The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Dominant Species

Chapter 3 Part A.

THE PLAY’S THE THING.

Radescu existed no more, replaced by a young Englishman named Mordred Mitterhouse. The transformation from Wallachia confident of the fearsome Vlad Tepes to a young London neer do well seeking his fortune was accomplished easily enough for a creature of his abilities. Upon awaking in his cave he quickly searched out another farm house much like Dumitra’s. There he subdued and fed upon a middle aged man, his wife and their two teenage daughters. His ability to enthrall was too weakened to subdue them with his hypnotic prowess but had more than enough physical strength to take the father and mother out quickly and savagely for his thirst after his long sleep was truly a frightful thing. It was always thus when he woke after his centuries slumber, he needed blood to replenish his gift of enthrallment.

Once he had drank of the father and mother, his mental powers now rejuvenated, it was easy to enter the minds of the two girls and enjoy a more prolonged feeding of mind and body with them before applying the coup de grace. Oh how much he had missed it all! The power, the control, the intoxicating feelings of feeding! He cursed the damn three hundred years he had slept.

From there, his full powers at his disposal he made his way to a small town and met the mayor in a quiet tavern. He quickly enthralled the man and was invited to his home for a late supper. The dinner turned out to be the very willing mayor and his wife. He dined until nothing was left of them. One of the gifts he had was not only the ability to enthrall his victims but to enter their minds and discern their thoughts, to absorb much of what they knew. This was a very useful tool and he used it to great effect. From the mayor and his wife he learned that England stood at the height of world power, the center of the world and that piqued his strong, natural curiosity. He cleaned out the mayor’s money and his wife’s jewelry, took his horse, a very strong dark mare and wasted no time moving west, leaving Wallachia in his destructive wake for all time. There was nothing there that interested him now.

He traveled to France where he stopped for a few weeks, feeding at leisure and accumulating more wealth from his carefully chosen, high born victims. Entering the minds of his victims he quickly became fluent in French, accent and all. He blended seamlessly into the local social circle, becoming very popular and was invited to many upper crust parties which he enjoyed immensely under the nom de guerre of Chardonois. His libertine nature found the decadence of France much to his taste and he eagerly indulged all his various hungers, for food, for wine, for sex, for blood and for minds. Eventually sated with his French venture he crossed the channel to his desired destination. He had three years of life to enjoy and he was determined to spend it in the capital of the world.

Upon his arrival he had quickly found a blowsy well used whore in a decrepit dock side tavern, entered her mind and had her follow him out into the mist enclosed alley. She was not his normal prey for Mordred was a high connoisseur of pulchritude but she was a simple expedient of the moment. There he absorbed her thoughts and the English language. He killed and drained her quickly, no games this time, for she was just the first, essential stepping stone to much bigger things. Judging from her deteriorated condition he reckoned he had done her the favor of a quick death.

He moved inland and found a tavern in a better section of town. To his chagrin he realized he was speaking what was called cockney English, frowned upon by the more proper customers of the establishment. This stained his honor and refined sensibilities, for he was the dominant species and would never countenance the opprobrium of the weak chattel around him. He rectified this quickly by sniffing out the drunken son of a lower ranking lord and drained him of his thoughts and life in a back alley inside his carriage. He killed the driver too, not out of thirst but simply to leave no witness. Now he could speak the language the proper way not like some gutter trash and that pleased him no end. He quickly repaired to a different bar and strutted about like a peacock, all smiles and high cheer, buying drinks for all with the dead lord’s money. Life was beautiful and he was so alive again! He wanted to learn all of what had happened while he slept and he wanted to formulate plans. There were lovely games to be played. He had never felt so joyous, like a newly hatched chick in the nest ravenous for the taste of the worm.

And now here he was in the Hillsboro estate, seated quite comfortably on the former Lord Hillsboro’s favorite chair as though high born to it, while Maria Hillsboro, his gorgeous bride to be of over a year, lounged about on a large stuffed couch with her childhood servant Lissette Barista. Both pretty, young women sat naked gazing adoringly at him with wide, vacant eyes. The musky smell of their wet cunts permeated the room. Mordred loved how he could make their bodies leak like that without even touching them. They were so young and their minds so open and eager for his control that their bodies followed and it was so easy for him to play both their thoughts and their flesh like a virtuoso controlling the strings of a harp. And he knew how to get their minds and bodies to extrude any tune he wished. A host of candles about the room highlighted the girl’s voluptuous curves alternately in shadow and warm yellow glow.

