The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

With a smile on her lips, obedience in her heart, lust smoldering between her thighs, yet only a common cleaning brush clutched between her palms, the slave Eria scrubbed her owner’s entrance hall.

She knelt, smooth, pearlescent skin glowing, nude, knees tucked up beneath her, holding the heavy brush in front, vigorously drawing it back and forth along the tiles, employing the weight of her whole body to get rid of every speck. Though the work was hard, she did not mind it. She did not tire. The task had been given to her by her owner, yet that wasn’t why she didn’t mind it, either, or grow tired.

The fact was, Eria didn’t mind doing anything anymore. She was a property girl—her owner’s hot, obedient doll—and there was no task so low it could be beneath her dignity.

As a property girl, she possessed no dignity. As a living fuckdoll, she possessed no shame. As a slave, she was only a possession.

Up and down, Eria moved the cleaning tool. Every time she lowered her upper body, her massive and balloon-like breasts pressed momentarily against the smooth floor. The friction against her engorged nipples—as a sex slave, she was magically bound within a permanent state of arousal, her body perpetually hot, wet, and eager to be used—made her skin tingle. Every time she rose back up, her thighs parted briefly, and the cool air swept against her enslaved and blazing pussy. For anyone else, and naturally to any observer, this act of cleaning might have been construed a sexual one; yet as she worked Eria did not think of sex.

Truth be told, the doll thought of nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Her mind was blissfully blank. The motions of her lower body, as she squirmed and tightened her vaginal muscles over and over, as if fucking a cock, were wholly automatic. There was only the task before her, and Eria’s attention on that task was less than humanly conscious, though comprehensive all the same. She had gone over nearly the entire foyer. She had only a few feet in the far corner left. She did not hurry, however. It did not occur to her to hurry. It could not.

Of all the slave girls in her owner’s mansion, and there were seven others, Eria was worked the hardest. This was because of who she had been. Before being made a doll, she had been a noblewoman. She had been Lady Eria Scarphn, Head of House of the Great House of Scarphn, one of the oldest and most prominent families of the Island-Republic of De. But more than that, she had been the desired object of affection for her owner, before he had been her owner: Lord Chros, also of De, who in the past had tried to court her into marriage but whom she had rejected on multiple occasions, disdaining him in public and besmirching his reputation. It doubtless gave her owner great satisfaction now to have her, once a woman so rich and powerful, who had hated him, as his property girl. Eria herself didn’t care one way or the other. She was worked very hard, yet none of that meant anything, either.

Very little, in truth, mattered to her. Fucking mattered, yet that was only because her transformed body required fucking, constantly.

Eria was finishing when she heard the horses and coach outside the front door. Chros is home, an element inside her recognized—not a thought so much as a neutral observation—and a wave of wet heat rushed through her stomach and pussy, in preparation for sex. Again, this was not so much genuine desire as a matter of function. She experienced an identical reaction in the presence of any man, or in the anticipation of serving any man. She experienced it when put to use by a woman. It was utility, nothing more. The slave serenely climbed to her feet and put away the brush and polishing rags she had been using in the cupboard. She strolled to the atrium where she was hastily joined by her seven other sisters in bondage. The slave girls took their customary places in a row next to the front door, each of them putting her face low to the floor and her ass high in the air, as always.

This position was expected of them.

Like Eria, none of the slaves wore clothes. Unlike Eria, some of them shivered, as much from the cold as from their profound sexual needs. This was the difference between them. They were enslaved, yet still human. Eria was not.

A minute later, the front door opened, and a collective sigh greeted the sight of their owner. Only Eria made no sound. She stared at the floor, unblinking.

Chros was a fortyish-looking man with dyed silvery hair. His face was plump. There were rosy spots in his cheeks. He drank too much. His lips held a dismissive curl, set by constant wear. The footman who had accompanied him took his cloak and hurried through while Chros lingered, casually pulling his thin leather gloves off one finger at a time. His narrow eyes reviewed the line of ample backsides.

Stepping forth slightly, he put a slippered foot in front of the first slave.

“Welcome home, master,” this girl breathed passionately, then leaned forward to lick his foot.

