The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

If a girl has sex here, she’ll be a virgin over there. Forgive me, I probably didn’t explain that well. My husband has recently taken my smarts. Even when smart, I never quite understood the logic of my conclusion. I know my conclusion is true because it entered me in a dream, and all my best ideas, recently, have come in dreams. ‘Cut down on clients’, ‘This wife needs no taming’, ‘This husband needs correction’—I nod off to sleep in my office, and these ideas just come to me. Some of them are so brilliant that when I wake up on Eugenie’s lap, I tell her to write it down right away before my dream slips through my memory.

Tonight’s party—though ‘party’ sounds so innocent—was just such a dreamy epiphany. Eugenie was stroking my hair in our office after a long day mesmerising, and as Eugenie whispered sweet forgotten things, a dream covered me like a blanket. Girls, naked girls, horny girls, untamed girls, unmarried girls. Girls pulled by tickles and throbs to this man and that, making love too constantly to keep their mind on one man, and fucking so often that even if they had a husband, they’d have no time to tend his home. To stop them fucking, my dream-self bound their wrists and ankles with chains and their pussies with chastity belts—belts which only their future husband would have the key to. But when no husbands came, they beat on their chastity belts like drums, dragged their bottoms on the floor like sick dogs, and licked each other’s nipples. In short, they’d gone bonkers from horniness. That’s when my brilliant idea came. A girl mustn’t make love all the time, but she must let it all out occasionally.

Eugenie told me I was a modern-day mystic. She even told me how to set up these ‘Purgations’. The Men for the Proper Treatment of Women would help. They would selflessly weather the fire of nubile maidens’ lust. The girls would be kept satisfied so they didn’t go sex mad before marriage.

Did that make sense? I suppose not, but it didn’t take the Men for the Proper Treatment of Women much convincing to make the orgies weekly. Lord Johnson even volunteered his manor.

At this very moment, the orgy writhes into the night in Johnson’s parlour. As my husband’s erotic duties have wearied him something fierce, he has retired to his bedroom. Hoping for more subdued affection, he took me and Eugenie (or rather, Eugenie begged him to let her come along).

The bedroom Johnson lent my husband is a cozy thing. I yawn in the warmth, as I sit naked on the bed. My eyelids want to slip shut, but I pull them open. If I’m snoozing when my husband calls for my kisses, then I’m no wife at all. Oh, he’s been tiring me out all night, playing games with me, dropping me into sweet obedience with that phrase ‘Girls are weak’. I would hear ‘Girls are weak’ and awake thinking I was a conquered queen, and then another ‘Girls are weak’ and I would awake thinking his belt buckle was my clitoris. He’s finally let me take a rest from all this play. Not that he needs my services right now, as he’s quite happy with Eugenie’s massage. Eugenie is so clever, offering him a massage when she knew how stiff he must have been from a hard night’s fucking. How far she’s come, too—volunteering to touch a man!

‘You must be a hard worker, Mr Leashem,’ says Eugenie. ‘From this tension, I bet you didn’t take a break all week.’

My husband smiles, relaxing deeper into his chair. ‘Well, work is a man’s duty. I know you two have that little office of yours, so consider how tiring your hobby makes you, then imagine how much more tiring real work must be.’ He yawns. ‘Real work, it is the most tiring and invigorating thing in the world—but worth it!’ He glances at me. ‘For it is all for the sake of my tamed shrew.’

I thank him through my drowsy smile. Eugenie… Oh, no, I must have imagined it. She couldn’t have frowned.

Eugenie massages slower. ‘I can’t even imagine. Pity all you’ve got is me to unwind you.’

‘Do not unduly denigrate yourself,’ says my husband. ‘Your firm hands are bliss. Later, I shall savour them on my cock.’

Eugenie freezes, only for a moment, but my husband glances over his shoulder.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asks.

‘N- nothing,’ says Eugenie, regaining her massage’s rhythm. ‘Thinking about your cock, I had… unwomanly thoughts. If your manhood matches your manliness, well…’

My husband’s smile widens. ‘You think highly of me?’

