The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Excellent, sahiba,” smiled Tanvi.

The mesmerizing Indian woman had now assumed command of Mr. Turpin’s expansive suite. Much larger and more opulent than Cecilia’s, the Royal Envoy’s rooms included a smoking parlor, with thick, leather couches facing one another and lavish Indian paintings on the walls. A model of the HMS Victory, a symbol of Britain’s military supremacy, rested on the hearth’s mantelpiece.

Tanvi stood at the center of the parlor, her slender arms folded behind her back. Although she was dressed in a servant’s plain mekhela and chador, there was no doubt that she was the master of this room. She stood tall, her head high. Mr. Azad stood by her side.

Standing before the Indian woman mastermind was Cecilia and the now-entranced Mr. Turpin. Cecilia was still dressed in her dancing costume, and rested one guiding hand on Mr. Turpin’s shoulder.

“His mind is under my complete control, mistress,” Cecilia reported, her tone casual.

The Indian woman smiled, pleased. “You’ve done well, sahiba,” she complimented.

Cecilia smiled. She dropped her hand to her side, stepping back from the motionless Mr. Turpin.

Tanvi stepped forward, then gripped Mr. Turpin by the jaw and turned his head slightly. He did not resist her.

“Ah…” the female mesmerist gloated, caressing Mr. Turpin’s cheek with her palm, “how I’ve longed for this moment.”

Standing off to the side, Mr. Azad’s face betrayed concern. “What are you planning?” he asked carefully.

Tanvi didn’t respond immediately. The beautiful hypnotist folded her arms over her chest, still relishing her victory. “I’m not certain,” she admitted. “When I first came here, all I thought about was hypnotizing the Maharaja. But he is too well secluded.”

“Well, now you control Turpin,” Mr. Azad said, almost impatiently. “Command Turpin to depose the Maharaja and then place me on the throne.” He bowed quickly. “As your figurehead, of course, mistress. That was always our agreement.”

Tanvi made a face. “I remember our agreement, little worm,” she scowled. “You question my honor?”

“No, no, General, of course not,” Mr. Azad said very quickly. He made a bow of submission.

“Be careful not to offend me again,” the Indian woman said coldly, “or I’ll turn the crystal on you and enslave your mind too.”

There was a pause as Tanvi continued studying the blank-faced Mr. Turpin. “Still,” she said thoughtfully, “putting the Maharaja under my power will still be necessary for the plan. Turpin may control the foolish English, but the Maharaja still commands the loyalty of the people. I will need both.”

An hour later, Cecilia blinked.

Her mind cleared. Where… where was she?

The young woman looked about. She… she was in the library. Standing in the fiction section. Right where she should be.

Cecilia frowned, confused. She thought she saw a distant memory, already dissolving in her mind. In that memory, a beautiful Indian woman was commanding her, controlling her, then saying, “…you will forget, sahiba… …you will forget… …you will forget…”

And then, the memory was completely gone. Cecilia blinked again, and the voice disappeared from her mind completely. And yet, she had the odd sensation one feels when wakes from a dream they can’t remember.

Someone politely coughed from behind Cecilia.

Adi stood there, looking at Cecilia fearfully.

“What is it?” the Englishwoman asked.

“You…” said Adi, then seemed to reconsider his statement. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Let’s get back to work, shall we?” Cecilia said brightly.

As usual, the banquet hall was filled with palace guests when suppertime came. The Maharaja did not make an appearance.

Feeling oddly out-of-sorts, Cecilia sat next to Clement, who was intently listening to his fellow Englishmen gossiping. The meal had yet to be served.

“Did you hear?” said one man. “There was a riot in Jhansi Market, earlier this morning.”

“Something’s stirred up the locals,” agreed another fellow.

“Well, the Jhansi people had better settle, if they know what’s good for them,” a bureaucrat’s wife said darkly. “Or else that Mr. Turpin will call out the soldiers from the Fort, see if he doesn’t!”

Clement scowled into his empty plate. Concerned, Cecilia placed a hand on his arm.

Her husband forced a thin smile. “The city is restless,” he told her softly. “Our fellow Englishmen don’t seem to realize how volatile the situation really is.”

But then the reporter took Cecilia’s and kissed it. “But at least,” he said gratefully, “I have you here with me. That’s all I need.”

The young Englishwoman blushed, then smiled. She couldn’t resist planting a small kiss on her husband’s cheek.

The kitchen servants appeared, bearing trays with steaming food. The guests smiled and nodded to one another, anticipating the feast.

But in that moment, Cecilia’s mind went blank. She dropped the napkin she’d lifted from the table.

