The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Once Upon a Time

This grew out of an experiment to make an Archive-appropriate story in poetic form. Many thanks to kbug for the idea that sparked this story and to TeraS and kbug for the kind of editing that makes me appear to be a competent writer.

Once upon a time, on the edge of what was real
near the summit of the possible, past streams of what we feel,
and the bubbling springs of passion, where our darkest dreams congeal
into drops of inspiration, full of promise, yet piecemeal,
there was a garden.
There, amid the flora, creative types would roam,
thinking wondrous, wild imaginings in prose or song or poem.
While the muses moved unseen, the faeries made them feel at home
and the leprechauns and kady-bugs and not-too-oft-seen gnome
all troublemaking
(harmlessly, of course) with some mischief and a smack
—used judiciously—to keep the various artists all on track.
A small pinch upon the buttocks or a tickle on the back
of a knee is quite enough. No need to tackle or ransack
some restive writer.
Once upon a time, past the honeysuckle patch,
between fields of purples posies, boughs of rosies, and some thatch,
lived a lively lady leprechaun, who seemed not quite a match
for her charge, a quiet writer who would much rather detach
than get too playful.
He’d been there a week, and had not responded well
to her whoopee-cushion toadstools or exploding cockle shell.
When the leprechaun lass fiddled with a certain silver bell
so that it blared out “La Bamba,” not a light chime, one could tell
he was not amused.
Out of the gazebo, a kady-bug appeared,
quite confused at these transpirings, though more than a little cheered
by the failure of her colleague. But her friend, a faery, steered
her away from idle gloating: “Our young friend is just not geared
to this one’s thinking.”
Once upon a time, as the leprechaun lass slept,
she was moaning, tossing, turning over how she’d been inept
with this poet; she was dreaming soon of how he might be swept
off his feet with some young lovely thing who might get him all pepped
and even horny.
Rummaging around in the depths of her deep dream,
being sent there by a muse, the faery noticed lots of steam,
for the lady leprechaun was rather taken, it would seem,
with her charge in carnal ways that made the faery want to scream.
Instead, she plotted.
While the leprechaun femme snored peacefully in bed,
one quite proud, productive faery who was close to seeing red
dropped subliminal suggestions deep inside her titian head
to be thoroughly professional and dull as Wonder Bread
around her clients.
Once upon a time, in this garden, ‘midst the flowers
was a poet working happily for hours upon hours
as the leprechaun assigned to him used her peculiar powers
all to keep away the mischief, even ward off the spring showers.
It seemed idyllic.
Then, quite far away, in a land of endless light,
a volcano with an attitude turned morning into night
belching out some sulph’rous storm clouds with a bitter, boric bite
being jettisoned into the jet stream. Something not quite right
was in the ash cloud.
Soon the winds would shift, and the cloud moved to the west.
When the change was in the air, the lass looked at her poet guest,
felt the flood of all those feelings that the faery had suppressed
and a growing surge of power deep within her swelling breast.
She started chanting.
Once upon a time, every note of that odd chant
settled into soil and springs, began to permeate each plant
and to fill each fir with pheromones. The Garden soon had scant
opportunity to fend this off. Even the faery can’t
seem to resist it.
Moans came from the mangrove. A fluttering was heard
as thin gossamer gyrated; two wings, helpless and absurd,
on a faery fornicating with her fingers, undeterred
by the absolute absurdity of this. Her mind had blurred,
her restraint melted.
Wriggling and writhing, her masturbating fit
would increase unceasing as the faery frigged her fiery slit.
There was part of her that thought this was a spell, but not a bit
of her self-satisfied sex suggested she should stop (“submit”
she would consider).
Once upon a time, kady-bug—to be quite blunt—
felt a never-ending need to ease the itching in . . . Her bunt
in response was not to scratch herself, but to begin a hunt
for some stalwart, strapping sir to scratch her . . . or, at least, to punt,
perhaps relieve her.
That’s when she went looking for just a jig of joy,
for a tasty bit of beefcake, just a tantalizing toy
to satiate her sex drive. She’d seek a blonde, buff, blue-eyed boy
(though hair color didn’t matter). She would grab him and destroy
his inhibitions.
