The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ceilidh stared up at her Master, eyes wide and face pale as panic and confusion exploded inside her. The circlet was gone—why? What could it mean that he took it off her?

This is the test, she thought. And that made sense: he was trying to see if she would still obey without the immediate punishments and rewards of the circlet, or if she would—instinctively, she shied away from the thought. Circlet or no, she feared that line of thinking, and it hurt to even try to push herself down it.

Anyway, what else could I do? I’m a stupid, broken slut. I need Master’s will to guide me. Thinking that way felt good—not the rush of pleasure it gave when she had the circlet on, but easier somehow, clearer and cleaner and brighter than the complex and fuzzy fog of ideas that surrounded it. So obey. Play the part. “How dare you hold me here, sir! Release me at once!” she snapped sternly.

Master arched an eyebrow. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

“I am a princess!” Ceilidh cried. “To hold me here is treason.“

“So?” asked Master. “Who will ever know? You will remain here until you are broken utterly by my enchantments, a helplessly obedient slave to my will. By the time you return home as my instrument, you will tell whatever lie I wish about where you were and who took you there.”

Something inside Ceilidh trembled at that, trembled and softened and melted away. Obedience felt so good, and the idea of being Master’s slave even after she returned home was so arousing, she could hardly bear it. But she had to play her role. “Never!” She tried to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist and stopped her effortlessly.

“I feel how your pulse races at my touch,” he said. “Already you begin to succumb.”

Ceilidh shook her head. “No! That is fear, disgust, and anger that quickens my heart. Let go of me!”

He laughed at her. “As you wish, your highness,” he said mockingly.

She tore her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “Let me go. Now!”

He took a step forward. “I don’t think you want me to. I think you want me to take you and complete your enslavement. On your knees!”

My body obeys his every command, Ceilidh reminded herself, and sank to the floor. “Fiend!” she cried in feigned confusion and outrage. “What have you done to me?“

“I told you,” he said smoothly. “I am making you mine. Already you wish me to. Feel how your body yearns for my touch, aches for me to claim you.”

A princess wouldn’t whimper, Ceilidh thought. But she couldn’t help herself. She was playing a helpless captive in denial about her helplessness—but she was just as helpless, wasn’t she? She really did ache for her Master’s touch, really did yearn to please him. Even thinking about how helpless she was excited her further.

“That’s right,” he said darkly, taking her chin and tilting it up so he could look down at her. The casual possessiveness of it, coupled with the pleasure of his touch, made her melt inside—but she had to play the part.

“I will never serve you,” she said defiantly. “I am a princess, born to lead! Command is in my blood, not obedience!”

“You are weak, mortal flesh,” he replied calmly, “and you will learn to obey like all the others I’ve broken. You can feel it, can’t you? The desire your body feels to be claimed by me, used by me. Do not try to deny it, it is written on your face.”

“N-no,” Ceilidh said, her voice stumbling. “I won’t, I don’t!”

He smirked. “Feel it building, that need. Mounting higher and higher, a yawning emptiness beneath your belly, a rising wetness and heat. Your chest flushes, your breathing grows shallow...”

With every word he said, Ceilidh felt her body obey. She wanted to fling herself at him, to beg to be thrown over and fucked. But the princess she was pretending to be—had been, the thought came floating briefly through her increasingly flustered mind—would be stronger than that, wouldn’t she? And prouder too.

Even as her arousal rose, her mind whirled. The very idea hurt and disgusted her, but she had been a princess before she came here, hadn’t she? No. I’m Master’s slave. A worthless broken slut. I’m not—I couldn’t have been. She remembered though, remembered being a princess, her parents, her home, vassals and servants—but a princess, a real princess, would be too proud to break for this.

“Higher and higher,” Master intoned. “Emptier and emptier, needier and needier... you of course have my permission to touch yourself if you need to.”

Ceilidh groaned. The princess she was playing, was ordered to play, would never break this easily. But she needed pleasure so badly—but not to play the princess was to disobey, to fail her Master, to prove once again what a broken, helpless slut she was.

And that thought was far too exciting to resist. She hiked her skirt and plunged two fingers into herself, back arching as she moaned in pleasure and release.

“You see?” he said. “All that pride, meaningless. You were never born to rule. It was all a lie, you’ve always been a helpless, worthless slut, destined for slavery.”

“Ahhhhh... yes!” Ceilidh cried out. “Yes!” I broke. I always break. I was never that strong, never the princess I pretended to be. It was all always a lie, I’ve always been a broken, stupid slut...

“Now stop.” And she did, immediately, obediently, as he continued, “Do you understand? Resistance merely delays the inevitable and causes you needless suffering. Your body is mine and your mind will inevitably follow.”

Remember, you have a part to play, Ceilidh thought. “N-no, I—“

He grabbed her roughly by the throat. “You what, slave?” he growled.

Ceilidh’s mind blanked, her entire world narrowed to the warm, rough hand at her neck, the slight pressure. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, there was nothing but fear and desire that, instead of conflicting, instead fed each other in a cycle. He could destroy her if she wished, and that was just another measure of how much power he had—and she wanted him to have power over her, any power in any form.