“Darling?” Clement asked her, puzzled.

“I have to go,” Cecilia said plainly.

Her husband smiled, confused. “Darling, they’re only bringing—“

“I have to go,” repeated Cecilia. She stood and left the hall, without so much as a look back at the astonished Clement.

High in the Royal Chambers, the Grand High Maharaja of Jhansi and the Kingdoms of Ajmer and Jaipur, His Royal Excellency Vanasur Daityas Garuda Sanga III, He Who Was Without Mortal Equal, reclined in his pleasure couch. He was in a sour mood.

Normally, a visit to his harem would cheer the young Indian monarch. After all, his pleasure-women, the Shaaheenartak, were all there, each doing their best to lure him into her bed. Satisfying the Maharaja gave a pleasure-woman momentarily status within Ratiramshree, and thus the competition was fierce.

“My lord, you look so handsome today,” purred Faatina, making sure to bow low and display her deep cleavage.

“Oh, my lord, I had a dream about you last night,” Madanamancuka interjected, hurrying to kneel before the couch. She lowered her eyelids. “You were king in my bed, a royal tiger. Mmmm…”

“Perhaps you could enjoy one of my massages, master,” suggested Talakaksi, sliding her hands seductively over her own backside. “I have new oils, that will delight your skin under my tender hands…”

The Maharaja sighed, flitting his gaze over each of the concubines. All of them aroused him, yet none seemed worthy of his time. Perhaps the pleasure of a naked woman was not what he sought?

His Royal Majesty was troubled. His ministers had reported that Jhansi was not reacting well at all to English occupation. The slaughtered elephants had pushed an already-simmering city even farther to chaos. And yet, the English seemed indifferent—or even contemptuous—of their conquered subjects.

If only General Laksurimanan had not failed! the Maharaja thought ruefully. His Majesty had personally given twenty thousand rupees to the general’s cause, and if the English discovered that, no doubt he would be thrown into the deepest dungeon of Jhansi Fort. These were dangerous times.

“Your Highness,” a palace butler said, making a forbidden entrance into the harem’s inner chambers.

Immediately, the pleasure-women squealed indignantly, hurriedly covering up their barely-clad bodies.

“You dare?” roared the Maharaja, outraged.

The butler fell prostrate to the ground. “Please, a thousand apologies, master!” he groveled. “I… I…”

“Speak!”

“Master,” gasped the wretched man, “I had no choice but to enter. You see…”

“Well?” snarled the Maharaja, reaching for his dagger.

“The Esteemed Mister Turpin,” wailed the butler. “He is here, master. He insists on seeing you. Now.”

The Maharaja paused. Turpin? That English worm? He dared to enter the Maharaja’s private chambers?

And yet… Turpin was not a man with which to trifle. The Indian prince feared Queen Victoria’s envoy, and for good reason. One gesture from Turpin, and the Maharaja could be shot. It was not wise to provoke such a powerful, arrogant man.

“See him in,” growled the Maharaja.

The pleasure-women gasped at this intrusion.

“Silence!” bellowed their master. He sat upright, hurriedly adjusting his turban.

Cecilia and Mr. Turpin were ushered through the Maharaja’s private sanctum, finally passing through a pair of iron doors. They were inside the central parlor of the harem.

The two English glanced about, taking in a sight no Westerner had ever seen before. The parlor was an enormous circular chamber, perhaps modeled after the forums of ancient Greece. The center floor was sunken, and the walls lined with lush pleasure-couches, replete with cushions. Doors around the walls led off to smaller, private rooms. The room was dimly-lit, and smelled of erotic incense.

The Maharaja sat on the largest couch, staring down at his two English guests with a look of distain on his regal face. Cecilia noted the other couches held about ten young Indian women, all unspeakably beautiful, all wearing very, very little on their svelte bodies. Two hulking eunuch bodyguards stood on either side of the Maharaja, glaring down at the English with blazing eyes.

“Forgive this intrusion, your Majesty,” Mr. Turpin said, bowing slightly. “But I have secured a gift for you, a gift that could not wait.”

The Royal Envoy moved behind Cecilia, his hands slipping off the light robe that she wore. As the garment fell away, all could see that Cecilia was once again dressed as an exotic dancer. This time, her costume was smaller and more revealing than ever. The necklace with the purple pendant hung about her throat.

The Maharaja, despite himself, flicked an appreciable eye over her body.

“I’ve been thinking…” Mr. Turpin said conversationally. “Your Majesty, the tensions between your people and mine are becoming too strained. It is my hope that this gift…“—and here he gestured to Cecilia—“…will be a gesture of good faith. From me, personally, to you.”

