The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Princess Ceilidh strode to the palace gates, her head high and proud, dressed as she had been when she was first taken. It was no act: she was proud, proud to be her Master’s princess, proud to be the tool by which he would make himself a king.

He walked calmly by her side, dressed in rich but simple fabrics, a tall but unassuming figure, unremarkable except for a shock of close-cropped, bright red hair atop his head, which few in Mercia had ever seen before. Those who had eyed him with suspicion: it marked him as Yrian, and therefore foreign; a part of the Tin Islands but not this island.

But that suspicion was a minor undercurrent compared to the torrent of joy that swept the city around the palace: the princess was well-loved, and even among those who didn’t particularly care about her, there was joy at the thought of the likelihood of the king declaring a holiday and public feast in celebration of her return.

The pair—or trio, rather, for Maida trailed behind them, small and nondescript next to the heroes of the hour—were ushered swiftly into the king’s hall, all other audiences forgotten for the sake of king and queen greeting their daughter and meeting the man who saved her from an unknown but doubtless horrifying fate.

“Mother, Father,” she greeted them with the slight bow princessly etiquette demanded.

“Darling!” proclaimed her mother, etiquette abandoned, and rushed forward to hug her, the king close behind. “We were so worried!”

“What happened?” asked the king. “We feared you’d been kidnapped, or worse.”

“I was,” said Ceilidh. “By Lord Donal.”

“That traitor!” the king roared. “I will have his head! I will burn his manor to the ground and ravage his fields!”

“He’s already dead,” said Ceilidh. “M-my lord Tyryn slew him and saved me.” It was a challenge to call Master by any other name. But he had ordered it, so she obeyed.

“Tyryn,” said the king slowly, turning toward Ceilidh’s master. “That is not a... Mercian name. Of what land are you a lord?”

“Apologies, Your Majesty, but of no land, I’m afraid. The princess is kind but I am but a humble merchant, a trader and scholar from distant Yr,” he answered.

“Hmm,” said the king, but the queen seemed intrigued.

“Donal took me to an enchanter,” said Ceilidh. “He... I’m sorry, it’s difficult to talk about.”

“A wicked man,” her Master picked up, just as they’d rehearsed. “I had been pursuing him for some time, ever since I learned of how he perverted the arts of magic to capture women, enchant their minds, and sell them as slaves. He was going to make the princess love Donal, so that he could make her his bride. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but he plotted to overthrow you. I could not let either of them live.”

“Donal was a warrior,” the king replied, skeptically eying Tyryn’s spindly frame. “And you say you bested both him and an enchanter?”

“He used his wit, not strength of arms,” replied Ceilidh. “He tricked them into mistrust of the other, and they slew one another.”

“Hmm,” said the king, suspicion dark in his eyes, but the queen stepped down from her throne and came forward to embrace Tyryn.

“You have saved our line and our family, good sir. You will be hailed as a hero throughout the realm.”

Ceilidh’s eyes and smile brightened, though she still felt mostly nervousness. “Father, mother, I would ask your leave to reward the hero who has brought me home.”

“What boon,” asked the king.

“Me,” Ceilidh replied. “I love him, and I wish to marry him.”

The court erupted in outrage. The king leapt to his feet and glowered down at Ceilidh and her would-be husband. “Leave us!” he shouted to the court. “Niall, stay here.”

He stood in fuming silence while everyone except the just-arrived trio, the queen, the two guards flanking the thrones, and the man he had named—the court magician—shuffled out, already meeting and gossiping among themselves. When they were gone, this king said, “Niall, examine her. It’s their story true, or head this man enchanted my daughter?”

Ceilidh started to protest, but stopped when she saw the look in her father’s eyes. she waited patiently, but anxiously, while Niall passed his hands over her, muttering. After a few minutes, he stood back and said, “It is true. I see traces of magics past upon her, but no spells now. Her will is her own.”

And he was right, in part. He could sense the power the circlet had once head over her, but there were no longer any spells. He was wrong about her will, however. That was broken and claimed by her Master before the circlet was ever removed, and belonged to him now.

“My dear,” said the queen, embracing Ceilidh. “I understand this man rescued you, and your gratitude is great. Ours is as well, and he will be rewarded handsomely. But what you ask cannot be.”

“Your marriage is not simply your own,” said the king. “You know that. Your marriage is key to maintaining our power here—to cement our bonds to one of the stronger houses under us, or cement an alliance with a neighboring realm. What power could this mean bring, this vagabond trader? What do you even trade, ‘sir’?”

“Magic,” Tyryn replied quietly. “Words and acts of power, bound to parchment.”

“I have heard of such things,” said Niall. “But never seen one.”

“I possess hundreds of them,“replied Tyryn. “They are the foundation of my wealth. Men such as he will give much for even a glance at the list of them.”

