The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Poor old Lleu! I still think of him sometimes. Arianrhod was such a vindictive bitch. She blamed him for pretty much all aspects of the whole humiliating episode with Math ap Mathonwy—but it’s hardly her son’s fault she wasn’t a virgin, is it?

I seemed to be spending half my life in disguise after that little incident, I can tell you.

I remember when she laid the Curse of Loneliness on him: “You will never have a human wiiiiiiiife!” she screeched, and boy, could she screech. Banshees quailed.

We eventually got round that one by creating a woman for Lleu out of oak blossom and broom flowers and meadowsweet. You could find stuff like that easily in those days. ‘Flower Face’, we called her, although actually Blodeuwedd was a very beautiful name in the old tongue, and apart from a slightly wonky arm, I thought she was the most gorgeous thing ever to walk God’s green hills.

I can’t pretend Lleu ever saw the funny side, though, and things were always a little stilted round at their place after that.

Ah, well, I digress.

Another drink, you say? Well, sure, and a good Celt would never refuse one.

Did I tell you about the girl in the film that should have been a book?

I met her in a bar, as always. It was around this time of year. She was drop dead gorgeous, titties to die for, firm and full, and just my type. I sauntered up to her with the Aspect of Kings.

“Hi. I am Gwydion, son of Dôn, and brother of Gilfaethwy,” I said.

She just looked at me like I had two heads.

I sighed and gave her the Smile that Melts Hearts. “Call me Gwyn, if it’s easier.”

“Isolde,” she replied, shyly. And then, suddenly less shy: “Aren’t you a big fellow, Gwyn.”

“I am. I am bigger and more powerful than you can imagine,” I said, putting on my most convincing Honeyed Timbre. It had stood me in good stead for a long while now. “Now why don’t you come over here and I’ll tell you a story of the fair-haired one with the skilful hands …”

Isolde had white blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and her lips were like roses. Unlike you or I, or almost everybody these days, she believed everything anybody said to her. She wanted to believe. She was even more fun than the Battle of the Trees.

I told her the story of the Magic Story Book of Taliesin and its lost chapters.

“There was once a girl,” I began, “and she was unhappy with the ways of the world.”

“Unhappy?” asked Isolde. Wide eyes, trusting.

“Yes. Her name was Rhiannon, daughter of Rigantona, husband of Pwyll, the prince of Dyfed.”

“You don’t hear names like that anymore. Why was she unhappy?”

“She thought the world had lost its Magic, after the War with the South. Rhiannon was an innocent, you see, from the Otherworld. She always rode slowly, but could never be reached. She had a small bag, that could not be filled by any ordinary means. She had the strength of a horse, and could carry travellers on her back. She had a son, Pryderi, and he … died.”

Isolde listened, entranced.

“She was naïve, beautiful, ruthless, romantic, complex, strange, wonderful, and they accused her of all sorts, afterwards. But I knew her before.”

“Before?” asked Isolde, puzzled.

“Yes. Listen, imagine. I came upon her in a clearing in the forest. She had just come from the Otherworld, for Pwyll. I looked at her and I knew her name, and she looked at me and knew mine. Without a word, she lay down on the meadow, on a carpet of primroses.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. And her robe fell away, and she was naked before me.”

“Mmm. Like me?”

“Just like you. She spread herself wide—yes that’s right—and her eyes never left mine.”

Isolde lay back, looking at me. Her nipples were pink and plump and stiff.

“I went to her, in the quiet of the forest, and kissed her, like this, and she opened to me, completely, with the warmth of the earth itself.”

Isolde stretched her arms out wide, arching her back. Her eyes were sparkling. “Open to you,” she murmured in arousal, “like this.”

“Yes. Life was simple, magical, then.”

I pushed her legs wider. “I worshipped her, like this.” Eyes on mine, she trembled to feel me inside her, and cried out as we came together, just like Rhiannon.

“But later, after Pwyll died, and then Pryderi too, and the world became chaos, she lost faith. She retreated into the old, simple stories, the books of her girlhood, like Taliesin, although it hadn’t been written yet. The stories were simpler, better than what she saw around her. Some say she vanished in a blanket of mist. Some say she became a story herself, archetypal, in a way. Like you.”

“Am I a story?” said, Isolde, rapt.

“We are all stories.”