On the slave girl’s left shoulder, in back, a spiraling tattoo coiled. This sigil was known as the “Mark of Daox,” and it was a magical symbol. Any woman who wore the Mark of Daox became a sex slave. The Mark made her a sex slave, burned into her mind lust and obedience to men, and at the same time suppressed all recollection of a life prior to the activation of the Mark. Eria was not tattooed with this Mark of Daox, however. It was not necessary in her case. Her own magical induction into slavery had been far more invasive. Her unmarked skin shone like polished horn, without pores or imperfections, without even fingerprints.

“Welcome home, master,” a second slave girl said, and a third, as Chros repeated this custom. When he dropped his gloves in front of the fifth slave, she nearly fainted from gratitude. “Thank you, master,” she added to the welcome. Chros was a creature of habit, and his habits were the laws under which his slaves lived. The dropped gloves were an indicator as to which slut would be serving his pleasure that evening. “I will serve you well, master,” the girl said.

Chros moved past without acknowledgment.

Eria was the last slave in the row, always. He paused. “Eria,” her owner called, and the doll lifted her head to gaze upon his face. “Master,” she said neutrally.

“I have a guest tonight. He has expressed an interest in having a slutty ex-noblewoman like you suck his cock. You will see to his pleasure this evening.” Chros rubbed his hands together excitedly. There was an extra flush to his cheeks.

On account of this, the doll perceived this night was important to her owner.

This conclusion was reached not so much through thought as by composition, the same type of inherent composition that caused flowers to unfurl their petals when the sun rose, that caused animals to seek shelter whenever a predator appeared in the sky: in other words, it was facility, not consciousness.

“Yes, master,” Eria said. “Thank you for the opportunity to serve. May a slave ask the name of the individual who will be sampling her flesh tonight?”

Again, it wasn’t curiosity that had prompted this question. It was the general sensitivity that the more information the doll possessed on this man, the better she would be able to serve him. Whether she served on her back or on her knees this evening, whether she performed as his maid or as his whore, was in itself irrelevant. It was all the same to her. Everything was the same to her.

“You are fucking a special guest tonight, slut. You will be used by the great Man-Wizard Alcaeus.”

Alcaeus. Eria recalled the name. A prominent wizard of the City of De, a member of the Ainchonnim Order. Chros had spoken of him often, sometimes in tones of fear, more often in tones of envy.

Chros had tried to solicit the wizard before using the doll’s flesh, albeit in vain. He had done so because there were advantages to courting the favor of wizards. The man-wizard had always failed to respond, though, either because he hadn’t been interested in fucking a doll like Eria, or he had looked down upon Chros for being a pimp. Possibly both. Chros had had much more success soliciting her to those members of the Deinian nobility interested in fucking one of their former peers. His prostitution of the once-noble doll had earned him much acclaim and political credit. Eria’s memories were complete, when she needed them to be complete. In many ways, they were more comprehensive than they had been when she was human. The doll could recall every moment of the life of Lady Eria Scarphn, from the noblewoman’s earliest childhood to the moment she had been transformed into a doll. She could recall what the Lady Eria had eaten at a dinner twenty years ago, from first course to last. She could remember the first word she had spoken as a young girl. At the same time, and somewhat paradoxically, the blankness in Eria’s mind was even more total than that of a girl bearing the Mark of Daox. She remembered names and events only when it was necessary for her to remember them.

At all other times there was only emptiness.

“Thank you, master,” the doll said. “Your slave looks forward to pleasing her master’s guest, the Man-Wizard Alcaeus. Your slave loves the taste of cock, master. She will please him well.”

“That’s all you are now, aren’t you?” Chros said, unsteady on his feet. He liked to drink in taverns before coming home from the senate. He often drank now. “You’re just a cock-loving whore.”

“Yes, master. I am a cock-loving whore. I am your cock-loving whore.”

After the slave girls were dismissed, Eria returned to her task of scrubbing the foyer. She resumed the task in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position she had been in before.

She did not think. She did not anticipate. She did not plan.

She just did, as always.

It never failed: every time Alcaeus was in bed with his favorite slut, someone or something would interrupt. Once more the knock at his door came in mid-fuck.

