The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Alyssia Alabaster

Categories: ff gr in mf

SUMMARY: Petrified in a perpetual state of arousal by an unbreakable warlock’s curse, Princess Alyssia’s conundrum upends a dynasty and alters the future of her kingdom.

DISCLAIMER: This story contains explicit and unconscionable sexual activity, and is intended for adult readers only. If you have not yet attained the legal age of consent in your region, of if you have difficulty distinguishing between fantasy and reality, I urge you not to continue.

And so it came to pass that Alyssia was rescued by her princely brothers, and the shadow of the warlock Colonnus was purged from the lands, at least for a time. Alas, Prince Barthus and Prince Dormond proved unable to detain the demented and salacious mage, so concerned as they were for their dear sister’s welfare, among other things. So Colonnus escaped the realm with wand and baubles well in hand. This oversight was to have dire and demented consequences, most immediately for the hapless and beloved Princess, but at length for the kingdom at large.

For when the princely brothers penetrated the warlock’s inner sanctum, swords in hand, they found their precious sister in the thrall of a perilous charm. Base Colonnus has ensorcelled Alyssia, that sweet bloom of youth, that chaste and gentle rosebud, adored by all her subjects and her peers. The brothers found her trapped in a peculiar chair—a vile contraption, carved of supple birchwood, and configured such that the young maid’s fair frame was forced to partially recline, with her dainty legs most rudely elevated, spread, and stirruped—a position not unlike the one adopted by her queenly mother, each time she bore a member of the royal brood. But Alyssia was to be no mother; indeed, she was a virgin, or at least she had been, before Colonnus came.

Yet the wizard’s curse upon her had but begun. Affixed to the rude chaise she was, uncorseted and robbed of petticoats and skirts alike; and held fast she was by magicks unfathomable, quite unable to budge the slightest inch. That Alyssia breathed still, her saviors could see by the rhythmic lifting of her creamy bare bosom. That her heart beat on, they could detect by observing the subtle twitching pulse upon her swanlike neck. And oft she blinked, whereupon her eyes did move and focus on them with lucidity.

But in all other respects, she was a statue, still as alabaster, though yet warm and soft-skinned, as a maid should be. The curse had stilled her visage, making her fair face a frozen mask (apart from those oft-darting eyes, bright lively sapphires bejeweling a still pale crown). The cruellest touch, perhaps, was that the spell’s paralytic mask had forced her slim lips into a rude, wide “O,” as if Alyssia were singing an eternal, silent song, a lament to her own dilemma.

And thus her prince brothers found her, and were dutifully astonished and ashamed, for never had they seen her sister so unclothed and exposed, so blatantly displayed by the demented chair. They cried aloud, averted their eyes, and implored the maid to close her legs, protect her modesty with arms or cloth or anything at all. Yet, spellbound as she was, she could not obey, and at length the princes were obliged to gaze upon her nakedness, even on the rude-spread claret gates to her deep grotto—yea, even on the brown bud that lay below those gates, its puckered circuit an apparent mocking echo of Alyssia’s round mouth.

They tried to lift her off her birchwood perch, and they found her light enough, but all her limbs unyielding, unimposable. Whether she was the lightest and most lifelike statue in the world, or else the stiffest living maid, they could not say—but at length their efforts to bend her legs into an upright posture gave them both a particular discomfort, so they replaced the princess on the chair to address their condition.

The princes would later blame distinct and separate factors for their ill-timed tumescences: Barthus, the elder, claimed that the general excitement of their recent battle against Colonnus’s enchanted minions caused his blood to flow into dubious extremities; whereas Dormond spoke of an exotic incense which smoked within the wizard’s inner chambers, every breath of which intoxicated his mind and engorged his member. Whatever the causes, the remedy was clear; in turn, the princes excused themselves, retiring to an antechamber—first the elder, then the younger—each to relieve his need.

