The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Corelle D’Amber’s birth certificate will be issued in one hundred and sixty-one years.

“Jeanette D’Amber?” The uniformed man looked through the papers and entered the name in his log. “Country of origin?” He looked up at the emaciated woman in the grimy black dress and black eye patch banded across her oily auburn locks.

“I do not speak English. Does anyone speak French?” the disheveled young lady replied.

The uniformed man looked around in the room after a brief glance at the milling lines of people and belongings. No sign of his supervisor and so many people to process. “Frenchie,” he sighed and wrote some lines down quickly. He took a piece of paper and scribbled on it, “No English.”

He shoved it and a sheaf of papers brusquely across the table to the woman, “Take this. Keep it with you,” he looked up at her and stared hard at her harsh bony face, “If you lose it, we’ll be Very Angry.” He pointed to her name on the paper. “This is you. Understand? We don’t speak French in New York.”

She nodded though it was obvious she understood hardly at all. She looked weary and faint, yet she reached out and took his stub pencil and added two more letters to the first name. She pointed to herself when she was done.

He grinned at her. He pointed to the next station, “Physical examination. Go down the hall.”

“Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.” She replied hoping the tone would carry, if not the meaning. She curtseyed and moved off in the direction that she had seen other women going after this part of the process.

“Next!” the man watched her move off, swaying and limping from who knows what consumption or malady. He shook his head and looked at the next set of papers.

The dairy wagon rumbled past her and she shifted the small wooden handled cloth bag she was still toting after three days in New York. She recognized the signage and showcases of the store she was looking for. She tried to enter, but her appearance and stale aroma got her stopped by an uniformed man. She couldn’t believe how many times she had been touched since she arrived in this country. She couldn’t afford to lose her temper as hungry as she was.

She smiled in some effort to get past him. He tightened his grip. “Where you think yer goin’?”

“Je ne parle pas anglais,” she spoke slowly.

The man’s heavy mustache moved very little when he spoke, “No English? Move along missy. Try the whorehouse past the park. Go on, I get paid to keep beggars and street trash out of Green’s Emporium.” He glared at her green eye.

“I can design clothes. I will learn English. If you just let me talk to someone.” She knew it wasn’t going to work from the expression on his face. Yet she needed shelter and someplace to sleep. She was so tired, so many weeks at sea, so little food for a week and no sex for four months now. Her reserves were spent.

Another few days of this and she would have to kill to survive.

He raised his hand, not even reaching for the wooden billy he kept tucked in his broad belt. “Git movin’ afore I bounce yer into the street.”

She shied backwards. She had been beaten a dozen times since the revolution had started in France. She still hadn’t healed from the last one, when the three frigate sailors had decided that an ugly woman travelling alone on the Atlantic crossing was good substitute for distant feminine charms. She had fought with most of her reserves then and it hadn’t mattered in the end, she was already too weak.

Another beating would push her past her limits and someone would die. She moved back onto the wooden walkway and kept clear of the mud splashing from the street carts.

She stood in the twilight on the front porch. This was the twentieth door she had knocked on. A young woman answered. She hesitated visibly when she saw Jeanette’s appearance, but she opened the door enough to talk, “Yes?”

Jeanette got down on her knees and mimed scrubbing the floor with an invisible bucket. Then she showed the wrinkled paper that explained her language problem.

The woman moved back quickly and closed the door.

She woke from dreams of smooth pale legs caressing her face. Her mouth was dry. She shifted herself up from the brick walled corner. A pair of blue legs stood over her. She looked up at another uniformed man. The sun was slowing rising and the creak of a distant wagon came into the park.

“Can’t sleep here every night, little lady. Are you on the run? Who do you belong to?” He pushed his cap back and studied her.

His easy voice bothered her. She only understood that if he wasn’t telling her something in angry tones, that he probably wanted sex from her. Another soldier, she guessed. She damned herself once again for the shortsighted failure to learn English, but French was considered the language of the world. So many uniformed men in New York and she couldn’t determine what authority they had. This country seemed to be at war, yet the war between America and the English was over many years ago. She tried to shake the drowsiness and get to her feet. The combination escaped her and she fell down again. He reached for her and she hissed at his hand, then quickly covered her mouth in surprise.

She was losing control.

He froze. “All right, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped back. “If you can stand up, do it now. I’ll take you to the church where they might have some food for you.”

What was he saying? She crouched against the wall, wondering what he was going to do. Her foggy thoughts wouldn’t focus. Her limbs trembled. He didn’t even smell good, then she realized that it was certainly herself that she smelled.

She had escaped the revolution, but now she feared it was in the wrong direction. Her ignorance of America and its ways was killing her. Better to have tried the Mediterranean, even though the stories said that too many nobles escaping to the south had been caught and killed.

“If you hurt me, I’ll kill you.” She tried to warn him, forgetting again the language problem.

He tilted his head, “Ah, is that it? A foreign hire someone has thrown out on the street to fend for herself?” He motioned with his hands. “Get up, I’ll take you to someone who will help you.” He smiled, “Church. Priest. St. Agnes is just down the way.”

Church? Clergy? She panicked as she recognized the saint reference. Churchmen had seldom been her friends through the years and she didn’t have her thoughts arranged. The church hadn’t helped in Paris when her staff was being killed and her house burned. This was a frightening repeat of Paris, the house burning, gathering her dear staff, running into the night in her negligee, the pitchfork wielding farmer and the woman with the torch setting her hair ablaze. Clawing her way free, escaping with nothing more than a single thin gown and Charles and Claudette.