Mordred was the de facto owner of Lord Hillsboro’s estate and wealth, not to mention his daughter and for some time and he had used all these assets to buttress his life and the enjoyment he took from all England had to offer. And much to his stunned surprise England and its denizens and this new era opened up a whole new view and appreciation of humanity to him. Just like with him it seemed the human race had finally roused itself from a long slumber and exploded with in a throe of imagination and invention. It was as if humanity had finally come alive, extricated itself from the quicksand it had been stuck in for all it’s existence.

These were real miracles, not the dusty old pablum of the bible but things that would have been judged as black magic back when he had first walked on earth’s firmament: the steam engine, the rifle, hot air balloons that actually took humans aloft as though birds and a diving bell that took them below the ocean as if fish. A lighting conductor that seemed to capture the very power of god himself and a navigational clock that opened up the seas to ships as though roads to horse carriages. And so many others.

And it seemed to Mordred that something very important was being whispered ever so softly to him by these many discoveries. Something was happening with mankind. Their advancements were suddenly coming faster, progress born quicker than in all the time before. This was not magic or witchery or divine power at work but science. Science was the word of the day in England and Mordred knew instinctively it would be the current that mankind would ride to its future and ultimate destiny. Science worked through and brought about by man. And something itched in the back of his brilliant, farsighted mind. He had an ineffable feeling that science would have an impact on him and his very existence of unimaginable proportions. Yes science was in its infancy but someday like it would reach adulthood. And like a petulant child with a stick it was now jabbing and poking him in the hind-brain with shadowy possibilities to come and this excited him greatly. He wasn’t even sure why yet, but his powerful intellect was telling him something amazing and integral to his life was coming. But he would have to patient; it would take time for the child to grow. But he could be patient for the one thing he had was time, all the time in the world. For now he satisfied himself by enjoying what this bold new era offered him.

He was astounded at the pure genius of Galileo. Not only his inventions and discoveries but the fact that he had proven Copernicus correct, the earth revolved around the sun, not the other way around. He laughed in derision how the great man had been forced by the church to recant this fact in the face of saving his life. Mordred agreed with Galileo’s decision, to live was everything and once a fact was known there was no putting it back so Galileo’s recantation was just a dried up bone thrown to the intellectually starving wolves of the church. The church’s decision reeked of fear and denial, of curs with tails between their legs scampering in retreat. How could a mere mortal, a man of science prove the church and its infallible god wrong? What did that say about the church and that god? What did it say about science?

And something else occurred to him, the end times had not arrived yet again. The Lamb of God had not descended from the heavens to surcease man’s suffering and give them sweet relief in his father’s kingdom as the Christ had promised in the now rapidly receding past. The table had been set so long ago yet the guest of honor had not appeared and food was getting very cold indeed. And it made him happy for it continued to confirm what he had begun to suspect.

But it was in another field of mankind’s new explosion that he experienced his true joy. Mordred found himself spellbound, enamored by the works of Shakespeare, a man of Galileo’s equal only plying his genius in the arts not science. He couldn’t get over the Bard’s brilliant use of language, his turn of phrase combined with the plots and emotions addressed in his stories. For Mordred, this was a revelation of absolute perfection. It was truth made to vision.

And it wasn’t just the words but the humans who seemed to inhabit them, make them come alive as though they were Hamlet or Othello or King Leer. His favorite actor was the acclaimed David Garrick. He seemed to channel the Bard in a way no other could approach. No event would please Mordred more than a night at the Drury Lane Theater accompanied by a beautiful young woman on his well appointed arm, soaking up every nuance of Shakespeare’s brilliance as he simultaneously stoked his consort’s arousal until he could smell her desire, hear the lust in her ragged breathing, feel the goose bumps on her pretty arms as he ran his hand over them. While he was listening to those sublime words being spoken on stage he knew she was hearing nothing but indecipherable mumbling, only thinking impatiently of the time when she could be alone with him so he could take use of her, give her the pleasure that she was addicted to, that she needed more than anything; to satisfy that terrible desire for him that was all she lived for now.

