The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In a high spire, atop the North Tower of the college of the unseen, a roaring fire blazed. A servant tapped quietly on the door, almost unheard, before pushing the heavy wood aside. The study was warmer than most, rich tapestries slowly drying out on the walls. The temperature was almost tangible, but the girl tried to ignore it as she carried a supper tray over to the room’s centrepiece, a large padded chair. At first she thought the mage was away, and went to leave the meal on a small table. Then a cool breeze momentarily whipped golden hair across her face, and she glanced over to see a figure standing before an open window.

Orichal, the narrator, had pale bronze skin and dark hair cut quite neatly, a couple of inches long. His body, while not muscular, was well toned from regular hours in the gym. It was always hard to estimate the age of those skilled in magiq, but those who had managed to defeat the onslaught of years tended to either a kind of unnatural grace, every movement perfected by decades of practise, or habits of gait and posture slowly became ingrained and exaggerated to form an unnaturalness you could never quite pin down. Orichal stood confidently, but had no air of strangeness about him, so it was probably safe to trust the 30 years suggested by his face. The aurora gave his face a slightly unearthly appearance, shimmering blue and gold light casting shifting shadows, but he seemed to be smiling. A few drops of sweat glistened on his back, where the wall of heat from the hearth fought with the chill breeze from outside. Up here, the college courtyard was concealed by the illusion which hid the place from mundane eyes, so the view which greeted Orichal’s eyes would only be broken by the last rays of the sunset crowning the Beltaric mountains in the far west, stars above and the aurora’s cold fire stretched out like a carpet below.

The servant girl, Culva, wondered what held his attention so completely, though she would never forget protocol enough to actually ask. Tradition dictated that a servant would never address a mage unless spoken to; they were expected to be like the antique furniture, fulfilling a vital role while remaining part of the background. But maybe he had sensed her eyes on him, lingering a little longer than was appropriate. “Thanks,” the smile didn’t leave his lips, so he was either proud of his physique or simply unconcerned by a servant’s opinions, “You can leave it on the table. I hadn’t even realised it was time.”

Culva walked quietly over to the table and set down her tray, glad to have avoided a reprimand for staring. The mage, though, seemed to want to talk. “I find it useful, sometimes, to engage all my senses. It helps my mind to focus. You know, somewhere out there,” he waved a hand vaguely towards the distant peaks, “are uncountable people living their lives, and we’ll never know a fraction of their experiences. Is every one a unique life, a different story? Or is every memory I look into matched by a thousand analogous scenes with different names and different spectators?”

The servant girl shook her head a little, “I don’t know, sir.”

The mage smiled more broadly as he came close enough to take a turkey leg from the platter of cold meats, “At last, a straight answer. You wouldn’t believe how long the great minds have debated that question, each unable to see any viewpoint but his own. Which, I guess, could be some form of answer in itself.” He took a bite of meat and returned to the window, staring contemplatively out towards the distant town of Glenburn. As the servant backed slowly out of the door, Orichal submerged his consciousness in the collective world of dreams and reached out towards the memory he had so recently been reading through. Although it wasn’t the great research of the sorcerers of legend, there was something particularly delicious about exploring the world through another’s minds eye.

Racinda reclined nervously on the firm leather couch. She appeared calm, but behind the green eyes her mind was whirling. She had never considered herself quite normal, with desires which would probably disgust most of her friends and family. But the woman she loved, Miname, had enough perverse desires of her own, and that had somehow made it easier to visit a mage, far from the city where anyone might pry. She had whispered to the man about a story they had read, and the mage known as Tenshioh just nodded. She had told him that the two young women wanted to experience true slavery; that Miname had searched her soul, and decided she wanted to feel herself helpless against Racinda’s commands. He hadn’t even objected, saying that the request was unusual but not strange, and just a couple of hours after they had first arrived, Miname’s eyes were visibly glowing with the energy left over by the spell inside her mind.

The two women couldn’t be more different in their responses to the magiq. Miname smiled faintly, her nervousness at approaching the mage finally overcome by the intoxicating thrill of the power settling in her mind. She sat back with one hand idly tweaking the lines of her bodice, at last comfortable with her unusual desires. She was pretty secure in her belief that Tenshioh wouldn’t abuse the sigil left in her mind—she’d heard enough about the draconian methods of the Wise Orders to know that any mage would think twice before taking advantage of a mortal. But more than that, Miname knew from the racing of her heart that if he chose to take her as a pet, she would be happier than she had ever been before.