‘Course,’ she says. ‘Of all the men I know, you’re the smartest, strongest, kindest—’

‘And on what do you base this—by no means erroneous—estimation?’ Melting under Eugenie’s ministrations, my husbands smile sags into a drowsy grin.

‘On the only thing that matters: actions,’ she says. ‘And I judge actions on how much good they bring the world. I judge you to be the smartest, strongest, kindest because your actions made my world good.’ She hums a soothing tune. She is so good a masseuse, I myself relax. My eyelids bob with her humming.

My husband shuts his eyes, purring, ‘How so?’

‘You saved me. Well, you saved Louise, who saved me. So long ago, but once, I was so cranky, so tired, so stressed. As a silly suffragette, I thought the whole world was against me. The government, men, even other women, so I worked and strived and sweated—for what? After all that working, striving, sweating, I was just more cranky, more tired, more stressed.’

Eugenie speaks so slowly and regularly, that I feel like I sit on a rocking chair, her words pushing me. My husband is so strong! Whenever Eugenie talks to and massages me, I can’t stay awake for more than a minute.

My husband grunts, now too lazy to speak or smile.

Eugenie continues: ‘But then you sent along Louise. As she spoke to me, so soothingly, years of useless work, striving, sweat washed from my weary limbs. As she spoke, I felt so safe. I knew all was right with the world.’

My husband is silent, and I am tipsy. I wish Eugenie and I could sleep together again, so she can talk me to sleep like this again.

‘Knowing how safe I was, how tired I was, how someone else was taking care of me, I knew I could just—Sleep!’

My husband’s arms flop from his lap, as his chin hits his chest. Shock snaps my drooping eyes open. I dart to my feet. I don’t know what happened but-

‘Take your nap, Lou-lou,’ she says.

But it can’t be that bad. My bum thuds against the bed. My husband’s napping, so why don’t I just…

‘… and one. Wide awake.’

I blink to beat sleep from my mind. I’m sitting on the bed, but my head swims so much that I feel as though I stood too quickly. Where am I? Is that Eugenie’s face inches from mine? Are those her hands holding my head?

‘What’s thirty-three cubed?’ she asks.

‘Th- thirty-five thousand… nine hundred and thirty-seven,’ I say.

‘Smart lass,’ she says. ‘Your full name?’

These simple questions—Have I woken from a head injury? ‘Louise Martha Lovenca- Lo- Leashem!’ The past months surge beneath my skin. My throat clogs with shame and trauma. ‘No! No! Lovencare! Loven—’

‘Calm!’ Eugenie yells.

My heart slows, as my panic becomes a mere recollection. Memory of Leashem’s abuses blur till I see only the outline of a tremendous wrong. Eugenie’s eyes stare into mine; they are my stable ground.

I start to stand. ‘Those memories—’

She pulls me down. ‘Calm! Sorry for giving you new triggers… both now and… for the last few weeks—but I figured you’d forgive me if it was to beat that fucking Leashem.’ She sees rage at that name redden my cheeks ‘Calm!’

These rapid spurrings and reigning ins of my heart make me want to vomit. And if I do vomit anything up, it would be his name—Leashem! ‘Where is he?’ I ask. Fear accompanies my rage. If he finds me, he’ll just coo, ‘Girls are weak,’ and I’ll awake cooking his dinner—and loving it.

‘Calm, calm, calm,’ says Eugenie as she sits by my side. The word is so soporific, my heart does not race when she moves to reveal Leashem lying on the floor, naked and hog-tied.

‘Is he…?’ I manage to ask, despite her ceaseless whispers of ‘calm’.

‘Out of action? Yeah,’ she says, grinning. ‘I mesmerised him. Did you think I wouldn’t pick something up working by your side?’

By my side? Oh, God! All the women I broke, crushed, bent into submissive shape-

‘Calm!’ She looks me in the eye and says, with such conviction I’d believe anything, ‘None of this is your fault. You know what is your doing? My freedom, your freedom, soon everyone’s freedom.’

