The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Are you listening closely? Then I’ll begin….

I’m going to tell you a story; just as my father told it to me when I’d reached your age….

Well, maybe not just like he told me…

There once was a time, long ago, when the king of England was terrified of the Scottish, He outlawed tartans and put to the sword anyone wearing it….

And do you know why?.. Bagpipes…

Sounds silly doesn’t it, and it is. Nevertheless, afraid he was…. you see he wasn’t afraid of the noise, or even of the piper…. There was however one tune…

When your grandfather told me this story it was a reel, but I’ve heard it described as a strathspey, a jig and even a waltz, Your Uncle Angus, when he told his eldest it was a piobareachd, but, I’ll tell you a secret… I know that it was a hornpipe. Maybe it changes from player to player, and maybe, when you’re old like me, You’ll tell your son something different.

There used to be a town, just on this side of Hadrian’s Wall, a little town called Harwood. The township had grown up around a natural spring and legend told of the fairies who had blessed this spring, so that any woman who drank from it, whether they were young or old, was graced with a beauty beyond description. Women from across the land came to sip from the Harwood’s well; but beauty is, as your mother often laments, a curse.

The town found itself beset by a roving band of rapists and murderers, men so vile their own souls would have nothing to do with them. They would seize upon pilgrims returning from the well, murdering their guards and taking the women. Upon returning to their camp they would defile their captives and, once done, they would sell them… merchandise easily gotten, and if were they unfit for sale then just as easily, returned to the road in their shredded clothes.

Despite never once facing a direct assault, fortifications grew up around Harwood, until it became little more than an extension of the wall whose shadow it lived in. The town’s mayor, being a man of much cunning, could easily see things were only going to get worse and so wrote to the King of Scotland for help…. However, times were dark and the lands were in uproar. With several men claiming the throne and the troops of a foreign royal surging across the border, the need to hunt a small town’s bandits was as trivial as krill to Kraken.

So the mayor offered a reward to any who could rid the region of these brigands, five strongboxes filled with gold and the hand of his daughter in marriage. Stories of his daughter Catherine and her beauty and grace meandered throughout the land. At five foot and ten inches beneath her scarlet hair, she stood taller than most lowland men Many came forth, swords in their hands and shields on their backs; they either walked away in disappointment not having found all the marauders and their lair… or were carried away wrapped in their plaids.

Finally, word of the townships plight reached the highlands and tales of Catherine’s beauty drew a lonely crofter, Rory Macgregor by name, a well-mannered man with a shock of read hair and a lofty appearance. Therefore, with his pipes under his arm, Rory joined the road south towards the border with England and towards his destiny.

Arriving at the town, Rory puffed up his barrel chest and thumped his fist against the cold iron of the portcullis, demanding admittance. Word rippled amongst the lowland townsfolk about Rory and his rough appearance, the highlander himself was quite shocked at the grace and beauty of the town’s womenfolk and said nary a word unless it was stating that he wanted to meet the mayor and his daughter.

Cameron Atwell, the mayor, was a diminutive man standing roughly five foot two to Rory’s six feet, his build slight and wiry when compared to his guest’s burliness. He was not, Rory noted, wearing a kilt.

The mayor, over his spectacles and in his thin reedy voice, directed Rory to a seat as he pored two very shallow glasses of whisky.

“Thank ye,” Rory answered taking the drink whilst smoothing his kilt under him; he lowered himself into one of the armchairs beside the hearth. The rich timbre of his voice more used to calming sheep in storms than conducting business in warm offices.

“So….” The Mayor temporised around his glass “each champion has wanted something of me… what is it you need?” the mayor peered across the low table at the highlander, his narrow bandy legs crossed in front of the fire.

“In a word…. bait”. The highlander leaned forward, the chair creaking under his large frame, as the mayor nodded. “And if it’s not too much to ask, I could do with something to eat”.

“Of course…. Catherine” Atwell called to the door. “You’re far better mannered than most of them men who’ve answered our plea” he stated as he turned back to Rory.

