The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Queen Caoimhe paused in front of her husband’s chamber. I can’t do it, she thought, and blanched, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out as pain swept through her. But I must. And the pain rolled away, eliminated by the tingling, erotic pleasure of obedient thoughts. I have no choice. She couldn’t help but enjoy that, to melt in arousal at the thought of her own helplessness.

So, with no other option, she knocked on her husband’s chamber door.

He opened it, and smiled. “My love! It’s not often you come to see me.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her in, then closed it behind her once she was inside.

“That’s true, my—my love.” Her voice caught slightly. She did love him, she was even allowed to love him, and that made what she was about to do to him incredibly painful, even as the thought that she was inevitably going to do it brought pleasure. “But I... I needed to see you tonight.“

The king’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Caoimhe shook her head, unable to speak. I can’t tell him. Even if Master hadn’t ordered my silence, how could I ever tell him what I know I’m going to do. More pleasure filled her, but it was tempered by misery, and she kept her face impassive. “Nothing,” she said. “I just... needed you.” She wrapped her arms around him and clung tightly. A fantasy tumbled through her mind of her Master telling her he’d changed his mind, that he wasn’t going to make her do this, that it was all just a test of her loyalty and obedience and just by going this far, she had passed.

But she knew better. She looked up into her husband’s face, pleading for him to understand, to pull away, to go raging down to Ceilidh’s chamber and murder their Master. Pain replaced pleasure and tears flooded Caoimhe’s eyes, but she gritted her teeth and bore it, hoping he would see it and figure out everything.

One arm around her shoulders, Cathal cupped Caoimhe’s cheek. “Shh, my love,” he said, and kissed her eyelids. “Come and tell me about it.”

He took her hands and led her to his bed, and she followed helplessly. Her plan to resist was doomed. (Pleasure.) She was going to do what her Master commanded. (Pleasure.) She had no choice. (Pleasure.)

She sat on the bed next to Cathal and kissed him, so he couldn’t see her face. She took his hand and brought it under her skirt, so he could feel how wet she was—because she was. Incredibly, helplessly, unbelievably aroused by obedience to her Master’s command, obedience even though it made her miserable, even though it went against everything she believed and valued and wanted. I’m a helpless, obedient puppet for my Master, she thought, and that didn’t just fill her with pleasure—it helped. It’s not my fault. I can’t help myself. I’m not a person who makes choices, I’m a thing for Master to use, a tool he is wielding right now. Those thoughts were rewarded, yes—but more than that, they reduced her guilt, her misery. If that was true, then she didn’t need to feel guilty about this at all. She could just obey and feel the pleasure, if she was her Master’s helpless puppet.

This will be the end of me, she thought. If I stop fighting now, I’ll never be able to resist again. I won’t have any choice at all. But unbidden, a counter-thought came as well: I already don’t have any choice. And she wanted, very badly, to believe that.

“Oh, I see,” Cathal was saying. “Is this all?” He grinned at her.

She smiled back at him, not because she felt it but because that was what she was being puppeted to do. Stop fighting and it stops hurting. Stop imagining I can resist and I won’t feel guilty. His cock was out, and she stroked it with her fingertips before pushing him back onto the bed. He laughed and held her waist as she straddled him.

He never saw the dagger. As he penetrated her, she plunged the dagger into his chest, her hips rolling as she rode him and stabbed him, over and over again while his expression shifted to shocked confusion—and then, slowly, as she watched, his eyes turned blank and his face went slack. Deep down, she was screaming in horror and fury and agony and grief, but that voice was easily drowned by the pleasure she felt at being an obedient puppet who had no choice and no will of her own.

Tyryn sat in a dark corner of the tavern, listening to the buzz around him. “It’s like that thing with the vampires a while back,” said a man deep in his cups. “The royals just shut their doors and locked us all out while monsters roamed the streets every night. If it hadn’t been for that foreign witch and her friends, well, there wouldn’t be much city left, would there? And now there’s raiders along the river, so they say, and again, where’s the king? Cowering in his castle.” He spat.

“Oi, they’re not all bad,” another man replied. “The princess, she brought feed when that fire destroyed the silo I kept all m’ livestock’s food in. To me and everyone else hit by it.”

“No,” the first man admitted. “You’re right. The princess, she’s all right.”

Tyryn smiled. The city folk backed the princess, and he had the southern nobles in his pocket. Not that he would have needed anyone else’s help if some of the nobles turned against him in the next stage of his plan, but with that much backing himself and Ceilidh, it was unlikely any would dare.

He’d been gone long enough; if the queen had somehow found some hidden wellspring of unforeseen willpower, or been discovered before she could act, there would already be guards out looking for him. But there hadn’t been a whisper of anything of the sort—which meant it was done, and the king’s hall was locked down to keep word from getting out. It was time for him to go back in.

