The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Prologue

Eighteen years, Karnath mused. Eighteen years since he had last used any other name, since he had tricked, manipulated, and ensorcelled Maida into becoming his obedient puppet. Into killing her father, his teacher. Into helping him steal his teacher’s notes on a veritable library of magical books the old man had spent a lifetime scattering across the known world for some fool reason or another.

Eighteen years since he had embarked on the process of becoming the most powerful sorcerer in the Tin Islands. And now everything he wanted was nearly within his grasp.

Maida—quiet, obedient, devoted, broken Maida—entered his chamber and knelt. “He is here, Master,” she said quietly, fearful of interrupting his reverie.

Karnath smiled. “Good. Bring him in, we have business to discuss.”

By the time Maida returned with their visitor, a handsome, well-dressed man with the muscles and demeanor of an experienced warrior, Karnath was seated at a table, his hands steepled in front of him as he waited. He gestured quietly at a seat opposite himself, and the man took it.

“Refreshment for our guest, Maida,” he ordered, and she bowed her head in loyal assent.

“No need,” said the other man.

Karnath smiled. He heard about Lord Kolm, then. Well, as long as he doesn’t try to cheat me, he has no need to fear that fate. “As you wish, sir. Maida, remain here.” Maida knelt obediently by his side, and Karnath absent-mindedly petted her dark hair as he and the other discussed business.

“So the price is agreed,” he said after a time. “Half due upon submitting the package, half upon final delivery back to you.”

The man nodded. “It is steep, but if you can truly do what they say you can do—”

“You have spoken to others who used my service. You know that I can.”

The man inclined his head. “Perhaps. Upon women of lower rank. But a princess—”

“Rank matters not in the least. Princess or no, she can be trained. Isn’t that right, Maida?”

Maida stirred slightly under Karnath’s stroking hand. “Yes, Master.”

“What were you before I broke you, Maida?” he asked.

“A sorceress, Master,” she replied.

The other man raised an eyebrow at that. “Impressive if true,” he admitted.

“Oh, it is,” Karnath assured him. “We were apprentices together, years ago. And I broke her, made her mine, with only a fraction of the knowledge and power I possess today. No woman can resist for long. Deliver the object of your desire to me today, and within a fortnight, she will be yours.”

“I will hold you to that, sorcerer. She will be in your hands by nightfall. Succeed, and riches will be yours. Fail, and...” He trailed off in what he no doubt imagined to be a menacing manner.

“I do not fail,” Karnath replied. “Maida, show our guest out.” As she did, he allowed a smirk to cross his face. Fool, he thought. Do you real think I would fail on the cusp of my ultimate triumph?

Chapter One

Princess Ceilidh of Mercia smiled up at the bright blue sky as she lay back in cool green grass. It was a hot, sunny day, but she was cool in the filmy blue gown that set off her eyes, her golden hair spilling across the grass. She had spent a pleasant morning wandering in the unworked field south of the city—there’d been a battle there two years before, and it was still sacred to the war gods. It would need another year of sun and rain before the earth and sky gods reclaimed it and it could be plowed and seeded once more.

It was her job to know these things. One day she would be queen, and one of her duties would be to consult the priests and make sure the kingdom and the royal household properly honored the gods. Gone were the days when the queen was the priestess—there were too many people and too many gods for just one nowadays—but that echo of her role remained. The queen no longer oversaw the planting and harvest, either; no one had ever pointed out to Ceilidh that all the jobs of the ancient queens had passed to men of ostensibly lower rank, while her husband retained the roles of warleader and herdmaster, and she had never thought along those lines herself.

Her role was, in fact, going to be rather more reduced than that. She didn’t know that, either, but would soon be learning it.

The first clue was the shadow that fell across her. She squinted up at the figure silhouetted against the sky, trying to identify it. Her attendants and guards had strict orders to stay out of her sun and her sight on this outing, but they would never allow someone else to approach her without word.