“Well me ma would send me doon tha Clyde if I wa te suggest she didne rear me right.” Rory turned to look as he heard the sound of soft footsteps in the hall, and upon seeing the man’s daughter, found he had a slight problem closing his mouth.

“Is tha yer daughter”? The question poured from his lips and around his beard like water over a burst dam. His eyes drinking in every detail of her body, as though he were a man condemned to the desert.

“Yes, I am”. She answered for her father, her voice an unintentional and sultry purr as glorious and pure as the rest of her, the independence in the girl’s blue eyes piercing through him, challenging.

“Catherine, this is Mr Rory Macgregor. He is the latest to attempt to locate and remove our interlopers.”

Her slender arms crossed over her ample chest as she raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the highlander. The woman’s body cocked on her hip flashing a beautifully formed ankle beneath her long dress, a salacious detail not lost on Rory.

“Here for the gold, Mr Macgregor… or are you after something of a more intrinsic value”? Even the sneer of contempt sat well on her gorgeous face, as she surveyed the red headed highlander.

“Ay well you see... the gold would be nice…. But I’m only a simple crofter, what would I do with all that coin”? Rory managed to stumble out “and ye should be knowin, tales o yer beauty have carried to the other end of the country. Ba if they’ve grown in the tellen, they must’e started as very poor descriptions.”

“Are you a poet or a warrior Mr Macgregor”? The mayor interjected in his squeaky voice. Rory turned to look at him, finally pulling his eyes, but not his focus, from the only girl in the room

“I wouldne call maself either, if I’m anything I’m a musician” He downed his Whisky in one short draft.

“Hmph, come, we’ll get you some food then. Tonight we dine… and tomorrow you hunt, Catherine; have some food and a bed made ready”

“Yes father.” She turned from the room, in two words managing to convey her utter disapproval at having been bartered as payment for services rendered.

The rising sun the next morning, found Rory in the middle of a small group of women, leading them on the road out of the town. His pipes were broken down in a travel bag by his side and he was dressed in a hooded cloak, his back hunched over and unless closely inspected he seemed to be an elderly crone; four young men, barely into their teens, guarded the small group as they headed towards the forest. About four hours into their journey and about halfway into the woods, they were set upon.

“You will come with us now,” the voice was a deep rumble and came from an exceptionally ugly nugget of a man with a basket hilt sword pressed to the back of one of the young guards’ neck.

”And if we don’t” This came from an older but still very good-looking woman, her hands brushing through her auburn hair as she lowered her hood. The bandit who had spoken earlier twisted the blade slightly, the boy at the business end of it gulped; his prominent Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat.

“Then we illuminate these boys permanently, leave their bodies here for the crows, take you anyway and I personally wipe his blood off my blade with your undergarments.” The boy gulped again.

“I think ye should go with them, hen… it may even save the boys lives, for a time”. Rory stood to his full height and lowered his hood; his back ached after spending hours bent over.

“And who is this? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Or are you another guard perhaps?” The boy slumped as the bandit redirected his attention, and his blade, at Rory.

“If it please ye lad, I’m no guard…. My name is Rory Macgregor and I’m this wee bairn’s minstrel”. His thumb pointed behind him towards the youngest of the fair women.

“And where pray tell, Mr Macgregor, is your harp?.. or your mandolin?”

“Truth be told I canne’ play either. I’ve naught but me pipes” he said, hefting his bag whilst rubbing the back of his sore neck and completely ignoring the sword pointed at him.

“I find it very odd… that a father would send his daughter across the country with only four young boys for protection and yet still feel it necessary to include a minstrel in the party… don’t you agree men?” The other three ruffians gave a chorus of affirmative grunts.

“I canne speak as to another mans ken sir, but I would think that the reason he sent boys and didne sent men… is because the men are all massin for war. As for sending me, ye canne place a value on good music… or maybe he’s no a lover o the pipes”.

“Perhaps… are you any good with those pipes of yours?”

“It wouldne be right for me to pass judgement on ma own self, but if the wee lassie wasne terrified she’d tell ye I’m good enough to ha served in her fathers keep fo tha past five and ten years.”

