The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Amanda opened the front door and was greeted by Ali’s sweet smile. “Hi, sis,” Ali said as she stepped into the hall. “WOW,” she whistled. “You do look the business.”

“Why, thank you,” Amanda said, turning sideways on so that her sister could admire the way the green silk sheath slid over her tall, firm body, the slit in the back allowing at least the smallest steps to be taken.

Amanda turned back to her sister, her red glossed lips shining almost as much as her emerald green eyes. “You don’t look bad yourself, to say you are only here to baby-sit.”

With mock modesty, Ali struck a pose. The short (some might say too short) leather skirt teamed with a blue sleeveless roll neck sweater really suited Ali, as did the knee-high black patent leather boots. The whole ‘rock chick’ look was topped off by Ali wearing her light brown hair, attesting to her need for some more sun, in a ponytail. Although Ali was not short, she gave Amanda a good couple of inches, and with Amanda’s coppery hair worn up she felt positively overwhelmed. So how could she resist when Amanda said, “Thanks for coming, sis.” As she threw her arms around Ali, their lips met in a very unsisterly kiss that lasted longer than either originally intended.

When Amanda finally let Ali come up for air, Ali found she needed quite a bit of pulling and wiggling to get her skirt back into its accustomed position.

“No probs, sweetie,” Ali said. “You know I love to look after Dawn whenever I can.” She suddenly realised that Dawn had not come bounding up to greet her as she normally would whenever Aunty Ali came to visit. “Where is she by the way?”

Amanda smiled. “She’s upstairs in bed. I told her you were coming and she asked if you’d read her a bedtime story.”

Ali raised a quizzical eyebrow. “One of yours?”

Amanda laughed. “Hey, why not? I just finished the first part of a fairy story, so that should be okay.”

Amanda glanced at her watch and gasped as she said, “Look, I really have to dash, sis. Thanks again, and let me know if she gives you any trouble.”

Ali reached out with her finger and wiped away a small smudge of lipstick from Amanda’s otherwise perfect face. With a grin, she put the finger in her mouth and licked off the glossy mixture, a soft moan forming in her throat.

Amanda laughed again, shaking her head. “You are incorrigible!”

Ali slapped Amanda’s silk-covered rump and said, “Go on! I’ll see you later, and don’t worry about Dawn. I’ll take good care of her.”

“I know you will, honey,” Amanda said, as she opened the door and left.

Ali stood looking up the stairs, her ears straining to see if she could hear any sounds, but everything was quiet. Satisfied that her niece was okay for the time being, Ali walked in to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a nicely chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Two minutes later, she was sitting on Amanda’s couch, glass in hand, watching the TV.

She flicked the remote several times, but nothing caught her attention, and she found herself thinking about little Dawn and the story Amanda had written. ‘What sort of Aunt am I?’ Ali castigated herself and stood, pausing only to retrieve the bottle, and quietly climbed the stairs.

A light was on in Dawn’s room, and Ali popped her head around the door to see if Dawn was asleep. Dawn had her eyes closed but Ali guessed she was pretending. “You want Aunty Ali to read you your Mommy’s new story, poppet?” Ali asked but Dawn kept her eyes tightly shut.

Ali glanced over to the bedside cabinet and saw the large leather-bound book Amanda wrote in. Ali never understood why her sister insisted on writing freehand but, hey, ‘each to their own’.

She walked around Dawn’s bed, quietly put down her glass, and refilled it from the now half-empty bottle. With a smile and a glance to make sure Dawn’s eyes were still closed, Ali held the hem of her skirt and wiggled, revealing her pantiless pussy. She pulled the straight-back chair from the dressing table and sat down, her booted feet resting on Dawn’s bed as she picked up the huge volume and opened it.

‘Sleeping Beauty’ the title page bore in Amanda’s flowing script, and Ali smiled as she thought of her online friend. She turned the next page and started to read.

“Once upon a Time...” Ali began, smiling at Dawn at the corny but expected opening.

... there was a Young King and Queen and like everyone else they longed to have a pretty little girl, only in their case of course, she would really be a Princess. Well, a few years passed after they were wed and still they did not have any children. Oh they tried. Night after night they spent hours locked in the Queen’s boudoir, their bodies hungry for the other, joining together in delicious unions, hoping that with each climax they might bring forth the sweet little heiress they longed for.