Soon the kady-bug thought, “The poet! He’s a male!”
She alighted near his ear, where her warm breath could hardly fail
to melt the mortal mettle of this man’s mind, and then derail
any chaste or pure emotions. In a moment she’d impale
herself and ride him.
Once upon a time, as the ash-cloud made day night,
as the leprechaun was chanting and the kady-bug set sight
upon the hapless poet, who really only wished to write,
he was suddenly considering: should he try to make a fight
or participate.
Soon it was decided; the poet spun around,
pulled the kady-bug close to him as he tumbled to the ground
and kissed her oh-so-fiercely, still quite ensorcelled by the sound
of the leprechaun’s sweet chanting. Soon his fingers rubbed her mound
inside her panties.
Rolling in the clover (a soft and fragrant rug),
all his kisses fell in showers on the eager kady-bug
who eagerly enjoyed each and every tumble, taste, and tug
of her amour-addled author. She moved over him to plug
her seat of wanting.
Once upon a time, these two frolicked on the lawn
and their moaning reached the ears of our own lady leprechaun,
who stopped her chant mid-neume, as the horrid truth began to dawn,
as she realized that the kady-bug she meant to be a pawn
was competition.
“NO!” screamed the wee lassie. “My plan has gone all wrong!
That sweet poet was to fall for me! The power of that song
should bring him to his knees and leave him unwrapping my sarong
with his teeth (if I wore one). He should present me something long,
quite stiff, and tasty.
Then the leprechaun, realizing she’d need some aid,
began trudging toward the clover where the lovers were arrayed
while scouring her mind for spells to make sure she would be obeyed,
but she ended up just twisting her red hair into a braid.
She felt so helpless.
Once upon a time, someone burst upon the scene:
it was Vicki Virtue, heroine, quite shapely, fit, and lean,
whose heightened vigilance suggested she drank too much caffeine.
While responding to the ash, she’d noticed this short girl in green
who needed helping.
Dropping from the sky, she set down in this nice park,
gave her hand to the short redhead, then at once she felt a spark.
The faery then flew deep inside of her tights, where it was dark,
and she groped the hero’s cleavage, made her bend back in an arc
of moaning pleasure.
As the leprechaun saw the arching, her lust grew.
She had never wanted women. Was it time for something new?
This beauty in the spandex was just the sort of woman who
the young maiden could fall hard for, and those eyes of icy blue
left her quite smitten.
Once upon a time, Vicki Virtue felt so hot!
With some hands and feet (and wings?) inside her blouse, she just could not
refocus her fogged mind, and when the short girl found a sweet spot
with her tongue beneath the hero’s panties, her will went to pot.
She fell back, moaning.
Very soon, her lovers removed her spandex suit.
Vicki whimpered “I want more!” The leprechaun reached for a flute
and tooted out a tune. The kady-bug gasped and dropped the brute
she had, up ‘til then, been kissing, looked and saw the luscious fruit
the others sampled.
“What could I have thought?” The bug looked and licked her lips,
lusting for Ms. Virtue’s form, her luscious mouth, her tasty hips.
She dropped her boy-toy cold, crawled to buff Vicki, took her long sips
just below the blonde-thatched mound. Three girl’s hot treatments would eclipse
young Vicki’s training.
Once upon a time, the guest fell flat on his tusch
when Ms. Kady dropped him cold for the fair femme in the next bush,
her mindset blurred by ash, libido lost to leprechaun’s push.
He was hurt and yearning when the weather shifted with a whoosh,
disbursed the ash cloud.
Suddenly his mind was quite clear. He was relieved
that the spell on him was broken, for the leprechaun conceived
some stronger magic for the females. Naked arms and legs weaved,
rubbing, writhing, sweating, until one shared climax was achieved,
then starting again.
Now the Garden’s quiet. The silver bells all chime.
No more cockle shells are shocked. The pretty maids all feel sublime
exploring buxom bodies—they are four women in their prime.
But the poet was content, for he’s just started a new rhyme:
“Once upon a time . . .”