The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: How to Tame Her with Slumber

Chapter the Eighth: For Her Own Good

Synopsis: Turning a sex-loving Frenchwoman monogamous seems like a basic job for Mrs Leashem’s talents. Unfortunately, her job just got a whole lot harder since her husband took away all her intelligence that morning and forgot to give it back. But Mrs Leashem still has Eugenie to help her tame the French sex-kitten. Or will Eugenie be more hinderance than help?

Disclaimer: All characters are over 18. Feedback can be sent to flying.decadent@gmail.com

To conclude, therefore: this name of inconstancy, which hath been so much poisoned with slanders, ought to be changed into variety, for which the world is so delightful, and a woman for that the most delightful thing in the world.

—John Donne, A Defence of Women’s Inconstancy

I pull and pull and pull at my office door. Eugenie pushes it open. Nothing like embarrassment to warm you up on a chilly morning. With a grin and a bow, Eugenie holds the door open and follows me in. I pour the teapot over my cup, and shake it when nothing pours out.

‘You want me to make the tea?’ Eugenie asks, popping up at my ear.

‘Y- yes,’ I say, putting down the very light pot. ‘Of course, can’t have tea, without… making tea.’ I sit behind my desk, red-cheeked

While boiling water in the fireplace, Eugenie stares at me. The same stare my husband sometimes has, one of loving concern. Of course, Eugenie’s concern would imply a very different kind of love, not the heart-tickling, tummy-tumbling, pussy-

‘Lou-lou?’ Eugenie asks.

‘Huh?’ The fireplace is making it too hot in here.

‘Lou-lou,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a question. See, a while ago, I was heading to St Ives, when I passed a man with seven wives. Each wife had seven sacks, each sack had seven cats, each cat seven kits. Can you tell me how many were going to St Ives?’

‘Can a man have seven wives,’ I ask.

Eugenie comes around the desk and lowers her face to look into mine. ‘Did Leashem—’

‘Mr Leashem,’ I correct her.

‘Did your husband,’ she says, ‘steal your brains this morning?’

I jump from my chair. ‘I knew I left something at home!’

I was making my husband breakfast and he just—zip!—took my brains. Cooking sausages and brewing tea became very stressful—all those fires and timers. But Mr Leashem’s smile, the one he has when he puts me out of my depth, comforted me so much I forgot to ask for my brains back.

‘Oh, God! And we have clients!’ I say. I open my desk drawer. Sweat pours when I find no ledger. ‘Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.’

Eugenie grabs my neck and forces my eyes to the ledger already open on the table. I’m too panicked to be embarrassed. I look through its tiny, tiny coded handwriting—Damn you, stupid smart-me!. ‘I can’t read this,’ I whimper.

Eugenie reads aloud, ‘One Mlle Chatte. Holidaying from Paris. Been making rounds of less than restrained members of London high society. Father of one London boy sees her as wife material for son. Must make strictly monogamous.’

That sounds very complicated. Fathers, sons, Frenchwomen, and something about monobrows.

‘Can’t we put it off?’ I beg Eugenie.

Eugenie stares at me, and I can’t tell if I said the right or wrong thing. She says, ‘No. No, we can’t put it off. We’re businesswomen. Maybe a businessman can let his standards slip, but our clients need every reason to believe in us girls. Potential clients would send their girls to our competitors. To the, the… church.’ She pats my shoulder. ‘And you’re a very smart girl, even when you’re stupid.’

‘But how can I—’

A knock on the door shocks me up from my chair.

Allo, allo,’ comes a woman’s voice from behind the door.

I duck under my desk. Eugenie pulls me back onto my chair. She opens the door. Mlle Chatte strides in, wearing clothes that would surely draw the constables’ attention. Her dress Vs down from her shoulders to just above her pelvis, bearing the sides of her breasts and everything down to her belly button. Even as stupid as I am, I know enough science to say that that dress shouldn’t be able to… hold her in.