Elderflower, primrose, and hawthorn.

Blodeuwedd turned out to be quite a revelation, and not such an innocent little Flower Face at all.

One day, out with her ladies, while Lleu was off visiting yours truly, she met a young lad hunting—Gronw, his name was—who later, surprise, surprise, showed up seeking ‘shelter’ at her castle.

According to Blodeuwedd, they fell in love at first sight, a pure and romantic chivalric love, of the type that was common in those times. Less so now, of course, in this age of brute transactions.

The way I heard it, Flower Face, as a true child of nature, had a tendency to put out pretty easily to most anyone, anywhere, any time. Well not ‘heard it’ so much as ‘experienced it’. She went like the Corryvreckan Whirlpool. The way I heard it, she went down on Gronw the moment he stepped through the door.

Anyway, the two of them ended up having this massive affair, and they cooked up a plot to get rid of poor Lleu.

This was not as easy as you might imagine.

Due to various Old Magic, Lleu could only be killed at dusk, with one foot on a cooking pot, the other on a goat, of all things, whilst he was wrapped in a net, and—quite inconvenient, this—you’d have to use a spear forged for a year, but only—wait for it—forged during the hours when everyone else is at prayer.

To cut a long story short, they were never going to pull that off, and eventually I lost all patience with this madness, and turned her into an owl.

Some say she was the fairest and most beautiful maiden anyone had ever seen. Others say she was just an insatiable whore.

I did miss her.

I told Isolde the story of Goewin. You may know it from the Fourth Branch. No? Never mind.

“Isolde,” I began, “did I ever tell you of Math ap Mathonwy, King of Gwynedd, my uncle, and a right fuckin’ unpredictable old creep, and his virgins?”

She snuggled closer.

“Are you a virgin, Isolde?” I teased her. She giggled, nodding, imagining, playing her part in the story. This is what she liked to do.

“Goewin was a virgin, just like you. Fair of face and pure of heart, and —”

“— horny as hell,” said Isolde, slipping out of her top.

“Yes,” I said, encouraging her. “Virgins always are.”

“Like me,” she said, looking at me, clear eyes, bluebells in snow.

“Yes, like you. Now, the facts. Due to an ancient magic, before my time, uncle Math would die a true death only under the following circumstances: if he was not at war, and/or, if his feet were not rested upon a virgin. And Goewin was that virgin, for a while. She was a sight to see.”

“What did she have to do?” purred Isolde. She loved to hear my stories, she wanted to believe them, she did believe them, with all her heart.

“She was always naked, at Math’s court,” I told her. “Just like you.”

“Just like me?” said Isolde, as she peeled off her underwear. “Like this?” She stood there, before me, in her glory.

“Not like that,” I continued. “Goewin was always on her hands and knees, before him, so that he could rest his feet upon her, so as not to die.”

“Like this?” she said, getting down onto all fours, and raising her bottom invitingly.

“Exactly,” I said. “Imagine it. A beautiful virgin, desperately lusting to be taken, craving it, as all virgins do—in heat, yes, just like that—and condemned to be just the footstool of an old bastard like Math.”

I could see Isolde was getting turned on. It was obvious, from my vantage point. I rested one foot on her plump buttocks and admired the view.

“Ripe and juicy and ready. Just like you. I couldn’t let that happen, of course, the waste was unthinkable. So Gilfaethwy and I tricked old Math into going to war. It doesn’t seem like much of a cause, these days, but back then all we had to do was steal a few pigs from Pryderi in the neighbouring kingdom, and that was enough to light the blue touchpaper…”

“And what happened?” panted Isolde, my virgin footstool.

“Well, with Math off fighting, Goewin was left unprotected. So one evening, Gilfaethwy and I just snuck into the castle and made our way to his chambers. And there was Goewin, nicely displayed, just as Math’d left her…”

“Like this?” moaned Isolde, at my feet.

“Perfectly so,” I said, moving into position behind Isolde. “So I took her, immediately, just as she was, like this.”

As I entered Isolde and pushed deep, she squealed and wriggled, in fear and joy, exactly as Goewin had.

“Yes, and then I took her again, and again, and again, until I had taken my fill of her.”

I withdrew from her. She panted, breathless in position, confused. I stroked a plump buttock.