“It’s true,” Niall admitted. “I would.”

The king scoffed. “That is what you offer? Mere wealth?”

“No,” said Tyryn. “I offer power, Your Majesties.” He gestured, and Niall slumped suddenly to the floor. The two guards’ hands went for their blades, but before they could draw, the court message began to snore.

“Quite a trick,” the king said skeptically. “But hardly equal to the hundreds of fighting men Lord Donal’s household contained.”

“Simply a taste of what I can do,” Tyryn replied. “I could befuddle your enemies, turn them on one another as i did with Donal and the enchanter... there is much i can offer you.”

“Hmm,” said the king. His voice was non-committal but Ceilidh could see the calculation in her eyes, and knew her Master had won. “The princess must wed a man of station, but you must be rewarded. I shall grant you a station: that of the man whom you just defeated so handily. Serve well, and in time, perhaps, I will consider the other boon.”

It was enough. Ceilidh hadn’t expected her father to give his blessing easily—after all, he had no way of knowing her Master already possessed her in every conceivable way. Getting him into the household was enough.

A season passed, and the winter came. The harvest had been good, and the royal storehouses were full, but still in the streets and the poorer villages there were always the hungry and cold. Things were a little easier for them this winter, however, as her hardship head apparently given the princess a newfound empathy and work ethic. Not that she had been unkind before, but now she took to her self-appointed task with a passion, bringing grain and bricks of peat to all the poorest parts of the realm. She had been popular before, but now she was adored, the darling of the common people.

Her beauty, too, was greater than ever. All who spent time with her were struck by the air of wisdom, beauty, and grace around her—courtesy, though none but she and her Master knew it, of glamours he laid upon her every time she went out of her father’s vassals visited. Even among those who resented her family’s rule of held old grudges against her father, she was increasingly beloved. All agreed that when the time came, no matter who was her, king she would be the most popular queen in generations.

Ceilidh knew what was whispered, and she basked in it. Sure loved being loved, and loved knowing what they did not: that all of this was part of her Master’s plan. He controlled the people as deftly as he did her, and soon she would be able to drop the charade and be his forever.

Her Master, meanwhile, fulfilled the duties of court mage admirably, growing steadily in her father’s esteem, while Maida quietly inserted herself into the household staff. everything was in place, and for Ceilidh it was only a matter of playing her part until the time came.

Finally her Master decided the time was right to advance. Ceilidh was shocked when she learned what she was too do; but there was no question that she would obey. In a few days, the reason would be his.

And the first step was so simple: a gift from Ceilidh to her mother.

Queen Caoimhe was about to go to bed when she heard a gentle knock on her door. It was no surprise to her to have a visitor; she was not yet 40 and the king barely older, and both in good health. Though no child had resulted since Ceilidh, they nonetheless frequently found time to take their pleasure together.

No, the surprise was the knock. What king would bother to knock in his own hall? Surely not the bold warleader her parents had chosen for her (with her glad assent). So she opened the door expecting one of her maids, or perhaps her daughter—not the court mage.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted her. “I see you are wearing the circlet the princess have you.”

Caoimhe raised a hand to the circuit nestled upon the thick golden braids coiled atop her head. “I... suppose I am?” And that was odd, wasn’t it. She was in her shift, about to go to sleep. Why would she keep this circlet on? She could feel her head starting to hurt at the question, and her thoughts instinctively shied away from the concept, just as they had done, more subtly, every time she considered the possibility all day.

“Good girl,” he said, and Caoimhe shuddered as pleasure rushed through her.

“What... what have you done?” she gasped.

“Let me in and close the door,” he ordered.

“What?” the queen retorted. “No! You should—oh gods...” She blanched as pain radiated down from the circlet. She tried to fight it, her lips tightening and her body turning rigid, but it was relentless, building and building while Tyryn simply stood there, smiling blandly. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she stepped aside, and closed the door as Tyryn entered. Her knees trembled as relief and pleasure filled her.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked again, softer this time, her eyes wide with fear.

Tyryn cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to look in his eyes. “The circlet is making you my slave—just as it did your daughter.”

“The evil enchanter,” she said, her fear blossoming into full-blown horror. “It was you all along.”

He gave her a mocking bow. “Indeed. Lord Donal hired me to make your daughter, and your kingdom, his own. Just as I had broken so many other girls for so many other men.”

“But with Ceilidh, you saw a path to power for yourself, didn’t you? So you betrayed him.”

Tyryn smiled. “Indeed. You are a perceptive and intelligent woman, Queen Caoimhe. Good. Both those traits will make you easier to train and break.” And as both fear at his implications and pleasure at his praise filled her, he stepped closer, put an arm around her neck and grasped the back of her neck. “Shall we begin?”