Racinda, on the other hand, had been filled with anticipation on coming into the house. But after seeing the spell cast, listening to Tenshioh’s chanting and discovering just how powerful the spell really was, she found a growing unease slowly replacing her eagerness to make her fantasies real. He had seemed so confident, every word and gesture flowing so naturally that he had to have practised them before. Was this the expertise of a sorcerer, skilled in every facet of magiq? Had he done this before, were more people than she could have imagined hiding the same secret from each other? Or could the friendly mage be a secret predator, dreaming salacious dreams until the day someone made the request he’d been waiting for?

“Have you ...” Racinda had been thinking the question, and for a moment wondered if she’d spoken aloud without thinking, before Miname continued, “Have you done this before?” The older girl was half whispering, the deep and breathy tone a big change from her normal fast paced elocution.

“Am I really that good?” he grinned, but the smile faded quickly as he realised how shocked they had both been by the spell’s efficacy. “Well, I guess I have a little experience in the field, though I’ve never actually done this before.” He waited a second for a reply, but only got a raised eyebrow to express curiosity. He quickly realised that the two women were both tired and a little overwhelmed, so he decided to tell them a story while they recovered a little.

The Narrator, Orichal, pulled back from the memory. The lights below his window were faint now, and the mountains no longer visible in the darkness. It was probably well past midnight now, and the sound of a closing door told him that a servant had collected the remains of his supper, hardly touched.

He knew he should sleep, but the memories were just too enticing. He wanted to know what happened to Miname before he left that dream, so he impatiently flew through the thoughts, and started reading. It didn’t take long, though, before he realised that he wouldn’t fully understand the end of this tale if he just skipped over Tenshioh’s anecdote. He hesitated for a moment, but decided it was too late to finish this story tonight. He reluctantly closed the window, and invoked a small demon to hold on to the dream so that he could find it easily in the morning.

As the narrator wrapped himself in freshly starched cotton sheets, he contemplated for a moment entering the memory through his dreams. It was the norm for those few mortals who had found a way into the Communities, but Orichal always found that it seemed muted, unreal, compared to the conscious access of mages. Maybe that was why a story like Master of the Northeast Tower, devoid of real emotion, could be so popular among those who had never experienced how real a true memory could feel. No, dreaming was not for him, that story could wait until morning ...

Morning, rays of light streaming through the windows and turning the air to a rainbow-flooded haze of sparkling dust motes. The voices of students rose from outside, babbling in anticipation of the day’s sports. Later, the majority of students at the College of the Unseen, normally such an austere institution, would be gathered in the main quadrangle to cheer as representatives of the four buildings—North Tower, South Hall, East Tower, and Dragonroost—competed to see whose magiq could raise them highest on the ancient stonework.

Orichal the Narrator normally retreated to the solitude of the library on such days as these. It was easier to evade the disruption of routine, which the students under his tutelage so enjoyed. But today, with no work to be done, he was almost glad of an excuse to relax with the treasures he had found among the Communities. Beside his bed, a light robe of opalescent silk lay, carefully folded. He pulled it on and wandered through to his study, finding coils of narrative and brushing the memory with his mind even as he sat down to break his fast ...

“I’ve never actually done this before,” Tenshioh blushed a little as he spoke. Somehow, admitting this to a non-mage was harder than talking to others who had been there, “But I’ve seen mind control used for pleasure; even been on the receiving end a few times.”

“See, at the College, it always turns out them against us. The elves are nice enough, but nobody really takes them seriously. Bonuborian students tend to hang around in their own groups, using their language like a barrier. The towers compete both academically and at sports, but even within the same tower there’s an intense rivalry between the Wall and Mah’jongg teams: whether a mage is better judged by their tactics and intuition, or by magiqal and physical power. A lot of mages have a problem with wizards who don’t do magiq, and some of them express their distrust in fairly dangerous ways. So many little groups, it seems like everyone has a group to support them, banding together to protect their interests.”

“It can be quite a lonely place for a guy from the country, without a clique to protect him. So there’s probably a lot of reasons I started to hang around with Kailen the Controller, Lady Evadne and their friends. They got a simple rule: do what they say, and they’ll protect you through the College. Some people got power, and get a thrill from tasting the dark side. Some of us were just looking for the protection of those with influence.

