The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bombay, India

One year later…

The locomotive shuddered once, delivering a jolt to everyone on board. Cecilia—now Mrs. Clement Irvington—nearly tumbled over in the passenger car’s corridor.

Her husband, of course, had not noticed. “Its this exciting…!” Clement exclaimed yet again, his thin face flushed with delight. He stooped to peer into the windows of the traveling compartments, vainly seeking two empty seats.

Cecilia steadied herself with one gloved hand, and resisted the urge to glare at her scatterbrained husband. Clement was eight years older than she was, but honestly, the man had the composure and attentiveness of a child. Sometimes Cecilia felt more like his mother than his wife.

Tall, lanky, and constantly awkward, Clement was a human scarecrow. He fit poorly into his brown suitcoat, travel boots, and top hat… but at least these clothes were of the correct fashion. Clement’s muttonchop sideburns were far too bushy, his nose far too long, his Adam’s apple far too big for the young man to ever be considered handsome. But his boyish brown eyes shown with an eager light, betraying the childlike wonder through which Clement viewed the world.

The engagement had been brief. Cecilia’s father had moved swiftly, and not even a month after being released from the hospital, the poor young woman had found herself in a white gown, standing with Clement before Father McHenry and the alter of King’s Church. She had only met her husband twice before that day. She moved into the Irvington’s South London manor later that very day.

But three weeks after the wedding, Clement announced that he was restless. “I want to see the world!” he declared to Cecilia and then to his crestfallen parents. “I’m tired of reporting in London. I need a change!”

It so happened that India was undergoing change, too. The rebellion against the East Indian Trading Company had been firmly put down, and now Parliament had passed the Government of India Act, officially extending Queen Victoria’s direct rule over all of India. The Union Jack flew high over Bombay! British businesses were extending their reach deep into the subcontinent! The local maharajas were extending their allegiance to Her Majesty… or else. It was a new dawn for the British Empire.

Taking advantage of the situation, Clement had convinced his editor that the London Times needed its best correspondents right in the thick of things. Before poor Cecilia knew it, her maid was packing her belongings into a trunk, and then she and Clement were boarding the SS Majestic, bound for India itself! There had barely been time to inform her outraged father and bid him good-bye.

And now here Cecilia was, on an overcrowded passenger train, racing into the heart of an alien country, wishing her foolish husband had secured two seats before boarding the train.

The young woman sighed and straightened her back, determined to appear as ladylike as possible. As she composed herself, several of the male passengers within the seating compartments slid an admiring glance over her figure.

Life after the London Ballet had not been easy for Cecilia. She desperately missed the competitive sisterhood among the dancers, the frenzied rehearsals, the shameless gossip, the attention of the young men who haunted the stage door. And especially the applause. She missed it all.

The young woman had done her best to stay in shape, still performing her rigorous exercise routines every morning. And while this kept her tummy flat and her muscles toned, Cecilia had still put on a little weight, mostly in her chest and hips, which gave her a stunning, curvy figure. Even now, the men passengers were sweeping their eyes over those amplified curves, conquering up all manner of sinful fantasies.

Clement peered into the last compartment; every seat was full.

“Come, my darling,” Clement beamed, oblivious. “We’ll simply have to move to the next car. Isn’t this exciting?”

Without hesitation, the young man moved to the outer sliding door and threw it open. Ignoring the harsh winds and rattling train, he leapt across the gap, and soon was plunging into the next car.

Cecilia grimaced. The connections between these railway cars were designed for men in flat shoes. For women in petticoats and high heels, jumping over this little chasm, with the train shaking and the air rushing at you, was nothing short of terrifying.

Nonetheless, Cecilia was not one to quaver. She gritted her teeth, pushed her way through the outer door, and then found herself outside, the hot Indian air whipping her face. A good three-foot gap between the two cars yawned before her feet.

“Bother,” the young woman muttered to herself. Clement, oblivious to his wife’s dilemma, had already vanished into the next car.

So poor Cecilia took a step back, then rushed forward. Her dancer’s legs, sturdy and powerful, launched her through the air.

But then the train shuddered as the track leaned into a tight curve. Cecilia’s feet landed unevenly on the opposite car’s metal deck, and her bad knee spasmed in pain. The young woman careened backward.