“Indeed… Men… bind, blindfold and gag the boys, bring the women… and the minstrel”.

Rory’s blindfold was removed and craning his neck to see the sun, he judged it about two hours later.

“Welcome to our humble home.” The bandit leader said, his arms sweeping wide, drawing attention to the missing two fingers on his left hand. The midday sun drew the eye to the craggy features and the leer sitting comfortably on his face, his voice seeming to have gotten deeper in the interceding hours. They were in a clearing, canvas tents picketed around the outside edges. In the centre, on a small mound stood a maypole, but instead of ribbons of colour this had ropes… of leather. “Gentlemen… secure the women to the post… and secure Mister Macgregor to one of those trees over there.”

Ropes secured Rory across his wrists, legs and waist, under one of the larger trees on the edge of the woods. He could only watch as the women were lashed to the post, high above their heads, by their forearms. Over the course of the day, they were provided food and water and, just as the sun started waning, the leader of the bandits approached the highlander.

“We’re having a party tonight… there’s going to be dancing, of a sort.” He threw a bag at Rory’s feet “You, piper, are going to provide the music.” His words cut at Rory like the woven strands across his wrists.

Rory’s hands were untied and he started rubbing them to renew the circulation. Bending at the waist to retrieve his instrument, he observed the women being stripped naked, their pale flesh on display under the sun’s dying rays. Their moans of discomfort as their dresses and undergarments were sliced and torn off their still restrained bodies, forced their way into Rory’s mind. The last few embers of sunlight dancing on the girls’ soft flesh, licking at their creamy skin and raising Rory’s blood temperature.

Putting the milky smooth flesh of those doe eyed young nymphs out of his mind as best he was able; he closed his eyes and started tuning his pipes. When he felt like things were as good as they could get Rory opened his eyes and observed that candles had been placed throughout the clearing, giving the whole location an almost ethereal air. Looking around he saw the women, still tied to the maypole, their firm buttocks and high breasts clearly visible in the flickering of the candles.

The bandits had gathered around their captives, their unwashed, unshaven faces and haunted eyes a stark contrast to the white Jacobite shirts, which were all they wore. Each sported below their waist an appendage as rigid and unyielding as the oaken post their victims were lashed to. Spittle stuck to their beards and fog hung round their heads as the night cooled and they started advancing, one to each of the lassies.

“Start playing you!” One of the men thrust a bony finger in Rory’s direction; the piper showed not a hesitation striking up his drones, his E crisp and clear in the chilled air.

A slow march ebbed its way from the highlander’s lungs and fingers, meandering into the centre of the clearing, and the ears of an audience with more important things on their minds. Rory watched each unstoppable step taken by the ruffians, matching tempo to pace, pace to tempo. Wails from the four girls were buried by the skirl of the pipes filling the woods. Flickers of candlelight revealed scarred mouths of broken teeth assaulting breasts and long necks, callused fingers running their bony tips over and up long legs and smooth thighs. Beautiful young faces contorted themselves in ecstasy… or agony, through it all he played matching beat to stroke, stroke to pulsing beat. Tune followed tune without rest; a minute became an hour, time itself frozen still by the delightful screams and earthy moans emanating from the belly of the forest. Rory watched it all, matching tempo until it was impossible to tell who was leading who in the hedonistic orgy taking place in the wilds. Then the highlander began an accelerando, slowly his fingers built their speed and like a rapt young lover, the unwitting audience followed. The bandits trapped in a prison they never knew they had entered, their bodies, and their ensnared minds refusing to let them slow their actions. Rory’s fingers flew over the chanter every high an orgasmic crescendo, every low an exhausted outthrust. Each burl brought an aroused shudder and every grace note a guttural moan. The flickers revealed supernaturally gorgeous women; having lost their fear in climactic bliss, with pale lean legs wrapped around the battle scarred bodies of their unkempt torturers. Their captors, still in time with the lightning beat of the music, thrusting with all they were worth. The wind had whipped up, driving cold air through the clearing… it went unnoticed. Wax candles burned near down to the wick revealed the first signs of the end… a protruding vein on someone’s hairy crimson neck, dry red rimmed eyes bulging from their owners wrinkled sockets and a now shirtless rapist gasping for breath. The aged man’s lungs straining their limits, as he rogered the living daylights from the older auburn haired woman; these images only drove Rory’s possessed fingers to greater speeds.