He would arrive preening in the latest of high fashion: his short waistcoat made of the finest yellow silk adorned with colorful threads that comprised large flowers. The garment was tight and expensive, showing off his lean frame and moneyed status in equal measure. He would wear a confident half smile on his face, sending out mental vibrations that attracted women to him like bees to the hive. All through the performance women near him would cast clandestine glances in his direction. He could hear their hearts pounding as their aroused blood flowed through their inflamed veins. They would stare daggers at his escort, jealousy lighting their eyes with mixture of hate for them and longing for him. He could have any of them with a look and after the shows he often laid his plans to claim them. Many sub rosa trysts were born during the after performance introductions and parties. Around Mordred marriages and attachments just didn’t last long. The divorce rate among those in his orbit was considerably higher than normal. So was the rate of murder of wives by husbands and husbands by wives and unwed lovers too. There was a was a darkness, a madness, a rabid sexual jealousy that seemed to envelope those unfortunate enough to become close to the new, friendly, popular noble. But empathetic, kind Mordred Mitterhouse was always there to commiserate with his friends over their problems and losses. Even in the darkest of times he was a true light of their lives.

He thrilled and exalted at these Shakespeare moments, feeling a part of the stories himself, more alive than ever. Mordred wished he could have gotten into the great man’s mind, to understand how he thought, how he could manipulate language and emotion as he did. To understand what it felt like to produce such singular, indelible art, to inhabit his genius in some small measure. But of course that was not possible. He had been sleeping when Shakespeare was born, had lived, written his treasures then died. And Mordred felt this loss deeply and it struck him down in a low depression every time he dwelled on it.

After nothing but drab disappointment, the human race was finally providing Mordred with something more than sustenance and small games. It was as though a tall house of entertainment and wonder was being built by man for his personal exploration, each additional floor now adding something new and enticing to his very existence. He wondered where this would all lead in the future. He knew it would only get better.

Now he sat in the Hillsboro sitting room, languidly twirling a glass of a most delicious brandy in his hand. He found he had taste for it. In fact he found he had a taste for every amenity the upper crust of English society enjoyed.

And of course he had a taste for deeper amenities they could never imagine. One’s only he could partake in.

He gazed about, satisfied at the massive, gilt edged room he occupied, in the large estate he now ran and the two stunning woman he controlled.

Mordred was a creature of keen, prescient intelligence backed up by a vivid, powerful, roaming imagination. Because of this combination he frequently found himself in deep thought about his present, past and future, often becoming separated from the real world around him as though in a fugue state. It would not take much for one of these bouts to overtake him and now once again it happened as he remembered how this scene he was now living had come about.

He had insinuated himself into the Hillsboro family quick as an adder’s strike; first enthralling the fetching Maria at a social function, then her parents and estates servants, among them the very lovely Lissette whose innocent good looks and vivacious personality caught his always wandering eye immediately.

He had tightened the screws on all their minds over the weeks until they considered him an indispensable friend and addition to the household. When he proposed to Maria her parents were just as ecstatic about it as she was. All of the Hillsboro family was swooning over Morderd Mitterhouse. Who wouldn’t? He was a perfect English gentleman in every way.

One fine day Mordred happened upon the idea of using his new happy family as an ode to his favorite playwright. He would direct this story himself; write every bit of the script and they would be his actors. In this story, a tragedy of course, Shakespeare’s metier, the Hillsboro’s would be destroyed by familial betrayal fueled by the darkest, most perverted of carnal lusts. He had a good long time to play games with his new victims and he took to it in a most leisurely fashion, slowly, insidiously destroying the family from within. No, it would not reach the sublime heights of Shakespeare’s work but it would have Mordred’s own personal touch and creative hand behind it. And it would be great amusement.