The Maharaja frowned, suspicious. “I thought you English did not approve of slavery.”

“We don’t,” Mr. Turpin admitted. “But… in this special instance… I saw to it that a rare exception was made.”

The other pleasure-women, realizing that they were facing a new and physically flawless competitor, narrowed their eyes and simmered. Cecilia could feel their vengeful stares.

“This young woman was captured in the Mediterranean, by North African slavers, I believe,” Mr. Turpin lied. “I have such contacts from my prior assignments; its best not to ask me about those details, your Majesty. But in their power, this young woman has been subject to mind-altering drugs, and now has no will of her own.” He smiled grandly. “She will obey your slightest whims, sire.”

The Maharaja said nothing, his face unreadable.

Cecilia, carefully maintaining a pleasant expression, watched the Indian prince closely. Re-hypnotized, the young Englishwoman completely believed she was a pleasure-slave, gladly ready to give her body to her new master. She was eager for service.

But of course, when she and the Maharaja were alone, the tables would be turned. Then new commands would become active in Cecilia’s mind. She had to get the Indian prince alone, somehow.

“I have plenty of women,” the Maharaja said cruelly, clearly suspicious of Mr. Turpin. “A new one is just another mouth to feed.”

“Well…” said Mr. Turpin, caught off-guard. “Well, you see, your Majesty, this young lady… well, she…”

“Take her away,” commanded the Maharaja.

The English envoy rubbed his elephant-head cane nervously. Like Cecilia, he had been programmed to complete their mission. His hypnosis-controlled mind couldn’t imagine what to do next.

“Take her away,” the Maharaja repeated, an edge in his voice.

The two bodyguards reached for their sword hilts.

Cecilia took a step forward. “My lord,” she said, curtseying, “please let me tell you why I must remain with you.”

The Maharaja shifted in his seat. “Speak,” he bid.

Thinking fast, Cecilia said, “I am the Lady Regina Heartstone, master. My father is an English lord in Queen Victoria’s Parliament. He has no idea that I was taken prisoner and that my thoughts were altered to become your slave.”

Surprised, the Maharaja leaned forward. “You are English aristocrat?” he asked, skeptical.

“I am, master,” Cecilia curtseyed again. “Of course, before I was kidnapped, I would never have wanted to become your love-slave. But now, my mind has been affected, and I have no will but yours.” She bowed submissively.

“There is another thing, master,” the young woman added, stepping forward. “I should tell you that all children I will bear will immediately be English lords or ladies, members of the highest British aristocracy.”

Slowly and deliberately, Cecilia began stripping off her dancer’s top, exposing her full breasts. “If I were to bear your children, master…” (She paused for effect.) “…you would be the father of an English lord. With all ranks and privileges.”

The Maharaja was staring at Cecilia in wonder now. He sat upright and uncrossed his legs.

“Everyone out!” he bellowed.

In a flash, the other pleasure-women, the guards, the servants, and Mr. Turpin all vanished. The Maharaja eagerly gestured to Cecilia, and she came willingly.

Approaching the Indian prince, Cecilia found herself beginning to dance. She was hypnotized to believe that she was the most skilled of exotic dancers, of course, and now was a moment to demonstrate her skill.

Standing less than a yard before the Maharaja, Cecilia swayed back and forth on her hips, back and forth. Her hands became alive, wriggling in the air as she moved them up over her head in a graceful arc. Her exposed breasts rose and fell as she breathed.

His Royal Majesty stared, unable to look at anything but the sinful woman dancing before him.

Cecilia smiled to herself, allowing her eyelids to close. Her red lips parted, just slightly. As her shoulders began to sway, she lifted the little dancer’s top up over her head, then carelessly tossed it aside. She was nude from the waist up… save for the pendant she wore.

“Bhagavaan se…!” the Prince murmured.

“Do I please you, master?” moaned Cecilia.

Not waiting for an answer, she extended both arms far from her body, as if they were boughs of a tree. Her hips shimmied in quick, vibrating motion, which allowed her belly to dance all on its own. Cecilia’s stomach was toned and flat, but the Maharaja could clearly see her muscles expand and contract.

The belly-dancing continued and Cecilia inched closer.

“I want you, master,” she said softly.

The dazzled Maharaja seemed to come out of his own trance. In one motion, he threw off his turban, allowing the thickly-wrapped cloth to come undone as it bounced on the floor. Then, with swift, clumsy movements, he tore open his own Achkan jacket, hurriedly pulling it off his round shoulders.

Cecilia knelt, her thin fingers unworking his Western belt. She could feel his erect member straining beneath the trousers; its firmness excited her.

