The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The servant girls had been busy. Cecilia entered her suite to discover a great fire roaring in the hearth, her bed turned down, and light pink flowers arranged in vases about the room. Diya was busy drawing an evening bath in the bathing-chamber.

“Goodness,” Cecilia exclaimed, caught off-guard.

Instantly Diya and Pihu rose and bowed. “Everything is ready, sahiba,” Diya murmured. “May we bathe now, or would you like an evening hookah or beverage?”

The young Englishwoman blinked. Back in London, she was used to having a maid, but the service at Ratiramshree Palace seemed ridiculously lavish.

“I think I can prepare myself for bed, thank you,” she replied.

Ignoring the glance that Diya and Pihu exchanged, Cecilia moved into the dressing area, expecting to find her trunk waiting for her. Instead, the softly-lit room was arranged with racks of Indian clothes, robes of soft textures and all colors.

“Where…” the Englishwoman exclaimed, “…where are my things?”

Diya and Pihu bowed quickly. “We sent sahiba’s clothes to the palace cleaners,” Diya replied cautiously. “Until they are ready, the palace butler had these clothes made for you.” The young girl paused. “They are not to your liking?”

Feeling turned upside-down, Cecilia plucked one of the robes from the rack. It was a dark red sari, with light gold thread carefully woven into the rich fabric. The beautiful cloth was light and soft in her fingers.

Despite her annoyance, Cecilia had to admit… these garments were absolutely beautiful.

“Well…” the former ballerina admitted, “they are. Yes, these are quite nice.” Still, she would have liked to have been informed that her own garments were spirited away.

Diya and Pihu stood rooted on the spot, uncertain what to do next. “You are displeased with us, sahiba?” said Diya fearfully. “In India, it is custom that the servant does everything; disrobing, bathing, dressing, everything.”

“No, no,” Cecilia sighed. “Let’s… let’s get me ready for bed, then.”

The two servant girls gingerly approached, then began stripping Cecilia naked.

In the morning, Cecilia woke to discover that Diya and Pihu had slept on the floor, below her bed. The Indian notion of service was strict, indeed. The servant was to have no desire except the pleasure of the master.

After another bath—this one where Cecilia merely stood naked and motionless while the two teenage women gently scrubbed her body with warm water and spiced soap—the young Englishwoman was swathed in a cream-colored anarkali, complete with a decorative sash, matching cloth shoes, and small, white flowers in her hair.

Cecilia almost didn’t recognize her husband. Already seated at the banquet table when she arrived, Clement was dressed in a traditional achkan that bristled with buttons, churidar trousers, and custom boots. The young reporter was chafing a little at the high color.

“Darling!” Cecilia exclaimed, sitting next to him. “Goodness, they removed your clothes for cleaning, too?”

Clement’s eyes popped when he saw his wife. “My… word!” he gaped. “You look… beautiful. Like an princess from a fairy-story, darling.”

Cecilia was so pleased, she turned bright red. She couldn’t help it.

The young couple ate quickly, for Clement was hoping to travel into the city and observe the British soldiers at Jhansi Fort. “From there, I’ll start talking with the officers,” he confided. “See what they know.” He offered Cecilia an aloo paratha, still warm from the palace bakery. “And you, darling?”

“I’m off to find General Laksurimanan,” reminded Cecilia, using her playful voice.

“Oh, of course,” Clement grinned. “And how are you to find this shadowy figure?”

Cecilia was about to reply when her eye spotted a lone figure outside the banquet hall. The young servant with the red eyepatch was passing by in the outer corridor, carrying a wooden shipping box.

“I’ll think of something,” Cecilia said mysteriously, and hurriedly excused herself.

On the other end of the banquet hall, Geoff Turpin was brooding. He was the true master of Ratiramshree Palace! Why did he have to eat with the common English? He should have an elevated table of his own, just like the Maharaja.

Perhaps the problem, the Envoy mused, was that he was not rich enough. In Victorian society, it was of course prestigious when Queen Victoria selected you for a foreign assignment. But service to the Crown did not pay well. Turpin had observed that the other, wealthier Envoys were regarded with near godlike status at their stations. Perhaps he simply needed more coin.