‘What?’ I say, almost crying. Her feeble lie wounds me more than an accusation. To Leashem’s mesmerism I put up no resistance, to his projects I gave my full support, to his beastly ideals I submitted with all my mind. I am the worst traitor womankind has birthed.

‘Calm, calm,’ she says, inching her face closer to mine. ‘You are my saviour, Lou-lou. That you don’t even realise it shows what a fighter you are. Even enslaved, even while enslaving others, you threw an escape rope.’

‘Escape rope?’

‘When you mesmerised the suffragettes, you said “only worthless tribads” have free will. Well, that “worthless” really fucked with me—Calm!—Don’t worry, I’m fine now. You made me better when you removed all the remaining mesmerism after our session with Mrs Runamouth.’

‘I never intended—’

‘Yes, you did,’ she says, poking my chest as though to pierce her meaning into my heart. ‘You just didn’t realise.’

She kisses me. Warmth blooms in my chest, and I cannot dismiss it, as I did all those times before, as ‘sisterly’. What Leashem forced me to feel for him, I feel now, a hundred times brighter.

Three words, ‘I love you,’ ready to leap from my tongue. ‘I—’

‘Calm!’

It’s like I’ve lost an orgasm. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘You were going into shock.’

I grab her forearms. ‘I was falling in love!’

A smile glints upon her face, without her cock-surety. ‘I- I think we should free the others.’ She kisses me again. ‘I have a plan.’

We mean to battle men, but despite our just cause, and the men’s debauchery-wearied muscles, charging into enemy territory is a dubious prospect. We are but two women (though Eugenie has dressed herself in Leashem’s clothing) and they are many men, with an army of sex-kittens. As we run through the corridor, Eugenie reveals the plan she had been concocting for the past weeks.

‘Much as I hated planning these orgies with you,’ Eugenie says, ‘it gave me access to Johnson’s floorplan. Parlour’s in the centre, where we go last. Next, the armoury—’

A shadow cast from around the corner and onto the wall. Running from the approaching silhouette would cause too much ruckus. We press ourselves against the nearest wall, but there are no curtains to hide behind. A maid comes into view, naked, but for a frilled choker. She pushes a trolley. Mesmerism and her work so absorb her mind that, as she passes, she does not spot us to her left. She pauses to adjust her hair, but in panic I squeak, and Eugenie says, ‘Calm’ a tad too loud.

The maid turns and curtsies to us. ‘Why, hello, Mistress Leashem and,’ she pauses as she looks at Eugenie’s shirt and trousers, ‘s-sir.’ Her mind sputters like a steam engine. ‘You are a ma—’

‘Of course, he’s new,’ I say, stepping in front of Eugenie, hoping to obscure Eugenie’s quite womanly chest and hips. ‘My husband has just initiated him.’

The girl still looks confused. Her trust in me, her mesmeric mistress, struggling with whatever rationality my mesmerism has not extinguished. ‘B-but, he, she, looks exactly like…’ Her eyes widen in panic. ‘I must ask a man.’

Oh, dear, their go-to tactic when thinking overtaxes them.

‘Then ask me!’ Eugenie pushes me aside. ‘Silly little girl, can you not see I am a man?’ When the girl glances from Eugenie’s chest to her hips, Eugenie clasps the girl’s chin, guiding their eyes together. ‘You should trust men. So if a man says he’s a man, doesn’t mean he is a man?’

Eugenie’s sophistry pours like cool water over the maid’s overheated mind. ‘Oh, yes, sir, of course.’

‘Clever girl.’ Eugenie tickles the girl under the chin, making her mewl like a kitten. ‘Now, sweetie, can you tell me if anyone’s using the antique armoury?’

‘Oh!’ says the girl. ‘Mr Smallwood’s in there. He doesn’t want anyone coming in.’

Eugenie pats her cheek. ‘Let me worry about that—you just put all this out of your silly little head.’

The maid smiles and curtsies before departing. The only sound she makes is a giggle when Eugenie smacks her bottom.

‘I must say,’ I whisper to Eugenie, ‘you make a natural misogynist.’

‘I would say it’s like playing a Fool,’ says Eugenie, ‘but Fools often have something worth saying.’

