The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Being the daughter of Virencian nobility is exhausting work. Having to rise with the sun each morning, that is exhausting enough on its own. But there is always so much for me to do as well during the day. Being dressed by my handmaids. Being ushered to court, and ushered to breakfast. Being ushered to tea, and ushered to lunch. Being ushered to meetings with many prospective suitors, and ushered to dinner.

Really, I have no idea how my sisters managed it. Or my mother, or my grandmother before her, or my great-grandmother before her. My great-great-grandmother married into the Fairmane lineage, and so she was spared all of the difficulties in growing up beneath such auspice, while reaping all the benefits in adulthood.

For myself, though, the benefits are few and far between. Certainly, it is true that I hold higher station than many of my so-called-peers, but what does that matter? I hardly ever see those so-called peers, and only rarely have I any cause to remind them of their places with some well-positioned words. Half the point in having such a name as Nallamae Fairmane is in wielding that name like a saber.

I suppose my fencing lessons are something. Why, just last week, Patrice Denera was whining on and on about how impossible it was for her to book a single class in swordplay with Martin Wolmet, who was only the finest fencer in Virence, or so she confided in me.

And that’s another benefit, I thought, while I lounged in my bed and toyed idly with the amber curls of my long hair, let down after such a long day. Wolmet was second-rate, at best, and if Patrice had such difficulty in hiring even him...

“Well, I’m at least glad that I’m not poor,” I giggle to myself. The Deneras, after all, have only three vineyards to their name. And they still insist on calling themselves vintners! I shake my head, laughing still, and sit up on the rose-colored sheets of my curtained bed. Perhaps one of my maids will enjoy that humor, I hum to myself, but as I stand up from my bed, I catch a glimpse of the skyline…

Or, I glimpse some of the skyline. My chambers are only on the third floor of our palace, so there can only be so little to see. But it is enough to stir my awe. The sun had just set, and it was that beautiful time when, all through the streets and in each window, magical spheres were coming to life, lighting every surface with a glowing rainbow of color. The court at the center of the city, with its austere dome and many turreted fortifications, was an impressive shade of blue, and all out from around it came radiating indigos and purples, pinks and reds, yellows, greens…

Gazing down from my window, our courtyard was a frosty-looking white tonight, and soon the lamps in my room glowed to match, covering everything around me with the prettiest cerulean hue. In the far corner of the property, though, sat my land. A little plot all to myself, cordoned off with ropes of blue velvet, with a spherical lamp at each corner casting an almost-unnerving orange glow over my property. I would have to adjust that.

Mother and father had gotten me the plot this past year, as soon as I’d come of age. This was my big responsibility, you see: if I could manage this tiny square of turf, keeping it tidy and pristine for an entire year, my parents would bequeath me an open property on the eastern edge of town. And that would mean I wouldn’t just be the Lady Fairmane of Upper Virence, but also the Lady Fairmane of Lower Virence as well! I could use the income from a real property, too. All that this one is good for is the title, and the sacrosanct space that I can retreat to should my daily challenges become too much to handle.

But as appealing as that title sounds, managing one’s own land is such a chore. Hiring gardeners for the grass, guards to patrol the five-yard-by-five-yard perimeter, lampmages to change the spheres’ colors… I feel my eyes straying to the lights in my own room, slowly shifting through shades of blue and cerulean and cyan and...

And then it comes to me! Just after that deep blink, I realized one of the most principal benefits of my heirhood. My lessons on calligraphy, of course. The only reason they had slipped my mind was because, for more than a week now, my tutor had been absent whilst providing lessons to his subjects at the esteemed Greenwood College, some three days’ ride away from Virence. Lacking his presence did not prevent me from continuing my studies alone, however.