It was too much. She threw herself to her feet and ran, leaving behind her bag in her panic.

He started after her, cursing under his breath. Maybe he was mistaken. She might be a beggar or a thief on the run. Maybe something more sinister than a thrown away woman.

“Stop!” Damn. She ran like the wind. He lost her when his wind ran out.

She had fallen so many times she didn’t care anymore. Her face was bruised and blood clotted on her forehead. She wandered through cobble streets thinking she was still trapped in France. Her house was burned. She needed to get away. She needed to get across the border.

She avoided people. Moved only at night. Somehow she found herself in the countryside. She moved along lanes, sometimes waking only for a few hours at night and moving to no compass before falling down and sleeping through to the next night again.

She was lost.

Martha Turnbull found the stick and bones woman under her best milker. She set down her pails and studied her.

Somehow this scarecrow of a woman had slipped into the dairy barn in the night or early morning and milked the cow right into her mouth from the look of it. It hadn’t done her much good, or she was already too weak. She had passed out with milk in her auburn hair and on her eyelashes and eye patch.

Wretched looking thing, she was.

She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Just what she needed, a wild tramp. She looked her over and felt the black clad woman’s face and neck. Cool. She was dead if she didn’t get some warmth and food. She sighed again. She hauled the woman off the straw covered floor and onto her shoulder.

Well, at least she doesn’t weigh much. She moved off to the house. Certainly she could use another pair of hands around here now that her Henry was gone. Charity starts at home.

She woke feeling her blood moving like mud through her body. She tried to move and couldn’t. She tried to speak but barely managed to lick her lips.

She fell back asleep.

She woke with warm hands on her breasts. She felt fevered. Her stomach twisted somewhere below her thoughts. She opened her eyes. She smelled of faint sour things.

A lamp weakly illuminated a young woman working a damp cloth across her upper body. She saw the resigned worn expression on the woman’s face. She glanced down at the strong hands working over her chest.

Saw her bones trying to push out of her skin everywhere. Her breasts were nearly gone.

She fell back into sleep again and dreamed of long ago. The Mediterranean was a heart-rending blue and her naked slaves washed her.

She woke and knew she had been fed milk and honey and savored the taste still in her mouth. She was stronger and not as fevered. She was being washed again. The damp cloth moved over her face and hair.

“Let’s get this filthy thing off,” chided a warm voice. The eye patch was pulled up and away. Jeanette stared from both eyes and saw the pent up river inside the kind young woman.

Martha drew a breath, startled—

—Angels. Beautiful curves and blessed peach lips brushing in darkness. Savior. Heat. Heaven. Voice of the chorus. Wind off the river. Gift of above. Strong hands. Helping hands. Mouths. Tongues searching. Music. Clothes abandoned quickly. Hands dry with heat. Bodies tentative and yearning. Bodies rushed and flamed. Mouths exploring. Licking. So many hard angles to the traveler’s poor flesh. Such need. Such glory. Wet. Hot. So long. Such a trial. Such passion. How could anything that felt so beautiful be anything but a piece of Heaven? So good to have a strong authority again. Fires of God and Earth. An angel sent to rescue her from the darkness. Charity. The darkness was—

Martha eased herself from the tangle of limbs on the bed. Naked, she tiptoed out of the room and stood in the star lit darkness on the back porch. She slowly got down on her knees and thanked the Lord for sending her Henry back to her.

Jeanette started walking several days later and was able to marvel at her survival.

She was nothing but skin and bones. She looked wasted and sad, even to herself. She thought about her gardens in Paris and cried. Visions of the bloody massacre came back to her and she pushed them away.

Martha called her ‘Henry’ and she didn’t understand why. Jeanette showed her the papers, Martha only nodded and continued to chat away. D’Amber didn’t understand what had happened. She wondered why it was so important to Martha that she should be this Henry.

And she wondered what she might have done to Martha’s mind to create this place of refuge for herself. She really couldn’t remember.

Jeanette pulled the pail handles into her strong thin hands and she moved carefully back to the house. The sun was just beginning to haze the forest length some furlongs away. She carefully moved up to the rear porch and eased the kitchen door open.

Three months of strength restored. Days of milk and honey combined with afternoons of bread and fresh air. Secret nights of forbidden sex enacted in fresh cotton linens. This country was a paradise out beyond the nightmare of the strange city of New York. The clean smells surfaced memories for Jeanette of mountains heights overlooking the Aegean Sea.

That was a long time before she had migrated to the Dalmatia mountains. When she had family. Long before Vienna.

Martha looked up from the fireplace kettle. “Need help, Henry?” she smiled and her face glowed with youth and love.

A return smile lit Jeanette’s clean wasted face. She gave her back a vigorous shake of her head. It meant nothing much but communicated the energy of her recovering health.

In truth, Jeanette had little idea what Martha was saying, but it didn’t matter. She grinned and moved the pails into the kitchen. She set them down and opened the cool pantry and poured the pails out into the large metal vessel. She went back out and returned the pails to the back porch. She reached up and shifted her eye patch. A new one made of plain heavy cotton.

She was far from the blood storms of Europe and in a safe haven in a new land. She had survived. She would rebuild.