As we approach the armoury, our steps become as soft mice’s, as we fear even our carpet-muffled steps could alert Smallwood on the other side of the heavy door. Why Smallwood wanted sole access to the armoury, I’ve no clue. He never struck me as a military enthusiast, or an antiquarian. But then, he never struck me as much of anything. We press our ears against the wall. The mumbles on the other side: a man, a woman, or women. I snatch a few words, ‘Now… pretties… resist…’ I strain my ears so hard for muffled words that I’m deafened by the screams. Eugenie and I exchanged glances. Caution be damned! Our sisters are in peril. She unlocks the door and kicks it open.

At the far end of the room, Smallwood stands dressed as Napoleon, though with his pantaloons around his ankles. In place of a sword, he wields above his head empty air. Two naked girls face us, but neither notices us. One positions herself as though locked in invisible stocks; the other prostrates herself with her bum in the air. Smallwood pulls back his empty hand, flicking it forward twice. The girls yelp and shudder as though lashed.

‘Ma Pretties,’ says he, Francophilically. ‘Which of you chiennes ‘as stolen ma rapier?’ His invisible whip cracks against their bottoms again. The girls squirm in pain. ‘Juliette?’ He whips her thrice.

‘Oh, non,’ implores Juliette, the one standing as though locked in stocks. ‘I ‘ave never ever never touched your rapier.’

‘Nor ‘ave not I,’ says the prostrate one. ‘S’il vous plait, Maister, s’il vous plait, show mercy! Ma bum et mon cunt burn too ‘otly!’

The indignities Smallwood inflicts, and my years of French lessons, spur me to save them. Yet I hold back.

‘Impudent fille!’ Smallwood whips her, before gripping his cock. ‘Sans my rapier, I will rape ya!’ He laughs with boyish glee at his own joke. ‘Now ma chiennes—Who the fuck are you!?’

He sees us. He tries to approach us, but the trousers around his ankles trip him, so he lands on his nose, and cock.

‘Girls!’ he yells. ‘Girls! Help me up!’ The girls’ mesmeric restraints vanish. They heave him to his feet. ‘I told you, man!’ Smallwood yells at Eugenie, ‘I told all of you not to enter the armoury!’ As he pulls up his trousers, his eyes lock on Eugenie. ‘Who the fuck are you!’ He backs up toward the firearm-covered wall. He wrenches a flintlock pistol from its mount. He flicks his aim between the two of us. ‘You better bloody well answer my questions! Girls, grab them.’

The women run towards us, like harpies towards their prey. Eugenie steps back, caught between fear of capture and fear of bullets. When they are but a few feet away, I yell:

‘Girls are weak!’

The girls faint into our arms, each burying her sleeping face into our respective bosoms. Eugenie looks at me in panic, eyes saying, ‘You’ve given Smallwood no choice but to use the gun!’ Oh, she of little faith.

Either from decision or spasm, Smallwood pulls the trigger. A snap. He pulls again, and again, each time creating the same impotent snap.

‘For one,’ I say, ‘you need gun powder. For two, you need bullets. For three, you need some bloody common sense.’

He throws the pistol at us. It lands a yard to my left.

‘And one more thing,’ I say, before whispering in the ear of the girl in my arms, and then the girl in Eugenie’s arms. ‘You need new servants.’

These girls, limp puppets, revive. They march towards their tyrant puppeteer, who shrinks in the corner. With a cracking voice, he yells commands at his former sex slaves, commands which, thanks to my orders, will fall on the girls’ deaf ears. The girls push him to the ground, and one sits upon his back. She is a light girl, but Smallwood is too weak a man to shake her off.

Eugenie fondles all the rapiers upon the walls. From her unique educations, she can distinguish between decorative swords, which snap upon real use, and those fit for fencing, and those fit for killing. Finding one both sturdy and intimidating, Eugenie returns to my, just as I finish mesmerising Smallwood.