Oh, la vache! It is even the women of London who forget where my face is,’ she says in French. ‘Or,’ she says, tilting my head into her eyes, ‘is it that you are of the friends of Sappho?’

She called me ‘tu’. That should annoy me, but I just feel funny in my tummy when she calls me ‘tu’.

‘Mademoiselle,’ I squeak. She grins. I blush.

Eugenie tells me to gather myself. She’ll talk with Mlle Chatte. I do my breathing exercises. Or try to. I try to remember how to do them, but then regular breathing becomes confusing. When I start hyperventilating, Eugenie hugs me to her breast, shushing away my worries.

She whispers, ‘You can do this Lou-lou. Who can do this?’

‘M-me?’

‘Exactly!’ She kisses my forehead. ‘But I’ve got to warn you, this is a special case—Shhhhh, shhhhh, don’t worry, nothing is too special for you. You just need to know that this woman’s… condition makes her immune to your slow game.’

‘What?’

‘Women who like to fu- to give pleasure, they’ve got too much energy, too easily distracted. If you start going, “Oh, is that chair too comfortable?”, she’ll be tapping her leg, thinking of all the men and woman she could be giving herself to. She’ll be too up for it to be mesmerised.’

‘Then how?’

Eugenie strokes my cheek and looks deep in my eyes. She’s so attractive when she’s confident. ‘Just get right in there. These girls, they like a man—or woman—who takes charge, who tells them what they need. A nap.’

Even as I stammer more questions, Eugenie steps away, revealing Mlle Chatte sitting opposite me. Mlle Chatte gazes at me with half-lidded eyes. Is she sleepy already? Well, it is getting warmer in here.

This assistant of yours,’ she purrs in French, ‘has told me what it is you will be showing me.’ She reaches for my wrists, slowly, but I don’t know how to resist what she’s doing. She puts my palms on her warm cheeks and pulls our heads together until our lips almost touch. ‘You are the reader of fortunes, non?’

‘Y-yes—JaOui!’ Oh, Christ, Eugenie has given me the perfect excuse to look into Mlle Chatte’s big, blue, tempting eyes, but my palms are sweating right onto her face. I have to say something to make her mesmerised—in French! When I was smart this came so easily, in English, French, and American. It came so easily I didn’t have to pay attention to what I was doing. I wish I’d paid more attention to smart-me.

The spirits, is it that they do not come?’ Mlle Chatte asks.

Spirits?’ I say. ‘Um, non, non, non, they come! And is it not that you are finding the spirits make you sleepy?’ I cringe. I want to look at Eugenie to see if she thinks I’m doing well, but breaking eye contact will only make this worse. ‘The spirits sit on those eyelids of yours. Fat spirits. They make your eyelids heavier.

Oh, God, Mlle Chatte rolls her eyes at me. Rolls her eyes… and lets her mouth loll open. Her head wobbles side to side in my grasp.

Oh, la vache!’ she groans. ‘The sleepiness is on me.’ She yawns. Her eyelids droop and shut and open, before slamming shut.

It’s working! ‘YES!’ I slam my hand over my mouth.

More sleepy, more sleepy, you are the most sleepy girl you know. You cannot resist these words of mine.’

Oui, Maistresse,’ she says in a flat voice. ‘I am too sleepy to disobey.’

I am brilliant! I can’t resist glancing at Eugenie. She gives me a thumbs up.

Um, good girl…’ I say. ‘The obedience feels good

Oui, Maistresse,’ moans Mlle Chatte. ‘Very good, Maistresse—Ooh!

She grinds on her chair, shuddering breaths, until sweat sheens down her neck between her breasts and down her belly. Her writhing pulls the edges of her dress’s V apart. Her breasts peek, then bound out. She lunges for my lips. Her tongue tussles with mine. I moan into her mouth, unable to resist—but no! I have to resist!

Obey me,’ I whimper.

Oui, like I do, Maistresse,’ she says, reaching around to the back of my dress. ‘I obey the needs of my Maistresse.’ She starts to undo my dress.