Cecilia screamed. Her quick hands clamped onto the railing. Willpower and sheer luck saved her from toppling to certain doom.

It took a moment before the young woman was willing to relax. Her heart pounded faster than the locomotive. She closed her eyes and let out a slow and shaky breath.

She hated India. Well, she hated to have been forced on this insufferable journey. Clement was a fine man, true, but never once did he seem to think of Cecilia’s well-being. The naïve boy assumed her adventurous spirit was as alive and bright as his own.

That was Cecilia’s marriage. Clement leapt over the chasms without once looking back to make sure she was following.

The train shuddered again as the engineer poured on more speed. The Indian countryside rushed past as the locomotive turned due northeast, now heading toward the city of Jhansi.

Swallowing her wounded dignity, Cecilia pulled herself upright and clamored into the passenger car.

Clement was already halfway down the corridor, hopefully peering into every compartment. “Blast it all,” he declared. “They’re all full here, too. Well, except…”

The young man paused before the windows of a deluxe suite, eyeing the luxurious accommodations… and the ten spare seats on beaten leather couches. Only a middle-aged Englishman and his Indian manservant sat within. The Englishman was absorbed in his newspaper.

“Drat and dratted!” Clement declared as his young and beautiful wife approached. “Well, we didn’t pay for first class, so I suppose we daren’t sit in there. Hmm.”

As Cecilia hurried to her husband’s side, the wealthy Englishman glanced up from his paper. Through the window, his lustful gaze swarmed over Cecilia’s trim but alluring figure.

“Darling,” Cecilia pleaded, grasping her husband’s arm. “There are a few scattered seats in the other compartments. Perhaps if we implored on our fellow travelers’ better nature—“

“Pish-posh!” frowned Clement. “We’ll simply investigate the next car, is all. Come now! Isn’t this exciting…!”

And before Cecilia could protest, her husband was bolting up the corridor again.

“Darling!” she cried out, fighting exasperation.

At that moment, the glass doors of the deluxe compartment slid open. The Indian manservant stood before Cecilia, bowing slightly at the hip.

“If sahib and sahiba would allow,” the refined Indian murmured, “my master invites you to travel with him.”

The compartment was mercifully cool, and smelled faintly of pipe smoke. As Cecilia entered, she was surprised at the thick carpet and silver trim in the oak sidings.

The Englishman rose to kiss her hand, moving a little too close to do so. “Geoff Turpin, Special Envoy for Her Majesty, madame,” he introduced himself. And then he pointedly looked down at Cecilia’s breasts.

“Mr. Turpin,” the beautiful young woman said coolly, then yanked back her hand. She sat down quickly, if only to put some distance between herself and her host.

Cecilia made a careful assessment of the leering Mr. Turpin. He was older gentleman, perhaps in his mid-forties. Barrel-chested, with a broad face and sharp Roman nose, Mr. Turpin had a carefully-groomed haircut and moustache. He wore an elegant, tailor-made suit, black and crisp, clearly customized for his stocky frame. A monocle glinted over one of his beady, brown eyes. And although his legs were thick and sturdy, the man clutched a cane, topped with a brass handle shaped like an elephant’s head. As he absently fingered that elephant, the man kept his gaze latched onto Cecilia with gaudy appreciation.

“My goodness,” Clement exclaimed, stumbling into the compartment. He glanced about in wonder.

“Welcome, sir,” Her Majesty’s Envoy said, and the two men exchanged introductions and handshakes. “Please, sit down.”

Clement sat next to his wife. Cecilia allowed him to take her hand, if only because the gesture would remind Mr. Turpin that she was a married woman.

“Azad,” The Royal Envoy said to the manservant. “Shut the door.” There was no respect in his voice.

Mr. Azad, a tall and gaunt fellow, moved to obey. It was impossible to guess his age, but Cecilia thought the Indian man must be in his early thirties. While he was careful to wear a neutral expression, Azad’s eyes were focused and intent. He was clearly a highly intelligent person, Cecilia realized, and doing his best to hide his intellect from his piglike master.

Mr. Turpin sat directly across from Cecilia, his eyes once again fastening onto her body. The older fellow actually licked his lips! Inwardly, Cecilia shuddered.

Mr. Azad resumed his seat next to the window; he watched the countryside roll past.