And when they were not screwing each other into total exhaustion, they were making pilgrimages to holy shrines, or praying on their knees in some great cathedral. And, without the slightest realisation of the hypocrisy and (as they said) just to be safe, they would also go into the woods to placate the ancient spirits of that country. An added benefit of this, of course, was that it allowed them yet another opportunity to satisfy their carnal desires—be it beneath the moon or the sun, they cared not.

It was on one of these trips, as they lay in their post-coital haze, that they met an old woman. Stooped she was, and wrapped around her shoulders and head was a black shawl that hid her face.

‘Good morning,’ the old crone rasped, showing no sign that she recognised the regality of her new acquaintances, though that would not have been surprising as they were both naked at the time, the King’s dick hanging limp after its recent convulsion, traces of which still glistened on the inside of the Queen’s thighs.

Now for all their highborn status, both the King and Queen were possessed of excellent manners, and they pulled their purple robes around them. ‘Good morning to you, grandmother,’ the King said, using the customary term for an elder female.

‘I see you have been busy,’ she cackled softly. ‘I assume that as you are in this glade dedicated long ago to Diana and Athena that you wish to conceive a daughter.’

The Queen blushed and the King sort of shuffled in a most unkingly way.

‘Not to demean the two illustrious goddesses,’ the old woman went on, ‘but if you really desire to give birth to a beautiful daughter...’

‘Oh we do, we really do,’ the monarchs chorused together.

‘Then find some filly root and make a paste, and apply it to both your loins. Refrain from sex for seven days, renewing the paste each day, and then... well, I’m sure you can work that out; you seem to have had plenty of practice.’

The woman could see the same thought pass through each of their minds: ‘Seven days!’ but they thanked her and assured her that they would do as she had said.

‘It is up to you,’ the crone said as she turned and quickly vanished into the encircling forest.

The King looked at the Queen, and she at him. ‘Well, I can’t see any filly root here, and seven days is such a long time,’ the Queen said, with a knowing twinkle in her eye, and they both dropped their mantles and made sure their last fuck for such a long time would be a good one...

“Well, that certainly wasn’t what I was expecting,” Ali said as she took another large swig of wine. Not Amanda’s normal style at all. But undeterred, and checking that Dawn was okay, she continued to read.

... Just as the old woman had promised, nine months and one week after they met her in the forest, the sun rose on a glorious clear morn and the Queen was delivered of a healthy, if somewhat noisy, little girl; and so they named her Princess Aurora. Well, Princess Aurora Leigh Ann Minerva Gwynedd Davina Becca Diana, to be precise, but as that was such a mouthful, to her doting parents she was simply, ‘Dawn’...

“Aww, that’s so sweet, you are in Mommy’s book, sweetheart.”

... The whole kingdom were overjoyed at the news the heralds brought to each village and hamlet, for they knew that if their Sovereigns were happy, then life would be a little easier for the serfs and peasants.

Along with news of the birth, the heralds brought news of a most lavish banquet to celebrate the King and Queen’s good fortune, and they wanted the woman who they had met in the green wood to be the guest of honour. But, try as they might, they had failed to discover any trace of her. The peasantry, therefore, were charged with finding her. They were instructed to notify the King and Queen of any women that met the general description, or of any fairies that still lived within their realm for, the heralds explained, fairies make great godmothers, despite the incongruity of the term.

So, as the weeks between the birth and the christening went by, news filtered in from every corner of the land, and although seven fairies were found (two more than the kings statistician had guestimated), no one could tell the King anything about the woman in black. Not that several conniving old hags didn’t try to claim the King’s favour, passing themselves off as the bringer of the monarchs joy. These were dealt with quickly, if rather painfully, by the Royal Secret Vice Police, a service whose unfortunate initials resulted in several heart failures as people were invited to parties.