Yet no sooner had they coped with this distraction and begun a second attempt to elevate their sister, but their hardness readdressed itself, and they were obliged to step out of the room a second time, each one to manumit a jet of gleaming prisoners. This time, the need was so urgent, there was no chivalrous taking of turns; the brothers stroked in unison, then returned shame-facedly to where they had (however briefly) abandoned their helpless sister. The third time, all they did was lay their hands upon the fair maid’s skin, and their members sprang to attention instantly, and with a preternatural pressure that they scarcely had time to extract their princely pricks before their spume erupted.

Pearlescent droplets stained the sanctity of their dear sister’s skin. Her expression did not change, of course, but her cheeks flushed scarlet, and her eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, as if in a paroxysm of shame. The princes were likewise humiliated by their eruptions, and besides which, they had finally begun to suspect there was another cause, and so they wisely decided not to touch Alyssia a fourth time, even though this meant the creamy evidence of their intemperance remained a-glisten on her thighs and breasts.

Prince Barthus remained with the frozen princess, while his younger brother rode back to the castle (no doubt with some discomfort in his well-spent loins) to seek assistance. He returned anon, with a train of guards who wore thick leather gloves and kept their helmets’ vizards low across their eyes. At the princes’ direction, they bore both maid and chair out of the warlock’s tower and all the way back to the castle (for since no other piece of furniture was specifically designed to her unique arrangement, Barthus had deemed the chair necessary to preserve Alyssia’s comfort, such as it was). And forthwith, the helpless and pathetic girl was hidden in a high tower of the palace, where perverted eyes would not espy her.

The royal family was informed. King Horace, having received firsthand descriptions from his sons, declined to visit his daughter, even though she had been hastily and thoroughly clad in blankets to preserve both warmth and modesty. So great was the king’s mortification at the mage’s crime that he never again spoke Alyssia’s name, although he often cursed the name of Colunnus, and offered an emperor’s ransom in reward for his capture.

Queen Pasiphae was more compassionate, and went immediately to see her daughter in distress. She spoke soothing words to Alyssia, and held the girl’s frozen hand—at least for a brief time. Soon, the queen found herself subjected to a distress most unusual to ladies of her age, and decided, in the interests of decorum, that she could sit in a more distant corner of the room, near an open window, whenever she visited. But it was she who most actively sought remedy for Alyssia’s tragic state, summoning practitioners of white magic from all corners of the world, and beseeching the best of them to seek out a cure for the dread paralysis.

After many months of research, one of the learned mages declared that he had determined the spell by which Colonnus had ensorcelled the maid. However, this knowledge brought him no closer to a counterspell; he could duplicate the effect, but not reverse it. This was of no consolation to Alyssia; however, while the counsel of mages was arriving at their cul-de-sac, new developments were unfolding in other areas of the girl’s life.

The responsibilities of keeping Alyssia’s body clean and fed had fallen to Imri, a beloved nurse who had attended the girl since she had first begun to blossom into womanhood. Imri felt no shame at Alyssia’s condition, only love and pity. She bathed the princess daily with a pail and sponge, fed her spiced gruel (she could not chew, but seemed able to swallow), and disposed of her royal waste. She had, in truth, been the selfsame servant who had rid Alyssia’s delicate skin of the dried ejaculate, spilled by her brothers, when she had first been brought home after her ordeal.

Imri always wore thin cotton gloves when tending to her mistress, for she found they lessened the uncomfortable heat and unconscionable thoughts that passed daily through her mind and body. Never the less, she was a maid of flesh and blood, and in the prime of her own youth—very nearly of an age with Alyssia—and despite her chaste demeanour and a tremendous exertion of will, she often fell prey to similar degradations as the princes. On these occasions, she would break off from bathing or feeding the princess, flee the room to her own chambers far beneath the tower, and assault herself until the pressure passed. To expedite this process, Imri took to forgoing undergarments, so that she might have faster access to those parts of her anatomy which cried most urgently for relief.

The attendant coped privately with this routine of onanism. Imri suspected it was a side effect of Alyssia’s curse (else why had the girls’ brothers likewise succumbed?), but whenever she spoke to the statue-girl, she never raised the subject of her own chronic lust, for she did not think to trouble the princess with such trifles. Clearly, her own state was a thousand times worse. Yet Imri did not suspect what deep and private turmoil the princess suffered; and it was some years before she stumbled upon the secret.

