The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As a teenager, Cecilia had devoured many fantastic adventure novels, most starring her fictional hero, Lady Regina Heartstone. In a typical escapade, the Lady Regina found herself whisked away to an exotic royal palace, perhaps in the faraway Orient, or Africa, or the Holy Land. Cecilia had always been dazzled by the descriptions of those pleasure castles.

But now as she cast her eyes about the grand interior of Ratiramshree Palace, Cecilia felt more than a little awed. Ratiramshree was lavish to an extreme. The palace’s interior chambers were wide, with high, domed ceilings or crystal sunroofs. The walls were exquisitely carved sandstone, betraying influences of the Gupta and Chandela eras from centuries past. Cecilia was particularly impressed with the golden trim that threaded along the columns and yawning arches. Traditional Indian tapestries and fine linens hung in ceremonial decoration. The air smelled faintly of crushed rose petals.

“My… word!” Clement breathed, looking all about at once.

Stuck with wonder, Cecilia had to agree with her husband; Ratiramshree Palace was one of the beautiful buildings she’d ever seen. It certainly did challenge the splendor of London’s Royal Opera House.

“Come, come,” Mr. Azad said impatiently.

The Indian manservant strode into the palace, moving into the main corridor. As she followed, Cecilia peered into the adjacent chambers, each a jewel of refined presentation. In one room, artisans were positioning a statue of an elephant. In another, small Indian children in silk robes laughed and played, carefully watched by a half-dozen Indian governesses. In a third room, a trio of wealthy Indian men lounged on an elevated platform, enjoying the two barely-clad belly dancers who swirled and swiveled before them.

“They certainly don’t believe in roughing it here at Ratiramshree, do they?” Clement mumbled, eyeing the dancers.

Cecilia frowned.

“Darling?” Clement said, for once noticing her expression.

His wife pointed to the two distant young women, still gyrating away. “Dearest,” she said slowly, “those dancing girls… Belly dancing is native to Arabia, not India. Most odd.”

Clement chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Cecilia,” he chided. “You shouldn’t worry about such things.”

The young woman’s frown deepened. But like a good wife, she did not argue with her husband.

“Azad,” Mr. Turpin’s voice rose up behind Cecilia. Instantly, the Indian manservant halted, allowing his employer to draw him aside. Clement and Cecilia stopped too, maintaining a respectful distance.

“Ye gods,” breathed Clement, his eyes still appreciatively sweeping over the grandness of the palace. “Can you imagine living here? How exciting! The Maharaja must be a very happy man.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Cecilia.

Her husband shot her a playful yet quizzical look. “’Perhaps?’” he echoed. “The palace isn’t up to your refined standards, m’lady?”

Cecilia blinked in surprise. Was Clement… teasing her?

“I mean,” she said quickly, “the palace is really quite lovely. I’ve just never assumed that such wealth led to happiness.”

“Oh, I see,” Clement said. “Well, if they wanted me to be maharaja, I’d be willing to give it a go.”

Now Cecilia couldn’t resist the opportunity for a little ribbing. “You just want to watch those dancing girls all day long, is that it?” she murmured.

Clement turned bright red. “I… oh… eh…” he stuttered.

The young woman smiled, amused at how easily Clement was flustered.

“Why Mr. Irvington,” she said coyly, taking his arm, “I do believe you are embarrassed.”

Clement, to his credit, broke out in to a dopey grin.

As the Irvingtons teased one another, Mr. Turpin was giving hushed instructions to his manservant. “Is the Dvaitavana suite available?” he muttered.

Mr. Azad nodded.

“Very good,” nodded the Royal Envoy. “Its on the other side of the palace; put the fool newspaperman in there. But put the woman in the suite across the hallway from me.” He grinned in satisfaction, eyeing Cecilia’s bottom. ”I will visit her tonight.”

“You have pressing matters tonight, sahib,” reminded Mr. Azad.

Mr. Turpin scowled. “The Maharaja’s salon, dash it all,” he fumed, fingering the elephant-head of his cane. “Fine. Tomorrow night, then. Just keep her separated from her husband. Until I’ve had her.”

The Royal Envoy made his excuses, then vanished into the palace. “Come,” Mr. Azad said airily to Cecilia and Clement. “I will show you to your apartments.”

“Apartments?” Cecilia whispered to her husband in surprise.

