The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Author’s note:

The proper order of the series is:

This historical prequel: Ancient Sonata: Vivace, And now, Ancient Sonata: Moderato—which begins in 1717 Paris.

This series details Corelle’s arrival in the New World.

Ancient Sonata: Moderato

EyeofSerpent

Corelle D’Amber’s birth certificate will exist in two hundred and thirty-three years.

“Countess Aree D’Amber, Fürst Esterházy von Galantha?” The uniformed man looked through the papers and eyed the pale beauty in the carriage. “Country of origin?” He looked up at the slender noble woman in the green dress and eye cloth banded under her white powdered wig.

“I do not speak French. Does anyone speak Austrian?” her tone was gracious and soft.

He immediately felt some arousal. Her manner was polite, yet he felt her attention. The uniformed man looked around, he shouted at another soldier, “Go and get me Hugo from the inn.” He was satisfied to see the runner go. They waited at the outpost while he walked around the carriage and poked into the luggage rack.

Hugo arrived and did the translations.

“Country of origin?”

“Austria.” She said. “By way of Venice.”

“Destination?”

“Paris, of course.”

“Do you have friends in Paris?”

“Yes, I have been asked to court. It will just be a visit.”

“We would be honored to have you in France, mademoiselle.” He returned her papers and kept the coin that was tucked within them as his due.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m glad to be here, you can be sure.” She nodded her head and smiled at him.

He closed the carriage door and watched her move off in her swaying carriage. Now that was some nice firm flesh. He thought all noble women were soft cows. He shook his head and went back to his outpost to return to his card game. No worry for him, he was never likely to swim between those thighs.

* * *

“Countess, the young man you sent for is here.” Brelea bobbed a quick curtsey.

Aree, once Afrit, once Gharza, once Eyra, once a name so dear to her vanished clan that she didn’t even dream its sounding anymore turned and nodded for the young Arouet to be brought within. She closed the sheet music and stepped away from the harpsichord.

He came in, dressed in a plain, yet elegant coat and bowed, “Countess, I am so pleased to answer your invitation. All of Paris speaks of your wisdom and wisdom is my life.”

“M. Arouet, I thank you for coming to see me. Come and sit over here, it is the best chair. I wish to ask you questions about this little pamphlet of yours.” She moved to the settee. He eased himself down next to her.

“Countess, if I may be so bold, please call me, Francois.” He looked at the paper in her hand, “Ah, I see, from last month, the article on politics and noble women.”

She studied his profile, “Yes. Why do you think women will always have protected rights whereas men have rights that must be fought for?”

“Have you read, Locke?” He looked hesitant.

“The Englishman, John Locke? Yes. I find him stuffy. Not nearly the wit you are, Francois.”

He flushed with pleasure and coughed to one side to hide the blush. “Ah, yes, well it is always tradition which binds the thinking. Locke says the citizen must have personal liberty for the State to flourish. He does not say that women should also expect this, but I think noble women already do expect it. This is supported as well, by the attitude of most courts of Europe and the men who fight for these rights and privileges.”

“Stay for dinner, will you? I wish to hear everything.” She smiled at his start.

He inclined his head, “As you will, my Countess.”

She shivered. “No. When we are together, you must call me D’Amber.”

He smiled and nodded. “I would be honored.” She sent word to the kitchen.

* * *

Francois felt the orgasm from the soles of his feet to his heart, which was beating madly. He held her ass cheeks in his hot palms while she heeled her stockinged feet against his backside with an amazing strength. He had never been with another woman like her. Nothing like this.

She smiled at him and wrapped her arms about him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you alright? Do you need to sit?”

He was dizzy and not at all sure he could still stand for long, but he would never confess it. “I am fine. Fine.”

“You are a stallion,” she whispered in his ear. She loved his scent. She wanted him again.

He felt his manhood stir yet again. He grinned. He had never even heard of a whore with her genius. He did feel like a stallion. He had not known such pleasure or arousal with anyone else. The countess was magnificent.

She lowered her legs and eased from his cock. “Come back to bed and tell me more about your vision of a Church that works for people. Why haven’t you published these ideas? They are electric, they make me hot.” She took his hand and led him to the draped bed.

“Publish a critique of the Church?” He laughed and pinched her pale ass.

* * *

Francois Marie Arouet was enjoying wine and scribbling a new treatise.

The street door opened and familiar faces joined him at the table. He looked around at the guarded expressions, “What is it? What’s happened?”

