The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Caelidh stared at her Master, taking in his tall, slender form, his fine robes, the slightly curly red hair hanging to his shoulders, the narrow green eyes gazing down at her coldly, appraisingly. Her knees felt weak and she trembled.

“It is customary for slaves to kneel before their Master,” he said sternly. Behind her, she heard Maida close the door.

“Yes,” she said, and knelt. It wasn’t an order, but an echo of the pleasure of obedience still washed through her. It felt good to be on her knees before him, her head bowed. It felt right.

“Yes, who?“

“Yes, Master!” His displeasure had hurt momentarily, but it was washed away by the pleasure of calling him what he was.

He took her chin in his hand and tilted it up, studying her. She didn’t resist, although it was hard to meet his gaze. “You will address me as Master at all times. When given orders, you will say ‘yes, Master’ and obey.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, and shivered in delight at how good her obedience felt.

“Good girl.”

She gasped. Being praised by him felt like absolute pleasure.

“Tell me, slave,” he continued, tilting her face from side to side. “How do you feel about me?”

“Yes, Master. I love obeying you. I love being praised by you.” It was true. How could it not be?

“You didn’t answer the question. How do you feel about me? Though your mind shies away from it now, you were once a princess, and are now my slave. Surely you have some feelings about the man who did this to you?“

“I... I...” She trembled. It hurt to remember she was a princess. She had managed to forget that she was ever anything else for... how long? Two days? Three? But she had been, even if now she was a slave. And it hurt to keep not answering, but her answer was unlikely to please him, and she needed to please him. “I don’t know!“

He let go of her chin and she bowed her head, laying her hands on the floor to steady herself as the pain built. He watched impassively. “The truth, slave. Now.”

“I hate you! I want to serve you, obey you, I’ll do anything you want, but I hate you! I hate what I’ve become! I dream at night of Lord Donal striking you down and setting me free!” It was true, and saying it was obedience and felt good, but she also knew it wasn’t what she was supposed to think, and that hurt. She was suspended between ecstasy and agony, and all she knew was that she needed to be released. She sagged against the floor, waiting for the sharp word that would tilt her fully into pain, even a blow from his hand, anything to get off this knife’s edge she was balancing on.

He laughed. That wasn’t what she’d expected, and she couldn’t help but look up at him in confusion. His head was thrown back, his laughter loud and long and cruel. Then he looked down at her again. “Stupid girl. Pathetic slut. Lord Donal? That’s who you think is going to save you?” He shook his head. “Remove that disgusting shift.”

She hastened to comply. He hadn’t told her to stand, however, so she remained on her knees and tugged the hem of the shift out from underneath them, then pulled it hastily over her head and put it to one side. She bowed her head and stared at the floor, trembling, feeling his appraising eye sweep over her. She was very conscious that she hadn’t bathed in... however long she had been here. That she had worked and slept and worked again in the same shift the entire time. That her hair was matted and disgusting, her body filthy.

He muttered something she couldn’t make out, and snapped his fingers. She felt a cool, tingling wave pass over her, and as it did she could feel the dirt dissolving into the air, her hair untangling itself, smoothing back out into the familiar waves cascading down her back, clean and fresh against her own fresh, clean skin.

“It is ironic that, of all the spells I took from that old fool in my search for power, it would be the cosmetic ones I use the most. Stand.” She did so, and he looked her up and down. “Turn slowly in a circle.” She complied, feeling his eyes stroking over every curve, weighing, judging, evaluating.

When she was facing him once again, eyes still downcast, he reached out one hand and pushed slightly down on her shoulder. Still riding the pleasure of obeying his order to turn, she hastened to kneel, wanting to keep the feeling going as long as possible before she inevitably failed and was punished once more. Stupid girl. Pathetic slut. The words echoed in her head, and she knew they had to be true. Because the Master said them, and because she was so easily confused, so easily broken, so hungry to serve.

“You dream of rescue, slave. Is that something you want?”

“I...” She hesitated. It felt like so long since what she wanted mattered, she hardly knew how to reply. “I’m sorry, Master. I don’t know.”

“You dream of rescue by Lord Donal.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And you hate me.”

She struggled to restrain a sob. “Yes, Master.”

“No matter. That will change in time. It always does. Look at me, slave.” She looked up obediently. He was smiling, but without a trace of warmth or friendliness, a smile that chilled her utterly. “I have broken so many of you. Strong women and weak alike, warriors and scholars and pretty little daughters of privilege and power. Men come to me and tell me of a woman they desire, they pay my price, and I begin to weave enchantments. But the slave I deliver them is not enchanted, no. When you leave this place, there will not be a single spell on you. All the magic is simply a tool with which to break and rebuild you; no spells to break, just absolute devotion and worshipful obedience.”