The event befell long after the mages of the land had given up hope of ever curing Alyssia’s paralysis, and likewise long past the fading of King Horace’s hopes of finding the culprit Colonnus. Both princes had wed, and Queen Pasiphae had aged into a senile depression. The kingdom had all but forgotten Princess Alyssia, save for Imri, her devoted handmaiden. One day, Imri was ministering to a most delicate and personal task, which arose in Alyssia once per moontime. The task involved cleaning roundabout the princess’s pudendum—and, as this particular menses was a stronger one than usual, it necessitated some attending to the area between and within the royal labia.

Imri strove to stay professional, but on this occasion, her thoughts were unusually molten. She ran a soft cloth down the curves and ridges of those rubine lips, then with her fingertips, she dipped one corner of the cloth inside the tight muscular cove, twisting clockwise and then widdershins to remove all trace of blood. Imri’s mind was somewhat errant—possibly, she was thinking ahead to the glorious moment when she could finish her task, retire downstairs, and place those fingers in her own lowborn quim. She imagined how those digits would feel, and where they might move to effect the swiftest outpouring of joy. Unconsciously, perhaps, her fingers played the same tune on the royal instrument.

All at once, the princess shuddered, as if subject to a paroxysm. Alarmed, the servant leapt back, then watched in awe as Alyssia continued to shake for a full minute. Her breathing was high, and a great flush of blood was upon her cheek and breast. Most miraculous of all, at the finale of her seizure, Alyssia’s round mouth emitted a sound—her first in years. And though the sound could mostly be described as little more than an animalistic moan, there was buried within the faintest hint of that which Imri thought could have been a scattershot attempt at speech.

Well enough did Imri recognize what had triggered Alyssia’s unexpected motion. She had, by this point in her career, experienced the same sort of thrill innumerable times, and once or twice she’d even observed her climax in the greasy mirror of her humble chambers. She’d seen her own cheeks flush, and watched her eyes burn with hunger and satiety at once. This was what she now saw in Alyssia—not merely the unexpected release of pleasure, but in those lucid sapphire eyes, Imri was convinced there was a pleading need for more of the same. For Alyssia’s face was forever frozen, and her wide round mouth forever silent, yet Imri knew lust when she saw it, and she saw it in those eyes.

From that point forward, it became the servant’s goal to effect within her mistress the orgasmic satisfaction that would yield release, however momentary, from her magic prison. Imri used her fingers, firm then frantic, in the royal hole. She ground her thumb, or the palm of her calloused hand, against the princely clit. Often, as she worked upon these parts with one hand, she would slip her other hand beneath her own skirts, to seek surreptitious, simultaneous release. It came to be an almost spiritual event for the peasant girl, to come along with her beloved princess.

And her stratagem worked! Each time Imri facilitated Alyssia in her climactic eruptions, she observed in the princess a greater physical response. They seldom lasted more than a minute (though Imri quickly unearthed the secrets to provoking multiple releases in a row), and each time, alas, the lady passed back swiftly to her frozen state. But with each throe, Alyssia also let forth a greater moan, and each sound was slightly more shaped than the one that preceded it. One climax at a time, the princess learned to speak again.

Of course, Imri held out hope that, in her vocalizing, Alyssia could perchance provide some crucial clue that would facilitate her emancipation from the curse. She massaged her mistress’s genitals with ever-growing vigour, hoping the next orgasmic utterance would be the key. But either Alyssia knew nothing of the means to lift the curse, or else the curse (O cursed curses!) kept her from revealing it. Instead, Imri learned how to keep the petrified princess content.

One syllable per climax, Alyssia made it clear to her most diligent attendant that, according to the precepts of the spell, she was confined to perpetual lust and discomfort, unless she was given sexual release thrice a day—at least. However, Colonnus’s curse included perversions beyond even Imri’s imaginings, for the three daily climaxes had to come about through the stimulation of three independent orifices.