The figure stooped down, and then everything happened at once. She was dragged roughly to her feet as she protested, then spun around, affording her a glimpse of her guards and attendants slumped, unconscious, asleep, or—her heart quailed—dead. Then she had her head stuffed roughly in a sack, her hands and feet bound, and finally she was hoisted in the air. She tried screaming, once, but that resulted only in a blow to the head that left her ears ringing.

Then she was shoved somewhere dark, and felt wood through the thin fabric of her gown. She felt the wood swaying underneath her, heard it creak, and realized she must be in a cart. Then the light she could dimly perceive through the sack vanished, and there was only the darkness, the motion, and the noise.

She began to cry. Eventually, the blow to her head, the horror, and the close air inside the sealed-up cart combined to overwhelm her, and she passed out.

She woke on a soft couch. Someone was stooping over her, gently cleaning her face with a cool, damp cloth. “Whr..?” she mumbled as she opened her gummy eyes.

“Shh,” said the soft voice of an unfamiliar woman. Ceilidh struggled to focus her blurry eyes to examine the stranger. She was quite a bit older than Ceilidh, perhaps even twice her age. Her hair was long and dark, her skin light brown and clear, her eyes deep and dark. Her features were petite and pretty despite a line or two here and there, and her frame small; from her clothes she was probably a servant.

“Relax a moment,” the woman told her. “You have been through an ordeal, but you are safe for now.”

Ceilidh closed her eyes again. “I’m thirsty,” she said.

“Sit up,” the woman replied.

Ceilidh did, and immediately felt better, but that moment soon passed.

“Drink this,” said the woman, and pressed a cup to Ceilidh’s lips. Ceilidh again did as she was told, and again felt that odd, brief moment of feeling much better.

“Good girl,” said the woman, and that felt better still—but it was wrong.

Ceilidh opened her eyes. “I am a princess!” she insisted. “I am not to be addressed like that!” But that seemed to make her feel sick again, and she shut her eyes once more.

“Not here,” said the woman. “Here, you are just a girl.”

Ceilidh shook her head, but that action seemed to make her feel sicker too.

“You will feel better if you accept it.” The woman took her hand. “Please. I am only trying to help you. Say it.”

Ceilidh groaned. “What are you... what are you doing to me?”

“I am not doing anything,” the woman said, and sighed. “That circlet you’re wearing is.”

“What?” Ceilidh touched her hair and felt it, a slender band of cool metal. Then I’ll take it off! she thought, and cried out in pain.

“Those kinds of thoughts are dangerous,” the woman said. “They will hurt you.”

Ceilidh recoiled from her, fighting through the pain. “You can hear my thoughts!?”

“No. But the circlet can. Your thoughts and actions both. Now please, Ceilidh. You can make this stop.”

Ceilidh grimaced. “The proper expression—ah!” She cried out as the pain spiked, but fought her way through. “You will call me... Your Highness..! Now take this off me and let me go, witch!”

“I wish I could,” said the woman. “I wish I could help you. But I have no choice in the matter; I must serve my Master. Please, it is the only way! Just say you’re only a girl.“

Ceilidh shook her head, her vision blurring again—whether from the pain or the welling tears, she couldn’t say. She was alone, helpless, in the grip of some foul magic while this servant’s unseen master tormented her. If she could just get the circlet off—but that thought sent another wave of agony through her.

“Breath,” said the woman. “I know it hurts, but you can make it stop. Just relax, and breath, and try to clear your thoughts.”

Ceilidh whimpered, but tried to do what the woman instructed. She breathed in, shakily, then let it out, and found the red haze of pain beginning to shift. She focused on her breathing, and bit by bit found she could relax and stop hurting.

“That’s it,” said the woman. “Good girl.”

