the plainswoman’s blonde hair, her hips, and proud unadorned breasts, stepping the furry boots in wide strides. Dropping the slat buckets by the door of her round, mud and thatch yurt, she squats by the fire in the center of the room, throwing more coal rock onto it. The tea kettle bubbled, and the large pot steams beside it, with oats and dried strawberries to be the morning meal. The thick stones cut into bricks, making up the circular fireplace, radiate warm heat into the small room. The young European plainswoman endures the pleasure of hot rocks so close to her naked squatting body. She has dried food stores, salted and jarred, pickled and lardered, enough sheep in the small lean-to, water in the deep rock well, hay in the lean-to loft, and her homemade mead and berry wines,, everything she would desire to last through the winter,,, except a companion. She holds the teapot handle with a rag, walking it over to the thick butcher block table. She picks up the dirty knife and fork from the night before, heading to the water basin.

The door latch clicks and the door swings quickly in, helped by the autumn wind. A towering man fills the small doorway- furs, swords, a shield hanging from his hand, which he quickly props by the door inside her cozy yurt. One of his fingers is enough to slam the foot thick door, shaking the building. The dimness of the firelight and the one opening centered in the roof, take a moment to adjust, for both people. She hears his heavy breathing, like a stallion rode hard, massive power, and intelligence, and virility. Moments more pass, neither moving, speaking. The enormous man in furs and gold removes his thick fur hat the size of a dog.

“Are you going to feed me, kill me, or eat me?” His smile is understated, cautious.

She looks down at herself, standing naked but for her knee high white wooly boots, holding her two-tine fork and long meat knife.

She drops the utensils.

“Do you know me, woman?” He steps forward toward her, then veers to his right, standing by the warm fire. He removes his thick rabbit fur gloves slowly.

She hurries to the cupboard in the back, grabbing the round of cheese, a plate, cup and fork. She sets them on the table, beside her own ceramic cup of tea. Steaming water livens the pinch of dead twigs and dried leaves, bringing a floral note to his nose.

“Yes. Yes of course. Everyone knows you, My Khan.”

He is beside her, his furs press against her bare belly and breasts. Steel glints in his hand, held near her throat.

“You dropped these.” Her eyes lower to see her fork and knife.

“Yes.”

“You’re afraid. You are trembling,, why do you fear me?”

“The Khan is here, in my humble home, no armies, no hordes of destroyers?” Her left hand raises up to his right, small fingers slowly fold over his giant size digits. She stares into his eyes, letting the warmth of her hand soak into his own, cold from a long journey. Knowing that her hand warms him, warms her as well.

The Khan’s eyes shine, wide and bright in the dim round room. He steps delicately to his left, she turns, still facing him,, still pressing against his fur, her back now to the large bed full of wolf, sheep and bear pelts. His jaw, his rugged but young face, his shoulders and arms, his thighs and butt, Her Khan was worthy of more than service and praise. Simply being near the gorgeous man sets all her fluids and feelings rushing.

“Why have I come then, for your tea?” The pressure of Khan’s furs increases as he leans forward. She holds her footing, stands her ground.

“No, My Khan.” She smiles with a light giggle. “I do make good tea however.”

His foot slides between hers, stepping forward again. He sits the cutlery to the table. She can feel her body tipping, if she holds her own, she’ll stumble,, fall onto the bed, to be ravished for the first time in months. It occurs to her that she wants him to push her, grope her, smother her with kisses and lick and bite every inch of her, to bend every joint and spread her wide, ride her and let her ride him, crush her into the straw mattress, and plaster her to the wall. Most of all, to be there, in word or deed, when the dawn breaks the following day. The shivering, illiterate young maiden yearns for this, the best possible choice of man, to fill her emptiness and pound his hot lust into her, blessing her with his seed, and perhaps his children.