“Its not like some people portray, all those dream stories,” he realised he was defending the College’s reputation automatically, though Miname hadn’t given any sign of suspicion. That was how non-mages thought of the corridors of learning, an unfounded prejudice that must be crushed at every opportunity, right? “Its not all mind-controlling cults and cliques. We traded a little freedom for some excitement, and some more powerful friends with a similar taste. Maybe half a dozen mages were into it, maybe there was another group in another tower, but I doubt it. Yeah, I’ve been controlled. I’ve seen rituals like this before, but never been the one in control.”

“When I was initiated, Kailen gave me a bracelet. It had a rune in it, crafted from black jade. It wasn’t easy to know it was forged with the essence of posessive desire built in—so nobody would ever touch it except to prove their loyalty to the group. Kind of like an initiation rite; proving that you’re willing to help others, so they will help you.”

“The first time, it was set up like a proper dark ritual, inspired by the myths and fictions of those outside the College. Everyone in black velvet robes, hoods hiding faces and lit by the faint glow of a couple of hundred incense sticks. You can imagine the smoke from that, its like inhaling a glass of gin with every breath. I guess they must have got someone from the West Tower council under their control, or they’d never get permission to use the room again. Everyone’s around the perimiter of a summoning circle, muttering in voices I can’t quite hear, while I kneel at the centre like I’ve been told. They pass this bracelet around the circle, engraved like a scorpion biting its own tail. I didn’t know much about rituals back then, but I could sense that each person was adding an arcane spirit to the silver.

“At the end, just about when I was about to lose my nerve, Kalien the Controller stepped forward and pulled her hood back. She said something about taking the amulet as my last free action, and fixed the rune onto the silver. I’d swear it was glowing black, probably the most negative aura I’ve ever felt. But with this kind of thing, I guess its supposed to feel pretty negative. The whole atmosphere is geared towards scaring the initiate. So as the first incense started to go out, I put the bracelet on and felt the spell bind itself to me.”

“It wasn’t used often. But once I’d put the bracelet on that first time, there was always the knowledge in the back of my mind. That I couldn’t stop anyone else in the group from putting a bracelet on me, and that the touch of that rune on my skin would make me completely obedient to whatever they said. Every few weeks, older members of the group would use it. Sexual favours were the ones I remember most, though probably more common was helping a fellow student with their studies. After a year of being a good slave, I got my own scorpion to use on other members of the group. I think I used it twice, one of those for a friend who’d had his heart broken, didn’t want to talk to his friends. I called him to come and accept the scorpion as the only way I could get him out of his room, then once it was on I just said he should stop moping and come for some ale.

“Sometimes, I guess control can be useful. For most of us, its exciting. To take control or to lose it, either way is a test of trust. I helped in the ritual a few times, making sure all the bracelets work for all the slaves. But for all the ritual, and the way we had to bow to the top three when we met them, it wasn’t a big part of life for most of us. I hope you two can find your own happy balance.”

Miname looked up and smiled. “When you put it like that, it does sound more ...” her voice trailed off for a second, eyes wide in surprise, “You can’t ... when did you?” Tenshioh was terrified, not knowing if it was his story that had disturbed he so, or some unforseen consequence of the spell. He leaned forward and looked into her eyes, only thinking of her welfare until he felt a sudden, unnatural chill spread through his veins to grip his heart like an unbreakable vice. Only then did he follow Miname’s gaze to see her friend standing beside him, pressing a silver scorpion against his arm.

“You have to obey this?” Racinda grinned sweetly. The mage realised he’d heard the faint click as she opened his display cabinet, but had been absorbed enough in his story to dismiss it as the result of the house’s timbers creaking as it warmed or cooled. He wanted to exclaim his disapproval, astonishment that a well-bred young woman would take such liberties with a friend’s property. But the words that emerged from his lips were simply “Yes, mistress.”

Orichal smiled as his mind drifted free again. He’d appreciated the unexpectedness of the feelings of control at the end of that tale, a quality rarely found in true memories. He was a little uneasy, though, it seemed like some parts of the story were missing. Not the mechanical description of sexual pleasure, which seemed to continue for some time. He couldn’t care less for those. But there was some sixth sense prompting him that he had inadvertantly skipped an important facet of the tale during his rest.

Possibly the controlling power had been used to make Tenshioh or Miname from remembering part of their story; that would mean it wasn’t in the memory they had committed to the Communities. But finding it would involve discerning who had actually stored that story, and the depth of emotion from all sides made it near impossible to know. They had probably read each others memories after the event, so maybe if he kept probing this cloud of stories he could eventually find the missing part. So he left a demon to hold the tightly-grouped network, and wandered down to the North Hall for breakfast. Even as he ate, there was little more than controling magiq on his mind.