‘…even if you could yell out,’ I coo, ‘you would not want to. You are so calm in the presence of us Goddesses…’

He struggled at first but could not resist my fingers fluttering before his face, my words seeping into his brain, and my eyes staring into his glazing ones. He does not react when Eugenie snatches the tricorn hat from his head, nor does he stir when she appropriates his empty pistol for her holster. She lowers to one knee, taking my hand to kiss it. She seems more a man than Smallwood ever did, more a man than any man in this manor is.

‘Madame,’ she says, looking like country gentleman who moonlights as a highwayman. ‘Hell, with all its beasts, is no obstacle betwixt thee and me.’ Her stone-face soon cracks into laughter. ‘Anyway!’ she jumps to her feet. ‘How many girls left? What, twenty?’

‘Thirty-eight,’ I say. I curse myself for congratulating so soon. Every moment we stroke our egos is another moment a poor girl must stroke a man’s cock.

Eugenie looks my naked body up and down. Although I question the timing of her admiration, I cannot deny it pleases me. ‘Sorry. I need you naked a bit longer.’

My legs tremble. I suppose those women can stand a few more cocks through them.

Alas, Eugenie did not fuck me then and there—and naughty me for considering it. My righteous purpose stores my arousal for later. We run to the parlour door, Eugenie clothed, and me still naked. Stopping outside the door, she whispers:

‘Remember, you are still their mesmerised slave.’ She hugs me like one seeing off a family member at the docks. She backs away down the corridor. ‘Do not break character.’

Although it sickens me to willingly return to wretched obedience, even in mock, I must submit for my sisters’ sake. ‘Sacrifice and suffering,’ I say, ‘the oil of freedom.’ I stand before the door, dreading the inevitable indignities on the other side. Remember you purpose! These trembles of fear, this presentiment of suffering, this tumbling in my belly—these foreshadow victory. I knock at the door.

A man grunts as the door opens, revealing Thomas and Johnson, sans trousers. Their erect cocks point at me like angry finger. Their faces mellow upon beholding my adoring, kitty-cat eyes… and breasts.

Behind them I see the women I have enslaved. Dressed as harem girls, some women dance; others crawl, naked, except for costume ears of dogs and cats; still others masturbated themselves to an ever-escaping orgasm, or partake of each other’s company; while others fuck the men. Blood rushes too fast and too little. This is the first time I have seen such debauchery fully awake, unblinded by the dogma that this is Man’s right and Woman’s place. And the knowledge that I did this-

‘Are you a fool?’ asks Johnson.

Fearful sweat joins my guilty sweat. Does he know Eugenie’s plan? Was he expecting us? ‘Whatever do you mean—’

‘I love them as fools,’ Johnson says to Thomas. ‘On these occasions, all my maids are made foolish—slightest problem makes their walnut brains shiver. Look at this one!’ He wipes his palm down my chest, scooping off sweat. ‘She’s leaking pure fear.’ His cock twitched.

I let my posture weaken, like a worried schoolgirl. ‘Yes, sir,’ I whimper. ‘My husband took my brains away before sex. Then he told me to come here—but he didn’t give me back my smarts!’ I pretend to wipe tears from my eyes. ‘I don’t like going round the house when I’m stupid: it’s so big! And without a man to hold my hand, it’s scary.’ My lips tremble. I hope I haven’t laid it on too thick.

‘Your husband’s a cad,’ says Thomas. ‘Ah, tut, tut, forgive me! I take it back, for I know you’re duty bound to defend that cad against being called a cad.’

I force a smile, surprised my teeth don’t curl.

‘Are you still scared?’ says Johnson. He traces fingers over my breasts, playing in my perspiration. Despite my will, I gasp when he brushes my nipple.

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ I squeak. ‘So, so scared. Before I got here, I wanted to cry.’

‘Well, dear sweetheart,’ says Thomas, ‘you’ve no need to worry now.’ He strokes my hair as one would stroke a frightened dog. ‘To take the load off your pretty, little head, why don’t you take a load off our heads?’

‘Huh?’ I say, honestly.

He takes my hand and places it on his cock. I keep my sinking stomach from showing on my face. Smiling, I say, ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

Johnson grabs my shoulder, pushes me down so my knees smart against the floor. ‘If all you want’s the hands, I’ll help myself to the throat.’