So, armed with the information gleaned by his loyal subjects, the King sent out invitations to all the nobility, higher ranked gentry and the seven fairies. Every single one that didn’t succumb to seizures accepted, even the fairies, and of these all agreed to take on the task of godmother. Well, that’s not entirely true; the king did receive one refusal, one that he secretly was overjoyed at seeing. It was from his elder sister, Amanda. She was the elder by all of 9 months, and had this land any notion of fairness, she would have assumed the role of monarch on their father’s death; but being the eldest counted for nothing, as she was female. For her there had only been the prospect of being married off to some ugly prince to seal some treaty or other, whilst her younger brother knew he would one day be king...

“Now there’s a suprise, Mommy’s in here too,” Ali said with a giggle in her voice. Still Dawn made no sign that she was listening, but Ali continued to read out loud as her finger started to slip inside her pussy.

... As Amanda grew, she flowered into the most beautiful girl in the land. She had long, wavy red hair, a most unusual colour in the kingdom as a whole, and the King’s family in particular, as indeed were the deep green eyes that seemed to some to look straight into their souls. She was also taller than both the King and Queen, and her breasts outgrew her mother’s by several cup sizes. Oh, she was beautiful, of that there is no doubt, but the courtiers, aristocracy, and even her own family saw her as being somewhat fey...

“Now ain’t that the truth!” Ali exclaimed

... Her father had indeed tried to marry off his daughter, telling her on her 18th birthday. He honestly thought she would be pleased, but Amanda soon put him, and her mother, right on that score. Her father had, by turns, pleaded and demanded she obey him, as failing to honour the agreement he had made with King Stephen would probably result in war and ruination of their land.

‘What if I were to take holy orders?’ Amanda had asked, and the King saw a way out and told her he would call the Mother Superior, Sister Matthew, the following day.

‘Don’t waste your time,’ Amanda hissed. ‘No way am I going to be saddled with some bloke’s name! Give me the castle and lands at Farnworth and I will form my own order,’ she demanded, balled fists resting on her soft young hips...

Ali smiled as she recognised one of Amanda’s familiar poses.

... The King considered this, carefully weighing up the small (in fact, almost insignificant) rents he got from Earl Farnworth, and he issued a decree there and then stripping old Farnworth of his land and titles ‘For unnamed crimes against the state.’ The king had always found it kept the more uppity nobles in line if he tossed one of them to RSVP every now and then; great man manager, the old King.

That very night Amanda had packed (well, her hand maidens had packed), and she left the following day with trunks full of her finest gowns and several bottles of rich red wine and the tastiest brandies from the King’s own cellar, although why someone starting a convent would require such things, the King could not quite fathom. But he let it pass.

Within a year, Farnworth Castle was renamed, and Amanda surrounded herself with nubile virgins for initiates; novices they were called on arriving, but the term became meaningless very shortly after...

Ali’s fingers increased their speed as she imagined her sister initiating young virgins into her ‘order’.

... The present King hadn’t seen his sister from that day to this, and was pleased he wouldn’t have to now. Smiling, he passed the good news on to his wife. The Queen had never even met her sister in-law, and she sometimes shuddered when she heard whispered conversations about the ‘goings on’ at her Sanctum. But for all the gossip, Amanda was a Royal Princess, even if she renounced the title in favour of Superior Mother, and the Queen was sure she would have been able to welcome her husband’s sister to the ceremony with good grace.

Anyway, with or without the King’s sister the ceremony was soon upon them, and the top table was laid out for the King and Queen and the seven fairy godmothers In front of each was a beautiful gold goblet made and engraved for each of them to take away as a memento of the occasion. Things got off to a great start, and everyone cheered as after two hours of making small talk they saw the King and Queen enter, Princess Aurora held to her mother’s breast. The monarchs appeared to have spared no expense in providing food and wine for their guests, and several times they remained seated as one or another of the gentry, probably to try and win favour, stood and toasted their health and the health of Princess Aurora—for even the commoners couldn’t handle all the little girl’s names, nor for that matter had the Archbishop in the cathedral, but he was old and doddery and everyone pretended not to have noticed.

As the main course was starting to be cleared, the King’s chancellor rapped his staff thrice upon the marble floor as he had done as each of the assembled guests arrived, announcing them to all and sundry. ‘By your lords’, leave, may I present Arian, Fairy of The Blackthorn.’

