The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

London, 1857

Cecilia Wheaton grimaced again, wishing she could have just a little more morphine. Her hospital bed was even more uncomfortable than ever, and her knee was positively screaming. She had never known such pain.

Was it only last week that she’d been dancing the title role in La Esmeralda? The most-coveted role for any ballerina in London? How the crowd had cheered for her on her opening night! Even her disapproving father had been forced to stand and applaud when she took her bows. The ovation still rang in her ears.

But that was before Jules LaMarche, playing Phoebus, had failed to properly catch her on the second night. She’d leapt into her Grand Jete, arching perfectly through the air. Foolish Jules hesitated, and suddenly Cecilia was descending without support. She’d landed on her ankle too hard… and everyone on stage had heard her knee pop.

The performance was instantly over. The horrified patrons had been wordless as Cecilia was carried off the stage, screaming and in disgrace. Even now, more than six days after her humiliation, the dancer felt as if the whole experience must have been a fleeting dream.

But now, here she was, lying in the Royal London Hospital’s women’s ward, one of forty sad-looking lady patients. No-one special at all.

It was all too much to absorb. At twenty-one years old and an acclaimed ballerina, Cecilia was easily one of the most beautiful and celebrated women in all of London. With a flawless complexion, ruby lips, a thin nose, and large hazel eyes which normally sparkled, her sheer beauty upstaged even the most worshipped actresses and models of the day. Her thick brown hair, usually tightly braided, tumbled about her forehead and shoulders in a defiant, wild manner. Blessed with a naturally thin and graceful (yet luscious) figure, Cecilia was used to men staring at her wherever she went.

And even thrust into a drab, shapeless hospital gown, with disheveled hair, and coated in sweat, Cecilia was still a priceless beauty. She’d noted how the male doctors and orderlies stole longing glances at her.

But the young woman’s mind was removed from such matters. Her knee screamed in excruciation. Cecilia gripped her novel, willing herself to be transported far, far away into the narrative. She read:

The young Lady Regina Heartstone stared up at the grandeur of the Sultan’s Palace.

“O, what an amazing sight to beholde!” said the nineteen-year-old, still standing next to the attentive Miss Prichard, her stern governess. “I have dreamed of such a place, but never thought to stand within one! And as a guest! O my!”

“But O beware the gaze of the Dark Vizers, my Lady,” warned the Abd Sahabal, glancing about with wary nerves. “They are wizards who use dark, terrible magics to enslave lovely young ladies like yourself, and once you are bewitched by their machinations, only the kiss of True Love may save-

It was no use. Cecilia’s knee hurt too much. Even a Regina Heartstone adventure simply wasn’t captivating enough to distract her.

In desperation, the young woman snatched the newspaper off her bedside table. The headline article looked promising:

UPRISING IN CENTRAL INDIA ON THE VERGE OF DEFEAT

From Bombay, Lucknow, Kanpur. Dated October 13th, 1857

The Central India Field Force, under Sir Hugh Rose, has advanced on the rebel stronghold at the central Indian city of Gwalior. While it appears at this time that the rebels have not looted the city as expected, they have traveled south, seized the Jhansi Fort, and remain within that fortification. Military witnesses estimate they have 4,000 sepoys—musketmen or rilfemen—and more than 500 cavalry.

Of most concern to British officers is the whereabouts of General Laksurimanan, the mysterious Indian who united the regional Ranis (princes) under a common banner. The general was seen by loyal Indians entering Jhansi Fort, but conflicting reports say he is rallying rebel forces far in the northern region of-

“Cecilia!” snapped a male voice from across the ward.

The young woman jumped. Her father, Henry Wheaton III, was striding towards her, his bushy moustache quivering with indignation. The other lady patients looked up from their embroidering or books with salacious interest.

“Hello, papa,” Cecilia managed. Her knee hurt even more.

Scowling, Mr. Wheaton yanked the newspaper from his daughter’s fingers. “Honestly, girl,” he growled, “the news these days, it is not a woman’s business. It would only upset you.”

“I’m sorry, papa,” Cecilia grimaced, unwilling to argue. “My other reading was just too—“

“You should stick with trite diversions,” harrumphed Mr. Wheaton, thrusting another romantic novel at her. “They’re intended for the female brain to comprehend, after all.”

Despite her suffering, Cecilia shot an acidic glare at her father. The old man had always wanted a son, and never forgave Cecilia for being born into the wrong gender.