At this most brilliant recollection, I raced across the room to my writing desk. I seat myself in my armchair, the most comfortable one on this floor of the palace. I open the lid of the desk, and procured my book for practicing. I find my quills, my sharpening knife, and my inkwell; all of them gifts from my tutor to me. ‘Only the finest, for my finest student,’ he told me. Oh, the shivers I felt both then and now…

My hands close around that inkwell, and gingerly, I lift it to my nose, taking a long, deep breath of it… I sway in my seat, shutting my eyes to keep the room from spinning even faster. The ink is so strong, its scent runs so deep. ‘Made from the finest flowers, for my finest flower,’ he told me. A smile came to my lips then, as long and deep as my breath and my blink…

I open them, and quickly smooth my expression to a polite neutral. Every lesson began like this, to reacquaint me with my tools. A flower needs its water, and the ink is mine, with its presence and my practice honing my art, my writing, until it beautifully blossoms. That was one of his lessons, too. I smile a little wider now, swirling the dark ink in its crystal, taken as I always was by its smell and sight. My mother wrote her letters in a sparkling pink, with words perfumed like roses. My father wrote his plainly, smelling just like ordinary ink, but carrying the weight of our name behind it.

My ink is special. It marks me, my words, my identity, for all to see and sense. The smell of it heightens my senses, sharpening them like the point of my quill. It hones my mind’s edge, making me feel sharp as a blade in my wit and writ. I breathe deep of it once more, tasting its aroma of flowers and beauty, feeling a calm grow all throughout my body. So few muscles matter, when I write. It is easy to sit perfectly still, as though I could never slump or slouch, and focus all of my energy in my mind and the little muscles of my wrist and fingers. This is another of his lessons.

And this is also why I am so careful, and why I treat my inkwell with such reverence, placing it on the desk before I withdraw my tutor’s letter to me. I smell its envelope, I smell his familiar seal of red wax, I smile at the way he’s penned my name at the top of the page. I would blush, if that would not be improprietous of me. ‘Nalla.’ Of all the people that I’ve known, only my mother, and a far-too precocious, far-too flirtatious, far-too attractive, and far-too poor suitor had ever dared to call me ‘Nalla.’

And then I met him. But he doesn’t treat that name rashly—instead, he wears it like a fine coat. Tailored just to my liking, worn just for those most-special occasions. Whenever he writes to me, he calls me Nalla, and whenever I read it, I can feel gooseflesh grow on every inch of my sides, even venturing onto my belly and back.

The name is written so wonderfully, as softly and delicately as he pronounces it from his lips. That is always a lesson of his. ‘The way that you write must be just as the way that you speak, Nalla,’ he told me. ‘And when you read, you must know how it sounds, as you hear it in your mind.’

I have read this letter before, I know, but I read it again, careful to study every stroke of his pen, every mark he left on this humble, perfect page. I see those words, written in his hand, and hear them, spoken by his voice. I know just how he speaks them. Deeply. Huskily. Filled with intention. ‘Nalla. These are your lessons for while I am absent. Mock them well, know them by hand and by heart. Practice these letters every night, my flower, when the sun is gone and the lamps are lit. And when I come to you again, I will see how much you have grown.’

I set the letter down, scanning it with my eyes again and again in the blue, magical light. My fingers have already found the quill, his quill, my quill. I dip it into the well, and press it to the blank page of my practice book.

‘Nallamae Fairmane.’

The first line that I write for him, each and every lesson. I write every instruction, over and over, until I can perfectly mock it ten times in a row. My own name, so practiced and so familiar, takes only those ten to be finished with.

‘Daughter of Lord and Lady Fairmane.’

I had written this one before, I think, but the phrasing is new. I make mistakes with my L’s. My tutor knows that I do this, and he gives me the most challenging lines so that I can perfect the most challenging letters.

‘Lovers lay. Laymen lie. Liars long. Longing sighs.’

I can’t keep from giggling, and it jostles my hand whenever I do. He practices me with simple phrases, silly ones that could tangle tongues. We speak them out loud together, and I find myself whispering them even now.

‘The pretty lady reads pretty letters.’

Simple and musical, I mutter the words beneath my breath.

‘The pretty lady hears pretty words.’

I know how he would say them, it’s clear in how he writes them. And I try, ten times, to capture it by my own hand, by my own voice.

‘The pretty lady smells pretty flowers.’

Every word and every scratch of his quill carries the pretty aroma. Familiar and friendly. Comfortable and comforting. Like a bed of flowers to sink into.