“If you don’t answer, perhaps they’ll go away, master,” Leusa wheedled in his ear, clutching at him beneath the sheets, groaning in pleasure. Alcaeus too groaned, but in dismay. Not again, he thought. The last time a man had come knocking at his door had been the start of that whole miserable Lord Teuthes matter.

On the other hand, in this case an interruption had probably been inevitable.

Alcaeus was a man-wizard. This meant that, among other advantages at his disposal, he could employ magic to complement his vigor in bed. Bluntly, he could stay erect and enthusiastic so long as he was conscious. Likewise, his slut Leusa was a magically transformed, erotically enhanced, breathtakingly beautiful sex slave. Such was the fiery and perpetual arousal stoked within her, she would have done anything for a hot cock between the legs. She would have sold her soul for cum (arguably, she had).

The effects of the Pecthentnim slave paste with which she had been treated were impressive. The women who ate it grew curvier, more voluptuous, and desirous of sex. Boobs grew, skin cleared, hips became rounder, asses filled out, lips developed a propensity for and utility with cocksucking; and best of all this entire marvelous adaptation occurred in the space of but a few weeks. There were faster, more impressive magical transformations, but none were cheaper or easier to employ. Wizards created the paste, but anybody could serve it, and this was how Daox had become the chief producer of slave girls throughout the island-republics. The point was, among these other advantages, a full dosage of slave paste provided its female consumers a certain “staying power” in regard to the sex act, an absolutely necessary quality of coital endurance because of the lusty kinds of lives they would be living.

Daoxechent sluts had very strong hips and very supple pussies. And they never got enough sex.

He and Leusa had been fucking for days, stopping only for food, sleep, and trips to the toilet. This interruption was their first break in a long, long time.

Alcaeus reluctantly pried Leusa’s hands off his cock and stared up at the ceiling. “Damn it,” he whispered, gasping heavily. Then, resignedly, he cast his attention, then Leusa herself, downstairs.

The messenger turned out to be a boy, of all things, about ten, in uniform. He openly goggled at Leusa when she greeted him at the door. He flushed. “Ah . . ah . . . I’m to . . to wait for a reply,” he stammered. The beautiful, recently and profoundly fucked slave girl, clad but in a cheap and revealing rag, the heat of her owner’s passion still proclaimed upon her flesh, invited the boy in; but he shook his head and waited outside, red as an apple.

Minutes later, Alcaeus read the note he had brought in the kitchen.

“A Daoxechent enslaver wants to make an appointment,” he told Leusa, as she searched for something to give the boy. “His name is Jereg.”

“Jereg is the enslaver who purchased me, master,” the slave girl told him, pausing. “He is the one who made me a slave.” There was a note of breathless awe in her voice, which Alcaeus, with minor jealousy, noted, then dismissed. Most Daoxechent slave girls would not have been able to recall this information. In addition to the heat of slavery and male worship the Mark of Daox on their backs imposed, complementing the effects of the equally magical paste, the tattoo removed all recollection of their pasts, so the enslaved girls could devote themselves all the more fully to their new lives as sluts.

Leusa’s memories had recently been awakened, however, permanently.

Contrary to expectations, these revelations had not diminished her value. Quite the opposite. In Alcaeus’ opinion, Leusa’s restored memory made her an even better slave, not that she had been lacking any worth before. Their marathon in bed had been a celebration of this fact, actually.

They sent the boy on his way with a pocketful of sweets. A couple of hours later Alcaeus welcomed the representative from the Lords of Daox into his home. “Wizard Alcaeus,” the yellow-haired Daoxechent said, taking a firm grip of his hand. They adjourned to Alcaeus’ sitting room where Leusa knelt, waiting, suitably refreshed. Upon seeing the slave girl, the man paused in the doorway.

“Ah,” Jereg said. “The lovely, former Lady Leusa.”

Leusa had changed into a brighter, shorter, more translucent tunic, which revealed more of her luscious body than it could ever have possibly concealed. The deep cleavage of her perfect breasts, in particular, was enhanced by the snug outfit.

“How absolutely beautiful her slavery sits upon her!”