Imagine, if you can, Imri’s blushing surprise on the day when Alyssia finally screamed out the recipe for her daily contentment. Three pulsing, shuddering eruptions yielded three scandalous syllables from out the princess’s rosy round mouth: “Cunt! ... Mouth! ... Arse!”

It took scant time for Imri to overcome her embarrassment—for, indeed, by this time Imri found very few things caused her to feel shame of any sort. She was commendably dedicated to her mistress, and would have done anything to reduce her discomfort. The curse was, clearly, custom-made to debase Alyssia, to turn a pure, high-minded princess into a base slut. And yet surely, she reasoned, it was no fault of the princess’s, if such slatternly desires had been forced upon her thus? No, her conscience was clear: she must bugger the princess once a day.

Though her resolve was strong, Imri found she lacked the anatomy to fulfil her new rude duties. She dismissed any thought of bringing others in on this conspiracy; and so, she took it upon herself to fashion tools for these obscene manipulations. Using a strip of lacquered wood, a layer of straw, and a leather sheath, Imri concocted a prong that could achieve more depth and girth than Imri’s fingers could have hoped to. Scented oils provided lubrication. The first time she used it upon Alyssia’s mouth, Imri cleaned the makeshift dildo thoroughly. She was briefly queasy, slipping the hard-soft object across the holy threshold of the lady’s lips. But the expression in her eyes was unmistakably aroused. And in retrospect, it was completely obvious to Imri why the warlock had shaped the royal mouth into such an eager “O.”

To penetrate her lady’s anus, Imri had to kneel between her upraised legs, but the designer of the demon chair had provided a bench for just this purpose. As her free hand ferociously tweaked her own moist vulva, Imri carefully positioned the well-oiled tip upon her lady’s most sensitive and secret bud. Strengthening her resolve to the project, she pushed, gently at first, then with increasing firmness. The dusky moon waxed hungrily, scarfing inch after inch of the prong until it seemed as if the arse would swallow it whole, and Imri’s fingers too. She slid the leathery device back and forth, improvising rhythms that she thought might produce pleasure in the low, forbidden region.

She need not have worried. Alyssia’s arse, like her mouth and quim before, was preternaturally prepared to spin the flax of beastly rutting into bright, orgasmic gold. Each of Imri’s efforts yielded thrashing climaxes and shrieks of glee (or, in the case of the ladies’ oral sessions, muffled moans of satisfaction). And each time she pleasured her mistress, Imri was rewarded with an ever-greater climax of her own. She even crafted a second dildo, so she could experience the same range of delights.

Their luxuriant, languid time together, punctuated by daily trifectas of variable pleasure, lasted only a few months. In the end, it was the extent of Imri’s success that led to her undoing. Ordinarily, the vocalizations produced by Alyssia’s intense orgasms went unheard by everyone except for Imri, so isolated as they were. But the doddering Queen Pasiphae, who in her senescence had taken to wandering at random through the castle’s corridors, did one late evening chance to hear the panting yelps of her own daughter in a nearby chamber.

In alarm, the queen raced up the stairs and burst into the princess’s chamber. The sight she beheld would have unnerved even the sanest of minds: there, her fair-featured daughter, long of hair and plenteous of bosom, sat nude and all-exposed, her eyes a-dazzle with ecstatic need; and there, her dim-skinned maidservant knelt between the milky thighs, pumping one thick dildo into the princess’s arsehole, while another one protruded from between her own bare cheeks. Imri’s position was such that she did not see the queen enter, and of course the princess could not speak to warn her servant of the change. So the thrusting continued, till both women found their heavens, and till the queen, frail of heart and scandalized beyond expression, dropped dead on the spot.

The jig, as it were, was up. Prince Dormond interrogated Imri, who confessed what she had discovered and done. Alyssia was returned to her former state of decorum (and frustration), and Imri was made to disappear into the castle dungeons, so her lips could not disseminate her acts. The twin dildos were incinerated. And so the status quo resumed, till long after King Horace had passed his mantle onto Prince (now King) Barthus.