The Indian servant led the couple up a wide flight of stairs, then down another series of corridors. Eventually, he arrived at a grand-looking set of double doors.

“The young ma’am will stay here,” he said absently, pushing the doors open.

Cecilia opened her mouth to ask a question… but was dazzled at the room that lay before her. Built from smooth, off-white stone, and with handpainted murals on the walls, the chamber was larger than all of her London townhouse. There was a massive four poster bed against the far side, with wide seating areas and a miniature fountain opposite. A dining area, entertaining sideroom, and dressing room were also visible. The fireplace was so large, Cecilia could have walked directly in without having to stoop.

As the young couple gaped, two young, pretty Indian women emerged from the shadows. Both of them perhaps fifteen years old, they wore the spotless white robes of palace servants. Cecilia noted their feet were bare and small light blue flowers were woven into their finely braided hair. The girls halted perhaps four feet away, then bowed once in submission.

“Your servants,” Mr. Azad said lazily, indicating the women. “Diya and Pihu.”

“Ma’am,” the girls murmured quietly, bowing once again.

“My… word!” Clement exclaimed delightfully. “The Maharaja certainly knows how to show his guests a good time! I shall most enjoy staying here!”

“I beg your pardon, sahib,” said Mr. Azad, “but these modest quarters are only for Mrs. Cecilia. You must be housed over in the west wing, I am afraid. There are no other suitable accommodations at present.”

“We… are not to be staying in the same room?” Cecilia asked, alarmed. “But why not?”

“It is local custom, sahiba,” Mr. Azad explained, bowing quickly. Diya and Pihu bowed too, matching him perfectly. “In Jhansi, a wife is housed in her own chambers. To honor her.”

“Oh, I say,” Cecilia protested, swiftly moving to take Clement’s arm. “This man is my husband; I cannot possibly be without him.”

The servant girls exchanged scandalous looks.

Looking pained, Mr. Azad said, “Please forgive me, ma’am, but you would risk offending His Royal Highness, should you and your husband… occupy… the same sleeping space. Traditions here in India are ancient and strict.”

“And of course,” the suave manservant added quickly, “Mr. Clement will be an honored guest in the palace. Just a little further away.”

Cecilia wanted to close her eyes and scream. While she couldn’t say why, the thought of being separated from her husband made her feel alone and vulnerable. She cast her eyes up at Clement, willing him to detect her anxiety and refuse the separate accommodations.

To her dismay, Clement shrugged and said, “Well, if this is local custom, I suppose it’s all innocent enough. We wouldn’t want to offend the Maharaja, would we?”

Damnation! thought Cecilia, exasperated.

“Darling,” the ballerina said firmly, “I don’t like this, I really don’t. Why shouldn’t—“

“Come, come,” interrupted Mr. Azad. “Perhaps if you see Mr. Clement’s suites, you will feel better, yes? I will show you.”

Clement blinked. “Suites?” he said, stressing the plural. “Well! Isn’t this exciting…!”

Mr. Azad beckoned, leading the young English couple back into the corridor. Cecilia followed her husband, growing more irritated by the moment.

As she exited, four uniformed palace laborers appeared, carrying Cecilia’s luggage trunk between them. The Englishwoman paused long enough to see the trunk set within her suite’s dressing area. Then the servants Diya and Pihu went to work unpacking, carefully inspecting Cecilia’s traveling wardrobe with curious hands.

Far across the palace, Clement’s chambers were even larger and grander than Cecilia’s. These rooms had all the luxuries Cecilia had, plus a yawning balcony which overlooked the city. Four male servants stood ready for Clement’s commands.

“Well!” the journalist beamed, lost for words. “…isn’t this…”

“Exciting, yes,” Cecilia sourly agreed.

The Ratiramshree Palace was grander than words could say, and yet Cecilia felt uneasy. Not even the prima ballerina assoluta of Europe were awarded such luxurious hospitality. The young Englishwoman wondered what price would be extracted.

After settling Clement into his rooms, Mr. Azad gave the English couple a tour of the castle. “His Majesty the Maharaja is most interested in adapting the palace for many more English guests,” the Indian manservant explained as he led Clement and Cecilia through the Grand Hall, just outside the Royal Entrance.

“How exciting!” Clement remarked, craning his neck upwards at the rising domed ceiling, high, high above them.