“Well now,” complimented Clement, still oblivious to Mr. Turpin’s horrid manners. “Special Envoy for the Crown! How exciting, sir. You must be most important to the colonial effort.”

“You might say that sir, you might,” Mr. Turpin huffed, his voice betraying stuffy pride. “I was appointed by the Foreign Ministry, mostly because someone representing the Crown must keep an eye on central India. Especially after the Uprising.”

“My word,” Clement breathed. “Isn’t that exciting!”

Cecilia wanted to gag. Mr. Turpin was pompous in the extreme, radiating arrogance and distain.

“Tell me sir,” Mr. Turpin said, fingering his elephant-head cane, “how is it you and your lovely wife have come to India?”

“I’m a correspondent from the Times of London, sir,” replied Clement. “India is where all the important stories are happening, you know. Reader interest in at an all-time high.”

Turpin snorted. “The Times covers little very outside of London accurately, if you ask me.” He shifted in his seat. “Still, your name is familiar, sir. Irvington, Irvington…” he mused out loud. “Perhaps I have read…?”

Suddenly the older man snapped his fingers. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Clement Irvington? Why, my word, sir, you interviewed Queen Victoria herself! Why would you leave such a post to travel to the outer realms of India?”

“Oh, but here is where the best stories are, sir,” Clement said, somewhat defensively. “Take the Uprising, for instance. That General Laksurimanan, he came from the Ajmer or Jaipur regions, did he not? Well, they never found his body after his armies were defeated. Perhaps—“

“General Laksurimanan was shot and killed in the Battle of Gwalior,” Mr. Turpin frowned. “I saw the military reports myself.”

“Ah,” replied Clement, his eyes lighting up, “but our reporting suggests that the Army records couldn’t possibly be accurate. The Battle of Gwalior—“

“See here, my good man,” huffed Mr. Turpin. “Are you implying that the general still lives?”

“It is quite possible,” Clement said.

The Royal Envoy snorted. “Not possible, sir. Not possible. And even if he was alive, what matter? The white man has proved himself the military superior to all other races. If General Laksurimanan were to somehow raise another army—a preposterous notion—then Her Majesty’s forces would crush him all the faster. The Indians, they have no understanding of modern warfare.”

“Take Azad here,” Mr. Turpin said, indicating his manservant. “Azad has spent half his life in the British Isles. Educated at Eton, for Lands’ sakes. There is no finer specimen of the Indian race than he. And just look at him! Do you think this man could possibly understand something as complex as military strategy? Of course not. None of his race could.”

Cecilia, repulsed by Mr. Turpin’s grotesque ranting, flicked a quick glance at Mr. Azad. The Indian manservant sat perfectly still, staring out the window. His face was a mask of stone.

“It is the natural order of things,” went on Mr. Turpin. “The white man’s burden. The inferiors exist to be dominated by the strong. The British Empire prospers because it is guided by great men. And such great men take what they want.”

With these last words, Mr. Turpin returned to staring at Cecilia’s body. She could feel his imagination stripping off her clothes, layer by layer.

When confronted by a prejudiced creature like Mr. Turpin, Victorian women were expected to remain silent and reserved. But Cecilia could hold her tongue no longer.

“Tell me, Mr. Turpin,” she said evenly, “you were appointed as an envoy to the Maharaja of Jhansi, is that correct?”

“Yes, quite,” replied the older man.

“An envoy is merely a messenger… are they not?” Cecilia asked delicately.

Mr. Turpin’s smirk clouded. “My dear young lady,” he grunted, “you fail to grasp the New Day in India. Yes, I am an envoy, but I speak on the Queen’s behalf. If the Maharaja knows what’s good for him, he’ll follow my every instruction.” The stocky man thumped his cane once, for emphasis. “Or there will be consequences.”

Cecilia couldn’t resist one more barb: “Your confidence is notable, sir. I hope it isn’t misplaced.”

“Now see here,” huffed Mr. Turpin. “We are discussing politics, madam, and that is not a topic which the female brain can comprehend.”

“Queen Victoria might disagree,” replied Cecilia casually.

Clement laughed, completely failing to read the situation. “Ah, darling,” he said merrily, “you would have made a fine debater.” To Mr. Turpin, he explained, “Cecilia here was once a dancer in the London Ballet, you see. She is very much accustomed to self-expression.”