Alcaeus beamed with the pride of ownership. So did, he thought, Leusa, taking due pride in her value as a man’s slut. “Thank you, master,” she said, looking up at the burly Daoxechent agent. “A grateful slave welcomes the man who enslaved her to the home of her master.”

She went to all fours. The open bottom of her tunic rode up to reveal her lovely ass as she crawled forward. She kissed Jereg’s boots. She then got to her knees again, in a position she had taken countless times in front of Alcaeus. “Thank you, master,” she said again, whispering, tears in her eyes.

Jereg touched Leusa’s raven-black hair, after meeting Alcaeus’ gaze first and receiving the customary nod of permission. In polite society, one did not just handle another man’s slave girl. He caressed the side of the former noblewoman’s face.

“You were right, my dear,” he told her. “You were obviously destined for slavery. Were you to have been anything else would have been a waste.”

“Thank you, master.”

“You have blossomed into a truly beautiful slut, Leusa. You would bring a great price in any market.”

“Thank you, master. That is kind of you to say to a mere slave.”

“I speak an honest appraiser’s truth.” Jereg turned to Alcaeus. “And are you satisfied with your slave, Wizard Alcaeus?”

“I have not been completely dissatisfied,” Alcaeus said, smiling. He winked at Leusa.

“Her pussywork?”

“Tight and wet. She is a truly excellent fuck. She rapes exceptionally well.”

“She is helpless and responsive?”

“I can play her like a musical instrument. My neighbors complain of the noise.”

“And her cocksucking?”

“She provides the best blowjobs I have ever received. She gets better every day.” Leusa looked down, smiling, turning a little red, again, Alcaeus thought, with satisfaction. “She certainly gets lots of practice!” General laughter.

“That is no small praise, coming from you,” the enslaver said. “With your reputation.” He gazed down at Leusa again. “But I almost forget. You know who I am, Leusa? You remember me from before?”

“Yes, master,” Leusa said, eyes meeting his from the floor. She spoke matter-of-factly. “You came to my house, upon my request, along with the Woman-Wizard Menupao and the prefect, Lampos, when I was still a free woman and noble. I told you I wanted to be made a slave. You assessed me and told me that I was worthy of becoming a slave girl. Thank you, master, for that.”

Jereg spoke to Alcaeus again.

“I had heard the rumors. Slaves talk. I didn’t quite believe them.” He faced Leusa. “Why did you complain in Lampos’ office? Do you recall?”

Leusa grinned widely and laughed.

“Of course, master! I was upset at how little money my flesh was worth. Just a little stack of coins.” When she laughed, she became even more beautiful. “And then you put the slave bracelets on me, and I was a slave!” She hissed in pleasure.

Jereg laughed too. “Amazing. I’ve never met a Daoxechent girl with a whole memory before. I know there are charms, but still . . . .” He chuckled again. “Well, she is worth a great deal more now than that little stack of coins then. I would make you an offer, Wizard, but I’m not sure I could afford her.”

“She is not currently for sale,” Alcaeus said, very much understating the matter. “Perhaps latter.”

He invited the enslaver to sit. Once they were comfortable, with food and drinks provided, Leusa took up a position next to the wizard, curling beside him like the exotic pet she sometimes was, resting her head on his knee. “You did not come here, I take it, to make an offer on my slave girl, did you?”

“No,” Jereg said. Alcaeus had tried reading the man’s mind, earlier; and failed. The man’s ego was well-disciplined and guarded against telepathy, as much as any non-wizard’s could be without psychic ability. Alcaeus found this to be a common trait among the higher-ranking enslavers from Daox, the ones who worked directly with the Pecthentnim. However, willpower alone would not have been sufficient to avoid Alcaeus’ even casual probing. The man wore a protective charm on his person. Alcaeus had detected it as he had walked through the door. It was hidden beneath Jereg’s shirt. He had got it from the Scylornnim, the wizard conjectured, analyzing the device’s invisible energies.

It was a prudent choice, and one that showed the resources of the Lords of Daox. The Scylornnim were a rival male wizard guild, from Eastern Dommodon. Likely, if the two of them had been in Eastern Dommodon, Alcaeus assumed, an enslaver meeting with a Scylorn man-wizard there, he would have been wearing a protective charm purchased from the Ainchonnim, Alcaeus’ own order.