His gaze held hers, boring into her skull with every word. She wanted badly to look away, shame flooding through her at being so seen, but she was pinned by his eyes, unable to break free. “And so, some time a man came to me with what he believed would be a challenge, though I assured him it would not. He desired a throne, and the princess who would deliver it to him, but he was neither her highest-born suitor nor the most politically expedient, not did she particularly favor him.“

She did not make the connection. She was dimly aware that there was a connection there to be made, but sensed it was one it would hurt to think about, so her mind skidded away from it, slipping over the surface of it like a child playing on a frozen pond.

Her Master continued to speak. “So he hired me to break her and enslave her. So that when I am done, he can take her home, where she will dutifully explain to all that he vanquished the evil sorcerer who took her, winning her freedom and her heart. She will beg her father to give her hand to her beloved rescuer, and when she inherits the throne, he will rule her and, through her, the realm. So, slave, it is indeed Lord Donal who will take you from this place—because it is he who hired me.”

Ceilidh’s eyes widened in shock. Donal... paid for me? But it had to be true. Why would her Master lie? Through Maida, he told her when it was day or night, even though the sun or her sense of time might lie to her. This had to be true, too. Even questioning it as much as she was hurt. “Yes, Master,” she said, accepting the truth as she did so, and immediately feeling better.

“Such a weak, broken creature you are,” he said, but he sounded pleased, and that felt good. “It is time to start learning to serve, so that when the man who betrayed you takes you from me, you will please him.”

Her thoughts whirled. Donal betrayed me, she thought. He isn’t coming to rescue me, but to take me away. And I will do it, because Master orders it. Master wants me to please him, so pleasing him would please Master. It will feel good. But... he betrayed me! She could feel the hatred her Master had forced her to admit to, but it wasn’t just for him now. This is Donal’s doing.

“Open my lower robes,” Master said. Whatever hold he had been keeping on her gaze broke, and she was able to bow her head once more.

She obeyed, and saw his erect member, pointed directly at her. Anxiety gripped her; she had seen such things before, of course, but she was not experienced in pleasing them, and she knew that was what her Master was going to order next. But part of her thrilled at the sight, too, because Master said he was going to teach her to serve, to pleasure him, and the more pleased he was, the better she knew she would feel.

“Stroke it,” he commanded.

She obeyed, thrilling with pleasure as she ran her fingertips slowly, gently, up and down its length. It hardened further, becoming longer and thicker, and she trembled in delight.

“What do you want?” Master asked her again.

“To please you,” she breathed, eyes wide and slightly glassy, her response automatic and unthinking.

“Good girl,” he said, and as she cried out and shook in overwhelming pleasure, he took her head in his hands and guided it, bringing her lips to his cock.

He instructed her how to lick and how to suck, where to focus her efforts, teaching her how to please, how to serve, how to be a good slave. Awash in the pleasure of obedience, her hungry mind absorbed the knowledge delightedly, eagerly, gratefully. But underneath her reawakened rage still simmered.

Through it all, his voice remained even and calm, his breathing regular. He controlled himself as he controlled her. But there came a moment when his breath hitched slightly, and he commanded a single word: “Swallow.”

She barely had time to understand his meaning before his cock began to spurt in her mouth, and she hungrily, desperately, obediently gulped down every drop.

“Good girl,” he said, giving her cheek an affectionate stroke as he pushed her off his cock.

She screamed, shaking violently as her rising pleasure crossed over into full orgasm. Spasms rocked her body as she writhed in pleasure, utterly incapable of anything other than total surrender to the storm in her body. When it passed, she was blank, unthinking, feeling only a drifting languorous ease—but she kept to her knees.

“Your true training begins now,” Master said, and as those words penetrated the haze of her afterglow, she shivered in anticipation of the pleasure to come.

And also in dread—not of the training, but of what came after, the lifetime of service to a man not her Master, a traitor, a snake she would have no choice but to serve—but never again feeling the pleasure of obeying her Master directly, only an indirect second-best. She had hoped he would be her salvation, but now? Now she felt only hatred for him.

Unless, she thought. Unless I can learn well enough, please Master well enough, that he decides to keep me? That was her only hope, she realized. She was always going to be a slave—and why not, when it felt so good if she let it?—but it would be better, so much better, to be Master’s slave than Donal’s. Donal is my real enemy, she thought. And Master is my salvation.

And subtly, even beneath the level of notice, enough to reinforce the thought without alerting her that it was happening, the crown rewarded her for that realization. Everything was proceeding as Karnath had planned.