The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was early morning.

Cecilia awoke, feeling as if she had slept for a year. Her limbs were heavy and slow to respond to her brain’s commands. Her thoughts stumbled about inside her skull, jumbled and discordant.

Where was she? She was lying in her grand bed, in her Ratiramshree Palace suite. The sunlight was streaming through the gauze curtains. Far, far in the distance, river birds were squawking over the Betwa’s calm waters.

With some effort, Cecilia pulled herself out of bed, and was surprised to discover that she was utterly naked. Her body felt sweaty and sticky, as if she’d been in a Turkish sauna for hours.

How odd, the young woman thought, confused.

Even more unusual, Cecilia was completely alone. Her servants, Diya and Pihu, were no-where to be seen. Didn’t they prepare her for bed last night?

Cecilia frowned. Actually, she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything from last night, nothing at all. The harder she tried to recall anything, the more her memory drew a blank.

After puzzling over the vague gap in her memory, the Englishwoman shrugged. She moved to the dressing area and drew a bath for herself.

As usual, Clement was seated at the banquet table and already eating when Cecilia found him.

“Darling,” the Englishwoman said lightly, “you know its bad manners to begin a meal before your spouse.”

“Oh…” replied Clement, looking chastised. “Yes, quite right. Er, sorry, darling.” He set down his toast.

“Well, how was the elephant hunt?” Cecilia asked, settling into the next chair. She plucked a napkin from the table and spread it across her narrow lap.

Clement frowned. “Beastly. I must say, our English brethren, they can make for some rather appalling guests in this country.” He shook his head. “The hunting party, they simply marched across the grassland, blasting at every sleeping elephant they saw. The plains are now littered with the dead creatures, left to rot away under the sun, I suppose.”

He scowled. “I assumed they would shoot one, maybe two. That would have been sporting. But they drank heavily and then set out to wipe out every last elephant, just for fun. The elephant is a sacred animal in India, you know.”

“Oh, goodness,” Cecilia murmured. “What will happen then the locals find out?”

Clement offered a dark glance. “There will be trouble, of that I’m sure.”

He paused. “Darling,” he said worriedly, “you wouldn’t leave the palace, would you? I mean, not without an escort or some protection, right?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Cecilia said tartly.

“Good,” nodded Clement.

The young reporter reached over and patted his wife’s hand.

“I’m headed back to Jhansi Fort today,” Clement said, reaching for the butter. “I’m concerned that the English will provoke another revolution, especially if this bad behavior keeps up. The locals, they are not happy.”

Adi was working in the library when Cecilia entered. She paused for a moment to admire the newly-organized stacks, pleased that a few of the palace’s English guests were actually browsing for something to read.

“Very well, then,” she smiled at Adi. “Let’s continue our labors, shall we?”

The work went much quicker. Cecilia and Adi worked side-by-side, learning to anticipate one another and often splitting tasks without verbal discussion first. They were a good team.

All the while, Cecilia patiently watched her younger partner. Adi no longer tensed in her presence, and occasionally when she asked a question, he responded without the stuffy, formal tone of a servant. He seemed to be warming to her charms.

Finally, once they’d completed A through G in the Fiction section, Cecilia decided to risk a little small talk. “Tell me,” she asked absently, “does your family live in the city?”

“Oh no, sahiba,” demurred the young man. “My parents have been dead many, many years. I have no family.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cecilia said quickly.

Adi shrugged. “It is not so bad for me,” he told her. “I am lucky to find a position in the Maharaja’s house, especially after the Uprising.”

Cecilia’s ears perked up. Taking care to sound disinterested, she said, “Oh, so you were in the Uprising, then?”

“I was,” Adi murmured. He glanced over at the other English patrons, a worried expression on his face.

“I apologize,” Cecilia said quickly. “I didn’t mean—“

Adi waved away her fraught expression. “It is fine, sahiba. You are a good person, I see that. The other English… perhaps not so much.”

Cecilia was dying to ask more questions. But she feared another inquiry would make Adi uncomfortable. So she held her tongue and bided her time.

