The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

So went the days. Ceilidh would be awakened by Maida. She would clean until she was told it was good. Then she would sleep. Then she would wake, she would clean, she would sleep. Wake, clean, sleep.

She didn’t know how long she slept each time, or how long she cleaned. Time seemed to be slipping away in this castle or tower or whatever it was. A strange, subtle glow seemed to permeate everything at all times, day or night, and she had no way of knowing for sure which it was outside. It didn’t really matter.

She woke when told to wake, worked when told to work, and slept when she was done. Sometimes there was food before work; sometimes she went hungry. Once, she tried to ask for food. Maida’s stern glare asked her if she really thought she deserved food, and answered as well that she did not. She did not ask again.

She was just a girl. She understood that now. Whatever had been before—and her mind shied away from any specifics of what had been before—was meaningless now; here, she was just a girl, and she did what she was told. There was pleasure in that, of course, but more than that; there was satisfaction in working hard and seeing a result, in being told “Good girl.” The crown rewarded thinking about that satisfaction, so she thought about it often.

And she woke, she cleaned, she slept. That was the rhythm in her mind, the mantra that repeated—until one day. She didn’t actually know if it was a day, of course; she just called the times she was awake days and the times she was asleep nights, unless she was told otherwise.

On this day, if it was a day, Maida gave her a new order: “Stand.”

“What?” asked Ceilidh, even as she scrambled to obey.

“Just stand there,” said Maida. “Be still, and quiet, and stand until you are told to move.”

She was confused, but then she often was these days. She knew how to deal with confusion: obey, and in time it would all be clear. (Pleasure.)

So she stood, and waited, letting herself float on the gentle, pleasant feeling of ongoing obedience, as she often did when cleaning. Her mind was treacherous and sometimes wandered or wondered its ways to thoughts the crown would punish, so she had learned to focus it on the pleasure of obeying, to think of nothing and simply feel. It was a calming, soothing state, and so she spent her time drifting, standing, obeying, until after an unknowable stretch Maida returned and sent her to bed.

As she drifted off, she realized the cycle was different now. Not wake, clean, sleep anymore. Or actually, it never was. It’s been wake, obey, sleep all along. That gave her a rush of the strongest pleasure she’d felt in some time, so she repeated it as she drifted off. Wake, obey, sleep. Wake, obey, sleep. Wake, obey...

She slept.

She dreamed.

She was somewhere familiar. The royal court! But she was just a girl, why would she be here? (Pleasure) She was in a fine gown, a feast was laid out, music was playing... it could be nothing but a ball. And here came a man, handsome and strong-looking, finely dressed, a man she knew.

“Lord Donal,” she said.

He took her hand, bowed deeply over it, and greeted her, but what he called her, she couldn’t quite hear. (Pleasure)

“Please,” she said. “Call me Ceilidh. I’m just a girl.” (Pleasure)

“Perhaps,” he said, “but such a lovely girl.” He swept her into the dance, and it was as if she and he were a still point while the room around them swirled and spun.

She leaned her head against his chest while they danced, and that was not a thought or act of resistance or defiance, yet also not of obedience or submission, so the crown neither punished nor rewarded her. “I feel safe with you,” she said.

“I will keep my promise to protect you,” Lord Donal replied. “I will take you from this place.” He did not offer to free her or return her to—to what had been, so the crown did not punish her. He promised only that she would be taken, protected, and those were permitted. So her dream continued on, as they danced, and she felt, for the first time since the beginning, safe—safe in his arms.

She woke with a smile. Strange to be thinking of Lord Donal, she thought. He was never my favorite. But he was the most... dangerous of my suitors. She could think about having had suitors, she realized. Just so long as she didn’t think about where or why just a girl would have been multiply and enthusiastically courted.

She was still sleepy, so she concluded it must still be night. She rolled over and went back to sleep, to dream of being swept away by the bold and strong, if somewhat rough and not particularly highly ranked, Lord Donal. After all, she was just a girl, and couldn’t expect better than that.

She was woken by Maida as usual, and taken to clean an unfamiliar part of her prison. “This is a special chamber,” said Maida. “It can only be entered at night.”

“It’s night?” Ceilidh asked.

“Of course,” said Maida. “We always work at night.” She opened the heavy door.

Sunlight, bright and golden, spilled out into the hall. Ceilidh followed Maida in, dazzled by its brilliance. Huge glass-paned windows stretched floor to ceiling, letting in a cacophony of summer light from a sun riding high in the sky.

Ceilidh stood a few steps into the room, baffled. “I don’t understand. This is—if it’s night...”

“What do you mean?” asked Maida, without a trace of malice or dishonesty in her voice.