Well, Jhansi was a city ripe for exploitation. As the de facto ruler, Turpin could pick and choose business contracts. And… if no-one was looking… he could solicit bribes, seize Indian assets, even lay claim to resources as his own. It was tempting.

A flash of activity down the table interrupted Turpin’s thoughts. The young Mrs. Cecilia Irvington, now swathed in a becoming Indian dress, rose up, kissed her fool husband on the cheek, then hurried from the banquet hall. Men up and down the table paused to admire her bouncing figure. She was a lovely creature, indeed.

Corrupt thoughts of stealing from Jhansi evaporated from Turpin’s mind. He let out a slow, trembling breath. How long he’d lusted for a proper English girl like Cecilia!

Oh, there were plenty of Indian women he could have bedded. But the racist bureaucrat wanted nothing but his own ilk. The thought of Cecilia, naked and squealing beneath him, drove him wild.

Tonight, Turpin promised himself. Tonight, he would steal into Cecilia’s chambers, frighten off her dull-witted servants, and then have Cecilia all for himself. He’d use that fragrance candle he’d purchased from the Dayan witch, the one supposedly with irresistible aphrodisiac powers.

And if Cecilia still didn’t willingly spread her legs for him? Well, he’d been as restrained as he could. He’d simply force himself upon her.

In the grand corridor, Cecilia spotted the red eyepatch servant almost right away. He was climbing the grand staircase, carrying two wooden shipping boxes in his arms. The young man didn’t notice her.

Hmm, thought Cecilia.

Trying to look as causal as possible, the curious Englishwoman followed the servant, taking care to remain several steps behind him at all times. The young man moved down the upper corridor, eventually disappearing into a carved archway to the right.

Biting her lip, Cecilia followed.

Through the archway, there was a large room, illuminated by a great domed window in the ceiling. The room was dominated by large, oaken bookshelves, each stuffed to the brim with colorful books. The young eye-patched servant was opening boxes and unpacking more books, which he shelved immediately.

There was an awkward pause as the servant and Englishwoman stared at one another.

“May I be of service, sahiba?” the servant asked dryly.

In a flash, Cecilia realized: This was the palace library!

“I’m… looking for a book,” she said, hoping she sounded innocent.

The servant bowed slightly. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the bookcases. Then he resumed unpacking. But Cecilia felt his suspicious gaze upon her.

Determined to keep up her ruse, the young Englishwoman moved to the nearest shelf and began scanning titles.

And she smiled almost immediately. The palace servants clearly had no idea how a proper English library was organized. Books were neatly arranged on the shelf by size and color, not topic. This meant John Stewart Mill’s A System of Logic rested directly next to Winchell Topper’s Recipes for the Frugal English Housewife, and then Sexton Stone’s Principles of Basic Seamanship, and then Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy. The arrangement was pleasing to the eye, but made no organizational sense whatsoever.

Despite herself, the librarian’s daughter laughed out loud.

“Is something the matter, sahiba?” Eyepatch asked nervously, appearing at her elbow.

In a flash, Cecilia hatched a plan. If this young man was a connection to the mysterious General Laksurimanan, then she needed to watch him closely. Even secure his trust, if possible. Working on a project together might be just the opportunity she needed.

With a motherly shake of her head, Cecilia began pulling books from the shelf. “Oh no,” she clucked. “This will never, never do. Not at all!”

To Cecilia’s amusement, the first book she snatched was The Secret Slave-Girl, another adventure-story starring Lady Regina Heartstone. A good omen. She grabbed the next five books, thrusting them all at the eyepatched young man.

“Sahiba!” the servant cried, aghast.

“Come, come now,” Cecilia chided. “Do you know how to organize an English library, sir?”

“I… uh…”

“I thought not,” smiled the young Englishwoman. “Come, there’s nothing to it, really. I’ll help you.” She began pulling books.

“We’ll have this sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she said gaily, ignoring the servant’s horrified expression. “You’ll see. What is your name, sir?”

“Er… Adi, sahiba.”

“Very well, Adi,” Cecilia said, flashing the boy her brightest smile. “Let’s start to make piles.”

It took nearly two hours to unshelve the entire library, then another four to sort the books into general topics. Adi proved to be a quick study, and Cecilia found herself invested in the project. By teatime, the two had properly bunched the Geography, History, and Astronomy books into neat piles on the floor. Novels and Poetry were next.