Be quick Eugenie.

Tentatively, I kiss Johnson’s cock, as I stroke Thomas’. Johnson forces my head on his cock, while Thomas makes no particular encouragements of me whilst I pump his member. Pride, quickly consumed by disgust, swell in me as I remember that these twin actions were once as troublesome as rubbing my stomach and patting my head, yet now I perform them like a pianist playing two tunes at once. Another good thing about being a mesmerised sex puppet is that I am so used to these degradations that I can no longer feel them as such.

Although, I would still prefer Eugenie hurry up, before I swallow anything.

‘You little cocktease,’ says Johnson, ‘Go on, suck it harder! Suck like I stranded you in the desert with no water!’

Please, Eugenie!

From the loudspeakers, from each corner of the living room, from every turn of the manor’s corridors, comes a glorious noise—Eugenie’s voice. She has found the speaker system.

‘Girls are weak!’ she says in dozens of overlapping exclamations.

Feminine yawns mewl all over. Even those moaning in the height of ecstasy sigh drowsily. Girls once intent on sensuality, curl up to sleep. I feign fainting, and smile when Johnson’s cock slips from my mouth, and Thomas’ from my hand. I crack my eyes open to see Thomas, Johnson, and all the men, utterly bamboozled.

Before the men may wake the girls, the loudspeaker hails:

‘Women, hear no one but women. Obey none but women. Men’s words are gibberish.’

Eugenie’s words surely had effect, for though Johnson yells furious commands at the girls, none stir.

I stand and bellow, ‘Rise, women!’ All do, despite exhaustion. The men tremble, as though caught among mannequins suddenly brought to life. ‘Women! These are men—Monsters! Orgres, trolls, goblins!’ The women shiver. ‘But you are warriors! Beast-slayers! Women—subdue these beasts!’

As if I had struck a match over oil, my words ignite rebellion. The men scream orders, insults, curses, or merely guttural shrieks. As the first female fist flies at the first male eye, I almost yell, ‘Not too rough!’ but then I recall, these men always liked it rough.

Always the gentleman, Thomas raises his hands in surrender, as five petite women circle him. In the girls’ eyes, however, he is an ogre, raising in both hands axes. They lunge at the aggressing beast.

Three women surround Leery. He lashes out at the one in front of him, only for the woman behind him to kick him between the legs. When he crumbles to the floor, the plumpest Valkyrie sits on his back, squeezing out whatever air remained in his lungs.

I can no longer discern the individual skirmishes. The battle is a chaos of naked bodies, where the only details I can determine are the battlers’ sexes. When peopling their orgy five women to one man, these men never suspected they had recruited a resistance movement. I move deeper into the room, as the fighting dies down. Men lay immobile under women or fatigue. I lean against the wall furthest from the door, close my eyes, and sigh. Although naked, I feel like I’m clothed in a general’s uniform.

‘Fucking fantastic!’ comes an unmistakable voice from the door. Eugenie’s eyes swallow up the whole wreckage of the room, her whole victory. Utter silence, spare muffled male grunting. Smiling, she strides towards me, and I stride towards her. Her face sours, and I wonder why, until burly arms wrap around my waist, pulling me off my feet. A bristly chin settles on my shoulder. A face sneers—Johnson!

‘Now, you trollops!’ he yells by my ear. ‘You’ve had a right laugh, but I’m having the last.’

Eugenie seems ready to command the women, but stops. Johnson presses a blade to my throat.

‘Use that mouth for anything but my cock,’ he says, ‘and the world’ll have one fewer meddling whore.’

Eugenie pulls out the pistol she took from Smallwood.

‘Oh, pull the other one!’ Johnson uses his free hand to grip his cock. ‘I’ve got a better chance of hitting you with this, than you’ve got hitting me with that old thing. Be a good little slut and throw that toy away.’

With my eyes, I implore Eugenie to remain strong. My life is worth nothing compared to the freedom of many.

She sets the pistol down.

‘And the sword,’ says Johnson.

She undoes her sword belt and tosses it down. She clenches her fists.