It was like something from Dante’s Inferno, a debauched dance of carnal understanding, and it seemed to have gone on for hours, days… months, forever, there was no sense of time for this night… only that it had continued on for too long. The bald bandit who was ravaging the youngest girl went first, giving a final thrust and screaming through his buckteeth in joy, as his heart exploded from a workout it could never have prepared for. His partner, her sweat damp blond hair in her blue eyes, wrapped her slim legs beneath his buttocks, trying desperately to get a few more thrusts from his dead weight. The others continued oblivious, the now raging wind hiding all sounds but Rory’s fingers speeding across the holes of his timber chanter.

Then another, his spine snapping from one hard shove to many fell to the sod, his oversized head striking a rock as it landed. The next man suffocated on a mouthful of creamy breast tissue, his ruddy face and thin lips turning blue, as his hips continued their obscene rhythm against his partner’s taut unyielding flesh. Rory’s digits bled but he continued on, ignoring the grating pain, the very wind itself seeming to obey his will. Finally, it occurred, the bandit leader giving his enthusiastic young partner the seeing to of her. and ultimately his own lifetime, his wiry frame barely supporting him his bare feet and yellow unclipped toenails having torn up the sod beneath him; he thrust too hard and snapped his own neck. The horrific sound rang across the clearing even over the sound of the music. He died with a gurgle and fell to earth at the redheaded girl’s dainty feet.

Exhausted, the crofter dropped his pipes to the ground beneath him. With a final effort of his wearied body, he untied himself and collapsed into the tree line to sleep.

The following afternoon saw Rory leading the four exhausted women back to Harwood, the pace was slow and the thoroughly sore women were dressed in tattered rags recovered from the camp, their divine flesh revealing itself as they shifted. Rory’s heart, and were he to be honest his loins, swelled at the thought of not only seeing Catherine, but of doing to her some of the things his eyes had witnessed last night. He led his procession into the town, directly to the door of the mayor’s office, and into the official’s well-appointed parlour.

“Ah Mr Macgregor, I see you’ve returned… victorious I trust?.. have some tea.” Cameron Atwell swept his spindly arm directing Rory to the table in the corner.

“Have ye food and tea for the lassies?” The mayor directed the women to the same table by way of response.

“Were you victorious?” he asked between his glasses and his thinning grey hair.

“Aye. I took the liberty o draggin their bodies to the roadside; they‘re still there if ye want them. Did the boys make it back?” He ignored the tea and instead plonked himself down in the only other chair in the sunny room, his brawn more than a match for the wing backed seat.

“That shan’t be necessary… yes the boys got home safe, and received a thorough hiding for failing in their duties. You did kill all of them right? Some of your predecessors failed to see the job fully through.”

“They’re dead, all of them.” Rory’s voice was a blunt statement of fact, as final and incontrovertible as look upon his face.

“Then you’ve earned your reward,” Rory leaned forward in anticipation “but first I think a celebration is in order.”

“Well now I dinne ken… I was hopin’ to get back to my land.”

“Yes but your land is on the other side of the country… surely an evening’s delay wont set you back too much?” His tone and countenance brooked no argument. “Come on, Macgregor, there’ll be food, wine and dancing and song. You’re a musician surely you can’t disagree with an evening of music and song.”

“If tha’s wa ye think is best.”

“Oh, I do…” Harwood’s mayor pronounced, his chin resting on his steepled fingers.

They reclined, several hours later, at the head of a large table set with, boar, grouse, salmon, mutton and all manner of foods. The mayor was holding court as he extolled the virtues of his township and around a mouthful of aromatic and perfectly roasted pheasant explained why the bandits had left Harwood so financially in trouble.