Three more hours passed, with more English guests wandering into the library. “My goodness,” one exclaimed, “I had no idea this was here!”

While the patronage was satisfying, it also prevented Cecilia from prying more deeply into Adi’s past. The young man was uncomfortable around all the English, save just Cecilia. She would have to wait until the two of them here alone before resuming her investigation.

Finally, perhaps an hour before teatime, the library was empty.

Adi was up on the ladder, arranging the top shelf as Cecilia handed up titles. He glanced about, as if confirming that they were alone.

“I must ask you something important, sahiba,” he said in a low, but urgent, voice.

“Oh?” Cecilia responded, surprised.

Adi swarmed down the ladder to stand before her. “Last night,” he said, concerned. “You were safe from Mr. Turpin?”

Cecilia stared at him blankly.

“You remember?” prodded Adi. “I warned you… about Mr. Turpin?”

Cecilia frowned. She remembered nothing of the kind.

“I… uh…” was all she could manage.

Puzzled, Adi leaned closer. “I warned you,” he coaxed. “The Mr. Turpin was going to come to your room, to… well…” His brow furrowed. “You do not remember?” he said, astonished.

Cecilia had absolutely no memory of anything the boy was describing. But she couldn’t remember a thing from last night at all. A feeling of alarm tugged at her.

“Tell me again,” she instructed.

Adi looked suspicious, but complied. “Last night,” he related, “I overheard—“

“Boy!” a male voice boomed out.

Cecilia and Adi both jumped. Standing at the end of the stacks was Mr. Azad, his arms folded across his narrow chest. A look of disapproval simmered on his face.

“Oh!” Cecilia exclaimed, placing a hand over her pounding heart. “Mr. Azad, I didn’t hear—“

“What is happening here?” demanded the manservant.

The Englishwoman straightened, not caring for his tone. “Adi and I were in consolation,” she replied coolly.

Mr. Azad strode up, his suspicious eyes blazing. “It is a poor idea to converse so freely with the servants of the palace, sahiba,” he intoned. “In India, the division between master and servant is strict, and for a good reason.”

Before Cecilia could retort, Mr. Azad turned on the frightened Adi. “Leave us,” he growled.

Without hesitation, Adi turned and fled.

“Now see here,” Cecilia objected, her hands curling into angry fists.

Mr. Azad passed a hand over her face. “Paalan karen aur paalan karen,” he told her firmly.

Suddenly Cecilia felt strange. Her thoughts vanished within her mind, like a candle flame extinguished by a sudden puff of air. An odd calm settled over her. She stood motionless, her body relaxing, her eyes blankly staring up at Mr. Azad.

“You will come with me,” the tall man ordered.

And Cecilia had to obey him. She was wistfully happy to obey him. Without a word, she followed the manservant out of the library. No-one saw them depart.

Mr. Azad moved through the palace without once glancing about; he knew exactly where he was going. Cecilia tagged after him, unable to think or speak, only able to do exactly as she’d been instructed.

The two moved down the corridor, through a small door, then descended a dimly-lit servants’ staircase. The steps took them deep into the palace’s innards, beneath the pleasure-levels where the English and the aristocrats enjoyed the Maharaja’s luxuries. Down here, the stone walls were simple and drab. The floors were not swept. The air was stale.

Mr. Azad moved onward, through a narrow hallway, then through two more. Palace servants stared at him and his entranced companion, but no-one dared say a word.

Finally the manservant arrived at a simple wooden door. He knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately. Inside, a beautiful Indian woman, hidden by the shadows, gestured to him and Cecilia. Both stepped inside.

The room was wide, but sparsely-furnished. Simple wooden chairs were arranged around a table, and on the table were strange clothes, neatly folded. Two large candles provided the only light.

After Azad and Cecilia entered, the beautiful Indian woman shut and locked the door. Her long hair swirled about her as she moved.

In a flash, Cecilia knew this woman’s name: Tanvi! Her name was Tanvi! She seemed familiar… yet Cecilia had no idea how.

“You took too long,” Tanvi snapped at Mr. Azad. “We only have a little time.”