He smirked at her stunned silence. “That’s what I thought.”

He shoved her back slightly as he released her, and she fell back on her haunches, gasping. Instinctively, her hand went to her throat, but it was unharmed.

“Strip for me, princess!” Master barked, and she scrambled to her feet, hastening to obey.

When she finally stood before him, nude, he stepped closer again, menacing, but she’d regathered her wits and energy—as much as a helpless slut like me has those things, anyway, she thought—and remembered she had a role to perform. “You will die for this!” she declared haughtily, tossing back her hair, and then slapped him.

Or tried to. Once again he caught her wrist effortlessly. “You tried that already, remember? It worked no better then. But I suppose you have already shown yourself to be a slow learner, why should this be any different?”

“Monster,” she said in reply. “Nothing you do here will matter in the end!”

He laughed. “Brave words, princess, but nothing more.” He squeezed her bare breast and pleasure exploded through her. Her knees felt like they’d melted into nothing but water, and she sagged, his grip on her breast and wrist the only things supporting her weight.

“That’s right,” he said. “Feel how good it is to surrender, to let go, to stop fighting. It’s so hard to fight when it feels this good, isn’t it? Give in and it will feel even better.”

She groaned. “I—I can’t...” Yes please yes yes Master please end the game and take me!

“You can and you will,” he responded, firmly, directly, and with total confidence, not giving an order but stating a fact.

“Oh!” It was not a word so much as a squeak, the involuntary sound of a mind momentarily opening wide. There was no pretense, no more game-playing. The part she’d been performing was briefly swallowed completely into darkness by the obedient slave beneath, and the only thought in her empty mind was Yes Master.

“Get on the bed,” he said, and she hastened to comply. “You understand, don’t you? How weak you truly are?”

“Yes, Master,” she said because other words were only starting to come back into her head. But regardless, as she said it, she knew both her true slave-self and the princess character she was playing meant it.

She lay back, legs spread, and he stalked forward, shedding his clothes as he came. He knelt between her legs, his cock already hard, and stroked a teasing finger up her thigh. Ceilidh shivered, but kept silent, her expression one of open pleading and need.

“You’re mine,” Master said, gliding his fingers over her hips and up her belly to her breasts.

Ceilidh’s back arched and she moaned. “Yes...”

He tweaked both her nipples, making her cry out. “Your surrender is total, body and mind,” he continued.

“Yes,” she moaned, squirming, only half aware of what she was agreeing too, but fully enthusiastic regardless. “Please, Master!”

“Mine,” he said, and thrust himself into her, sending a wave of hot, sweet darkness up her spine to fill her mind, crowding out everything else.

Eagerly, Ceilidh wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his back. “Yours,” she repeated, mindlessly, emptily. “Yours, Master, yours, yours, yours!” She screamed in orgasm, the first of many as he continued to thrust into her, until she was nothing but an empty doll, a mindless automaton driven only by the pleasure that her Master pumped into her with every stroke, filling her until she felt she would burst—and then she would cum again, shattering her mind still further, and starting the cycle anew.

At last, he gave a final grunt and filled her, and she lay back, exhausted, empty, defeated.

His.

And the next day they did it again, the same game. She was a princess, defiant and proud, and he broke her. Again and again they played the princess game. At first she was the defiant captive princess who ultimately succumbed, but gradually her Master introduced a new variant, where she was at court and he was her suitor, but secretly she was already his slave. Maeda joined in that version, in different roles: sometimes she was the king or the queen, sometimes Ceilidh’s maid, sometimes a rival suitor to Master.

And with every game, Ceilidh’s understanding grew, and her Master’s pleasure with her—and therefore, so did her own pleasure. It was bliss.

And then it ended.

“We will not be playing the princess game today,” Master told her one morning.

“No, Master?” Ceilidh asked, trying not to be disappointed. Whatever game he desires, I will play, and it will love it because I am his obedient plaything, she reminded herself, and immediately felt better.

“No. Today I will be asking you a question: what are you?”

“Your slave, Master,” Ceilidh replied automatically.

He nodded. “Good girl. And what were you before you became my slave?”

Ceilidh’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, Master. Your slave is all I am and all I can be.”

“Of course,” he said. “But there was a time before you came to my tower. What were you doing then?”

Ceilidh cringed. Though she now only wore the circlet at night, she still expected—and actually felt—pain at the idea of thinking about before, about ever having been anything else. “I... lived somewhere else, Master. And I... did other things.” She had learned a way around those thoughts, however, one that she hoped would please him. “I... I pretended to be a princess. But I was always this, always destined to be yours! I was yours, underneath, always! Everything else was just a shell, a part I played...” She was babbling and she knew it.

“Hush,” said Master, cutting her off. “Good girl. That is exactly what I hoped to hear.”

Relief flooded her, alongside the pleasure of his praise. “Thank you, Master.” But what he said next plummeted her into despair.

“You are ready,” he said. “You have passed the final test. Tomorrow, Lord Donal will arrive to collect you.”