‘In fact,’ says Johnson, ‘I don’t want to risk you hiding anything. Take off your coat.’

Hunched in anger, she resists his order, until the knife nipping my throat makes me yelp. She quickly unbuttons her army coat and drops it to the floor.

‘You may have something in your pockets. Pull down your trousers.’

She obeys, reluctantly, undoing her belt and inching the trousers down her legs, revealing her bare pussy. Just as she was about to kick the trousers away, Johnson say, ‘No, keep them around your ankles. I want you to realise how stupid you look in men’s clothes.’

Eugenie shudders in anger, trousers round her ankles, her only modesty being the shirt she took from Leashem.

‘Now, order these tarts—’ he stops. ‘No. Won’t risk you saying something.’ He looks to me, smiling. ‘She made sure I can’t order them around, but maybe you can undo that. Leashem taught you all his tricks. But then, I don’t trust you to open your mouth neither.’ He licks his lips. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t put words in your mouth.’ He presses his lips to my ear. ‘Girls are weak.’

The trigger does nothing, spare shiver down my skin.

‘Oh, I did think someone had removed it from you,’ he growls. ‘You “woke up” so quick back there. But you’ve heard, “Girls are weak”, so many times it’s more than just a trigger. A little bit of it’s gotten deep in that weak little mind. Girls are weak, girls are weak, girls are weak.’

Each repetition tickles my eyes.

‘Girls are weak.’

Oh, God! my eyes water. My eyes strain. My legs want to turn to jelly. Maybe if I rested my eyes for just a second, batted away the irritation—No! I will never sleep like that again. I keep my eyes wide.

‘Stupid girl. You’re feeling tired. You know why? Cuase girls are weak.’

I cannot deny. ‘So tired…’

‘Sleepy, because girls are weak.’

The words massage my mind. ‘So sleepy…’

‘Was it so bad serving men that you needed to throw a tantrum like this? Empty-headed girls like you need orders, because girls are weak.’

Was it so bad? Serving my husband, devoting my life to my husband, loving my husband. Was it so bad? Was it so… Was it so… bad…

‘So sleepy…’ I drone.

‘Good girl.’

‘So tired…’

‘That’s right, close your eyes, and this fuss’ll be over.’

‘Itchy eyes… watery… heavy… Just a blink.’

‘Yes,’ says Johnson. ‘J-just blink, blink and you can s… sleep.’

‘Just a blink, blink watery, itchy eyes… relax, and blink heavy eyes…’

‘That’s right, relax…’ His grip on his knife loosens. I kick back against his shins. Although my drowsy attack must have been weak, his drowsy grip is weaker, for the knife fell to the ground. The shame of being tricked awakes him. With both arms he wraps around my torso. He threatens to pummel me as if I was his wife. Lacking fatal weapons, however, he cannot repel Eugenie. With her reclaimed rapier, she strides to him until the tip of her blade nicks his Adam’s apple.

He drops me, maybe from fear, maybe from weakness. I take my place beside Eugenie, hugging her side. The tableau’s Romance is marred solely by Eugenie wearing no trousers.

In my home—Ah! I can call truly call it my home now, not ‘my husband’s home’. In my home’s entrance hall I have ten women waiting to be mesmerised. Or rather, de-mesmerised. My prolific work ethic comes to bite me. Three-and-half days into my program, I’ve still dozens of my victims to de-mesmerise. Alas, I cannot cure these women as I infected them—on mass. The infection aimed to make them the same; the cure must return them to their unique selves. Luckily, my work ethic compelled me to make scrupulous notes on all my ‘clients’, take their addresses, and keep abreast of their circumstances in case they required ‘check-ups’. Oh, damn mesmerism to Hell!

‘Would like more tea, m’ladies?’ asks Leashem.

Well, I suppose damned mesmerism may be guiltlessly used on damned bastards. As our divorce strains its way through the courts, I may as well make use of Leashem, just as I make use of all the Men for the Proper Treatment of Women. Those men’s idea of ‘Proper Treatment’ has taken quite a turn, from slave-master to slave. After mesmerising Johnson, he was so repentant he put his entire bank account at my service. I’ve not abused his kindness, unduly. I’ve merely bought a new wardrobe for me and Eugenie, a hired a few servants, rented an office in the City, and, of course, this lovely new house (which, unlike my marriage home, is under my name).