“You anticipate many more English visitors, then?” Cecilia asked.

Mr. Azad nodded. “Quite so. Now that the English will be ruling our country, His Majesty is determined to make Ratiramshree Palace suitable to impress English visitors. He has begun constructing a billiards room, a parlour, a tea-time café, and a library. Our English guests must appreciate luxury.”

The Maharaja wants to impress his conquerors, Cecilia thought sarcastically, because he wishes to manipulate them.

“I would show all these attractions to you, but supper will be served very shortly,” Mr. Azad remarked. ”We should head to the banquet hall. Come.”

The three moved down another corridor, one which bustled with activity. Servants and palace guests moved about, careful to avoid one another.

Cecilia and Clement passed two servant men, who were deep in conversation while arranging shipping crates. The younger man, oddly enough, had a red eyepatch, which only served to call attention to his more-handsome features.

“Saamaany Laksurimanan,” Eyepatch murmured, “pahale se hee use dekh raha hai—”

His elder realized Cecilia was watching them “Chup rahana!” the man hissed.

Both servants fell silent, concentrating on their task.

Cecilia glided past, pretending she had not understood a word. But her ears had distinctly heard the name “Laksurimanan.” The fabled rebel general! Could General Laksurimanan be at Ratiramshree Palace?!?

Cecilia’s heart quickened, and she dared a sideways glance about her. Suddenly she felt as if she was stepping into one of Lady Regina’s adventure stories.

Supper was an elaborate affair. The Maharaja’s banquet hall was a cavernous room, lined with Indian columns. Two enormous stone tigers, positioned above the entrance ways, snarled at one another from across the room. One could see scenes from Jhansi history painstakingly carved into every stone pillar. An especially high domed ceiling smiled down on two long tables.

The tables themselves were works of delicate art. Cecilia had never seen so much fine china or gleaming silverware, all elaborately laid out in perfect formations. Kitchen servants fussed over the table settings and floral arrangements.

All about, palace guests were trickling in. “Sahib and sahiba will sit here,” Mr. Azad said tonelessly, gesturing to the far more resplendent table. “It is for English only.”

“I say,” remarked Clement. “The English are given the finest seats?”

“At Ratiramshree,” Mr. Azad replied dryly, “the English are given the finest of everything.” And without another word, the manservant vanished into the crowd.

At that moment, the low chatter among the palace guests suddenly ceased. Two large red doors were opening in the farther entranceway.

“Oh bother,” an older Englishman grumbled. “His Majesty graces us with his presence, eh?”

Cecilia craned her neck. Entering through the doors was a tall young Indian man, dressed in an expensive Western suit, but with traditional Indian shoes and a silken Nehru jacket. A sparkling jeweled Pheta turban adorned his head. The young man was well-fed, with a calm stare and an almost bored manner about him. His dark brown eyes swept over all of his guests, yet betrayed no interest whatsoever.

This man, Cecilia had no doubt, was the Maharaja of Jhansi.

A small army of servants flanked His Majesty on both sides. And only a few steps behind, was Mr. Turpin, strolling along with his elephant-head cane rapping against the polished stone floor. The Royal Envoy held his head high.

“Eh, see?” the Englishman sneered to a companion. “The Maharaja thinks he is in charge… but Turpin keeps him on a short leash.”

“I’ve heard,” the other fellow muttered, “that this Maharaja fellow actually wishes to be accepted among the Crowned Heads of Europe.”

“Ha!” a third Englishman gloated. “An Indian seen as a peer to Queen Victoria? Never!”

The Maharaja gestured, the barest of motions. Instantly, the servants swarmed up to a raised platform, producing a third, smaller table and a throne. In a twinkling, the Maharaja had his own place for supper, and the ruler moved to sit there.

Only once His Majesty assumed his table did all the other guests sit.

“Goodness,” Clement murmured, “this really is a royal court, isn’t it?”

“Only because Turpin permits it,” countered the Englishman next to Cecilia. “They should toss that Maharaja into the streets and install a colonial governor, if you ask me.”

“The people would revolt again,” said another English fellow, this one wearing the pin of the British Foreign Office. “Jhansi looks tame, but the foolish locals would storm the palace if provoked. Better to leave the boy king on the throne as a figurehead.”