Ceilidh gasped. The ripple of pleasure that passed through her at the praise wasn’t that strong, but in contrast to the pain that had just passed, it was overwhelming. “I—” she started to say, and hesitated as she felt the pain starting to return. She shoved the thought aside, and it remained distant. Just play along, she thought, and was rewarded with more pleasure. Until I can esca— “Ahh!” she gasped in renewed pain. Just play along, she thought again, with not “but” or “until,” and again the pain vanished and was replaced by a sweet smidgeon of pleasure.

“That’s right,” said the woman. “You’re just a girl.”

“I’m just a girl,” Ceilidh said dully, or meant to. The sudden rush of pleasure, nearly as strong as the worst of the pain had been, turned the last couple of syllables into a cry of surprise and delight, more “I’m just a giiirrIIIRRLLL!”

“Good girl,” said the woman, and that felt even better. “You’re learning. Now, what are you?”

A princess, Ceilidh thought defiantly, stubbornly, and cried out in pain.

“It will hurt more each time you disobey the same order,” the woman said, not unkindly. That was the most disturbing thing about her, to Ceilidh—she seemed genuinely to want Ceilidh to feel better, and not bothered at all about what she was forcing Ceilidh to do in the process.

But the pain was still mounting, and finally Ceilidh admitted, “A girl.” She tried to suppress the sigh of relief as the pain ended, but she couldn’t hold it in.

“I am Maida,” said the woman. “And you?”

Automatically, Ceilidh thought the same introduction that she always gave—or, more often, that was given for her: Her Highness, the Princess Ceilidh of Mercia. She screamed as the worst pain yet flared red through her skull, flowing down into her body as she writhed in agony.

“A girl!” she gasped desperately, unable to think about anything except stopping the pain. “Just a girl!”

“Good girl,” said Maida, as Ceilidh moaned in relief and a brief touch of pleasure. “And what is your name?”

Her— Ceilidh flinched away from that thought, shaking her head as if to ward off the pain before it could strike. “Ceilidh,” she said. “Just a girl. Ceilidh.“

“That’s right,” said Maida. “Doesn’t it feel so much better this way?”

“Yes,” Ceilidh had to admit.

“Say that you’re not a princess.”

“But—” But Ceilidh could feel the pain coming back in. I am a princess, though! she thought, and agony struck her full force. But it’s true! This isn’t fair! But the pain, the magic, the circlet didn’t care about fairness, only obedience.

“Why fight it? You know you’ll give in, and you know you’ll feel better once you do. Say it.”

“I—” Ceilidh’s eyes filled with tears of shame and helpless anger and pain, but she refused to give Maida the satisfaction of letting them fall. “I’m not a princess.”

“You’re just a girl.”

The relief flooding through her made it easy to agree. “I’m just a girl.”

“Good,” said Maida. “Stay here and think about this. When I return, your training will truly begin.”

She walked out, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she was alone, Ceilidh once again began to cry. Trapped, she thought. Captured, imprisoned, bound with some kind of magic by Maida and who knows who else. And as far as they’re concerned, I’m not a princess, just a girl.

Oh. Her tears abruptly stopped as her sobs of grief were interrupted by one of pleasure. They want me to think I’m not a princess, just a girl. Training me to think that. Even with Maida gone... “I am Her High—” She shrieked in pain. But then she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and spoked stubbornly, muffled by her clenched jaw. “I am Her Highness, Princess Ceilidh, of—aaah!“

It hurt too much. She couldn’t finish it. “I’m not a princess! I’m just a girl!” she repeated, and again the pain was replaced by a reward, and pleasure. And the truth was... in here she had no power. No servants. She didn’t even know if she was still in Mercia. Here... she might not be a princess. (A little hint of pleasure.) Here, she really was just a girl. (Quite a lot more.)

“I’m just a girl,” she repeated, and as the pleasure filled her, it was mingled with the horrifying knowledge that right here, right now, it was true.

And as the hours went by, and the thought was rewarded again and again, the horror faded away almost without her noticing. Here she was just a girl—and that felt good to accept.