The moment the Queen’s wails were heard from her husband’s chambers, the royal retainers rushed in. As soon as they saw what she had done, orders came down to shut the palace. Only Tyryn was permitted entry, since he had been outside by chance when it began, and none were permitted out, while the king’s advisors debated what to do. Tyryn remained silent throughout, knowing there was only one decision that could be made.

Word was put out that the king was dead, and the queen unfit to remarry, so Princess Ceilidh would be assuming the throne. As many vassals as could be assembled within a day were gathered, and her coronation hastily held. At last, Queen Ceilidh sat upon her throne and issued her first decree: “My first duty as queen is to name the man who shall share my bed, command our forces in battle, and protect our borders. My choice is unlikely to be a surprise—I choose my father’s advisor, and my savior in my darkest hour, Tyryn, to be my husband and your king.”

Several of the assembled nobles, especially those from the northern and western parts of Mercia, looked uncertain or unhappy. It was clear that they did not like a foreign newcomer, a sorcerer with no martial experience, becoming king. But the southern nobles cheered loudly, and none of the others seemed willing to gainsay them—helped, perhaps, by drifting coils of reluctance that Tyryn quietly set floating among them.

“My second duty,” Ceilidh continued, “is far less pleasant: what to do with the one who slew my father. As many of you know, and others have doubtless heard in the rumors that regularly fill this hall, my mother, in a fit of madness, slew him. Madness or no, such a heinous crime must be punished.” Ceilidh knew she was condemning her own mother while elevating the person who truly killed her father. She felt nothing but happiness at that fact, however: it proved just how thoroughly she was her Master’s slave, and she knew he was immensely pleased with her obedience, the only thing that mattered in the world. “She is therefore to be confined in her chambers for the rest of her natural life, with no visitors save myself and the king, and no caretakers save a single maid I will designate.”

Maida, of course, Ceilidh thought. Mother seems completely broken, but it’s possible she could let something slip. Maida is the only servant that can be trusted with her. And this way all three of us can serve Master together, forever. She invited her husband, her king, her Master, to take the throne next to hers.

Tyryn smiled as he settled into the chair he had schemed for, and looked around his hall, his vassals. He turned to the beautiful young queen beside him, his slave, and his smile widened. Yes, this will do for a start. “There is an old tradition,” he said. “Sometimes followed, sometimes not, of ruling in a name other than the one a king was given. I choose to follow that tradition, and so I sit here crowned not as Tyryn, a stranger among you, but as one newly born, here, as your king—Karnath, first of my name and my line.“

Caiomhe huddled miserably on a corner of her bed, her face gaunt, her eyes red and hollow. My love is dead, she thought, looking down at her hands. And although I held the dagger, it was Tyryn that murdered him. Such thoughts hurt, pain cascading out from the circlet she still wore, but that barely registered in her despair. In its own way, it felt good, or at least deserved. When I see that bastard, no guard will keep my hands from his throat. I swear he will die by my hands, or I by his!

The door opened, and she looked up as Ceilidh and Maida entered. “Mother,” said Ceilidh.

Hot tears welled in Caiomhe’s eyes. “I failed you,” she said to her daughter.

Ceilidh laughed. “Of course not! You did exactly as Master planned. Together, we have made him King Karnath the First of Mercia—and, in time Breizht as well.”

“Far more than that,” Maida said quietly. “Master will someday rule the Tin Islands and beyond. There will be no limit to his power, and all will kneel before him.”

Ceilidh smiled broadly at her mother. “You see? And we have helped Master start on that journey. Isn’t that wonderful? We three are the first of so many to kneel!”

“He is a—” Caoimhe’s breath caught at the rush of pain, enough to penetrate even her grief, but she pushed through. “A monster, who murdered my husband and broke my sweet daughter’s mind, all to claim the throne. I will never kneel to him again.”

The door opened again, and Karnath entered. “Yes, you will. Now.”

Pain and grief slowed Caoimhe’s thoughts, and so before she could respond, she had already knelt next to her daughter and Maida. The pleasure that filled her took her breath away and kept her from thinking still longer. Even her grief was washed away, and as the pleasure started to fade, all she could think about was getting more before her grief and pain could return. Fortunately Karnath’s cock was in front of her face, the unspoken order clear, so she could take it in her throat and keep the grief at bay a little longer.

“Foolish, weak woman,” he said, smoothing down her hair as she bobbed her head on his cock, and she knew every word was true. “You have already done the worst things you can imagine, helplessly and obediently, for me. You have lost. There’s no need to punish yourself further with lies of resistance; you know that you cannot. You can relax and enjoy your total enslavement.”

And, she realized, she could—so she did.