They exchanged glances.

Sebastian cleared his throat, “They say that your last piece has the Marquis spitting nails and the Bishop has spoken out against Voltaire in his sermon yesterday.”

Francois chuckled, “Ah! How grand. I am doing some of my best work, I think. Here, have some wine.”

“You are doing yourself in, Francois.” Brand was a professor; “You will be jailed if you keep this up. You are making too many people think too hard.”

“It is that woman,” offered Sebastian. Someone kicked him under the table.

Francois glared at Sebastian, “What woman do you mean, my friend? The Duchess Soliet? The Marquessa du Aphone? Come, of what woman do we speak?” His voice was brittle.

Sebastian said nothing.

Francois looked around the table at the four of them. “I see.” He stood up. “I was going to offer you a drink gentlemen, but I must insist on doing my drinking elsewhere. Good day.” He tucked his papers and pen into his large coat and strode out into the rain.

Brand hit Sebastian over the head with his hat.

* * *

Francois felt the pleasure intensely centered in his groin and worked his fingers in her auburn hair. “I received a letter from Montesquieu. He thinks he might relocate to Paris and finds my work exciting. You were right, he isn’t the intemperate that I am, but his ideas are really very good.”

“Mmmmm.” Her mouth vibrated on him.

He grinned, “Of course, you agree. I am brilliant, especially in bed, no?”

“Mmmmm.” She tilted her head up, her single green eye twinkled with humor.

He smiled, “You should always have cock in your mouth. It makes debate so very interesting. Perhaps that is how the King decides policy. What do you think?”

“Mmmmm.” She stretched her hands up and ran a fingernail over his nipples.

He came hard. She started sucking furiously. He nearly passed out. She let his cock drop from her mouth and crawled up his chest.

He looked up. Her eye patch—

—Passion. Brilliance. His ideas so clear. His cock in her mouth. Her tongue like a serpent. He loved her mind, but her sex was magnificent. Her ideas were so bold. Burning. He burned for ideas. He would succeed. He would be admired. Men who respected his words. Whirling arousal. He stretched. The hotter his blood, the better his ideas. Shivers. Heat. Hard cock. She was always ready for him. She loved his mind. She absorbed ideas like a child, but spun them into new shapes like an Athena. Heat. Her tongue exploring his chest. Power. She sat on his face. He was ashamed to be mounted so but hotter for it. She forced her arousal across his face. Her thin body was arching over him. Skin pale and sweating. Her legs strong and wiry around his head. She rode him. Yelling. Blood thundering in his head. Cumming on his face. Again. She desired him above all else. He needed—

He needed a bath. He stumbled into the parlor while she slept and used the small porcelain bowl of water to wipe himself down. His head was full of ideas. Inspiration.

She was a Muse. He was once again, divinely inspired. He tossed the wet cloth down and looked around quickly for paper.

* * *

“You are going to get Voltaire killed if you keep this up. He’s making enemies at Court.”

The voice came out of the darkness of her bedroom. D’Amber nearly dropped the candlestick she was carrying. She closed the door behind herself and with an act of will; she set the light down carefully. Then she saw her uninvited guest.

A shadowy figure lounging in her best chair. A diamond glittered from the walking stick he held in one hand.

“Who are you, sir?” she kept her tone even.

“Who are you, mademoiselle?” he replied easily.

“I think you know very well who I am,” she replied with dignity.

“Ah. Well, I know very well who you pretend to be Countess. So I will tell you who I pretend to be.” He stood up and executed a flawless bow; “I am the Comte de Saint-Germain.”

She looked him over carefully, “I am not impressed.” The name tickled something she had heard; a friend of his Majesty.

He moved to stand next to her, “You should be, twenty-eight years ago I poisoned you in Vienna, Countess.” He smiled.

She stared. Her heart fluttered in her chest. If that were true, this was the man that had set her free of Aree.

“I do not hold a grudge, especially since you are only pretending to be the woman I killed. I was after Vienna, not you.” He was of middle height, not a remarkable looking man. “Still, I think that it was you that thwarted me. When I killed Aree, you somehow salvaged Prince Paul from his fears. It intrigues me still. Especially as I had really counted on having Vienna.”

She wished she could really see him clearly, but she did not dare reach for her eye patch. He exuded a sense of compelling danger. “If you are pretending, I am not. My husband, Paul—”

“Ah, yes! He died four years ago. He was old.” The man studied her, “And you are not.”