By then, a final characteristic of Colonnus’s demented curse had become apparent. While her relations aged, Princess Alyssia in her provocative plastic pose remained forever young. Moreover, she seemed to grow more beautiful by the year. Her hair, once auburn in her youth, paled into white gold, then finally pure platinum silver. Her skin grew creamier and smoother. Her high, firm breasts remained thus, but somehow also became fuller, with wider rosebud nipples that could harden into immaculate red nubs. Even her orifices grew more tight and supple—more inviting—though tragically there was no one onhand to accept their invitations.

On rare occasions, Prince Dormond deigned to visit his sister in the tower. He remained afeard of the enchantment that had come upon himself and his brother, years ago when they had rescued Alyssia; and it is to his credit that, though he did a few more times succumb to masturbatory lust in her vicinity, he never crossed the threshold of incestuous pleasure. It was also to his credit that he cleaned up after himself.

At length, Prince Dormond observed the remarkable agelessness of his sister-statue, and acquired an envious disposition towards her perpetual youth and beauty. Like all men, he feared death, and would do nearly anything to forestall its inevitable embrace. So Dormond travelled from the tower to the dungeons, and interrogated Imri, the princess’s deviant maidservant, to see if she had any insight into the secret of Alyssia’s youthfulness.

Imri, as we have seen, loved the princess above all, and so ingeniously she framed her answer in such a way as to once again, she hoped, alleviate the poor girl’s suffering. She told Dormond that she, indeed, did know of how the gift of immortality could be transmitted from enchanted Alyssia unto others—that, in fact, it was the very method she had been practicing daily upon the lady’s frozen flesh. Dormond left the cell as conflicted as any sibling could be; for now he was indeed tempted, not merely through magic but through his own selfish desires, to perform upon Alyssia those acts which nature forbade between brother and sister.

To his credit, Dormond resisted the temptation, and so aged and died in natural time. But he divulged his theories to his elder brother, King Barthus, and hereupon the tale does not go according to nature’s way. For Barthus feared death even more than Dormond, and when he visited the lady in the chaise, he succumbed to those urgencies which seemed to claim any and all who lay hand upon her flesh. Yet, in his incestuous acts, he may indeed have provided respite for Alyssia; for, as he administered to her three daily cravings, she was observed to perform the same paroxysms as she had under Imri’s tender care; and her vocalizations were every bit as eager and enthusiastic. Perhaps it was so that, by this late stage of her curse, the lady cared little whose thrusts she felt inside her yearning caverns. She knew only the agony of stillness and the sublimity of climax.

With each session, King Barthus became increasingly convinced that this unorthodox course towards immortality was working. He invited his wife, Queen Millicent, to join in the activities. The queen leapt in with relish, often visiting Alyssia upwards of ten times a day, with or without her royal husband. When emissaries, diplomats, or other esteemed guests visited the castle, the royal couple would extend an invitation to them—first to observe the miraculous living statue in the tower, then to witness one or more of her daily invasions, and ultimately to join in the revelries that surrounded and penetrated Alyssia. Her orgasmic wails could be heard echoing from out the tower windows, calling out the hours like a whorish clock.

Word spread across the known world. Merchants, pilgrims and peasants all camped outside the castle walls, hoping for a chance to slide their aging cocks inside even just one of Alyssia’s three fountains of youth. On the fringes of civilization, barbarian warlords rallied armies, surging inward towards the capital, hoping to conquer and claim for themselves the cunt, mouth, and arse of eternity. King Barthus was ill-prepared to defend his lands, since his court had devolved into an orgy, with the king himself entirely foregone, lost in a lust-fugue in which he alternately fucked or was himself fucked by any who came across him in their own delirious need.