“… so as you can see, those five chests of gold, are far more than we can spare” He noisily swallowed the bird.

“Are you trying to say ye canne pay me?” Rory pointed at him with a leg of mutton, steam still rising from the meat.

“Well… we can pay you… however, if we do, your payment will have condemned our home to extinction.”

“Yer no a man who minds tryin’ on tha guilt, are ye?” Rory muttered over the sounds of the banquet.

“I wouldn’t be much of a mayor if I allowed my town to die.”

“I spose I canne argue with reason like tha, three chest of gold then.” Rory bartered.

“What about one… you said yourself that you were only a simple crofter and had no need for that much coin.”

“There’s a vast sea o diffrunce tween need an want, an I’m a believer in payin a man fairly for his work.” Rory had gone back to pointing the now meatless bone at the mayor who was reacting as though being threatened with the limbs’ of dead animals were a daily occurrence.

“So am I Mr Macgregor… so am I, but I can’t offer you what I don’t have. One is all I can offer and even that would be at great cost to our small town.”

“So… all your really offerin’ is your daughter, speaken o which, where is the bonnie wee lass by the way?” Rory leaned back in his seat, his body half turned to face the mayor.

“Ah… yes, about that, she is locked in her room… and she is also off the bargaining table, a women of her beauty shouldn’t be wasted on a farmer… cast not pearls before swine”.

Rory was steaming… and quickly reaching an awful momentous, and ultimately history shaping decision. “So wha is on the table?” His voice was carried a deep resonance, like the roiling thunderclouds of a gathering monsoon. Atwell remained oblivious.

“At the moment? Dinner.” The mayor gestured at the feast spread down the length of the table before them, with one of his bony arms.

“Ye jumped up, theivin shifty wee bastard…” Rory was just working up to a lengthy diatribe on what kind of bastard the mayor was, when an inhibriated voice slurred…

“SPEECH!”

“Wha?..” Rory turned to face the table, knocking his tankard from the table in the process. Rory scanned the faces lining the table but found he couldn’t identify which drunken reveller had made the request. “Damm!... Ye want a speech?” Heads around the table bobbed. Rory looked at the mayor who was busy looking anywhere but back at him. He stood and recovered his ale.

“I’m no a man for talking, but yer mayor here has pointed out to me tha yer town has more need o tha money than I do. So on his suggestion I’m no takin it… in fact I wanna give ye something else as well… a wee tune tha ma father taught me tha day I became a man. If you’ll scuse me I’ll go grab ma pipes.” Rory turned and walked from the table.

“Well… let’s hear it for the hero of Harwood, Mister Rory Macgregor.” The mayor sat back in his seat and Rory returned with his pipes in hand, as the applause was dying down.

He took an easy stance at the bottom of the table, his eyes naturally resting on the weedy mayor at its other end.

“I just want to remind ye all, that the man ye should all be grateful to is your mayor, Cameron Atwell, without him I would never have come to this town.” There was another smattering of applause as he fitted his pipes under his arm and started tuning his drones.

Rory started slowly, his fingers working their way up and down the scale. He made a big show of stamping his foot until the townspeople started clapping a beat. He kept it going until all of Harwood was involved and then he started building, the pace moving up to dance speed. People started cheering and stamping their feet, banging their tankards against the rough wooden table, several of the women dragged their husbands onto the courtyard starting dances. Individuals started doing flings as Rory picked up the tempo; wind whipped through deserted streets and rushed across a bonfire near the table, where another boar was slowly being roasted and spun.

Soon all were on their feet, dancing and crowding round Rory, basking in the heat of the fire. Insulated from the harsh wind and crowding themselves in, on and on the music went, faster and faster the people danced, throwing their limbs around and swilling their drinks. The flames leap higher driven by the wind and the mass of people.

Rory’s fingers moved likes flashes from the fire, the townsfolk grinding against one another; a sly smile crept to his face around his blow piece, his cheeks puffed out. The wind bellowed against the town walls, the groans of shifting stone hidden by the music, the roar of flames, the villagers had started kissing and groping one another their hands in places seen and unseen.