As they worked, Cecilia was aware that the young Indian manservant was watching her closely. She permitted the surveillance. Her plan, as flimsy as it was, was to simply spend time with Adi, engage him in light conversation, and if possible, learn about his background.

How, for example, did he lose that eye? Did he fight at the side of General Laksurimanan? Was he in the service of the general even now? Cecilia’s heart burned with questions… but she forced her tongue to be still. If she were to learn Adi’s secrets, she had to win his trust first.

After pausing for midday snack, Cecilia and Adi began to grapple with the scope of the task before them. All about the library, large piles of books loomed, while the bookshelves themselves were largely bare. Too late, Cecilia realized that it might take a week to restore everything to working order.

Just when the scale of the labor before her was becoming evident, Mr. Azad appeared in the archway. Immediately, the manservant turned bright red, aghast at the disorder.

Mr. Azad rounded on Adi. “Tum kya kar rahe ho?!?” he roared. “Kya aap sharm karana chaahate hain—“

Cecilia stepped out from behind a bookcase, rushing to Adi’s side. “Please, Mr. Azad,” she said hurriedly. “This is my fault. I insisted. Adi here is only accommodating my very English impulses. You can forgive him… can’t you?”

Caught off-guard, Mr. Azad looked from the cringing Adi and Cecilia and then back again.

“Miss Cecilia,” he said awkwardly. “I… er, I apologize most humbly. Perhaps… ah…”

“We’ll have the library in shipshape in no time,” promised Cecilia… although this was an obvious lie. She and Adi had reshelved perhaps a tenth of the entire collection.

Mr. Azad swallowed, the wheels in his head turning. “Of course, sahiba,” he murmured. The manservant glanced about. “But perhaps… you could use some extra help?”

“That would be lovely,” Cecilia admitted.

Now the picture of calm, Mr. Azad said, “I will see to it.” And without another word, he turned and swept from the disheveled library.

Cecilia let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “Whew!” she exclaimed, grinning in embarrassment. “I thought we were in trouble there, for a moment.”

But Adi looked at her with adoration. “You have spared me from a whipping today,” he said gratefully.

A half an hour later, six scrawny boy-servants appeared, blinking in wonder at the mountains of books under the sky-dome. The oldest spoke to Adi in Urdu.

“He says that the Mr. Azad has sent them to help,” translated Adi.

“Ah!” Cecilia crowed. “Excellent.” In a twinkling, she set each boy to a task, using Adi to translate her wishes.

Within an hour, the library was looking somewhat organized once again.

When the supper gong sounded, Cecilia was feeling accomplished. The library was almost finished.

“It looks very good,” she surveyed, nodding in approval.

Adi bowed. “All thanks to you, sahiba,” he groveled.

The Englishwoman frowned. “Tut tut, Adi,” she groused. “I’ve never liked the master/servant roles they expect us to play here. Honestly, I was just glad to help.”

The eyepatched servant smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes.

“That’s enough for today,” Cecilia said, rubbing the book dust from her hands. “Tomorrow, we’ll finish shelving, then work on labels. Then you’ll be in tip-top condition.”

The young Englishwoman paused. All day long, she’d worked alongside the tireless Adi, hoping he might offer some small clue as to his own past or the whereabouts of General Laksurimanan. But the servant had revealed nothing. Now that she was about to depart, he seemed even more reserved than ever.

“Very well, then,” Cecilia mused, hiding her disappointment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow, sahiba,” Adi replied, and bowed.

Cecilia found Clement at the banquet table. The other English guests were present, but the Maharaja was not. Clement was already wolfing down his supper.

“Fine manners you have, Mr. Irvington,” Cecilia frowned, sitting beside him. “Not content to wait for your wife, I see?”

“Oh!” Clement jumped, surprised to see her. “Oh, I’b suh sorry, durlin’,” he grunted, his mouth full of curry and naan.

“So I see,” Cecilia said disapprovingly.

Clement swallowed, then hastily dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “No, no, darling,” he pleaded. “I really am truly sorry. You see, the Foreign Office has organized an elephant hunt tonight. I must go along, you see. Its an ideal opportunity to mingle with them, as it were.”

