The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ceilidh stood in her bedroom, safe and warm and familiar. “Your Highness,” said one of her attendants, and a stabbing pain exploded through her skull.

Even here she was not safe. Even in the depths of a dream, the circlet recognized that as a thought of herself as a princess, and punished her for it. Every dream in which she was a princess was warped by pain, twisted into a nightmare. As a princess she was pursued, persecuted, trapped, tortured. Again and again she woke in agony and terror, crying into the darkness “I’m not a princess, I’m just a girl!”

And then relief would flood her. She could relax, and sleep. And dream, only for her to suffer once more. Her mind was trying to rebel as best it could, and that just tightened the bonds around her further.

She woke for the last time at the sound of her cell’s door opening. There was no window in here, no way to tell the time. She didn’t feel rested, but with all the nightmares, that didn’t mean anything; it could have been one hour or ten.

“What are you wearing?” demanded Maida.

Ceilidh looked down. “My dress..? I know I slept in it, but—”

“Whose dress?” Maida snapped.

Ceilidh recoiled. She could feel the pain building, but she didn’t know what she had said wrong! “I—mine—ah! I, I don’t know how to answer!” But that wasn’t the answer either, and the pain was building, searing, stabbing, throbbing.

“What kind of person wears a dress like that?” Maida asked, not showing the slightest concern for Ceilidh’s obvious suffering.

Oh. “A—a princess.“

Maida raised an eyebrow expectantly. And it was true; this was a princess’ dress, and Ceilidh was wearing it.

“I’m not a princess!” she said hastily. “I’m just a girl!” And that helped a little, but it wasn’t enough. This dress was a princess’ dress, and being a princess hurt. The dress felt like it was burning her flesh. She didn’t want to strip in front of Maida but she couldn’t stand to wear it a second longer. She stood, tore it off, and relief flooded her. “Ohhh...” she sighed in pleasure and release.

Maida tossed something on the bed, and Ceilidh picked it up. It was a dress, barely; really more of a sack with head and arm holes cut in it. Even the peasants who worked the lands around her—around the royal family’s summer castle had better clothes than this! Ceilidh looked pleadingly at Maida.

“Put it on,” said Maida.

Ceilidh looked back at the dress. It was shapeless and ugly, the fabric coarse and rough. Which is the point, she thought. She was not, by any means, stupid; she could see what they were doing to her, though she still couldn’t see the entire shape of it. They wanted her to feel small, worthless, unimportant, so that she would more readily obey them.

The problem was that now she knew they wanted that, and doing what they wanted felt so good, while not doing it hurt. She had no choice but to put it on—and rough and scratchy as it was, it still felt good.

“Good girl,” said Maida, and Ceilidh flushed with pleasure. “Come now, it is time we begin our service for the day. Master requires the entire tower be cleaned before he will grace us with his presence. We will begin with dusting.” She handed Ceilidh a rag and pointed at the walls of her cell.

“I don’t—” Ceilidh cringed, knowing what was probably about to happen. She had been given an order, and she wasn’t obeying. “I’ve never cleaned.”

“Of course you have,” Maida snapped. “What kind of girl has never cleaned?”

Ceilidh couldn’t stop the thought. A princess. She cried out in the sudden agony. “I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how!“

“What are you?” Maida demanded yet again.

“A girl,” Ceilidh replied, and felt the pain lifting. “Just a girl!”

“And what kind of girl doesn’t know how to do something as simple as dusting?”

A princess, Ceilidh’s thoughts announced defiantly, and agony filled her yet again. “I don’t know, I’m just a girl, I’m just a girl!” But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t the answer.

Maida’s lip curled as she gazed sternly down at Ceilidh. When did I get on my knees? Ceilidh wondered vaguely through the haze of pain. But Maida was speaking, and Ceilidh hung on every word in the hopes one would be her release.

“Stupid girl,” said Maida.

And there it was. “Yes!” Ceilidh cried. “A stupid girl! I’m so stupid, that’s why I don’t know how to clean, I don’t know anything, please I’m sorry, I’m just a stupid girl!” Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded for the pain to end, desperately latching on to this explanation as one which wouldn’t be punished.

Maida sighed. “Very well, I suppose that would explain it. Get up, stupid girl, and I will show you what to do.”

“Oh thank you,” Ceilidh gabbled, hardly aware of what she was saying. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She stood shakily, rag in hand, and tried her best to imitate Maida’s actions as she ran her own rag over the wall, collecting dust and dirt. When she got it wrong, there was pain, but getting it right felt so good, and soon she was humming with pleasure, a steady low-key pulse that carried her along through the task until the entire back wall of her room was clear of dust.

Maida inspected it carefully. She ran her own finger along the joint between two stones, and then showed it to Ceilidh. “You think that’s good enough for our Master?” she asked, and her disapproving gaze sent twin tremors of fear and pain down Ceilidh’s spine.