She spins, flush in the face, ears purple. She grips the small glass bottle in the cupboard and corkscrew. His hands massage her hips and butt gently as she pops the bottle of her mead. The woman’s knees shake, heart pounding in her chest. She knows what they both know- he is here for her, she is here for him, and regardless of what the route holds, in the end of the day’s journey, The Khan will have her. She spins into him, platinum hair flying, holding the tiny glass of golden, thick fluid.

“My honey liquor is fiery in the throat, My Khan, taste.” The glass disappears in his huge warrior hand.

“I will.” He splashes it on her chest. She gasps in shock. He stands still, waiting. Confusion sets in, quickly dissolving, leaving her naked, sticky sweet, standing before Her Khan. His message resounds at a deep, cellular level of understanding, which calms the plainswoman’s mind, and drives her body near a climax without even being touched. She speaks with barely a voice.

“Wha,, What is your will, My Khan?”

“Undress me, while I tell you. I heard of you, your dead father, your loyalty. You are loyal, aren’t you?”

“Completely loyal, My Khan!” She deftly pulls the ties that drop his furs to the floor. Heavy gold amulets and medallions jangle about his neck.

“I am going to give you commands,, you will obey my commands,, won’t you?”

She stands, confused at the words, the underlying meaning. “Yes.”

“I am going to ravish you, at any place, any time, and you will enjoy it, won’t you?”

“My Khan,, not if I ravish you first.” Her small warm hands clamp onto his meaty paws, tugging them up to rest them on her glossy, honeyed breasts. Aching red nipples protrude out, screaming for relief.

“I will train you,, mold you, condition you, and you will learn, you will change, you will obey, won’t you?” His thumbs and forefingers pinch her sticky nipples, tugging them. Electric shocks of powerful current run down the woman’s belly, stoke the fires in her wet sex. His nearness, words and touch turns on her body as if with a switch, her jaw drops, cheeks red with excitement, body instantly ready to obey its reason for creation, to obey her Khan, to give pleasure and comfort and bear him children. Like everyone, she knows he could have any exotic lover, so she commits to giving her all, and loving every moment of it. Her hands snake down his washboard stomach to the enormous rod, barely able to wrap her hands around it.

“Won’t you?” His eyes were fiery, his hands engulf her boobs, rolling and kneading. Her knees buckle, dropping her to the floor. She gasps for air, dizzy, heart rapid, blood racing.

“Yes.” Joy wells up in her heart, equal to her white hot arousal. No peasant ever got such a chance, and she would not miss this opportunity even if she did not find the rugged conqueror incontestably attractive, which she did.

“Then Say it woman.”

She reaches up carefully, standing tall on her knees, arching her chest upward,, taking his imperial cock in both small hands.

“I will, I’ll obey, My Khan. I obey My Khan,,”

The trancy blonde teacher kneels in front of the student, hours after the school had emptied and quieted. After class was dismissed the others filed out for the weekend, while she sorted the papers to grade and those to file. A thought about dinner called her attentions back, and she noticed the shape standing inches from her. Her blue eyes reflected and absorbed the dancing lights of the bauble, his bauble,, then the world became a mesmerizing new truth. She would recall nothing else but what he decided, as the artifact and his suggestions break down her beliefs, her will, and shape her memories. She doesn’t see the sundown through the classroom windows, the many identical desks in rows, nor the young student holding the Khan artifact from the museum in his hand. The light of sundown glinting off the Khan Artifact paints brilliant red and yellows across the woman’s entranced face. She doesn’t blink, still caught in the dream created by the Artifact. Skirt covered knees do not notice the hard tile floor, nor do her hands comprehend holding her student’s erection. The teacher’s sleepy expression softens with a sigh as the student leisurely removes her hair clips, combing her scalp and hair with his tentative fingers. The teacher with blonde hair noticed none of these things, nor the unbuttoning of her dress, and fondling of her bared chest, because she was far away, an attractive yet ignorant farm girl, adoring her beloved King. The teacher’s dilated eyes stare blankly, lips murmuring softly in time to her hand’s squeezes and strokes, over and over;

“I obey, My Khan,,, I obey My Khan,,, My Khan,,,”