Immediately a look of cringing fear crossed over Azad’s face. “Forgive me, General,” he said immediately. “The sahiba,”—and here, he indicated Cecilia—“she was not in her chambers. I had to search—“

“I do not care for excuses,” Tanvi said angrily. “If we miss our opportunity, you will pay dearly.”

Mr. Azad’s face paled. “Yes, General,” he muttered.

The Indian woman moved to stand before Cecilia. “You will remove your clothes, sahiba,” she ordered, touching Cecilia lightly on the forehead.

An irresistible desire to please possessed the young Englishwoman. “I obey, mistress,” she heard her voice say out loud.

And then, Cecilia’s hands went to work, unwinding the Indian sari that she was wearing. She undressed quickly, and without the slightest shame or hesitation.

Tanvi stepped back, studying Cecilia as her nude body unveiled itself. “You were lucky to find this one, Azad,” she remarked. “A former dancer? With my commands in her mind, she will become the perfect agent. Our target has resisted my earlier attempts… but he will be unable to resist her.”

“Yes, General,” Mr. Azad agreed.

The final garment fell to the floor. Cecilia was naked now. Without further instruction, she simply stood, her clothes cast to the floor. Her mind, clouded by powerful magic, was a blank. She gazed at the wall with unfocused eyes.

With slow, predatory steps, Tanvi walked in a circle around her entranced victim. As she studied Cecilia’s lean muscles, ample bosom, slender frame, and porcelain-like skin, the Indian woman fingered the purple medallion that hung around her own neck.

“Mmm…” the female hypnotist said, permitting a sly smirk, “she is a magnificent woman, is she not? A prize I will personally enjoy long after she has assisted the plan.”

Mr. Azad did not reply.

Taking her time, Tanvi moved to stand directly before her English slave. Enjoying herself, she cupped Cecilia’s naked breasts.

“Kiss me,” demanded Tanvi.

Without hesitation, Cecilia stepped forward, pressing her body against her mistress. She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and touched her lips to Tanvi’s, with the slightest of pressure. The two mouths embraced.

Mr. Azad watched, making no expression or comment.

“Mmm,” Tanvi mumbled in pleasure, her hands sliding down Cecilia’s body, over her nude hips, then resting atop the Englishwoman’s buttocks. The kiss deepened. And then deepened again.

Tanvi grinned wickedly, breaking the kiss.

“Yes,” she smirked. “Miss Cecilia will do very well as our pawn. Make the preparations.”

Mr. Azad, his face still ashen, bowed. Then he turned and fled from the room, pulling the wooden door shut behind him.

Tanvi leaned in to kiss Cecilia once again.

In Ratiramshree’s Grand Foyer, the servants were changing the floral arrangements. Another team of housekeepers were drawing the curtains. The sun was setting, and soon the Maharaja’s English guests would be expecting supper. There many preparations to make.

Growing impatient, Geoff Turpin watched all this activity from a corner of the Great Hall. The Royal Envoy fingered his elephant’s head cane, his moustache bristling. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to keep him waiting.

Finally, the object of his ire, Mr. Azad, appeared from a side chamber. The Indian manservant hurried to his employer’s side, already making the clasped hand gesture of apology as he approached.

“A thousand pardons, sahib, a thousand,” he wheezed, his face flush. “There were many matters I needed to—“

“Where have you been?” thundered Mr. Turpin, not caring that everyone in the hall could hear him. “I expected you more than—“

“Please, please, sahib,” Mr. Azad begged, bowing even lower. “I was investigating that… special matter… you asked me to do.”

Mr. Turpin paused, his rage tempered by other desires. “Cecilia Irvington?” he asked, his voice lowered. “Yes, yes, man, spit it out! Where is she?”

The Indian manservant gasped, still heaving for breath. “I… I do not know, sahib,” he confessed.

The Royal Envoy almost flew into another rage. “You don’t—“

Quickly, Mr. Azad cried out, “But I have secured another prize for you, sahib! One that will make you forget Mrs. Irvington. Yes, yes!”

Mr. Turpin paused. “What do you mean?”