After much warfare and strife, the dynasty of Barthus fell. Whether or not his sister’s body did transmit its youthfulness, the king did not survive to learn; his life was cut short by barbarian blades. The castle, the lands, and the ever-living statue passed into the hands of Titus the Strong, an insatiable warlord who relocated Alyssia in the centre of his throne room, so that visitors could admire (but not touch) her ceaseless beauty, and so that he could avail himself of her pleasures on a whim. Often, the war-councils of Titus were punctuated by Alyssia’s cries, as his generous, uncircumcised member filled her quim with seed, even whilst he peered past her silver locks to inspect the maps of strategy.

During this dark age, Alyssia’s skin grew lighter still. Now it had all the appearance of lambent alabaster, and it was soft and smooth as a river of milk. She no longer required sustenance, no longer bled at moontimes, no longer expelled wastes. Yet she produced prodigious lubrication at all times, whether or not she was being serviced. Titus instructed his servants to collect her lustful juices in canisters, to sell to pilgrims. It is said he bathed in the selfsame fluid.

In time, it became clear that Imri’s clever lie was aiding only Alyssia, and that neither Titus nor any other recreant who used her body would inherit her gift. But Titus had a wife—in fact, he had many—who suggested an alternative. Using the knowledge from the old wizards, she argued, one might be able to reproduce the spell which placed Alyssia in her bind. The wife, named Orrsa, begged Titus to let the mages try this upon her, and Titus agreed. On the night of the attempt, Orrsa bathed in frankincense; her servants shaved her nether hairs and painted up her fingers, toes, and lips; and she presented herself, nude and luminous, for immortalization.

The spell worked in all of its aspects. Orrsa became frozen, just as Alyssia was, and another chair was constructed to position her appropriately. Her libido became insatiably dependent upon same the triumvirate penetrations; and her life was preternaturally extended. In her orgasmic gasps, she thanked her lord and master, who was more than happy to fulfil her needs—especially the sodomizing, an act which, prior to her transformation, Orrsa had been inclined to forbid.

Unsurprisingly, more wives and concubines of Titus followed suit. The exchange was a brutal one, indeed—for so many of the pleasures we enjoy upon earth depend upon our capacity for free movement and speech—yet the temptations were strong. Not only was immortality a lure, but so too was the endless pleasure which these statues enjoyed. One had only to hear the pure notes of their climactic cries to understand that their lustful heights were incalculably higher than ours. The living statues of Colonnus knew pleasure on a heavenly scale.

Thus, at length, did Titus himself submit to the spell. Weary of rule, he bequeathed his kingdom to his strongest son, and assumed the mantle of a statue representing the epitome of manhood triumphant. When Titus’s body was ossified, its member grew instantly and eternally engorged. Through trial and error, the mages found that the needs of masculine statues were very much the same as the feminine: for ultimate satisfaction, Titus required daily ministrations to his cock, and also hardy penetration, both above and below. In honour of his stalwart manliness, these duties were administered by nubile slavegirls bearing strapped-upon attachments. In his vocalized throes, Titus declared this to be an ideal solution.

Over the centuries, dynasties rose and fell in the fair land, but one thing remained unchanged from this point forth: the rich, the noble, and the blessed did never die, but migrated to the castle to become permanent fixtures in the Pleasure Gardens. If they could pay adequately, they would be enshrined upon a pedestal, with orifices exposed to beckon visitors. Those who paid a weaker fee would not be on display, but rather stored in cellars, row on row, where ingenious mechanical dildos made the rounds, plunging hourly into the ever-craving “Os” of the fixed, fair faces; or sliding wetly up the pulsing corridors of alabaster cunts; or buggering tunnels which never knew such pleasure in life, yet now could never be sufficiently filled.

In the grandest place of all, in the heart of the Pleasure Gardens, sits Princess Alyssia—though she is now called Queen Alabaster, for at last she has a kingdom of her own. Her original birchwood chair has long since crumbled to dust, and now she perches upon a magnificent chaise of silk-cushioned gold. But her alabaster skin, her silver hair, her enormous breasts, and the soft flesh of her lips, cunt, and arse—these are the true priceless treasures, as any who touch them well know. Carved upon the base of her throne is an inscription, which reads: “Enter Thrice to Hear the Song of Heaven.”