The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

© 2007, le Duc de Kavaliere

Midsummer Knight’s Dream

Part 9

Act Two, Scene Four

The first month of the Faire was a lot of work, but tremendous fun. The Gypsy Songbirds—along with the troupe of actors and a dozen other Faire workers—had all celebrated my fiancee’s birthday, and we’d all chipped in for a cake.

The fourth Sunday of the Faire was hot and bright, but this didn’t dampen our spirits. Clancy and I had finished preparing for the Songbirds’ afternoon performance, and were heading for the food court for a quick bite.

“Nicholas Brannock, what are you doing in a place like this?” came a booming voice I knew too well. I turned in shock—to see my tall, bulky, white-haired father weaving his way through the costumed crowd. He was wearing a blue tee shirt and black slacks—and loafers, I noticed.

“What’s that man want?” Clancy asked me. “Sir,” he said, addressing my father, “the auditions for the puritans are that way.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

My father stared at the drummer, his wide blue eyes bulging like Rodney Dangerfield’s. In incomprehension, he turned to me.

“This whole affair of yours has got to be the most preposterous waste of time I’ve ever seen in my whole life!” he bellowed, gesturing madly with his arm. “Do you have any idea how much all of this must have cost? And these costumes! All this money could have been given to charity! And it’s Sunday—nobody should be working!”

“You’ve got it down pat, sir,” Clancy continued. He’d figured out that this fellow wasn’t auditioning, but continued with the joke. Another member of the crew, and several onlookers, were already laughing. “If it were up to me, you’d be hired. Heck, I’d put you in charge of the whole troupe!”

“Nicholas,” my father said, reaching for my arm, “they serve alcohol here! This is a pit of debauchery!”

I almost blushed, reminded of what Zelasha and I had done that morning—but stepped out of the way of his grasping arm.

“You know this guy, Nick?” the drummer asked.

I contemplated lying. Oh, was I tempted.

“Clancy, this is my father,” I finally admitted. “Father, this is—”

“I don’t care who he is!” my father roared.

The drummer looked at me, taken aback. “You’re being a perfect gentleman, Father,” I said loudly. “A good example to all the children in attendance, and a model of the courtesy you taught me growing up.”

That got his attention, at least. He quieted down, but looked around himself with renewed interest. “There are children here?” he asked.

“Yes, father, this is a family event, mostly,” I said. I knew from being backstage with the Gypsy Songbirds that they scaled back on the bawdy songs if they noticed children in the audience. “This is Clancy McHenry.”

Clancy extended his hand. I could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he was finding all this immensely amusing. I need to emulate his detachment, I decided.

“Theodore Brannock,” my father grunted, and they shook hands.

“Now, Father,” I began. “I am glad to see you, as surprising as this impromptu visit is, but—”

“Nick! Clancy!” came Zelasha’s lovely voice from behind us. “We’re on in fifteen!”

I raised a finger. “Hang on a minute,” I said to my father, and dashed back to my fiancee. “Darling, as much as I hate to admit it, that tall white-haired fellow over there is my father, and—”

Her lively green eyes went from my face, to him, and back again. “That’s great!” she said with a smile, taking my hand and squeezing it. “Though I don’t see much of a resemblance.”

“I take after my mother,” I sighed, and stepped quickly after her as the redhead walked towards him. I loved her headstrong nature—there was no question that she was my equal, both in intelligence and self-confidence—but this was one of the few times I wished she weren’t quite as impetuous. “Father,” I said hurriedly, “I’d like to present my fiancee, Colleen Harrison.”

“Zelasha,” she added, extending her hand.

My father stared at it, then up at her. What the devil was he gawking at, I wondered. Then I realized. Oh.

My fiancee was wearing a long, flowing, sky-blue skirt that fell down to her ankles, and its hem was sewn in an elaborate pattern of golden thread. Her waist was adorned with a long purple sash. Above it was an intricately detailed black leather corset. Spilling out of its top was a breezy white blouse, cut in a generous v-neck that showed off her cleavage while still managing to be modest. She looked delectably sensual, but not remotely provocative. Each hand was graced by several rings, and each wrist bore two or three gaudy bracelets. Her luxuriant red tresses, styled with an elaborate hairpiece on the back of her head, flowed in elegant curls down to her waist. She’d stopped wearing foundation since we’d started dating—I didn’t really see the need for it, given her naturally beautiful pale complexion—but her facial features were highlighted by lipstick and eyeliner. Her earrings were ornate and playful. Finally, she was sporting leather boots with heels just high enough to make her look sexy.

She was perfect for a Renaissance Faire, but would have caused quite a scandal in a religious service around the turn of the last century. My father had realized the same thing, and was doing his impression of Dick Cheney on election night, 2000.