The whole place was stunned into silence as a wizened, bent figure shuffled through the half-open door. Immediately, the King and Queen recognised their benefactor, and jumped from their thrones and rushed to meet her. If the King and Queen were surprised to see Arian, her sisters were dumfounded, and threw each other quizzical glances, for each had believed that Arian’s song had long since left the mortal realm. Yet here she was before them, small as life.

‘We looked everywhere for you!’ the king shouted, as he and his wife closed the gap between the top table and the newly arrived guest.

‘Ha,’ scoffed the unhappy fairy. ‘You can’t have looked very far; for I live no more than 10 leagues from this very palace. Weeks I have waited to receive an invitation to your daughter’s christening, I who had such a hand in her conception.’

‘I’m afraid the meal is all but over, but come sit with your sisters in the place of honour,’ the King cajoled.

Arian looked with no love on her finely arrayed sisters and again let out a disparaging snort. ‘You expect me to sit beside them, all gilded up in their finery and with golden goblets before them. No, bring me some leftovers and I’ll soon be on my way.’

The King tried to convince Arian to stay but she rebuffed all entreaties, and so, defeated, he ordered his page to fetch Arian some food. With a huff she squeezed onto the end of a bench, space appearing as if from nowhere, for who wants to sup with a disgruntled and haggard fairy?

To cover their embarrassment at their wayward and dark sister’s behaviour, Primrose, Fairy of the Meadow, stood and said, as she raised her apparently-never-empty gold goblet in salute to the King, Queen and Princess. ‘May I thank your majesty for your hospitality to me and my kin. Long is it since we were treated with such respect.’ Her words were shot like arrows from a bow at Arian, who just cackled softly as she bit into the meat sticking to a lamb’s thighbone, an action that acquired her even more space on the bench.

‘As a sign of our gratitude,’ Primrose continued, ‘we would like to present gifts of our own to your darling little girl. I bestow on her the gift of beauty.’ And with a flourish of her arms that sent half a cup of the best wine to the floor, a soft tinkling could be heard.

Similar actions were accompanied by even more tinkling, as one by one the seven sisters endowed the princess with esoteric (and frankly unsaleable) gifts ranging from patience to chastity—this last, presented by the youngest, Rosebud, Fairy of The Hedgerows, bringing a giggle from the servants.

‘Is that it?’ Arian coughed, spitting gobbets of meat on to the board in front of her. ‘God, I remember when fairies were respected... no, feared! What sort of wet sops have you become as your melody fades? Well, I, for one, do not intend to dishonour centuries of tradition. I also bestow a gift on your daughter, the gift that she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die.’

The room was thrown into a deafening silence, and the Queen’s face was a ghostly white.

With her gift delivered, Arian rose and walked towards the high iron-bound doors that were slammed shut in her face, and two guards inched gingerly towards her. ‘You will not detain me. For my music could bring this palace and the whole of your kingdom crashing down around your ears,’ Arian said, her voice strong and commanding. The king looked at Bluebell, Fairy of the Glade, who could not meet his gaze but simply nodded in reply to his unworded question.

‘Go from here and never return,’ the King bellowed.

The King’s voice, so close to Rosebud, Fairy of The Hedgerows’ ear that the sound woke her from her wine-induced slumber, for it was ever thus that human wine, especially served in glittering gold goblets, was extremely potent to the Fair Ones’ system. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked Daffodil, Fairy of the Hills. In a whisper, Daffodil explained what had just happened. ‘Bugger!’ said Rosebud. ‘I knew she was up to something. I meant to go and hide so I could outsmart her by giving my gift last.’ She shrugged and thought to herself, ‘My bad,’ and realised she had been spending far too much time with humans in the tavern near her grotto.

Fortunately for the King and Queen, as Arian disappeared (some swore on a broomstick), a new figure entered the grand banqueting hall. There was no doubting this newcomer’s lineage, her blue dress and dark blonde hair almost blinding. The guards, who were afraid they’d get the blame if any more fairies messed up the festivities, tried to bar her way, but like a tree in the wind or a river in full flow, she seemed to bend away from their outstretched hands to stand unmolested in the centre of the hall.

‘Ilian!’ cried Rosebud, and was rewarded by a bright smile from the vision in blue...

“That’s me!” Ali laughed out loud and brought a faint murmur from Dawn. “I wonder who else she has in here!” she pondered as she continued the story, her fingers now almost dripping as she let herself go with her sisters imagination.