At these words, Mr. Azad’s head snapped around. He now studied Cecilia with interest.

“I see,” Mr. Turpin huffed, his face a little red. “Well, some advice for you, young Irvington. Women, even pretty young things like your wife, are to be seen but not heard. Perhaps in London, where morals are loose and customs mean nothing, it is fashionable for a woman to challenge her betters. But not in India. Oh, no.” To Cecilia, he growled, “You should learn to hold your tongue, girl.”

Cecilia held her head high… but she said nothing.

The Royal Envoy thumped his cane on the floor once more. For Mr. Turpin, the walking stick was not for balance. It was a symbol of power. Cecilia read the man plainly enough.

Mr. Azad leaned over, murmuring into his employer’s ear.

“Hmmgh,” the older Englishman mumbled. “Yes. Quite right. Tell me, Mr. Irvington, where are you and your desirable wife staying while in Jhansi?”

“Oh, the Creststone Hotel, sir,” replied Clement. “The Times has arranged—“

“Begging your pardon, sahib,” Mr. Azad said softly, “but the Creststone is not suitable for the young master and the sahiba.”

Surprised, Clement asked, “Oh?”

“Tilachatta,” explained the manservant.

“Vermin!” translated Mr. Turpin. “Heh. Azad probably means the locals, don’t you, Azad?” The Royal Envoy laughed heartedly as his cruel joke. “No, no, he’s quite right. You—and your beautiful wife—shall not stay at the Creststone. You’ll stay as my guests, at the Maharaja’s palace.”

An alarm sounded in Cecilia’s mind. “Darling,” she said softly yet urgently to her husband, “we don’t want to impose on the Maharaja, nor on Mr. Turpin. Perhaps we should—“

“Nonsense!” Mr. Turpin harrumphed. “Of course the Maharaja will accommodate you, should I insist upon it. And I will! Azad is quite correct; you shall be my guests.”

“Darling…” Cecilia muttered to Clement.

Her husband, however, was grinning from ear to ear. “Staying at the Maharaja’s palace!” he exclaimed. “At Ratiramshree Palace itself! Why… isn’t that exciting!”

The decision had been made. Resigned to defeat, Cecilia slouched a little in her seat, shooting an acid glare at Mr. Azad.

The Indian manservant gazed back at her coolly, then returned to staring out the window.

Once the train arrived in Jhansi Railway Station, Mr. Azad assumed control. The manservant spoke rapidly with a station manager, and instantly, a small army of skinny, barefoot, bare-chested men appeared. Mr. Azad put them all to work, loading luggage and crates onto a sturdy, large-wheeled carriage. Before Cecilia could protest, her and Clement’s trunks were seized and strapped onto the carriage’s rear platform.

“Come then,” Mr. Turpin said mildly, indicating that the two young newlyweds were to climb into the carriage’s lush traveling compartment.

“Isn’t this exciting,” murmured Clement, as he scrambled aboard. As usual, he went first and forgot to offer Cecilia his hand.

But Mr. Turpin was ready to be chivalrous. “My dear,” he smirked at Cecilia, and moved to help her climb inside.

The young woman leapt after her husband, before Mr. Turpin could touch her.

Jhansi was a small city, nestled on the Terai Plains, and not far from the Betwa River. There were three central structures that a traveler noticed instantly. The Jhansi Railway Station, an ugly structure of steel and brick, greeted visitors on the city’s southern border. The old Jhansi Fort glared at the surrounding countryside from atop Bangara Hill. And most notable of all, Ratiramshree Palace stood proudly to the east, a spectacle of ornately-carved stone. Lined with skinny towers and a massive, cream-colored dome in the center, the castle overlooked the city with a regal air. Cecilia thought that the structure looked like a gigantic crown.

The carriage dove into Jhansi’s narrow, dusty streets, scattering locals and chickens in all directions. Cecilia peered out of the windows, surprised to see so many curious, brown faces staring back. Most people were dressed in little more than rags and were frightfully thin. Every one of them had a strange defiance in their eyes.

“I say,” Clement remarked, “the natives here, they don’t seem very welcoming, do they?”

“Don’t be too pitying,” scoffed Mr. Turpin. “Most of these people, they sided with the rebels during the Uprising.” He sneered in disgust. ”They got what they deserved.”