The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The southern nobles of Mercia sat around the table, their conversation a disgruntled buzz of mumbles and murmurs. In the midst of that unpleasant atmosphere, Tyryn rose. “My friends, I am new, and not all of you know me. But I have now seen firsthand what each of you has dealt with for years: as soon as spring began, raiders from Breizht were stealing from my flocks and fields along the border, too.”

“It’s sport for them,” said one middle-aged lord. “Their nobles’ sons do it to prove daring and show off for the girls.” He was greeted by a hubbub of angry agreement.

“So why, I ask, have we never banded together to put a stop to it?” Tyryn replied.

“It’d be war,” said a heavily bearded old lord. “Even together, we can’t patrol the whole length of the river tightly enough to keep small raiding parties from slipping across. To stop them from coming, we’d have to cross it and strike at their homes.”

“So why shouldn’t it be war? The southerners are rich and fat and complacent. Our soldiers are stronger and more numerous. We should teach them a lesson, so they think twice before crossing again!” As he spoke, Tyryn watched the crowd. Most of the younger nobles, and the one middle-aged man who’d spoken, were nodding agreement, but the older ones looked troubled. They say war is a young man’s game, he thought. Seems so.

“We cannot start a war on our own,” the old lord who had spoken earlier said. “We would need the king’s armies, his backing and his blessing. And he will never give it—he is too wise to assent to such a foolhardy venture. The river is a hard enough border to keep; anything we took south of it would need more soldiers than we have to hold, and that’s just if Breizht tries to retake it from without. Rebellions from within would be even harder to control! Yes, our forces are strong, but that is because we need them on all sides, where two of Breizht’s borders are guarded by sea-cliffs better than any army ever could.”

So we take all of Breizht and make those sea borders our own, Tyryn thought. But they’re not ready to hear that. “We must do something,” he countered. “Our grievance is just; at the very least, the king must hear it!” The others shouted their assent, and it was all he could do not to smile. He barely needed glamour at all to play this crowd—just enough to get them to accept him as one of them. That was enough to make them easy to manipulate.

Caoimhe trembled when she saw who entered the throne room. The circlet had been working away at her thoughts for months, impossible to remove, punishing disobedient thoughts and rewarding the thoughts he wanted. It was already hard to think of them in those terms; soon she would be persuaded completely to think of them as bad thoughts and good thoughts instead, and just acknowledging that inevitability rewarded her with the tiniest tingle of pleasure.

She’d talked about it with his other—with his slaves. His victims, she corrected herself mentally, and winced. At his orders, she’d made Maida Ceilidh’s personal lady-in-waiting, though that was too high a role for her normally. The two of them visited the queen in her chambers often, ostensibly for the normal reasons a royal mother and daughter might meet, but in truth so that Maida could instruct Ceilidh and Caoimhe both in better serving their Mast—serving Tyryn.

Caoimhe understood that he was doing the same to her as he’d done, over the weeks and months of her imprisonment, to Ceilidh, and that he’d done something similar in spirit, if not execution, to Maida. Maida was his completely, unwaveringly, any trace of her will, her desire for independence, stamped out and replaced with devotion and even a twisted kind of love. And she was trying to train Caoimhe and Ceilidh to feel the same, aided by the crown in Caoimhe’s case, but Ceilidh was so far gone no more magic was needed.

Ceilidh might be beyond saving, Caoimhe admitted to herself, not for the first time, and was rewarded with pleasure. She was inching closer to giving up on her daughter, which she knew was a strategy to get her to give up on herself as well. And it’s probably going to work, she thought in dismay that ended with a spike of pleasure. Ceilidh is eager to be his. How long before I’m the same? She shuddered in pleasure—and it was at that moment in her thoughts that she saw him entering.

Since his departure, she’d been trained by Maida, but trained to be his. She couldn’t help but respond to his presence with a surge of desire and eagerness to please—a surge that was rewarded by the damnable circlet on her head. She wanted to loathe him, and with effort she could—but it hurt, and if she relaxed even for a moment, she found herself desiring and doting on him instead, which felt much better. I just can’t sustain my hatred for him, and that too was a rewarded thought.

She sat impatiently, trying not to watch him too obviously, while he presented the southern nobles’ grievances to the king.

“What would you have of me?” King Cathal asked. “We are not prepared for war against Breizht.”

“We are strong,” Tyryn countered. “We could win.”

“Perhaps,” said the king. “But we’d have no chance of holding our gains. We’d be stretched too thin.”

Tyryn stepped closer, his voice dropping so that only Caoimhe and Cathal could hear him. “What if we didn’t need to hold it? What if I could guarantee loyalty from the newly conquered?”

Cathal arched an eyebrow. “You can do such a thing?” He shook his head. “No, it’s too risky.”

This is my chance! Caoimhe thought, and felt a wave of pain she was barely able to hide. No, I have to say this, to help him persuade Cathal. Relief and pleasure washed away the pain, and she could speak. “I believe he can do it,” she said quietly. “He is a talented sorcerer, and I am sure bending a few nobles’ loyalties is within his capabilities.” Please take the hint, my love, she thought, and shuddered in pain, but it was worth it. She’d been able to say what she needed to say, despite the circlet’s control and Mast—Tyryn’s presence.