“My God,” he was spluttering.

Zelasha figured out he wasn’t going to shake her hand, and as she withdrew it, I put my arm around her waist.

“We’d like you to come to our wedding, of course,” I announced. Zelasha kissed my cheek.

“I—I refuse to give my consent to this catastrophe!” my father blustered. “You cannot marry that... that woman!”

He was making a scene, and I sighed. “Contrary to what your eyes may be telling you, Father,” I announced, “this isn’t REALLY the Middle Ages. Whether you consent or not is of no consequence.”

“Not at my church!” he bellowed.

“Actually, we’re planning to have it outdoors,” I improvised. “We hope you can make it.” And with that, Zelasha and I turned around, and walked in step back towards the Gypsy Stage, our arms around each other. Clancy dashed after us, but I heard no footfalls from my father.

We reached backstage a few minutes later, and both of Zelasha’s arms twisted around my neck. We kissed lingeringly. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” I told her readily.

“I know,” she replied. “Nick, you’re such a gentleman. How did your family ever produce you?”

I shrugged. “He wasn’t always that way,” I said slowly. “Love used to be at the center of his rule book. That was a long time ago. Now all he has is the rule book.”

We kissed again, big and sloppy. “Break a leg,” I told her.

She winked at me, and joined the other Songbirds on stage.

* * *

After the show, Zelasha joined me in my interrupted search for food.

“I apologize for my father’s behavior,” I told her as she slid her arm through mine.

She shrugged.

“You weren’t offended?” I asked hopefully.

My fiancee shook her head. “If I let people judging me based on my looks get to me, I would have killed myself when I was eight years old. It’s quite all right.” She squeezed my arm. “You love me. That’s what’s important.”

We walked by the Enchantress’ Stage a moment later.

Zelasha glanced at the performance. “Oh, no.”

“Hmm?”

She motioned with her chin. “Look.”

“Talking to the gentleman I’m touching now, only to the gentleman I’m touching now,” Miss Scarlett was saying. She was surrounded on the stage by volunteers—most of whom were from the troupe of actors.

The tall hypnotist had her hair in an elegant bun, laced with pearls. She wore a white poet’s shirt and a black leather vest; below was a lavender peasant’s skirt.

“On the count of three,” Miss Scarlett said silkily, “you will be a performer at the Faire, and you are playing the role of Juliet. You are a fabulous actor, the best actor in the world, and you are deep into character. You are the most convincing actor to play Juliet since the time of Shakespeare.”

The problem was, she was addressing Duncan! He was wearing a green plaid kilt and a ruffled shirt.

“Oh, no,” I echoed.

“At least he knows the role,” Zelasha whispered to me.

The lovely hypnotist laid her hand on the head of a woman with brown curls and a multicolored dress.

“Now I’m talking to the woman I’m touching, talking only to the lady... on the count of three, you will wake up, and you will be convinced you are an actor playing Romeo.”

Shaking her head in resignation, Zelasha took my hand and led me to the last row. We sat down upon the haystacks next to another couple.

“One, two, three,” the hypnotist was saying.

Duncan put his hand upon his breast. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” he squeaked. “Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.” In despair, he bent his head.

The woman fell to her knees before him. “My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to you!”

Duncan gasped. “If my kinsmen do see thee, they will murder thee!”

“Romeo” tucked her hair inside her shirt. “There lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords!” she said earnestly.

Zelasha and I exchanged glances. “She’s not bad,” my fiancee said.

“You should have seen this yesterday,” the man sitting beside us said. He was a tall, thin fellow, with chocolate-brown hair. He was wearing an elaborate doublet, and his shirt had lace at his throat.

“Why’s that?” Zelasha asked him.

“She got an old married couple to volunteer,” his wife said, looking at us over her husband’s shoulder. She was petite, with a throaty voice that belied her stature. She had tanned skin, dark eyes, long brown-black hair, and a friendly smile. She wore a green courtesan’s dress. Probably a Latina, I gathered. “They were grandparents if they were anything,” the woman continued. “The hypnotist convinced them that they were Benedick and Beatrice.”

Zelasha covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head and suppressing giggles.

The two actors were squabbling on the floor. “Believe me, love, it was the nightingale!” said Duncan, and rolled over onto “Romeo.” His mouse-brown hair had come loose, and the actress sputtered as it fell into her face.

“Oh, what a tease,” Zelasha observed. I looked at her quizzically, then realized: the audience could almost see up his kilt.

“It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale!” the “Romeo” actress said indignantly. “Get off me!”

Duncan hugged her. “Therefore stay! Thou need not be gone!”