‘Lou-lou,’ Eugenie whispers on my ear. ‘Mlle Chatte’s in heat. If you want to help her, you’ll have to work this out of her.’

As Mlle Chatte kisses my lips, my chin, my neck, while still tugging my clothes off, so she could kiss my breasts, tummy, and pussy, I realise that Eugenie’s making a lot of sense. If this is the price I must pay to save Mlle Chatte, I’ll resign myself to her making love to me.

I stand, and help Mlle Chatte undo my dress. She pulls it off, and then my chemise—thank God, I wasn’t wearing that pesky corset. I try to help her all the way out of her dress (only her breasts are free right now), but she pushes me back onto my chair. On her knees, she pries my legs apart. I yelp and blush, unable to look.

Aw, my little Maistresse,’ says Mlle Chatte, looking up at me. ‘Is it that this is the first time you are receiving the love-making from a woman? There is no reason for this worrying and blushing.’ She gently pushes my thighs apart. She kisses my inner thigh, near to my knee, just a little peck, but my toes curl. She kisses up my thigh, moving fractions of fractions of fractions of inches upwards. Her smooth head of hair brushes against my pussy, making me shiver and wet. I bite my finger to stop whimpering.

She spreads me, and licks. My muscles tense, almost exploding. She licks me slowly and gently, with far less force than my husband fucks me with, but sparking in me far more pleasure than he ever has. As she moves towards my clitoris, I groan, a groan which drops lower in my throat when her tongue finally reaches there. With my hands gripping the sides of my chair, I know I only have a few seconds of resistance left. She pushes me to the edge—and retreats. I moan, before she intensifies, stoking my fire, my tummy shuddering, until she denies me. She keeps me like that for… minutes… hours?

Wait!? This isn’t how it was meant to go! ‘Eu-eu,’ I whimper with a dry throat. ‘Wasn’t I meant to—Ahhh! Oh, God!—ple-e-e-easure her?’

Eugenie hangs her arms over my shoulders, so her hands dangle above my breasts—why does this feel as erotic as my pussy being eaten!? Eugenie whispers, ‘Don’t worry, Lou-lou.’ She raises her voice over my rising moans. ‘Don’t think about a thing. You’re doing a great job.’

‘B-but,’ I try to say, ‘but—’

Mlle Chatte is finishing me, stirring me into a tornado, my entire mind ready to fly apart. I’m on the edge. If I breathe just right, I can pull back, remain in this bliss a bit longer. Eugenie pinches my nipples.

I cum, everything in me collapsing. Eugenie catches me as I fall from my chair. As I lay on the carpet, I hear French from the door.

Your petite-aime has strange tastes,’ says Mlle Chatte.

Sorry,’ says Eugenie. ‘Like I told you at the start, she can’t even get going without that play-acting.

Oh, non, non, never apologise for the sexual tastes. And this fascination with the mesmerism is something I must try with my boyfriends and girlfriends.

The door shuts. Eugenie sits cross-legged beside me and lifts my head onto her lap. Her grin glows down on me. ‘Well done! Mlle Chatte’s gone home a chaste woman.’

‘You t-tricked me…?’ I ask, feeling so ungrateful to be accusing Eugenie’s smile.

‘Tricked you?’ She puts her hand over her heart.

‘Told… Chatte to… pretend.’

‘And why do you think that, Lou-lou?’

‘You… just said—’ I start, but her finger presses my lips shut.

‘Are you sure you heard what you think you heard? Your husband did make you very stupid this morning. And French isn’t your first language, is it?’

‘N-no… But I know… I heard…’ I mumble, half-drowsy, half wanting her to calm my doubts.

‘And you were very tired.’ She strokes my hair. ‘So much stimulation through that tired body, made your mind so slow and heavy. Your eyes so heavy.’

Eugenie’s eyes are so pretty.

‘You did a wonderful job. You worked so hard, Lou-lou, so hard you couldn’t pay attention to my chat with Mlle Chatte. You were thinking about—Sleep!’

Eugenie snaps. I smile into sleep.