“Hmm,” said the king. “No, I will not rely on magic to do the work of force of arms. You are but one man, Tyryn. One man can change the outcome of a battle, but not a war. You cannot be everywhere at once.”

Tyryn scowled, but he stepped back, and a moment later he was all polite smiles. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I have brought our concerns; I bow to your wisdom and command.”

That night, as usual, Maida, Ceilidh, and Caoimhe assembled in the queen’s chambers. Less usual, however, was that Tyryn joined them. Part of Caoimhe quivered in anticipation when he entered, eager to be used by him, even while part of her—the real me, she stubbornly insisted to herself, no matter how much it hurt—was disgusted.

“Tonight is going to be quite enjoyable,” he told them as he settled into a chair. “Tonight, Your Majesty, I’m finally going to take you.”

Every syllable of her title dripped with condescending amusement when he said it, and the idea of being fucked by him with that attitude made her shudder in both pleasure and disgust, depending on which side of her mind were consulted. But either way, before she could stop herself, she was saying what he wanted to hear: “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“Good girl. So, Caoimhe, it will be your task tonight to persuade me to fuck you. Ceilidh, Maida, your job is to distract and please me until she does.”

Their faces spreading into broad smiles, the two moved immediately to comply, as opposite as two short young women could be—a decade apart, the elder was slim and dark, with a lithe fluidity to her movements; the younger voluptuous and blonde, the picture of eager innocence. They descended on their Master from either side, shedding their clothes as they approached so that they could kneel, naked, before him. Without needing to be ordered, knowing his desires through programming so ingrained as to be instinctual, they swiftly undressed him, and if Ceilidh lagged slightly behind her fellow slave, the difference was small enough that one would have to be watching very closely indeed to perceive it.

Caoimhe knew that after tonight, there might be no going back—and in the rush of pleasure from that thought, she lost herself enough to strip. His eyes were on her, and the awareness that she was pleasing him triggered another burst of pleasure. Floating on bliss, hardly conscious of her actions, she let herself drift to her knees in front of him, between her maid and her daughter, and stroked up his calves and thighs.

Dimly, she was aware of what the others were doing on either side of her—their own coos of delight, the stroking and teasing they were doing to him. But she was still riding wave after wave of pleasure, and that made it much too hard to think about anything other than more pleasure—which in turn triggered still more pleasure. What little remained of her conscious self realized that the more she complied, the closer she came to her final surrender—but in her current state, and with the circlet rewarding the idea that she was close to surrender, it was impossible to remember why that was supposed to be a bad thing.

She teased the underside of Tyryn’s cock with her lips, and was rewarded with a stifled moan from him and a wave of pleasure from the circlet. Not about to be outdone by her mother, Ceilidh rose from her knees to press herself against the side of her Master’s chest, her lips seeking his for a deep, searing kiss.

Naive child, Caoimhe thought, and took the entire length of Tyryn’s cock in her mouth. She then slid back all the way and, giving him a steamy look up through her lashes, she wrapped her heavy breasts around his newly saliva-slicked cock.

“Mmm,” he said, breaking the kiss with Ceilidh. “Good girls.” He titfucked the queen for a minute, then grinned. “Ceilidh, Caoimhe, join me on the bed. Maida, you may touch yourself while you watch.”

“Yes, Master,” the three said in unison, and hastened to comply.

Tyryn lay back, hands behind his head, as the two blonde women joined him, kneeling next to each other by his hips. “Now, girls,” he said, his cold grin turning still more sinister. “Kiss each other—deeply, passionately, as if you hunger for each other as much as you do for me.”

They turned to face each other, and Ceilidh started to lean forward, but Caoimhe hesitated. This is wrong, she thought, and pleasure drained away to be replaced by dull pain. “N... no! That’s my daughter!” She was able to force out the words, but then she flinched as if physically struck, pain screaming through her head and down her neck.

“Do it,” Tyryn insisted.

Ceilidh smiled. “It’s all right,” she said. “Obeying Master is more important than anything, Mother. We have no choice but to obey.“

No choice but to obey, Caoimhe’s thoughts echoed, and the pain lessened. “I...” she began, but she had no idea how that sentence ended. She could feel the precipice beneath her, the choice between an unthinkable act that would bring unbearable pleasure, and continued resistance that she knew would be both futile and painful. But if she didn’t keep resisting, would she ever be able to resist another command again?

Have I ever successfully resisted a command at all? she thought, and knew the answer that was both true and intensely pleasurable: No.

And then Ceilidh decided for her, leaning forward still more until her lips met her mother’s. The failure was like a dam breaking inside Caoimhe—she embraced Ceilidh feverishly, in a sudden torrent of pleasure and need, and kissed her hard and deep.

“Enough,” said her Master. He grabbed her arm, and pulled her toward him, straddling him.

Yes, thought Caoimhe. This is all I’m good for anymore. I’m done fighting, if I can please him that’s all that matters. Her thoughts felt nearly as good as his cock sliding up into her—but that was the most intensely, orgasmically pleasurable sensation she’d felt in her life, the first in a chain of orgasms that shattered her mind, her will, her soul.

When it was over, she collapsed atop her Master, spent, empty, and blank.

“Now,” he said, “you’re finally ready to fulfill your purpose, slut. Tonight, you’re going to kill the king.”