“Virgin no more. But that wasn’t all; as Goewin knelt, humbled, contemplating her new position in life, my brother, Gilfaethwy, grabbed her hips and took her himself, hard, like this, and then again, until she could take no more.”

I angled her for maximum penetration, and little Isolde moaned and thrashed and bucked against me. Just like Goewin.

Back in the day, when the Old Magic was stronger, you could storytell the opposition. It’s not so easy now, but it’s still possible, if people get into it.

After the Goewin affair, after I had to kill Pryderi, and after Rhiannon had gone away, Math storytold me into a stag for a year, in punishment. Boy, he was pissed.

And he wasn’t finished; after that I became a sow, and then a wolf. Mind you, I guess Gilfaethwy had the worst end of the deal. But that’s a whole other story, and there are very good reasons not to tell it here. After three years, Math released us troublesome nephews from our punishment. I guess he got bored. I certainly was.

So shortly after this I introduced my sister—yes, her again, Arianrhod—as a prime candidate for Math’s footstool, and all hell broke loose again. The bitch managed to give birth not merely once, but twice, during the course of her virginity test. I got little Lleu out of there with a little cunning, but I knew there would be mayhem. And mayhem there was. I was in my element.

The complexity, the symbolism of all this. This new world of yours is broken by comparison. No real stories. No meaning. All you have is TV and the fuckin’ internet.

I’m not saying who the father was, by the way. My lips are sealed.

But I was telling you about Isolde, and the story of the girl in the film that should have been a book.

“What would you like for Christmas, more than anything else?” I said to her, in bed.

“Another story. Please.”

“A gift.”

“Sure, why not? Something sexy.” She giggled, turned on.

“Did I tell you the story of the girl who wanted to be the girl in the book? Do you have a book? Maybe an old book, tales from when you were a girl?”

Her pretty brow crinkled. “You mean, like, paper?” I nodded. “No, nothing like that.”

This culture of yours. I despair, sometimes.

In the old tales, this story always involved a book, and usually some other special items. Never mind, there were modern alternatives, and I have had to stay up to date these long years. I am, after all, the master of improvisation. I flicked on the TV and scrolled through on-demand. I very quickly found something suitable for this shallow, voyeuristic age.

“One Way Mirror,” Isolde read out loud, as the titles scrolled, and she rolled her eyes.

“It’s a simple story, of—ah—romance. The oldest story, really.”

On the TV, a bedroom, a naked blonde girl, alone. She was gazing right at us. She had the high angular cheekbones of a Slav.

“Slut smut, you mean,” Isolde murmured. “That’s not a story. Not like yours.”

The girl leaned close into the camera, pouting, and began to apply her makeup in the unseen mirror that was the camera, our point of view. A nice trick, I thought. It made things more intimate, somehow. Lipstick like roses.

“I disagree. It’s archetypal, and true, and very ‘of the now’, as you might say. All those stories about a woman, and a man, their dreams and desires, and the pleasures they give and take and get. Remember Rhiannon, Goewin, Blodeuwedd—the Goddess, the Virgin, the Lover, the Whore…”

“Mmm. Which am I?” Isolde pouted, suggestively, eyeing the girl on screen.

On screen, the girl raised her enhanced breasts to us, presenting her product, and turned, admiring herself in the one way mirror, stroking her nipples. Her ass was high and firm and smooth.

“Let’s see. Just imagine. A girl loves a story. And in the story, a beautiful … um ... maiden … is waiting, in her chambers, longing for her lover.”

The girl leaned suggestively into the camera, her mirror, and licked her lips. She pulled on a pair of strappy heels and turned again, looking over her shoulder at the camera, at the mirror, at us.

“Look. Her lover is coming to her, and she is, let’s say, readying herself for his return. She knows she is beautiful. He has been away a long time, at war in the hills. She imagines how it will be.”

The girl lay back on the bed, fingering her pussy, gazing straight out of the screen, sluttish and brazen and not maidenly at all.

Watching, imagining, Isolde started to play with herself, and I stroked her nipples, getting into my stride now.

“See how the maiden craves him, inside her.”

The girl on the screen began to use a dildo on herself. The camera closed in. Quite high quality stuff, actually, although I still prefer the old tales.

I pointed at the screen. “Just like you,” I teased her. “She is desperate for him. You are desperate for him.”

Isolde was stroking herself, harder, lost in the moment. I handed her a vibrator.