“Well, hello, hello,” a second male voice said, sounding cheerful.

Cecilia sighed. Dr. Gaskell, a fat but jolly fellow, appeared at Cecilia’s bedside, already inspecting her charts. “You seem quite well this morning,” he said absently.

The young woman wanted to throttle the patronizing fellow. Her agony was persistent and getting worse.

Mr. Wheaton stepped aside as the doctor pushed back the bedsheets. He leaned forward to inspect Cecilia’s knee. The poor joint was an angry purple and quite swollen.

“Oh dear, oh my,” Dr. Gaskell murmured. “I say, this must hurt.”

“Yes,” Cecilia grunted. She managed a strained smile. “Doctor, how long do you think recovery will take…?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too impatient.

“Hmm,” mused Dr. Gaskell. “Very hard to say. You’ve badly torn the muscles that hold the kneecap in place, you know. I’d say… at best…”

Cecilia held her breath.

“Six months,” the doctor pronounced. “With luck.”

“Six months?!?” wailed the young woman.

“Cecilia!” snapped her father.

In six months, the London Ballet’s season would be over. The company would begin auditions for newer, younger dancers. At best, Cecilia would be pushed back to the bottom of the dancers’ pecking order.

“But…” she gasped, “but I’ve got to get well sooner, much sooner! Doctor, there must be something you can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Gaskell replied, still wearing that infuriating smile. “My dear, your knee will never be the same again. Not with an injury of this kind.”

Cecilia felt as if a bull had kicked her squarely in the stomach.

“Never?!?” she squealed. “Doctor, I’m… I’m a ballerina, I simply must dance if—“

“I’m quite sorry, my dear,” the doctor clucked, gently replacing the bedsheets. “Your injury is simply too serious.”

As if Cecilia wasn’t in the room, Dr. Gaskell turned to Mr. Wheaton. “You are a librarian by trade, sir?” he asked.

“At the Royal College,” nodded Mr. Wheaton.

“Very well,” smiled the doctor. “I assume you can muster a sizeable dowry? A young woman like Cecilia, who will certainly never dance again, should be married off as quickly as possible. The sooner she is pregnant, the sooner she’ll forget about her former life. That’s my advice.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Mr. Wheaton agreed.

Cecilia felt a stab of horror. “Papa!” she exclaimed.

Her father waved her off. “This whole ballet thing was her mother’s idea,” he said. “I always thought it quite foolish.”

“Oh no, sir,” Dr. Gaskell disagreed. “London needs good dancers. It shows the world that we are leaders not just in industry and colonization, but also in the arts! What good is the British Empire if we can’t demonstrate how superior we are in all manner of human endeavors?”

“Yes, quite right,” Cecilia said, trying to smile over her pain. “Now if I could get some more morphine—“

“But once a girl can no longer dance,” Dr. Gaskell continued, indicating Cecilia, “well, she has no further purpose, correct? So best to put her to a woman’s work, I say. Best to wed her off and let her bear children. That’s important for the empire, too.”

“Doctor—“ said Cecilia desperately.

“You rest now,” Dr. Gaskell instructed, actually patting Cecilia on the cheek. “I’m sure your father will find you a suitable husband.”

“Actually, I already have a fine fellow in mind,” Mr. Wheaton remarked, smoothing his moustache. “The son of my old friend from university. The lad’s an accomplished newspaper reporter, quite well-known for his interviews with Her Majesty herself.”

“Well, well!” Dr. Gaskell said, impressed. “He interviewed Queen Victoria? That’s a worthy match indeed.”

“Papa…!” Cecilia pleaded. This was all happening so sickeningly fast.

“You see, my dear?” said Dr. Gaskell, beaming down at Cecilia once more. “In no time at all, you’ll be a wife and mother. Isn’t that grand? Why, you might even be well enough to not need a cane for your wedding day!”

The two men chuckled. Mr. Wheaton slapped the doctor on the back.

“I’ll check on you again in a few days,” Dr. Gaskell told Cecilia, replacing her chart and already leaving. “Until then, rest well…!”

And then the two men were gone. Neither of them glanced back at Cecilia.

The young woman sat in her bed, stricken. The gaze of every woman patent rested on her.

Cecilia felt as if she’d been thrown off a bridge. Her mind reeled. She would never dance again? She was sentenced to become… someone’s wife?!?

In complete despair, the former ballerina sunk her head into her hands and sobbed.