Gulping hard, Ceilidh looked closer at her finger, and saw the line of dust curving around the inside edge of the pad. “N-no...” she admitted, and went back to work while Maida gazed on.

Finally, she was convinced that there was not a speck of dust left, and stepped back. Maida arched an eyebrow at her, then stepped in to again run her finger along it. Again she held it out to Maida. “Well?” she demanded.

“It... it looks clean?” Ceilidh hazarded.

“Wrong answer,” said Maida.

Ceilidh shuddered as the pain began to build. Was there dust on her finger I missed? On the wall? But she knew how to make the pain stop, and immediately attacked the wall with her rag, letting the pleasure of obedience carry her as she worked, even as her arms began to ache from the repeated wiping, her knees from crouching on the hard, cold floor to wipe the lower walls.

Finally, she ran her own finger over the wall and inspected it as closely as she could. There wasn’t a trace of dust. She was certain. She turned to Maida, who tested the wall yet again, and then held her finger out for Ceilidh’s inspection.

“I...” Ceilidh hesitated. “I think it’s clean?”

But she was wrong, again. And had to clean it all, again. This time she tried to go as quickly as possible, even though her shoulders were screaming at her. But she stuck to it, knowing that the pain if she refused would be worse. Finally she was ready for another inspection, and when Maida held her finger out, Ceilidh said, “It’s clean. I’m certain it’s clean!”

“No,” said Maida. “Do it again!”

“No!” snapped Ceilidh, and winced as pain exploded in the crown of her head. But she still threw her rag down and stuck her hands on her hips defiantly. “No! It’s clean! You’re lying to me, I can see your finger is clean!”

“You can see?” asked Maida contemptuously. “You? A girl too stupid to even know how to clean?”

Ceilidh flinched, but forced herself to hold her ground, even while the pain mounted. “It’s clean!” she insisted.

“Do it again,” Maida ordered, and the pain flooded down Ceilidh’s spine. The edges of her vision were blurring, and every breath was agony, but she was done.

“I won’t!” she snapped.

“Yes,” Maida said calmly. “You will. The pain will build and build, without end or limit, until you succumb. Sooner or later it will hit a point that you can bear no more, and when it does, you will submit and obey. I know this, and what’s more, even as stupid as you are, you know this.”

Ceilidh’s lip trembled. The whole world was covered by a blurry veil of tears, but she refused to let them fall. “I...” It was true though. The pain did keep building, relentlessly, and there was only one way to make it stop. How long could she stand it? I’m just a girl, she thought bitterly.

Slowly, she reached down for the rag. This brought no relief, but it seemed to stop the pain from getting worse for the moment. Just as slowly, she returned to the wall and began to dust. As she did, the walls of pain parted. As she focused more on dusting, the pain fell further and further away, and soon pleasure began to rise to take its place. She began to dust more and more quickly, but still thoroughly, and despite herself her enthusiasm built. She could not tell if she was actually making the wall cleaner, but she no longer cared; she worked quickly but thoroughly, covering the wall until she was done.

Then it was time for Maida to check again. She held out the finger for Ceilidh to see, and it looked just as spotless as before.

“Does this look finished to you?” she asked.

It did, but Ceilidh didn’t know if that answer would still hurt. “I don’t know,” she replied.

“Do it again, stupid girl,” Maida said, and this time there was no resistance from Ceilidh. When she finished this time, Maida again checked, and Ceilidh again said she didn’t know if it was clean—and finally, at long last, Maida told her she had done it and called her a good girl.

Ceilidh shuddered in pleasure, some of the strongest she had ever known, a full-body spasm of delight followed by a rush of satisfaction.

“Now do the next wall,” said Maida.

Ceilidh stared a moment, but she was starting to learn better than to object or hesitate for long. Her futile resistance earlier had exhausted her, at least for now, and the only way to keep going was to ride the pleasure promised by obedience. She hastened to do that wall, and then the next, and the next, until she had dusted her entire chamber. After each wall, Maida tested, and it all started to blur together for Ceilidh. Every time, she said she didn’t know if she was done or not. Sometimes Maida said she was and to move on to the next wall; sometimes she said to do the same wall over again.

But finally it was done. Maida left, and Ceilidh collapsed into her bed, her feet, knees, and shoulders aching, her hair matted with sweat. She could rest now, and sleep, and worry about any and everything else in the morning. But as she drifted off, one thought still troubled her.

She had lied that first time she said she didn’t know if Maida’s finger was clean. But as the work went on, as her body cramped and her vision blurred, she increasingly found she really wasn’t sure anymore what the difference was. Maida might as well have been right, she thought—and that thought brought a trickle of pleasure as she faded out.