“She is so—ah—excited. Yes, that’s the word. Her man is coming to her, now, home from the hills. Listen, here he is.” And just like that, in the film, the doorbell rang.

Damn, I’m good.

The girl sashayed over to open the door, smiling sexily as the man entered. Within seconds, she had his pants off, then his shirt, then everything. Not a word was said as she pushed him back towards the bed, smiling, inviting.

She dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth, looking up at him, worshipping, never once breaking eye contact. I thought of Blodeuwedd, like that.

Isolde moved beside me, and her mouth was soft and warm around my cock.

“She throws herself into his arms. She wants to—ah—embrace him for ever and ever. To give herself to him, completely.”

Mouth full, Isolde moaned her agreement. I felt her lips tighten around me, embracing.

“The maiden is full of the joy of him. She wants nothing more than this. They—um—kiss, yes, that’s right, long and deep and slow. The girl reads the story, over and over, and dreams. It’s what she wants, more than anything.”

Isolde sucked, kissing, long and deep and slow, tongue working in circles.

“Soon, he takes her hand, gently, and they make tender love.”

On screen, the girl mounted her man with professional athleticism and began to ride him like a Norse whore, head thrown back, wild and fast. The sudden change of pace jarred a little—personally I’d have built it up a bit more slowly—but hey, I could only work with what I had...

“They become one,” I said, leaning back and pulling Isolde onto me, pushing deep.

“God, yes,” whispered Isolde. “Fill me, fuck me like that.” She was watching the girl in the film, trying to copy the moves. The moves were good, practiced and smooth as she slid. The mighty Sword of Gwydion swelled inside her.

“And as she read this story, the other girl dreamed. She wanted so badly to be the girl in the story.”

The girl was on her hands and knees now, on the bed, ass to the camera, looking over her shoulder expectantly. Isolde swung off me, into the same position, flushed and panting with heat.

“In that night, the maiden was his, and he was hers, ever after. It was destiny. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.” I stroked the lips of her hungry pussy. “Sometimes, don’t you feel like that, that you just want to lose yourself in it, with nothing else to think about at all?” I whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Isolde wriggled, her cunt seeking my cock, wet against me.

“Imagine it. The girl loved that story. She could think of nothing else. She looked in her mirror and imagined herself as the maiden.” I whispered, closer. “The story became her. It was her. Just like you.”

“Yes, yes,” moaned Isolde. “Just like me.”

“Now she could be with him, over and over, forever, with nothing else to worry about.”

“Yes, yes, please, forever,” she panted.

“Forever, then,” I said, and pushed into her. She parted around me, slick and wet as Blodeuwedd herself. There is no magic stronger.

“Gwyn—” she squealed, wide forget-me-not eyes, suddenly alarmed, as something—changed.

“Forever,” I repeated, spasming inside her.

On the screen, the visitor was dressing, leaving, and as the door closed behind him, the girl lay alone in her afterglow and heels. The credits, such as they were, rolled.

“Ah, but then, you see,” I murmured, “her lover leaves to go to war, and she never sees him again, except in her memory of that one night. She thinks of nothing else, dreams of nothing else, experiences nothing else—only that night, over and over, for ever and ever and ever. And the girl lives out the story in her mirror, over and over, and thinks of nothing else too, forever.”

The smell of nettle, chestnut, and broom flower filled the room.

Did I tell you the story of the Battle of the Trees?

I remember fighting, alongside my family against Arwan and his men. Brave, strong Gilfaethwy, another of the missing, now. Lleu was there too; he had become a mighty warrior by then, even if he was always a complete fuckin’ idiot when it came to Flower Face. Still, weren’t we all?

Arawn’s forces were overwhelming, but I’ve always got a trick or two up my sleeve. I managed to drum up some reinforcements by persuading the various trees and shrubbery to rise up as warriors against Arawn and his gang. As they listened to my story, they thought they were become soldiers, an army of wood.

Alders, aspens, ashes, oaks—the latter particularly terrifying to behold—and I even managed to get a few of the mimsy little woodland blossoms onside, bluebells and primroses tangling the enemy underfoot.

It was the holly that saved that day, or we might have never made it back to Caer Wydion. As they wrote afterwards, “The holly, greened anew, was in the battle superlative in his cry, terror dealt from its hand.” Maybe that’s why I’m always so fond of this time of year.