One day Lord Hillsboro’s wife came to the nagging suspicion that her loving, loyal husband of thirty two years was cheating on her. She had no reason or evidence of the fact, but the idea came relentlessly, first as a small seedling then over time blooming like a blood red thorny rose that reeked of the sickly sweet scent of a secret, greedy, betraying wet cunt. Mrs. Hillsboro could never catch him at it, but she sensed the furtive change in her husband; his long bouts of silence, the way he now spurned her advances in bed and every once in a while she would catch the faint scent of the whore on his breath, his skin or saturating his very clothing. She could tell from the smell the bitch was young and firm, something she no longer was.

She knew a very mischievous and wicked game was being played under her very nose with a sure woman’s instinct even if she could not unveil it from darkness into the light.

She took to drink, then laudanum to drown her evil thoughts but that didn’t work for long, instead it only made her more erratic and desperate. She began to quarrel with her husband, calling him the most vicious names, even as he pleaded innocence. Nothing appeased her. She seemed like a totally different person than the intelligent, measured woman she once had been. She reached the point of no return when one day, completely out of her mind under the influence of the drug and her obsession with retribution she strolled down the main street of the best stores, naked, propositioning young men to gain revenge on what her husband had done to her. The poor misguided, deluded woman was taken away to the best sanitarium money could afford where the doctors told Lord Hillsboro that with proper treatment and rest she would one day return home as the woman she had been. It had all been quite the scandal and gossip rage of the city. The shame it brought the Hillsboro’s was severe. Mordred was there at all times to comfort Mr. Hillsboro and his lovely Maria. Their appreciation for the young man’s understanding in these humiliating circumstances was boundless. He could have easily left them and that odious stink of scandal for fresher air, but no, he held tight to his bond with new family. He was the epitome of a stalwart gentleman truly in love with his bride.

Unknown to Lord Hillsboro’s friends his wife had been correct. For the longest time now he had begun to find his daughter increasingly attractive. Her lovely raven hair, so shiny and smooth, her pale skin, so tenderly perfect and fresh, so very much unlike his wife’s, her fulsome breasts, rising and lowering themselves with each gentle breath, as though issuing silent invitation to him.

He would find himself creeping into her room at night, spending hours staring at her his erection enormous. Soon he found himself masturbating to her angelic sleeping face, her long, black inky lashes resting coyly on her alabaster skin, somehow looking wicked in the juxtaposition of it.

One night to John Hillsboro’s abject horror, she woke just as he was cumming into the intricate handkerchief he held, the one Maria had given him as a birthday present. He found holding the handkerchief on his cock had increased his passions, making him feel wickedly closer to his sleeping daughter. After all, not only had she given it to him but her pale, girlish hand had once held it. He could almost feel the warmth of her hand on it. When she had opened her eyes, so pretty and muzzily from sleep he was mortified beyond reason and immediately thought of running to his study, removing the revolver from his desk and ending his shame and misery.

But Maria did not scream or cry out or question him in the least. Instead she sat up, pulled her shift down, ripping it to expose her breasts and zaftig nineteen year old form and smiled. It was a smile Lord Hillsboro had never witness on his daughter’s face before. She raised her bare arm and beckoned him close, not his daughter now but instead the sinuous seductress from his most secret fantasies.

She glanced down as the sodden handkerchief. She gave out a soft, becoming laugh. “I see you have found good use for my gift. It pleases me very much Father.”

He stood there staring at his daughter’s enchanting form, his body trembling equally from fright and lust.

“Come to me, Father,” she said, in a warm, wanton voice, like some angel of darkness come alive before him, “you need not stand there cock in hand when the warm flesh of your daughter awaits you right here. Let me give you what we both dream of every night.” His sweet young girl had never sounded so musically wickedly playful, irresistible or evil. That sound was like a sonata raging in his blood.

Lord Hillsboro walked to her as though in a trance, slowly, fighting every footstep that brought him closer to this vision of heaven and hell that looked so becomingly at him. He knew unequivocally if he climbed in that bed all would lost for him and his daughter; that his family would be hell damned and destroyed. Then next thing he knew he was on her bed, her warm arms hungrily around his neck, her hot, wet, velvet lips on his. He never imagined that losing everything, including his soul could feel this good.

