The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Time passed in Tallinn.

The rhythm of my days became simple and clear. When I wasn’t locked up, I was sat on Blodeuwedd’s Perch. It had many settings, many cycles, and I spent almost every day there, my arms and legs splayed, doubly impaled, always being pushed beyond new limits, and all the time my arousal and frustration was getting worse.

“Why don’t you go and play in the Secret Garden?” he’d say. “You can if you want to.”

There was always a choice, and I always chose. So almost every day he would walk me down the stairs of my own free will, unlock the door, and then unlock me down there. At this point the ritual was that I’d beg him to take me, and then he’d say no, and he’d indicate the chair, telling me it had been my own choice. So I’d settle myself into position and lock the bonds into place, ankles first and then wrists, and I’d look at him, waiting for what the day would bring.

What happened next was unpredictable; sometimes the shafts rose immediately, sometimes after an hour, sometime not at all. Sometimes both shafts; sometimes only one, front or rear. I never knew what I was going to get, but once it started I knew it wouldn’t stop, and hard as I tried, I knew that it, he, wouldn’t let me come. Sometimes I wondered if he would ever let me come again.

If and when he let me out in the evenings I would fall into his arms, desperate, exhausted, at breaking point. But if and when he did, the evening was a festival of satisfying Mister Talv; and by night, if I slept, I slept alone, tormented by dreams of orgasms that never came. He’d prepared a small room for me, and in the room was a bed, and a collar that kept me chained to the wall, and that was all. I didn’t need the chain. I was committed.

As time passed, I became obsessed with beating it. I tried everything to persuade it to let me orgasm. The scant inch I could manoeuvre, up and down on whichever shafts were in play, was almost enough, but not quite. I even tried talking to the machine, then tried shouting at it, screaming at it, but of course it ignored me and carried implacably on.

And then one glorious day, at last, as he watched me on Blodeuwedd’s Perch, I felt a new rhythm, urgently thrusting, the shafts pushing in and out, alternating, pistoning faster and faster, and his precious object was finally allowed her release. I must have climaxed for ten minutes, joyfully screaming and spasming on the wonderful shafts, and as the final orgasm came I passed out completely.

When I came round again, I thanked him with all my heart.

After allowing me to savour my reward for while, the second thing he asked of me—demanded, really—was what he called the pursuit of excellence. It was less clear to me, especially in my orgasm-addled daze, and it was a little more technical, and he said it would take time.

“So far so good. Now excellence is our goal,” said Mister Talv. He reached out and stroked my lips with one finger. My lips tingled at his touch and reflexively, my mouth opened to him. He touched my tongue. I felt the stir of renewal, my nipples springing into life again, stiffening at once. I sucked on his finger.

“I want you to be the best you can be. Don’t you? Just imagine, how that might feel, to achieve true excellence,” he said.

Mister Talv was looking at me with his cool green eyes.

I nodded, sucking his finger. Who could argue with the pursuit of excellence? Who could argue with clever, clever Mister Talv? He made a complex gesture, something untranslatable, from the Old Country, perhaps.

“How do my rings make you feel? And my chain?”

I didn’t want to speak, because that would mean I would have to stop sucking his finger, and in any case, he already knew.

“Constrained,” he said. “Committed. And even more so, I think, with the words we’ll learn.”

I sucked on his finger again. I had no words. What did words have to do with anything?

“How does it feel, to be bound, helplessly in heat, all night? Housebroken?”

There was no way I could explain the complex mix of frustration and torture and joy, even to myself, so I just drew my lips slowly up Mister Talv’s finger, base to tip, my eyes on his.

“Transformational,” he said. I nodded. Suck. “Awakened.”

Nod. Suck.

“Just one step on a journey, Katya. Here’s a word for you: Ärkama. It means ‘wake’, here in the Old Country,” he said.

“I love it,” I mumbled, apropos nothing at all.

Often I would become aware of voices, whispering to me while I slept. Sometimes—often—he would leave me in the chair overnight. The voices were always there.

He’d talked before about words, before, and their power. I had always hung on his every word.

Time passed in Tallinn, through a fog of dislocation.

I knew, rationally, that I had spent more long days and nights in the implacable rhythm of Blodeuwedd’s Perch, but after a while I couldn’t remember what happened there, beyond the constancy of the shafts, a dreamlike strangeness and a slow ebb and flow of time. Often in the quiet dark of the Secret Garden there was a deeper susurrus of murmur that I couldn’t quite make out. I would drift off even through the stimulation, climaxing like clockwork even in my sleep, and when I awoke I could never remember anything of what had happened.

Perhaps I simply slept a lot. Or so I assumed until the first time, when he spoke the word, and I learned what must have been happening, these last weeks.

Ärkama—

—and it was as if a switch had been flipped. I had never felt anything like it. There and then, my whole body woke up with arousal, and in a second it was like the very moment before climax. I was in instant heat, and the overwhelming sensation was of being on the Perch again, at the very peak of its cycle, where a single touch in the right place would have made me come.

I dropped to my knees, and then onto all fours; I was suddenly on fire, in heat, a panting mess. Pulse after pulse was washing through the whole of my lower body. And then, escalating, faster and ever more intense, a deep, throbbing longing; harder, more urgent, more relentless than anything I had experienced before. I threw back my head and put my hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming.

He put his hand on my head. “There, there,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

I looked up at him, questioning.

“Do you remember much of the last weeks?”

I shook my head, still in heat.

“It feels like a daze, doesn’t it? Like a dream?”

Yes. Yes. Like a dream.

He explained what had happened, and I remember some of what he told me. There are many fluid pathways in the human mind, it seems. He had learned how to use some of these, to rework them; to remove some, to add new ones, through his own processes of pleasure and reinforcement and words. Blodeuwedd’s Perch was instrumental in such conditioning, he said, but there were many other methods besides. The details escape me. It took time, repetition, perseverance, he said, and—most importantly—an open willing mind on the part of the subject.

He said my mind was both particularly open and particularly willing, as was the rest of me.

Ärkama.