“I have secured an evening with one of the Shaaheenartak, sir. One of the Maharaja’s own pleasure girls. No Westerner has ever been allowed to touch them before.” Azad bowed low. “You will have one of them for yourself… but only if you come now.”

The Royal Envoy’s eyebrows rose. He’d seen the Shaaheenartak about the palace, of course. They were lovely women, perhaps as beautiful as Cecilia herself. The stuffy Englishman had always resented that the Maharaja had them, quietly tucked away where his people could not see them.

But these pleasure-women were local beauties, Indian women. The Royal Envoy desired only European women.

Reading his master perfectly, Mr. Azad leaned in. “The newest Shaaheenartak… she is a European, sahib,” he breathed. “French, I believe? Captured by Arabian slavers, then turned into a sexual tigress by the Maharaja’s most potent opium. Her skin is white, sahib. She is in heat, and she awaits you…!”

These last words were too much for Mr. Turpin. The Royal Envoy licked his lips.

“Take me to her,” he ordered. “Now.”

Mr. Azad led his employer up a secondary staircase, and then through a royal archway. The palace guards eyed the Indian and Englishman, but said nothing. They wouldn’t dare harm the Royal Envoy.

Soon, Mr. Azad had located a small, private chamber. This circular room was painted in swirling cream colors, and fine silks hung from the ceilings. The floor was tiled, but thick Indian seating cushions were arranged for sitting. The only light was a single oil lamp, dimly flickering from above.

This was a room for lounging. And entertaining willing young ladies.

“Ah,” Mr. Turpin harrumphed, secretly pleased. “Yes… Yes, this will do! You’ve done well, Azad. For once. Where is the girl?”

“I will send for her, sahib,” murmured Mr. Azad. He bowed and departed, never once making eye contact with his master.

Grinning, Mr. Turpin kicked off his shoes, gently leaned his cane against the wall, and then made himself comfortable. The Maharaja, himself quite fond of physical pleasure, certainly knew how to live. If only Mr. Turpin could convince the Crown to depose the man and install himself as the ruler of India!

A side door opened. A young, beautiful woman slipped into the chamber, moving without a sound. Mr. Turpin stared in aroused wonder.

Oh, the girl was divine in appearance. Divine! A veil covered her nose and mouth, but Turpin could see her soft, hazel eyes sparkle. The girl wore a tiny two-piece pleasure dancer’s costume, which covered only her breasts above and her hips below. Strips of the thinnest silk hung from her waist, creating the illusion that she wore a long skirt. But as the lovely woman moved, her naked legs were easily glimpsed between the ribbons.

Mr. Turpin’s breath sucked in. The dancer’s toned flesh was on full display, especially, her long, lean stomach and shapely chest. Her bare arms revealed tight muscles, suggesting her entire body was similarly built. The dancer’s feet were bare, and the Royal Envoy’s heart leapt when he realized she wore matching rings on both of her long toes. He was excited by women’s feet.

The dancer moved to shut the door behind her, twirling her body about to do so in a playful way. As she turned, Turpin saw her from behind. The dancer’s outfit was minimal, making it appear that her back was completely exposed. Her bottom was tight and perky, and Turpin loved how those two buttocks rose and fell as she repeatedly shifted her weight from one leg to another and then back again.

With a soft click, the door shut. The dancer swiveled about again, now squarely facing Turpin. She raised her head high, which caused her full, round breasts to jut outward.

“Might I dance for you, sahib?” she murmured, those hazel eyes sparkling in a playful way.

Turpin’s mouth fell open. “You…” he exclaimed, “…you’re an Englishwomen!”

The girl laughed, and extended her muscled arms out in a dancer’s posture. Those curvy hips began to swivel. The silk ribbons were whipped up into a froth about her legs.

Now Turpin was in a state of wonder. “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes locked on those bouncing breasts.

“I am but one of His Highness’s humble Shaaheenartak,” the woman replied, her shoulders getting into the dance. Softly, she added, “It is my hope that I please you, sahib.”