Once unleashed, the two could not stay away from each other. It was animal magnetism, flesh wanting flesh. The fact that they were father and daughter only increased the fevered heat they felt for each other. It was the very sinful forbidden nature of their act that turned their passion and blood to fire more than anything else. Their trysts became a nightly occurrence of savage animal fornication that escalated quickly; soon mere sex couldn’t satisfy the dark urges that seemed to infuse every part of their minds, driving them on to new levels of debauchery. They would tie each other up and use the others’ bodies in the most obscene, delicious manners imaginable. And every night Mordred was there, right in the room, directing their actions and thoughts and desires like a demonic Shakespeare come alive.

One evening Lord Hillsboro hog tied Maria and took his pleasure to her rear. Those firm, twin, pale, perfect globes were so enticing. First he whipped her bum with his favorite riding crop until her cheeks were riddled with red lines then for the first time he penetrated her virgin ass. He had wanted to do this for a long time and now that it was happening he ploughed in deep and hard with wild, brutal thrusts until blood stained his cock. “There’s my wicked little whore, look at her bloom!”

“Ohhhhh yes Father! I am such a wicked little whore. My pretty arse bleeds for you. I love this so. Only you can make me feel this way,” Maria replied through her panting breaths her eyes shining. “We are slaves of the flesh. We are so bad, so evil...children of the devil’s lust.” She threw her head back and laughed, her silky hair flying and bouncing off her sweaty face and round pale shoulders. It only made her look more seductive and beautiful. “Sins of the flesh are ever so sweet…especially between father and daughter…aren’t they Daddy?”

As he stared at the thing that used to be his sweet, innocent daughter his cock exploded on her naked back. He wanted to fuck her so bad and he wanted to do other things to her: dark savage unmentionable things. He wanted to open his mouth and bite into that tender, warm, silky flesh like a voracious animal. He wanted to eat her, make her a part of him. He knew that flesh would taste so fine, her blood incredibly sweet.

“Yes, so bad, so evil,” Hillsboro gasped in a guttural tone, his voice dripping with venom as he increased the intensity of this thrusts. Maria and her father both laughed together, the cracked glass sound of it not resembling anything human or sane.

Mordred would make them have sex for hours at a stretch. No matter how exhausted or spent their bodies became their minds were fevered with a lust that would not stop or be sated. As these marathon sessions continued both of them would be sweat soaked and mindless, feeling only the drive to pleasure and punish the other, going through their motions like programmed flesh machines, their hollow, dark rimmed eyes blank as their minds.

All the while Morded watched and directed, absorbing the vicious, dark sexual ecstasy of father and daughter, draining them of any human ability to think while feeling his own mental prowess of control grow and expand. When these sessions finally ended, Lord Hillsboro and Maria would lie in bed for hours, in the soaking wet, sex stinking sheets lost in their own worlds of pleasure. Both of them would stare longingly into space, soft smiles carved on their lips, their bodies quivering every so often as though reliving what had happened. Maria would blink and moan softly, her soft lovely eyes fluttering, her mouth opening into round O shapes for minutes at a time until it closed, only to repeat again, her pretty, small white hands slowly caressing her body.

As with any playwright worth his salt, Mordred knew when it was time to move his production to its denouement. One night after a particularly savage night with Maria Lord Hillsboro entered his study, pulled out a piece of vellum and wrote a brief note. He then opened a drawer, removed a cap and ball pistol, put the barrel to his temple and blew his brains out all over his desk. The works of his lifetime, paintings on the walls, certificates of education, countless books and flora and fauna from decades of collecting surrounded the crimson wreck of a kind, gentle man. Directly across from his body, in a place he could always see and be comforted by anytime he looked up from his desk was the huge painting he had commissioned four years previously at high cost of himself. It was of his wife and daughter Maria, dressed in their best finery, a smiling, happy family, staring mutely at him. And right there with them was their servant but who had really become their adopted daughter, Lissette. Those brilliant smiles, so honest and true back then now hid the black, creeping evil that had slowly taken a stranglehold on their minds.