The battle has never really ended. It still goes on, somewhere.

A warrior in this battle is invulnerable unless the enemy can guess their name.

I know your name. That’s the best trick of all.

Yes, and there she was, little Isolde, looking right back out at me from the big screen, naked, disoriented, suddenly confused, storytold. I knew she could see me too, because that’s the way the Old Magic works, even with the old books and their pictures, the ones that kept changing.

I gave her a little wave.

“Where am I?” she said, looking around her uncertainly.

“There,” I replied. “Just like you wanted. This is the story of the girl who wanted to be just like the girl in the story, though in the old story, it was the girl in the book, and normally you’d need a special mirror, but—look, never mind, times change. And in the story, she ended up, as she wished, becoming the girl in the story, but the catch was that she could never leave it. Sometimes, in mirrors, from the corner of you eye you would catch her looking out at you. Her name was —”

Isolde was up off the bed in a flash, breasts swinging. She walked right up to the screen and pressed up against it. Fingertips on glass, comical.

“What is this?”

“Just a story,” I said.

She flung open the bedroom door and looked out into—blackness. She gaped, turning back to me, looking out from the screen.

“It’s a good story, you see,” I said. “My gift to you.”

I felt Blodeuwedd beside me, looking over my shoulder at the screen. Honeysuckle, elderflower.

“There’s nothing out there, outside,” exclaimed Isolde. “It’s just … blank.”

“Well,” I explained carefully. “You only ever see the slu- I mean, maiden’s bedroom, in this particular story. So there isn’t anything else.”

Isolde peered out, her mouth open, struggling to understand. “Who’s that with you? She looks like me. Why is she —”

“An old friend, come to visit.”

A soft birdlike hoot of ‘hello’. Flower Face had been away a long time.

Isolde was getting worked up now. “Get me the hell out of here, wherever it is! And where are my clothes?”

“Did you see the girl wearing any clothes, in the story? No. Just like you, you see.”

“Wha…”

I shrugged. “It’s a simple tale, really. The original was only a few pages of verse. A kind of song cycle.”

“…”

“Shall we tell the story again? I think the maiden may be expecting a visitor.”

I blew Isolde a kiss, rewound, and pressed play.

For a moment, as the titles rolled, Isolde’s mouth worked and she seemed to be trying to say something else, but whatever she wanted to say wasn’t in the story.

What was in the story in the film that should have been a book was a girl wearing nothing but heels, writhing on a bed. As she lay there pleasuring herself, readying herself for what was to come, Isolde looked straight out at me—aroused, shocked, subjugated, pleading. She pushed the dildo deeper, faster, impaling herself on it, while her other hand squeezed her nipples. Wide blue eyes, craving.

I don’t know why she looked so surprised. That was what was in the story, so that was what needed to happen, and what would always happen, exactly the same way.

Not that you’d notice any of this, if you didn’t know what to look for. Play it again, sometime, and see if you can tell. Check out that first few minutes, when she’s putting on her lipstick, and as she turns to show herself to you, to the mirror, is that a look of anguish or arousal? To me, it just makes the whole thing even sweeter to watch. And I do watch it, occasionally, because a story untold is not a story at all.

Meadowsweet, primrose, hawthorn. Blodeuwedd laid her head on my shoulder.

We’d need to be leaving soon. The battle waits for no-one.

I watched as she sashayed over to answer the doorbell, smiling sexily as the man entered the room. Precisely on cue, she dropped to her knees to take him in her mouth, and she began to suck, greedily, vigorously, her eyes on his, just like Isolde. Virgin. Goddess. Whore.

I could no longer read her expression. I wondered how she felt, now, and how she would feel the next time, then the next, then at the hundredth, the thousandth time of telling. She had enjoyed the story well enough, I thought.

I watched as she rode his cock with free abandon, head thrown back, moves practiced and smooth, bucking in orgasm, over and over.

Then I watched as she turned and went down on all fours, her ass in the air, offering herself to him, to you, to everyone, over and over again, forever.

Of course, it’s only a story. Who can say what really happened?

Don’t go just yet, though. If you wait a few minutes, you’ll get to meet—ah, here she comes now.

Just look at her.

Is that not the most beautiful creature ever to walk God’s green hills?