‘The pretty lady thinks pretty thoughts.’

Ten lines, seeing the sprawl of silvery blue flowers. Thinking of pretty petals and soft stems, smelling peculiar pollen.

‘Pretty thoughts make perfect lines.’

Ten lines, thinking of myself surrounded by that blue in my simple, soft slip. Thinking of my tutor’s pretty eyes, my tutor’s pretty words.

‘Perfect lines make orderly thoughts.’

It’s familiar, the way he whispers them, the way I murmur them.

‘Orderly thoughts make orderly ladies.’

It’s familiar, the way my thighs press against each other, the way my left hand trembles as the right hand repeats.

‘Orderly ladies are obedient girls.’

I don’t even think on the words. They come naturally and instantaneously. My mind is on my lips, the way they shape those words, and on my ears, the way they hear them said.

‘Obedient girls are enchanted girls.’

My quill moves so slowly, like I am dragging it through the thickest ink. I have to move slowly, write slowly, think slowly, breathe slowly, to write such perfect lines.

‘Enchanted girls are pretty girls.’

I dip the quill for every new phrase. I smell its ink, its imprint on the page, its imprint on my mind.

‘Nalla is pretty and enchanted, obedient and orderly.’

I speak my own name without a hint of worry. I am only writing the truth, after all.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl reads pretty, enchanting words.’

My left hand has started to search for something. Dimly, I know what I seek, and the thought makes my blush burn brighter on my cheek.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl hears pretty, enchanting words.’

I cannot find it, but there is something just as warm to feel. Just as pleasing to stroke. Just as necessary to touch.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl smells pretty, enchanting flowers.’

My right hand does not feel like my own, but my left is familiar. Deeply, intimately so, as it glides beneath my slip, up my thigh, over my dripping slit.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

My fingers press inward, guided in my mind by another’s warm hand to find and caress my clit. My right hand twitches, and I make a mistake on the eighth line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. Shivers rock through me from head to toe, aches of a nightly longing being remembered once again. I make a mistake on the sixth line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. With so much vigor and so much excitement pent up inside of me, in every stroke of my hands. A mistake on the fifth line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. Once I’ve started, continuing is irresistible. When the sun is gone and the lamps are lit, I remember all of my lessons. Fourth line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. He makes me forget, so that I can remember and be amazed again and again and again. Third line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. And I make me forget. My own pretty words bring me under his spell. My own pretty thoughts trap me in pleasure. First line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. I’m needier for it every time. Hungrier for his enchantment, for his order, for my obedience, for my perfection. First line.

‘The pretty, enchanted girl does just what her tutor says.’

I begin again. And again. And again. And my right hand seizes, the quill falling from my fingers while my left hand moves faster, and faster, and faster. Hearing his words in my ear, moaning them over and over until I can get them just right. Feeling his presence at my side, behind me, all around me, gripping my arm then my wrist then my hand as he guides me. My left hand focused not on his pleasure, not now, but on my own, on repeating it, on perfecting it, on raising it higher and higher, higher and higher still, while he urges me on, while I do what he says, while I… cum. And let the bliss wash over me, and let the enchantment leave my body as limp as my mind, and let the words melt out of my lips and into pretty, perfect babbling. I melt, and I melt, and I feel his warm hands caressing my pretty, golden curls, my pretty, pink slip, my pretty, pert breasts.

He would close my book, and fold my letter away, and store my inkwell and quills and sharpening knife for tomorrow night, safe and sound in my writing desk. But I rise slowly, pulled by his enchantment, and stow them all away in his absence.

He would lift me up, and hold my melting body close, and carry my curls and my slip and my breasts to sleep for tonight, safe and sound in my soft sheets. But tonight, I float softly, pulled by his enchantment, and drift across the room to fall into bed myself.

He would lie with me, huddled close against me, warm and comforting and whispering into my ear while I drift to someplace else. While I forget, so that I can remember how much I adore it all, again and again. But I blink heavily, once, twice, thrice, deepening the spell of his words, echoing in the now-quiet of my mind. And the echoes guide me into dreams, where I will forget it all by myself.

And when he comes to me again, we will both see how much his flower has grown.