When the authorities read the note still clutched in Hillsboro’s hand it chilled them to the very marrow of their bones. It read: I am the great untamed beast that has lived for over a thousand years. I have indulged and experienced the greatest of joys at your dissolution. I am the dominant species and I take fill of all my desires, denied nothing. I travel the ages as you do an hour and are gone to new pastures while you rot in a grave preordained by the hourglass you must obey. Woe to those who attract my covetous eyes for your pain is my pleasure and you are truly lost as I take all that you are. Search for me in vain for I am the dark shadow that is always out of reach yet always beside you and so it shall always be.

It was obvious to anyone that John Hillsboro like his wife had suffered a serious mental break down. The note was the ravings of a lunatic. Yet how could a man who was so reserved, so gentle, so intelligent become so unhinged? Everyone who knew him just couldn’t fathom it. He was the last person they would guess to lose control of his faculties. What could have caused such a total breakdown in the man? The authorities asked Maria if his final scribbling meant anything to her. But she told them she had no clue as to what he could have meant in those last strange, agonized scribblings. Yes she told them, he had taken his wife’s condition hard, after all they were married for so long. But he seemed to bear up well to the strain. He showed her no signs of madness at all. Maria told them she too was baffled by it all. She cried as she spoke to the police, her innocent heart so obviously broken.

The late Lord Hillsboro’s daughter, now the sole heir to the Hillsboro wealth and estate because of her mother’s condition shed copious tears yet again at her father’s funeral. It was all such a horrific tragedy, first the mother then her staid father. It was like some kind of curse or disease had afflicted them. Maria’s many friends found some small solace that her beau, Mordred Mitterhouse was there, holding her close, like a lighthouse still shining bright in the deafening swirl of this mad storm. He had an almost preternatural way of soothing her, calming her. They knew he would guide her to a safe port. They all agreed that Mitterhouse was a godsend for her, arriving at the exact right time; perhaps a small act of god’s providence. Everyone who met Mitterhouse loved him. He had quickly become a favorite in upper crust circles.

Maria would have agreed completely that Mordred was her savoir. Just for different reasons.

The penultimate act of Mordred’s ode to Shakespeare took place in the sanitarium Maria’s mother was in. He sent Maria there with a very specific message to impart. Now away from Mordred’s insidious influence for months she had begun to regain her old form and personality. Her doctor, the estimable Dr. Steward told Maria that in a few more weeks they expected a total recovery and a return home. Maria smiled with delight. He warned her not to speak of her husband’s horrific suicide that it could prove too much in her condition. Maria promised silence.

Maria’s mother, Elizabeth was delighted to see her, hugging her tight and crying. Her love for her only daughter was supreme and Maria, her beautiful, smart, gentle daughter was the light of her life. They spoke for a long time, laughing, smiling, touching, holding hands, talking as they used to, not just like mother and daughter but the best of trusting friends. And her mother was ebullient, telling Maria she was counting the days till she could come home. Her mother was so happy, the lines of fear and treachery and mental exhaustion that had been cut into her face when she was committed to the sanitarium were fading away, showing once again the lovely woman she had once been. She explained to Maria that she didn’t understand what kind of mad paranoia had come over her. She knew now that her husband had never cheated on her. But that illness was now past and she wanted nothing more than to rejoin her family and make amends.

After several hours Maria had bid farewell. As they kissed and hugged goodbye, Maria leaned to her mother’s ear and whispered in a conspirator’s hushed, secretive voice, “You were right, you know.”

Maria’s mother pulled back looking into daughters eyes, perplexed. “What do you mean, Maria?” she asked, not understanding.

Maria smiled playfully. “About John, your husband, my father. My sweet, ever loving father,” she purred, the tone of her voice changing with remarkable quickness.

Maria’s mother froze her face chalk white. “What are you saying,” she managed to get out of a throat that now felt constricted with broken glass.

“He was cheating on you Dear Mother. I know for a fact he was.”

“What? How do you know this?” asked Elizabeth her world cracking inside her fragile eggshell mind.

Maria ran her hand over her pussy, massaging it and giggled, girlish mean. “Because the very same cock that created me went right here, dear Mother. Was not the biggest I’ve had, but he surely knew how to use it well.”

Maria winked at her mother. “And what he did not know I was very willing to teach him.”

In a blur Elizabeth’s hand flashed out, CRACK, it exploded on Maria’s face. Her head wobbled back but the haughty, taunting smile never left her face.