...’I cannot undo that which my sister has wrought,’ Ilian began, and the room hung on her every word. ‘May I, too, give a gift to Princess Aurora? She will indeed prick her finger, but she will not die, she will merely fall into a long, deep, deep sleep. And when that happens, I will come to you and let you sleep also, King and Queen. Tell me, is my gift acceptable to you?’

The queen broke down in tears, relief releasing the torrent that fear had pushed against the bulwark of her royal bearing. With a smile towards the sleeping little girl, Ilian took her leave, but promised to return often to ensure the child’s safety.

As often happens in tales such as this, time passed. But not a month went by without Ilian visiting the palace to see how well Dawn was growing, for she too was allowed to call the princess by her diminutive. Each time she visited, she reminded the King and Queen to beware of spinning wheels, because if Dawn managed to avoid a prick she would be fine, but if not she would fall into a deep, deep sleep. This was also imparted regularly to Dawn once she was old enough to understand.

At first, the King had considered outlawing spinning wheels altogether, but with a sigh Ilian explained that in every tale she had ever read, such a course of action would eventually turn out to be counter-productive. She also pointed out, much to the chancellor’s relief, that a large proportion of the country’s export revenues were attained by the sale of cloth and silk, neither of which would be possible without spinning wheels.

As Dawn grew older and, suffering not so much as a scratch on her pale white skin, the gifts her fairy godmothers had given her became apparent. She was indeed, among other things, beautiful, charming, graceful and, much to the annoyance of Tom the stable lad, who assumed that knobbing the royal crumpet when they fancied a bit of rough was a perk of the job, chaste.

As she neared her 17th birthday, Dawn pleaded with her mother to allow her to host a ball for her friends. After much nagging and simpering, Dawn got her own way, as pretty princesses tend to. ‘Thank you,’ Dawn said hugging her mum. ‘Now I’m going to need a really special dress. I heard there is this fantastic seamstress in the town. I’m sure she’d agree to make one for me just so she can put up the royal warrant.’ It really is amazing how quickly royalty learn the important things in life.

So the next day, an old woman with her grey hair coloured almost pink and wearing the most outlandish clothes arrived at the castle, carrying a wicker basket full of threads, bolts of the finest satin silks, and other sundry tools of her trade. She talked endlessly as Dawn and her mum, the Queen, chose the most expensive cloth from which Dawn’s new dress would be made. The seamstress tried, totally unsuccessfully, to change their mind, but eventually acknowledged defeat. ‘Let me see how the material falls so I can create it especially for you,’ the aging designer said, throwing the end of the cloth sample over Dawns shoulder. She gathered it in folds at Dawn’s slim waist, and apologetically enlisted the Queen’s help in holding it whilst she appeared to hold the other end in various positions.

‘Would you be so kind as to pass me a straight pin from my basket, your highness?’

With a sigh at having to perform such a menial task, Dawn reached into the old woman’s basket. She screeched and withdrew the hand as if it had been bitten. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ the Queen asked, looking up from where she had knelt so as to hold the cloth just so, and she saw the small bead of blood welling up on the tip of Dawn’s finger, the blood as red as Dawn’s nail varnish, not at all blue as she had been led to believe it would be. ‘Oh,’ said the woman, reaching her hand into the basket and withdrawing what looked like a spinning top with lambs wool wrapped around the handle. ‘I must have left this spinning wheel in here by mistake.’

Dawn just stared as the drop of blood ran around her finger and fell to the floor, the words ‘spinning wheel’ and ‘deep, deep sleep’ thumping in her mind as much as her heart did in her chest. The queen screamed as Dawn crumpled to the floor unconscious.

Through her tears, the Queen thought the seamstress shimmered, and as she blinked she saw before her Arian, her yellow toothed grin like a knife through the Queen’s royal heart, the cackle like the gates of hell opening to swallow her whole.

Knowing that in her grief the Queen was not liable to be swayed by threats, idle or otherwise, Arian jumped lightly, belying her age, onto the windowsill and ran off through the palace gardens, never to be seen again.

As if drawn by the Queen’s grief, the King and an unexpected Ilian entered together and saw the tableau before them. The Queen on her knees, sobbing and holding the limp body of her daughter to her breast; the discarded spinning wheel still wobbling silently where Arian had dropped it.