After supper, the kitchen servants quickly cleared the last of the banquet platters. The oil lamps were dimmed. The Maharaja had long since departed, and the remaining guests were trudging to their rooms. The palace was preparing for nighttime.

Clement and Cecilia strode up the master staircase arm-in-arm, Clement puffing from overeating. For the first time since boarding the train from Bombay, the two were alone.

Cecilia pursed her lips, wondering if she could tell her husband about her suspicions.

“Darling,” she said lightly, “that General Laksurimanan of yours… what if he was secretly here, in the palace?”

The young reporter grunted as he rose a step. His wife held her breath, worried what he might say.

As her husband, Clement was well within his rights to swat aside Cecilia’s curiosity. And possibly even reprimand her. Victorian wives were not to show such interest in such things like fugitive generals lurking about.

But to Cecilia’s relief, Clement said, “Whatever do you mean, dearest?” There was genuine interest in his voice.

“The servants here whispered his name,” muttered Cecilia, glancing about to ensure they weren’t being overheard. “And I thought I saw one or two Indian gentlemen at dinner who must have had a military background. Oh, darling,” she enthused, her imagination getting the better of her, ”what if the general’s here? Waiting to lead another revolution?”

Clement frowned, although he might have been suppressing a spicy burp.

“…what do you think?” Cecilia prodded.

“Darling,” her husband shook his head, “none of what you observed is proof of any kind. And there’s no reason to think the general is alive.”

“Ah,” Cecilia allowed. Inside, her heart sank.

Clement eyed her, a playful smile on his face. “You thought we were on the verge of an adventure, didn’t you?” he said.

“Oh,” replied Cecilia, blushing a little. “Oh, no, darling. Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

“You were, weren’t you?” Clement said, and his smile widened.

Cecilia realized: he was teasing her again!

“Don’t mock me,” she said tartly.

“Sorry, darling,” Clement said quickly. But his smile remained.

The couple reached the top of the staircase, then turned down the corridor towards Cecilia’s room.

“You know,” remarked Clement, sounding a little too casual, “if the general was here… Well, readers of the Times would be most gratified to know.”

Cecilia stared at him.

“Why don’t you… poke about a little?” suggested Clement. “Play detective. See what you can deduce.”

“Do you really mean it?” Cecilia said, surprised.

“Oh, absolutely,” replied her husband.

The young Englishwoman opened and then closed her mouth, astounded.

“I’d do it myself,” Clement said easily, “but everyone here knows that I’m a reporter. No-one here is going to share sensitive information with me, nor allow me to find a hidden guest in the palace.” He grinned. “But they’ll never suspect you.”

“Besides,” he added, “you’re so clever. If the general is here, you’ll sniff him out much faster than I could.”

The young Englishwoman turned to regard her husband, as if she was seeing him for the first time. Clement wore his lopsided smile.

“Do you really think so?” the young woman asked, pleased. Another thought occurred to her. “Snooping for the general… it could be dangerous.”

“Hmm,” Clement mused, considering this. “Well… possibly. But there are so many Englishmen here. Laksurimanan wouldn’t dare move against you. That is, if he’s here at all.”

“My goodness…!” exclaimed Cecilia, suddenly impatient to explore the palace.

Clements eyes twinkled as he looked upon his beautiful wife. “Well,” he chuckled. “It seems you are on an adventure after all. I almost admire you, you know.”

“It will probably turn out to be a false lead,” reminded Cecilia. “All reports indicated that the general is long-dead.”

“True…” Clement said, considering, “but if he is alive and you discover him… just be sure to let me know. Or you’ll be hired by the Times and goodness knows what I’ll do for a living.”

“Oh stop,” said Cecilia, playfully slapping Clement’s chest. An irrepressible smile escaped her lips.

The young couple had reached Cecilia’s doors.

“Well,” Clement said, his disappointment obvious, “I suppose this is where we part for the evening.” He seemed depressed to leave Cecilia’s side.

The young woman gazed up at her husband, for once touched at his obvious fondness for her. “Oh, darling,” she soothed, “its just for a little while. I’ll see you at breakfast, won’t I?”

“Indeed,” Clement nodded.

The two paused, still reluctant to part.

Feeling impulsive, Cecilia stood on her toes, craning her neck to kiss Clement on the cheek. “Until the morning, darling,” she whispered.