If Alcaeus wanted, he could have forced his way through the talisman. He knew spells that could defeat it; but he would let the man speak first. That would be only polite.

“I’ll come straight to the point,” Jereg said to the wizard. He suddenly looked nervous. He hunkered down in front of the man-wizard and spoke quietly. “Like the messenger I sent, I bring a request for an appointment from another. The Woman-Wizard Racy, of the Pecthentnim Order, wishes to speak with you, privately. She can be here within the hour, if you permit this.”

Alcaeus’ eyebrows rose, and he moved forward, surprised. “She’s here? In the City of De?”

Jereg nodded. At once, Alcaeus gained an added appreciation for the charm the man was wearing. His secrets had indeed been worth holding.

In the north, the Ainchonnim Order was based in Western Dommodon. In the south, the Nycclethnim Order was based on the isle of Disten. Between these two lands was the island of De. The men-wizards of the first were treaty-allied with the women-wizards of the second to control the territories of all three. While technically three independent republics, with their own senates and senators, prefects and nobles, the brutal reality was that De, Disten, and Western Dommodon belonged to the wizards of the Ainchonnim and the Nycclethnim, just as other wizard guilds held their own territories in the world.

Wizards ruled Ramanananan. They did it behind the scenes, more often as not, yet while the day-to-day politics of life in the republics was conducted without their interest or input, their rule was nonetheless predicated on maintaining the respective, hard-won territories they had once fought so bitterly over. The City and Island-Republic of De was the common meeting ground between the Ainchonnim and the Nycclethnim. It was a neutral area, yet for their two guilds alone. The Nycclethnim permitted the Daoxechent enslavers to sell their girl slaves in De, because of the high demand; but if an actual woman-wizard from another guild showed up, and particularly so a woman-wizard from the Pecthentnim, whom the Nycclethnim detested, they would skin her alive.

And because they were the Nycclethnim, this was probably no exaggeration: they would skin her alive.

“Will you meet with her, Wizard Alcaeus?” Jereg asked. Mutely, Alcaeus nodded yes.

He had done well in his relations with the Pecthentnim. Alcaeus’ guild-brothers permitted Pecthent wizards to operate in their territory. He had dealt with them many times, in Western Dommodon, in Hiduh-Vi, elsewhere. He certainly trusted them more than he did his own guild’s ostensible allies, the Nycclethnim, who called both the treacherous Menupao and the spiteful Noalassa fellow members.

And he had good relations with the Pecthentnim’s associates, the Lords of Daox. He had purchased many slave girls from them over the years, including most recently his beloved Leusa.

Having delivered his message, Jereg left immediately. “Shall I make something to eat, master?” Leusa asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

He looked out the window, following the enslaver as far as he could through the busy streets of De. He wondered what the Pecthent would be like. He imagined someone imposing.

They were always clad in gray, all-encompassing robes and cloaks, the Pecthent women-wizards, like the classic image of death.

“Is this dangerous, master?” Leusa had scooted next to him, worried. Alcaeus put a hand on her.

“Yes,” he said. There was little else to say.

True to Jereg’s word, a carriage pulled up to Alcaeus’ residence within a quarter of an hour. There was an unused stable that connected to the main house—some of his past slaves had been allergic—so the vehicle could be, and was, backed into it. As an extra precaution, Alcaeus standing at the window worked a spell that would cause all men within its influence to turn their heads away, just for the time needed. From the way Leusa’s gaze drifted, despite her obvious interest in what was going on, he imagined the Pecthent was doing something similar to the women in the area. “She’s here,” he said.

“What? When?” Leusa stood up comically surprised, looking around her. “I didn’t see her arrive.” Alcaeus smiled. It was a subtle but effective spell.

Considering the matter, Alcaeus was not wholly surprised to find a Pecthent in the City of De. When he had made his private arrangement to purchase the former Lady Leusa as his slave girl, before she could be sent off to Daox, someone must have been here to enchant the Mark on her back: obviously then a woman-wizard already in De. She was taking a great big risk, though.