“How dare you say that? You liar! Have you taken leave of your senses? What has come over you? You are not my daughter! My Maria would never say such vile things! You talk like the serpent has your tongue!” Elizabeth grabbed Maria by the shoulders and shook her. “Where is my daughter? What have you done with her? Get on your knees and beg my forgiveness. Beg the lord his forgiveness before you find yourself cast into hell!”

Maria pushed her mother hard up against the padded wall. “Oh but I am! I am your daughter and ever so much else! We share so many things in common dear Mother. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you would like to describe fathers cock? It bent a bit to left when erect, did you ever notice?” Maria bent her index finger slightly to the left then pursed her lips into an erotic pout and slowly began to bury the finger between her lips, sucking it in, swallowing with her throat.

“No! No! No! No!” Elizabeth shouted, each word growing louder and shriller.

“Yes, yes, yes,” mocked Maria. “You see, he was tired of the wrinkled old bag he was stuck with. He decided he wanted something……young and fresh and smooth…..and…” Maria rubbed her fingers over her cunt, “wet.”

Maria looked at her mother’s crotch with disdain. “Dry just doesn’t carry the same appeal, Mum. Surely you understand that, as a woman, don’t you? I mean you were a woman once...so very long ago.”

Elizabeth shut her eyes and shook her head, standing stock still.

“Oh he made up for lost time, Mother. He got my sweet cunny, my pretty bum, my mouth. Oh yes, he got me all over. Places I would venture you can’t even imagine. And all that time you lay asleep, the silly old fool. Tell me, when he came to bed did you ever smell me on him? My room reeked of my sweet cunny. Surely you must have gotten the scent of me? It is a very strong smell.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes, but they were blank, now, all the joy and happiness of moments ago washed away as though hit by tsunami of unimaginable force.

Maria ran her hand gently over her mother’s cheek, feeling the solitary tear that was running down the lines of her face.

“One last thing you should know, Mother, before I leave. I grew tired of daddy, after all I want young too, just as he did. After I broke it off he blew his brains out in that stuffy old study of his surrounded by all his silly things.” She tossed her hair in that carefree way women have. “All in all I think it was for the best. Since you were in here, I inherited all of it, the money, the land, the house. See, I fucked both of you out of everything. I mean literally fucked you and daddy out of everything.” Maria smiled pure malice. “You always said I was the clever girl. See you were right, Mother. Now you know just how clever I am. Try not to feel bad. You never had a chance.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth and exploded in a scream that rang about the room and up and down the halls outside. In the forty years of its existence, no one in the sanitarium ever heard a sound like it, not in volume or pitch or timber. It was not human. And it didn’t stop. Elizabeth just screamed and screamed and screamed.

Maria blew her mother a salacious, pouty kiss and ran to the door and began pounding on it. She began to cry. “Doctor! Doctor Steward! Come quick, something is terribly wrong!”

The doctor tried his best to comfort Maria in his office. He poured her some water, held her hand and wiped her tears with his handkerchief. She explained through heart wrenching sobs how all had seemed so well until she told Elizabeth she had to leave, had to head home. At that point her mother had taken to a complete, unexpected, sudden breakdown.

The doctor was stunned by this turn of events. He was so sure Elizabeth was over the worst and prepared to resume her life with daughter. But he knew mental illness was still such a mystery and in fact science still knew so little about the workings of the human mind. Maria slowly composed herself and finally departed obviously distraught and broken. The doctor’s heart ached for the gorgeous young girl and the horror’s she had gone through, with her father and mother. How could anyone hold up under that kind of strain?

That night, saddened and depressed by what he had witnessed, he found solace and escape in shot of morphine, expertly administered.

Despite the high hopes he had for Elizabeth just a short while ago, she never recovered from whatever had snapped her mind during her time with Maria. She became a cipher, living in the past, having animated conversations in her mind with her husband and Maria which she spoke aloud for the rest of her days; conversations from a happier time, before Mordred Mitterhouse had insinuated himself into their lives. Elizabeth never left the grounds and died there five years later, a broken, incurably insane shell.

For Mitterhouse however, the last act of his play had not yet been performed.