From the corner of his eye, the highlander saw dust rising from the outer wall as it crumpled under the force of the coming gale. He build the tempo and watched as one of Harwood’s women ripped open a man’s trousers, her buxom chest bouncing with the exertion. She threw herself against him, grinding her pelvis into his. Others inspired by these efforts joined in singly, in pairs and in groups. In one instance three of the towns gorgeous women savaged one man shredding his clothes to get at him, he groaned, his head tilting back in ecstasy as the three started pulling at his flesh in an effort to get him inside them. His flesh tore, weak compared to the insane power of their desire. He offered only moans of pleasure as he was rent limb from limb, the women moved onto another man.

A bass rumble sounded in the distance as one of the building toppled under the breeze, the crowd ignored it, obsessed with achieving their own pleasure through the suffering of their friends. Over there two men worked at either end of a pregnant woman, her positioning resembling the boar that was no more than ash on the raging bonfire. Screams filled the town square as men and women achieved climax in a symphony of syncopation, and still Rory’s fingers moved faster; blood pouring down his hands, from the tattered skin of his fingers.

Like Jericho thousands of years earlier the walls groaned and fell completely, dust coated the entire town creating a fog that engulfed everything. Only the piper noticed, his audience lost in sin, cheering and moaning; Rory started moving, satisfied the people of Harwood would continue, the beat self sustaining. Scanning the sweat and blood stained faces of the few living people surged his efforts. The villagers threw themselves further into the fray, gorging themselves in any orgy of cataclysmic proportions. Gales of wind ripped their way through the square, bellowing the flames into a crescendo of fatal screams, the flames burst outwards; their amber tendrils licking at the townsfolk, too addled with bliss to notice their own flesh being seared beyond recognition.

Satisfied and disgusted with the macabre scene in front of him, he set off in search of the girl, his fingers slowed their blitzkrieg assault; the wind dying down from hurricane speeds. He approached the mayor’s home and stood before the walls, summoning the wind, his fingers still moving, every squeeze of the bag calling forth the raging gale. The wind at Rory’s back ripped at the walls before him, tearing the mortar from the stone. His plaid whipped back and forth like an enraged serpent. The tempest protecting him from the flying chips of masonry, one complete side of the building fell away diverting around him. With no sign of Catherine, he changed the tune slightly, the wind charging forward and ripping another section of the building asunder. Still not seeing his prize, he stepped into the shattered husk of the home and changed the tune again, watching as wall after wall ground to dust. It was almost in the last room that he saw her, lying naked on her bed, friggging herself to one orgasm after another.

“Please…” she whimpered at Rory… begging for another release, her soft call barely audible over the bagpipes. The highlander ceased his playing, the wind dying in an instant, his lungs almost worn out, his fingers buckled and his heartbeat erratic.

“I canne, love… I’m near dead.” she crawled naked on her knees through the rubble of her home, to prostrate herself at Rory’s feet.

“Please Mr Macgregor… I’ll do anything you want… any time you want, just… just one more tune.” Her voice, a little girl lost, her hands crept up towards Rory’s kilt as he drew several ragged breaths.

“Lassie… I canne move me fingers.” Her hands left his kilt as her tongue started lapping the blood from his hands, taking one worn digit after another into her soft warm mouth and sucking it clean.

“Please… for me?” She looked up at him through his beard, with her red hair in her beautiful brown doe eyes, sweat glistening off her magnificent chest.

“Just a wee slow one then.” Rory took one final ragged breath before hoisting the pipes under his battered shoulder. Catherine’s hand slid down her pale smooth stomach towards her nexus, her head bobbed under the highlander’s kilt, taking him into her mouth with a deep throaty moan.

So that’s the story of why bagpipes and tartans were banned throughout Scotland…

Not because of the piper, but because Harwood, a small town that was wiped from the face of the Earth by a tune.

It’s also the story of how your mother fell in love with me, and your grandma in love with your grandfather, and so on back through time.

Sweet dreams.