With some improvised acrobatics, the prince and dancer had soon undressed one another. Cecilia’s slim, white body almost shone in the dim oil-light.

“Lie back, master,” she whispered, gently pushing the Maharaja back onto the couch.

Normally, the ruler of Jhansi would fly into a rage if anyone—anyone—dared tell him what to do. But Cecilia’s beauty and luscious body bewitched him. He reclined, momentarily wishing his own body wasn’t so pudgy.

Cecilia didn’t care. She lay atop him, lovingly kissing his chest and neck. As his hands wormed up her body to embrace her breasts, she whimpered in delight, just a little. She was very aroused.

The Maharaja was breathing quickly. Cecilia could feel his erect cock pressing against her pelvis; it was already dribbling with anticipation.

“Tell me,” she breathed, moving her mouth to his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to fuck you,” he gasped without hesitation.

Where His Royal Highness learned an English obscenity like “fuck,” Cecilia never learned, but his words made her even crazier with desire.

“Yes, master,” she moaned, rising up. She sat across his hips.

Allowing the Maharaja to play with her breasts, Cecilia lifted her body upward, then guided the Royal cock into her wet vagina. The thick, fat organ slid into her as if designed to fit exactly. Oh, it felt wonderful. Cecilia moaned again, and closed her eyes.

That first penetration felt like an angel’s kiss for both lovers. When the Maharaja was fully extended inside her, Cecilia simply remained there, savoring the feeling of that fat penis filling her so completely. It was divine.

Well, almost divine. The Englishwoman rocked up, just a little, then descended. She felt the Maharaja brush her clit, just with the right pleasure. She wanted more.

So much more…!

Now Cecilia was bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down. Her brown hair bounced in the air, freed from the ribbons she’d hastily tied earlier. Her vagina sang with delight. She wanted more, more more!

And yet… her legs were tense. Cecilia looked down.

While she had begun to ride the Maharaja, her hands, all on their own, had reached up and grasped the necklace she wore. Without any instruction from her mind, they lifted the thin strand of gold over her head. She was now holding just the purple stone in her fingers.

The Maharaja grunted in pleasure. He lifted his own hips, willing his penis to thrust deeper into Cecilia. While he still groped her breasts, he was losing concentration to the orgasm building in his loins.

Cecilia was in the throes of passion, too. And yet, she found herself holding the pendant before the Maharaja’s sweating face.

“Look at this, master,” her voice said.

Her hips were trembling now. She could feel her own chemical pleasure begin to blossom. Her orgasm would be massive, she could tell.

Almost cross-eyed, the Maharaja looked up into the pendant. Instantly, his gaze was captured. The rest of his body kept thrusting into Cecilia.

“Now, master,” Cecilia heard herself say, “you will climax inside me… and then your mind will surrender to me.”

“Unngh,” grunted the Maharaja, not understanding.

Cecilia closed her own eyes again. She was close. Oh, she was soooo close…! She wanted to taste that pleasure so badly…!

But something compelled her to resist, if only for a little longer.

“Climax now!” she barked, slapping the Maharaja’s belly with her spare hand.

The Indian prince cried out in surprise, and then his hips bucked. Cecilia was nearly thrown off.

The Maharaja’s thrusting rhythm changed, losing speed but gaining power. He was climaxing. With little snarls of happiness and laughter, he pumped all of his manhood into Cecilia’s waiting chamber, loving each and every sensation.

Meanwhile, Cecilia was still on the edge of her own pleasure. She could nearly taste it… Nearly…! Nearly…!

With one last push, the Maharaja finished. His back arched, then relaxed. Cecilia, through half-closed lids, watched him carefully…

The prince’s face drained of all expression. He was mindless now.

She had him!

That did it. The rush of sexual exercise and mental power was too much for Cecilia to bear any more. She felt her nerves overload as she exploded into orgasm herself.

“Ohhhhhhhh…!” the young woman cried out, still riding up and down on the Maharaja’s penis. Now, celebrating her feminine pleasures, she pressed harder against the cock, making sure to enjoy every last second of stimulation.

Cecilia’s orgasm was like a tidal wave, striking with great force, but receding quickly. Before she knew it, the young Englishwoman was flopped down on the Maharaja’s body, and she was gasping for air. Her own body felt wonderful, like it had been bathed in the ether of the universe. She felt tingling in her fingers and toes. The sensation made her giggle.

For a few minutes, Cecilia lay there, using the motionless prince as her bed. She smiled in triumph.

“And now,” she said to the Maharaja, “you will dress and come with me. And I will introduce you to your new master.”

“I obey, mistress,” the prince replied tonelessly.