And then, the beautiful dancer lowered her eyelids. Her body moved with a seductive grace that was mesmerizing to watch. Her hips and that sleek, toned belly swayed back and forth, almost as if the girl’s body was a pendulum. She extended her arms out to the side, opening her slender hands up to the ceiling. Her bare feet gracefully rose and fell as she danced. Her sexual energy was undeniable.

Mr. Turpin gaped; he couldn’t help it. He’d seen many other beautiful young women, of course, and in various states of undress. And the Good Lord knew that he’d eyed plenty of dancer’s bodies in his years.

All of those women were erased from his mind now. The luscious dancer before him was dizzyingly intoxicating. He couldn’t think.

The woman suddenly clasped her hands together in the prayer formation. Her legs closed, and she swayed her hips back and forth in a crazy, serpentine rhythm. As the silk ribbons flew, Turpin could see her bare legs, naked up past her hips. He longed to run his hands up those legs.

“Sit back, sahib,” the dancer commanded softly.

Although her English accent was stirring Turpin’s curiosity, the Royal Envoy did as he was told. He reclined across the floor cushions, almost lying on his side now.

The dancer sighed happily and arched her back. Once more, she separated her feet, taking a wide stance. As if trying to escape, her shoulders shimmied wildly, which caused her breasts to tremble. More than once, Mr. Turpin hoped they would pop out from under her small costume.

There was no music, no sound except for the woman’s husky breathing. The room smelled of faded incense and stale sweat. To a man like Mr. Turpin, this was arousing in the extreme. He felt like an emperor, fresh from another conquest, and about to enjoy his latest reward.

Yes, he would have sex with this girl, that much the Royal Envoy had already decided. She was too desirable, too alluring for him to resist. He would take her, by force, if necessary.

It was the girl’s fault, really, Mr. Turpin reflected. She was too beautiful, too luscious. How could a good man like him resist? There was only so much restraint he could be expected to manage. Besides, using force might not be necessary. Even now, the dancer was watching him closely, unmistakable arousal in her eyes. She wanted him. The sheen of sweat appearing on her flesh was not just from her dancing; she was in heat, too.

As if reading his mind, the woman danced until she was almost standing over Mr. Turpin, those delicious bare feet just inches from his own stout chest. She towered over him, allowing the Envoy to stare up the length of her body, up her legs, her stomach, and the underneath of her round breasts. They were exposed from underneath.

“You find me desirable, sahib?” the dancer moaned.

“Yes,” panted Turpin.

Did she just smile?

“Lie on your back, my lord,” she whispered.

Not hesitating, Turpin obeyed. He was delighted as the woman stepped over him, her small body now straddling his barrel-like frame.

Now the dancer’s hips moved in wide, lazy circles. She raised her arms high over her head, which held her shoulders and breasts in place. Her knees bent, slowly lowering herself down to squat upon her captivated audience.

Mr. Turpin couldn’t bare it anymore. His greedy hands flew up and embraced the woman’s thighs. With a little pressure, he forced her to kneel, straddling his own hips. His erect cock pushed upward, and would be touching her vagina if not for their clothes.

“Do I excite you, sahib?” the dancer teased. “Good. I was sent here to please you…” In a voice dripping with honey, she added, “…in every way.”

She leaned forward, placing her small hand on Turpin’s chest for balance. As her face drew closer to his own, the Royal Envoy thought his heart might burst.

He had to kiss her. He had to.

With an almost savage motion, Turpin grabbed the veil and then pulled it over the woman’s head. Her face was exposed.

In the dim light, Turpin merely saw the woman grin lustfully. She leaned forward even more, bringing her lips to his. He felt that thin little body—and those delightful breasts—press against him.

Her mouth tasted sweet, as if she’d applied sugar to her lips.

The kiss was soft and gently, and over far too soon. As the dancer raised her head, a groggy Mr. Turpin stared up at her.

Suddenly his heart pounded. He knew this woman!

“Cecilia?” he exclaimed in wonder.