“Let me be taken! Let me be put to death!” cried the exasperated actress. “I am content, so thou wilt have it so.”

“Bravo!” Miss Scarlett said, and applauded. The audience joined in; the actors stood up and bowed.

“Now sleeeeeeeep,” Miss Scarlett said gently. Both sets of eyes closed; both heads nodded.

“You know, she is kinda sexy,” Zelasha whispered to me. I’d actually been thinking the same thing—it was quite a sight to watch the femme hypnotist put her volunteers into trance with just a word.

The woman beside us yawned, and her husband patted her hand.

“Whoops!” the Latina said, and laid her head on his shoulder. “Thanks,” she said to her husband. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Overhearing this exchange, Zelasha and I exchanged glances. “You know,” my fiancee whispered in my ear, “maybe we can do a fantasy later tonight?”

“You’re on,” I promised.

Miss Scarlett’s show continued with more renaissance antics. Her next gag was to convince half the volunteers that they were puritans out to convert the unbelievers, and persuade the other half that they were completely drunk. Mayhem ensued, with most of the drunkards finally agreeing to convert—in exchange for more beer. Every so often, Emily would usher a less-compliant volunteer back to their seat.

“Sleeeeeeeeep,” Miss Scarlett continued, and her volunteers obediently closed their eyes and fell, limply, into trance. She gestured to Emily, who obediently brought her a small wooden chest. “Let us see what treasures lie within,” the hypnotist said gamely, opening it.

From inside, the Southerner produced four animal ear headbands—a cat, a mouse, a dog and a tiger. Placing the bands on her subjects’ heads, Miss Scarlett suggested that they become whatever animal whose ears they wore—and woke them up. To the audience’s delight, the cat started to chase the mouse—then the dog went after the cat, and the tiger after the dog. Anarchy ensued, with the raven haired Southerner standing to the side, grinning.

For her last gag, the hypnotist rearranged the headbands—then turned the mouse into Hamlet, the cat into Ophelia, the dog into Oberon, and the tiger into Titania. As the volunteers opened their eyes and sat up, I noted that Oberon was someone we’d met—but I couldn’t remember his name.

“That’s Lawrence,” Zelasha whispered in response to my inquiry.

“Get thee to a nunnery!” the mouse insisted.

“A NUNNERY?!” the cat shouted in indignation, to general laughter. “Meeowwww... nonsense! I know that thou art not mad, Hamlet. Put aside thy vengeance—let us leave Denmark together and elope!”

Hamlet looked Ophelia over. “They say the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape!”

“Devil, am I?” the cat-actress replied, and swatted at him. Hamlet ran away, the cat chasing him.

“Heya,” Jiliana whispered, sliding in beside us. “Are you guys up for lunch after this is over?”

“You bet,” I murmured back.

“Surely there is aught we can do?” Titania asked Oberon/Lawrence.

The actor nodded. “There is an aphrodisiac flower I know of that will calm their nerves.”

“Canst thou send Bottom to go fetch it?” the fairy queen asked.

“Doesn’t she mean Puck?” Zelasha whispered to me.

“I think so,” I said.

“They’re not performing that play this season,” Jiliana whispered to us. “They don’t know the lines that well.”

“What fools these actors be,” Zelasha snickered.

Emily located a plastic flower in the treasure chest, and handed it to Titania. “Here you are, my queen,” she said with a curtsey.

Titania raised the flower and started towards Hamlet and Ophelia, who were by now rolling around on the stage, wrestling and laughing. The fairy queen realized she couldn’t get close enough to use the flower, so returned to her “husband.”

“Sweet Titania,” Lawrence-as-Oberon said, “surely now you will consent to lend me your servant?”

Titania shook her head, and waved the flower under his nose.

Lawrence’s expression changed completely. The calm, confident look of an actor melted into that of a lovestruck teenager.

“My queen!” he gasped, and sank to his knees upon the floor.

The audience applauded. Miss Scarlett put the players back to sleep, and brought the show to an end.

“Wooooow,” Jiliana commented as the three of us arrived at the food court. “I had no idea you could do all that with mesmerism!”

“Well, it is just a trick, really,” I explained.

“How so?”

“Well, you can’t hypnotize someone to fall in love with you,” Zelasha elaborated as we ordered our food. “You have to win their heart on your own merits.”

“But in the show,” the British Songbird persisted, “Lawrence’s expression looked so real!”

I nodded. “The reason people do silly things in those stage shows is because they’re volunteering to do silly things,” I told her. “If Miss Scarlett hadn’t canceled her suggestions, they would have worn off in a few days.”

Jiliana looked away dreamily, and I fed Zelasha a steamed mushroom.