“That...” Her mind fought itself to stay away from the treacherous thought she knew would bring pain, but this was too much. “That’s the sun!” So it must be day. She managed not to voice it, but the thought broke through loud and clear in her mind, and it was the most punishment-worthy thing she’d done in d—in nights. That little last-minute correction wasn’t enough to prevent the storm of agony that dropped her to the floor.

“Silly girl,” said Maida. “What does the sun have to do with anything?”

That surprised Ceilidh so much even her rebellious thoughts hung, and the pain lifted. She raised a tear-stained—she hadn’t even realized she started crying!—face to Maida, her eyes full of questions.

Maida laughed. “When is it time to wake?”

Ceilidh knew this one, having rehearsed it with Maida before, repeating until initial defiance became hesitance became eagerness became reflex. “When Master sends you to wake me.” Pleasure rippled through her—gently though, as this was a lesson already thoroughly learned.

“And when is it time to sleep?”

“When the work Master gave us is done.” Another gentle ripple of pleasure.

“That’s right,” said Maida. “So now, day. You probably think day is when the sun is out, don’t you?”

“...Yes,” Ceilidh admitted. It was a true answer to the question asked, and true answers to questions were required—but even as she said it, she knew it was wrong.

Maida nodded. “But what if there are clouds. How do you know if it’s day or night?”

“I—” Ceilidh hesitated. “The light..?”

“Silly girl. The moon and torches can make light at night. So can magic. So how do you know if it’s day or night?”

Ceilidh stared. She—of course I know when it’s day or night. She winced as pain emerged from that thought. Don’t I?

“Can you prove it’s day?” Maida asked. “Can you prove that’s what that light means?”

Ceilidh whimpered. “I don’t... I don’t know, but—”

Maida cut her off. “Sometimes the moon is out in the day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ceilidh admitted.

“And sometimes, the sun goes dark in the middle of the day, doesn’t it?”

Ceilidh nodded. “But that’s—”

“So it’s not so simple, is it? Much too complex for a silly, simple girl like you.” Maida’s words were sharp, but her voice was oddly gentle. It invited Ceilidh to agree.

“It’s... I guess it is more complicated than I thought,” she admitted, and relief and pleasure washed through her.

“Fortunately, Master understands,” said Maida. “He tells me when it is day and night, so I can tell you. Do you understand?”

Ceilidh nodded mutely and struggled to her feet.

“So what time is it now?”

“It is night, Maida,” Ceilidh said dutifully. That felt good. Ceilidh knew that soon her treacherous mind would give in and accept it just like everything else, and then it would feel even better—and that thought was enough to make it start feeling better already.

“And how do you know that?”

Ceilidh knew what was happening. They want me to believe whatever they tell me. Complicated feelings swirled in her—part of her was horrified at the concept, and that part made the crown hurt her. But part of her, a part that had been rapidly growing for some time now, was glad. The better she knew what they wanted, the better she could deliver it, and therefore the sooner and better it would feel. And that part made the crown reward her, so it grew a little more. “Because you said Master said it’s night.“

“That’s right,” said Maida. “Now get to work on those windows.”

So Ceilidh took her rag, and the bucket on the floor, and began to clean as much of the windows as she could reach. As she did, Maida grilled her on the time, taught her the new truth she needed to learn: Master decided the names of things. Master decided when it was day and when it was night, just as Master decided when she woke and when she slept and what work she did in between.

And underneath all the while, a deeper truth was forming: that Master’s truth was the only truth. That she could, should, must believe whatever he told Maida, and eventually, when Ceilidh was finally ready to meet him, whatever he told her, too.

But underneath even that, a thought neither defiant nor submissive, neither punished nor rewarded, a single note of hope: Lord Donal will take me away from here.

So she was trained, on and on, for an unfathomable time. Sometimes it was cleaning still, but more often now it was lessons. Simple truths repeated again and again: that she was in Master’s possession. That he controlled all parts of her life. That his words were right, and true, and to be believed. That Maida was as much a slave as she. She understood they wanted her to believe this—no, that Master wanted her to believe it, and therefore Maida did too—and day by day, night by night, the part of her that wanted to be whatever Master wanted her to be and think whatever Master wanted her to think grew in strength. But underneath, she still dreamed of Lord Donal.

Until at last the day—Maida said Master said it was day—came when she recited the answers he wanted to hear, perfectly and with conviction, and her doubts and her defiance stayed so low and soft she barely noticed them, barely felt the pain of them under the pleasure of obedience. The day that Maida smiled, and said, “You are ready to meet him.”

She led Ceilidh to a part of the castle, or tower, or prison, she had never seen before, led her up a stair to a heavy door, and into a chamber so different from the familiar cold floors and bare stone walls. This room was thickly carpeted, paneled in wood, lit by the warm glow of a roaring fire. It had windows, too dark to show what might be outside—this was, Ceilidh realized, a dark day. But a joyous one, because sitting in the chair was a man who could only be her Master.