“I see,” said Cecilia, still glowering. “So why—“

“They leave in ten minutes,” Clement said, snatching some more naan. “I haven’t a moment, I’m sorry.”

“They… hunt elephants at night?” Cecilia exclaimed. She felt surprisingly abandoned.

“Apparently the beasts are easiest to shoot when they are sleeping,” Clement dryly replied, stuffing the bread into his pockets. He rose from his chair, already throwing down his napkin.

“Very well,” Cecilia moped.

Her husband, for once, paused to look at her closely. “Hey,” he said gently, and took her hand.

Surprised, Cecilia looked up.

“I know this trip is hard for you,” Clement told her, his voice warm and soft. “I’m sorry for that. Soon, darling, we’ll have all the time in the world together. Can you be patient for me until then?”

Clement, never a handsome man, looked positively adorable in the dim palace light. Cecilia found herself smiling up at him. His concern was touching.

“Oh course, darling,” she whispered.

After an evening tea with the other ladies of the palace, Cecilia gave up hope that Clement would appear. Feeling tired, she decided to head off to bed.

It was odd, the Englishwoman reflected as she climbed the Grand Staircase. She and Clement had been wed only a month ago, having known one another barely a few days. Clement had struck her as distracted, childish, a fool in every possible way. And when her new groom had cheerfully announced that she was to be whisked away to India, Cecilia had wanted to curl up and die. Her left seemed cursed.

And yet… Now that they were on this strange adventure in Ratiramshree Palace, it was as if Cecilia and Clement were seeing one another in a new light. Clement actually listened to her, for one. Victorian husbands were not famous for lending an attentive ear, certainly not to their wives. And more than that, there was now this tenderness in Clement’s eyes when he looked at her.

With a start, Cecilia realized: Clement is falling in love with me!

Surprised, the young Englishwoman smiled to herself. A husband who loved her? It was a nice feeling.

Rapid footfalls behind her jolted Cecilia back into the present. She turned, and was stunned to see Adi hurrying up the stairs towards her.

“Sahiba,” he said, his voice low and worried, “You are in danger!”

The eyepatched servant led Cecilia up the corridor, away from her room. The young man was clearly anxious, throwing fraught glances about as he gestured for Cecilia to keep up.

Finally, Adi found a small alcove of white stone. He ushered the alarmed Cecilia inside, then cast one last look about to ensure they were alone. The young Englishwoman studied his face anxiously.

“Do you remember the man who came to the library earlier today?” Adi said rapidly. “That Mr. Azad? You remember?”

Cecilia nodded.

“He is a wicked man,” Adi said fearfully. “Very cruel, very greedy. And his English master…” The young servant shuddered. “That man may be a rakshasa come to make us all suffer.”

“You mean Mr. Turpin?” said Cecilia in a low voice.

Adi nodded, his one eye wide. “The servants of the palace, sahiba, there is little that happens here that we do not know. We overheard the Mr. Turpin speaking with Mr. Azad, instructing him to guard your room tonight.”

The Englishwoman’s brow wrinkled. “Guard my door…?” she echoed. “But why—“

“Because the Mr. Turpin plans to enter your room and then force himself upon you,” said Adi sharply.

Cecilia clamped a hand over her own mouth before her squeal of shock could escape. Horror almost overcame her.

“Yes,” nodded Adi, his concern evident. “Apparently the Mr. Turpin believes he has some mystic power which will… ah, inflame your sensibilities and make you more willing to his… er…”

“I understand,” Cecilia said quickly, still in shock. “Are you sure? Is there—“

“I have said too much already,” Adi begged off, clearly ready to flee up the corridor.

“Wait!” the Englishwoman cried, clutching his hand.

Adi paused, clearly wishing to be away.

“I…” Cecilia said helplessly, her mind reeling. “I thought… you were going to tell me about General Laksurimanan,” she said stupidly.

A pained expression crossed Adi’s face. “The general was killed by the English soldiers,” he said sadly. “Oh, how I wish he had succeeded. India might be free today.”

The young man was about to add something when a door nearby opened. With a panicked expression, Adi snatched his hand back, then tore up the corridor.