‘And so the gift has come to pass,’ Ilian said. ‘Have servants take her to her room. And you two,’ Ilian continued, turning to the mortified parents and producing from goodness knows where a small silver flask which she passed to the king. ‘You must prepare to sleep, also.

Retire to your chamber, have a drink from the flask to calm you, and I will attend you after I have vouched safe the Princess.’

At traumatic times like these, even a King likes to be told what to do, as it removes the burden of choice. ‘Do as she says,’ he said to a strong-limbed guard who gently lifted the slumbering form of Dawn into his arms. Silently, the King and Queen left, hand in hand, towards their bedroom, the King already tasting the nectar in the flask before passing it to his wife, who tilted her head back and felt the fire burn her throat a little.

Ilian followed the guard as he solemnly carried the sleeping form of the Princess up several flights of stairs, seemingly untroubled by the dead weight of his burden. He pushed open the door and, like a father with his own daughter, laid her down gently on her back on her satin-covered bed.

Two of the Princesses’ maids, Michelle and Tabitha, entered the room as the guard left, all three of them with eyes full of salty tears. ‘Dry your eyes,’ Ilian all but snapped. ‘She sleeps, nothing more. Undress her and put her beneath the sheets whilst I go and see what I can do for the King and Queen.’

After so many years of visiting the castle, no one was surprised to see Ilian making her way to the private chambers of the King, and the guards at the door stepped aside to allow her to enter. As she did so, she let out a scream as she beheld the two dead sovereigns lying on the woollen carpet. All the guards said that she did everything she could to try to save them, but even a fairy has some limits.

Ilian directed the chancellor to announce to the people what had happened to Princess Aurora; writing out the proclamation herself, she informed the masses that in a moment of grief, and with the balance of their minds affected, her parents had taken their own lives.

As the heralds were sent forth, Ilian returned to Dawn’s bedroom and dismissed the still-weeping maids. She looked down on the sleeping form, her long blonde hair newly brushed and fanned out around her face on the whiter-than-white pillow. She reached down and touched Dawn’s foot, but the princess did not move; nor did she as Ilian took hold of the silken sheet and whipped it away to reveal Dawn in all her innocent glory. A light shone in Ilian’s eye, and her form fluttered, too intent on her prize to bother to maintain the glamour. For a second she was Arian again before her own form settled back into its accustomed shape, and Amanda really liked what she saw. She sat on the bed, a fingernail brushing aside a stray lock from her niece’s forehead. ‘A 17-year induction,’ she said, too softly for even Dawn to hear. ‘And it worked like a charm.’

‘I know you can hear me, sweetheart. Soon you will be where you belong in my sanctum, and I shall rule as your regent.

‘But don’t worry. I will wake you from time to time,’ Amanda assured her captive, as she let her hands slide over Dawn’s perfect breasts. ‘It wouldn’t be half the fun if I didn’t...’

As the story ended, Ali let the large book fall to the floor as her body was gripped by the orgasm she had been trying so hard to postpone until the story reached its own climax. Even the loud sounds of the book hitting the floor or Ali’s screams of pleasure brought no movement from Dawn. Not that that surprised Ali, as she looked at her sister’s little girl’s perfect 22-year-old body spread eagled on the bed, silk stockings securing hand and foot to the bed’s wrought iron frame. Nor did her silence cause concern as Ali regarded her freshly painted red lips, the lipstick just starting to leach into her Mommy’s white silk cum-soaked panties that had been balled and forced into her soft mouth before being secured with one of her Mommy’s best silk stockings. Ali let her right hand caress Dawn’s firm young breasts, noting that the nipples were already erect, wanting, needing. Ali held her cum-smeared left hand below Dawn’s nose, knowing full well what an effect such an aroma had on her sister’s sweet little baby.

With a smile Ali wiped the cum from her fingers around Dawn’s nipples as a present for Amanda and said, “Your Mommy really does have a very good imagination, sweetheart. I’m sure she’ll come and at least kiss you goodnight when she gets in.” And with a final tweak of Dawn’s crinkled nipple, she picked up the remains of her wine and returned to the TV.