It was Cecilia. Cecilia Irvington! There was no doubt! There, floating before him, was the face of the perfect beauty he’d been lusting for, ever since that chance encounter on the train. Mr. Turpin stared at those red lips, those crafted cheeks, those soulful hazel eyes, now gazing down at him.

For the first time, the Royal Envoy wondered if he was dreaming.

Cecilia smiled, and gently kissed him once more. He could not resist.

“How… how is it that…” the Royal Envoy stammered. “You can’t be… Cecilia, how…?”

The near-nude woman flashed a mischievous smile. “Oh, sahib,” she clucked, “I am but one of the Maharaja’s dancers. Nothing more.” She laughed again. “Come, let me show you something. Then I am all yours.”

The woman’s slender fingers rose up to her neck, and for the first time, Turpin realized that she was wearing a thin necklace. Suspended on the tiny gold chain was a strange, dull stone pendant, perhaps purple in color. But… was this stone sparkling? It couldn’t be.

Cecilia moved to hold the pendant before Turpin’s eyes. At the same time, she shifted her weight to lie directly beside him; this allowed her free hand to explore down his body. Her free hand went to work pulling on his belt.

The pendant was sparkling, Mr. Turpin was sure of that now. He’d never seen a stone quite like it. Although Cecilia’s presence was driving him mad with desire, there was something about this dull purple rock that fascinated him. It was oddly captivating.

Perhaps this is a new mineral discovered here in Jhansi, he thought lazily. Something I can make the locals mine for me. I’ll ship it back to London, and make my fortune that way. He could envision his future business already: Turpin’s Pleasure Rocks, a crystal from the Far East that was both decorative and seductive at the same time.

“Mmm,” Cecilia moaned, beside him. “I want your cock, sahib. I want it. Please help me?”

She wanted sexual intercourse. Without thinking, Turpin reached down, ripping open his belt and then the front of his trousers. His eyes never left the purple stone that she dangled before him.

“Oh,” the dancer sighed happily, and Turpin felt her fingers slip beneath his underdrawers. She touched his erect shaft, her touch the lightest imaginable. Instantly, he felt ripples of delight tingle through his body.

“Now listen to me, my love,” Cecilia whispered into his ear. Her hand was stroking his penis, slowly. “I will pleasure you, and you will climax like you never have before. You will be unable to resist me. When you experience your delight, you will feel so happy. So happy. And then you will fall into a deep, deep sleep, where you will be my slave… forever…”

Mr. Turpin couldn’t have heard that right. She would cause him to climax now? No, no, he wanted to climax inside her. He wanted her naked and trapped beneath him as he hammered his cock into her soft, wet womanhood. He would fuck her so hard, the wretched souls down in the palace dungeons would hear her screams of ecstasy. That was what he wanted.

And what was this business about… her slave? No, that made no sense… No sense…

Mr. Turpin’s thoughts broke up. Cecilia’s hand had turned to magic, pumping sheer excitement into his cock. He felt light-headed. His legs tensed. His breathing was harsh and jagged. His heart pounded.

“That’s right, sahib,” coaxed Cecilia, “climax for me. Climax, and I am yours…”

Cecilia moved her foot, absently bumping the elephant-head cane. The walking-stick clattered to the floor.

The young woman must have meant that she would become his slave. Yes, that was it. Briefly, the Royal Envoy pictured a completely naked Cecilia, a slave collar about her elegant neck, chained to his bed. She would be his for…

Turpin ejaculated. His cock roared to life and he was spouting as if an explosion had detonated inside him. The feeling of raw pleasure and power was overwhelming. The stimulated man grunted and squealed with raptured joy.

“Yes…!” Cecilia said, sounding delighted.

Her hand slowed, allowing Turpin to fully enjoy his orgasm. Hot, sticky semen splattered over his suit vest and lap, and yet he didn’t care. The man kicked, arching his back a little.

And then… the chemical delight was spent. He felt his climax fade and then vanish. His cock, supremely happy, began to soften in Cecilia’s fingers.

Suddenly, Turpin’s mind clouded over. He felt irresistibly sleepy. As his last independent thoughts dissolved, the Envoy shut his eyes and surrendered to the magic which had captured him.