She finally realized how much that might apply to him, as well. She was so wrapped up in her fear, she hadn’t realized that he was telling her things that he shouldn’t really know. She struggled to put him as ill at ease as he had done to her, “What should I call you, Pretender?” She felt sadness for Paul’s death.

“What should I call you, Countess?” He was a solidly built man. His French was flawless; his eyes held a strange humor and power. He seemed unflappable.

He was an ancient, she realized, one of the old Clans. He knew she was as well. She had no idea of what blood he might be. Perhaps he had no idea of hers? Was that why he was here?

She cleared her throat, “A gentlemen introduces himself first, Comte.”

He laughed, “It is true, you are learned and you have a wit that most nobles would find pointed and possessive for a woman. Very well, call me the Salamander, for my power lies in the Crucible of Life.”

She didn’t show that she didn’t understand his reference. She thought quickly, she needed to meet him squarely at every point if she were to walk away from this.

He knew too much.

She forced herself to look at him as a potential meal, “Very well, call me the Serpent, for my power was given to me in the Garden of Life.” She wondered if he would accept such a huge lie.

He paused. His smile now looked painted on. He studied her face.

She waited, wondering what telling blow she had made. She realized he was here because of what he didn’t know. He was trying to draw her out. She had claimed kinship with a myth. She watched. Despite his charm, he came here to deal with me. Brutally if need be. Now he’s not sure again. He won’t act.

Saint-Germain stepped forward and took her hand, “I will be going now. I’m sure that we will see much of each other. We travel in similar circles.” He bowed over her hand and kissed it. “As long as we do not need to oppose each other, there is no need to speak of pretending.”

“I defer to your judgement, Comte. I thank you for coming to see me. Perhaps I will remember your advice about Francois.”

“Do so. If you really care about the boy, you should not encourage him to be so obvious or pointed. His pen name will not save him from those he irritates now.” The Comte moved past her and to the door. “Adieu, Countess Aree.”

He opened the door and left quietly. Very quietly.

* * *

She had nightmares for a week.

Later that month, Francois was jailed on trumped up charges.

* * *

“You are certainly the most powerful ruler who has ever lived and I want you to ride me like the naughty whore I am.”

The voice came out of the darkness of his bedroom. Louis nearly dropped the candlestick he was carrying. He hesitated, then closed the door behind himself; he set the light down carefully. Then he saw his uninvited guest.

A pale figure lounging on his bed. White stockings and wild auburn hair, a pale pair of slight breasts lit by candlelight. A luscious smile below a lacey white eye patch.

“How did you get in here, mademoiselle?” he asked easily. He started to unbutton his coat.

“A friend of yours suggested a way,” she lied and her voice husked with mystery.

“Ah. Does this friend have a name?” He pulled off his shirt and breeches. She looked at him with a mysterious smile, “He calls himself the Salamander.”

He moved to the bed, “I must remember to thank him.” He smiled.

She smiled. “You are welcome to try and remember, your majesty.” She reached up and lifted her eye patch.

He gasped—

—The Salamander. Saint-Germain. Brilliant man. Immortal. His secrets so dear. Riches. Diamonds made from dirt. Gold made from tin and lead. Power. A countess as a bed gift. Her sex. His cock in her mouth. Her tongue like a serpent. She was slender, but her sex was magnificent. Her actions were so bold. Burning. He burned. He admired the Comte. Feared him. Whirling arousal. The countess stretched his limbs. Tied his limbs. Amazing. The more she acted upon him, the hotter his blood. Shivers. Heat. Hard cock. He was always ready for her. Heat. His wrists and ankles tied to the frame. Her tongue exploring his chest. Power. She sat on his face. He was ashamed to be mounted so but hotter for it. She forced her arousal across his face. Her thin body was arching over him. Skin pale and sweating. Her legs strong and wiry around his head. She rode him. Yelling. Her cries echoed in his head. Blood thundering in his head. Cumming on his face. Again. He needed—

He needed to send a writ to free Voltaire from prison. Arrogant man didn’t deserve his mercy, but he was feeling expansive. He stretched out in the dawn light coming through his windows. His hand moved out to grope for the whore.

Gone.

He raised his head. Ah? Well, no matter.

She wasn’t particularly memorable anyhow. He tried to picture her face and failed. Louis untied the white stockings from his wrists smiling to himself.

It was good to be King.

END