So was he, in meeting her. Alcaeus’ brothers would not approve of this encounter. It risked a guild-feud. The Pecthentnim were relying on his discretion, just as he had earlier theirs in his private purchasing of Leusa. He owed them.

At length, the door to the sitting room opened. Jereg came in first. Alcaeus noticed the Daoxechent enslaver had his hand on the hilt of the dagger sheathed in his belt. Behind him entered a tall figure in gray, feminine only through the slight suggestion of her movement, so completely bundled up was she.

From the top of her head to a bare half-inch above the floor, Alcaeus’ visitor was covered in thick, colorless cloth, like washed-out burlap. Even her face and hands were covered: there wasn’t a mask, just a blank hood without eyeholes. Either the fabric was transparent on the inside, or the woman avoided running into things through the use of magic. Her gloves were coarse and chunky, without fingers, like mitten-restraints.

“The Woman-Wizard Racy,” Jereg introduced her, tilting his head. “A friend of the Lords of Daox.”

Aside from the six-foot height, she looked like every other Pecthent wizard with whom Alcaeus had ever dealt. “Welcome to my house,” he said. “I am Alcaeus, and this is my slut, Leusa.”

“thank.you.for.see.ing.me,” a dull monotone emerged from the hood. It was the same voice he had heard from all other Pecthents. “may.we.speak.pri.vate.ly. our.bus.i.ness.af.fects.both.our.guilds.”

“Of course,” Alcaeus said, extending his arm. “Leusa, would you show Jereg the rest of the house, please?” Leusa started for the door.

Jereg approached Alcaeus. Now that he and Racy were safely here, he had visibly relaxed. “I am interested in your slut, Wizard Alcaeus. May I fuck her while you discuss matters with Wizard Racy?”

Alcaeus was not surprised at the question. He had been waiting for it, in fact. “Of course,” he said. “Leusa, please him. If he is left unsatisfied, I shall be upset.”

Leusa cast amorous eyes on the admittedly handsome enslaver (he reminded himself that he wasn’t jealous). Alcaeus could tell how much in heat she was, had been since Jereg’s name was mentioned.

She was a slut, after all.

“You will not be upset, master. I assure you. Leusa shall endeavor to serve his guest’s pleasure.” She stood next to Jereg and pressed the front of her soft, sizeable chest onto his. She gazed up at him, mouth open, caressing his arms. Her mouth opened; the tip of her tongue touched her front teeth, just for a second. “I am yours, master,” she whispered. “How may Leusa serve your pleasure?”

“I shall instruct you.” The two of them left the room, rather quickly.

And so at last Alcaeus was alone with his true guest, the Pecthent.

Under other circumstances, the man-wizard might have offered his guest something to eat or drink. But since his slave was already busy entertaining someone, and in any case a Pecthent never removed her cowl and hood in public, he was at a loss for the social niceties.

“Would you care to sit down, ma’am?”

The cloaked wizard didn’t move. Instead, she addressed the very subject, “may.i.re.move.my.hood.”

Stunned, Alcaeus could only nod.

The wizard lifted her mittens to her cloaked head. Seams in the material that had not been there before materialized. She opened her hood. The last thing Alcaeus had expected (the next-to-last thing had been the request itself) then appeared: the brilliant face of a beautiful young woman, still almost a teenager, and certainly not the ancient hag or abysmally ugly crone that legends of the Pecthentnim suggested lay hidden.

She smiled at Alcaeus, a truly brilliant smile, lively and innocent in expression.

“You were expecting your grandmother,” this girl said. It wasn’t a question.

“Ah.” It was the only thing he could say.

The wizard giggled, like a small child. She pulled back the rest of the hood and shook out a long set of straight brown hair, which looked fairly incandescent contrasted along the gray cloth at her shoulders.

“I’m in dire need of fucking,” she said. The girly voice was as young-sounding as the rest of her. She did a little body-wide shiver. The rest of her heavy gray robe fell to her feet. She was naked and slimly beautiful underneath. Without the robe, she was at least a foot-and-a-half shorter. The lack of height added to the impression of youth. “Would you, please?”

Alcaeus blinked, once but only once. What sort of wizard would I be to refuse the request of a learned colleague? he thought. Dutifully, he began removing his pants.