‘Ma’am,’ says Leashem, and I realise my eyes had glazed over as I stared into his face. My fists clench, wanting to pummel this man who defiles my eyes as he defiled my life. I almost do launch a fist, but Eugenie answers:

‘Bring the pot and a few cups,’ she says, leaning back on the couch next to me. Oh, she looks so dashing in men’s clothes! She continues, a bit lower than before, ‘Oh, yeah, and after you get the tea, go out and, um, you know, get the…’

I have only ever heard such mumbled meaning when someone, in public, wishes to make reference to sexual matters—Oh! Is Eugenie wanting us to have some time alone? But we have work still to do, so I slap my flaming cheeks.

‘Lou-lou,’ says Eugenie, concerned at my self-slapping. She asks me what bothered me, but embarrassment stilled my tongue. ‘Well, at least, don’t slap yourself so loud: you wouldn’t want to wake her.’

Omana slouches on the couch opposite us. As the pretty Indian girl snores in her trance, Leashem pours tea for me and Eugenie. I snap my fingers.

‘Omana, one, two, three, wake up!’ When her eyes blink open, I ask, ‘Should women have the vote?’

‘Wha—’ She rubs her eyes and snorts. ‘Mean, yeah, course.’ She yawns without covering her mouth. Her legs spread as far as her dress allows.

How refreshing to see Omana, so docile under mesmerism, return to her laddish ways. Her parents judged her the least saleable twenty-one-year-old on the marriage market, and so gave her to me for a touch up. After a few months at the top of the Exchange, their investment has plummeted in value.

Spotting an empty teacup before her, she snaps her fingers at Leashem. ‘Oy! Boy! Fill it!’

As she gulps scalding tea, I ask, ‘Have you any plans, Omana?’

‘Get a job, probably. On a farm somewhere, maybe.’ She slurps. ‘All day indoors drives me batty.’

‘And if your husband says no,’ asks Eugenie with a grin.

‘Then I says fuck off.’ She laughs, then leaves without out saying thank you or goodbye.

Leashem opens the door for Emily. She curtseys to Leashem and addresses to him all the pleasantries that are owed the master of the house. She is doubly surprised when she realises Leashem is dressed in servant’s livery, and shocked when she sees Eugenie dressed in men’s clothes. She stares at me.

‘Is this one o’ ‘em sex games me ‘usband’s wanting t’ try?’ Emily asks sitting where Omana sat. ‘Whassa one? Cock ‘olding? But then she don’t got no—’

‘Girls are weak,’ I say, forcing her eyes shut. I try to avoid that trigger, but anything to get off that subject, anything to forget that Eugenie is technically cuckolding my technical husband.

From Emily, I remove every trigger, and do my best to undo every attitude adjustment I wrought in her. When done, I snap.

‘Emily, awake! Should women have the vote?’

She rolls her shoulders. ‘Always nice t’ave the choice.’

‘And have you any plans for the future?’

She opens then slams shut her mouth. In the least boisterous voice I have ever heard her use, she says, ‘Plannin’ on stayin’ an ‘ousewife…’

I do not to fill the silence.

‘I kn-know I used t’ be bullishly ‘gainst it. Called ‘ousewives whipped li’l bitches. But, after tryin’ it, it fits me. ‘Sides, m’usband’s not a cunt.’

Irritation swelled in me, as towards an ungrateful daughter. I worked so hard to break her from gaol, and now she willingly puts the shackles back on. Eugenie’s hand on my shoulder stops my outburst. To each her own, I guess, even if one’s own is to be someone else’s.

After we say our goodbyes, I cannot dwell on Emily’s fate. It is noon already, and nine girls await my doctoring. When I finish with the lot of them, my throat burns, and I had drunk so much tea that the smell makes me whimper. I close my eyes, and slide down the sofa, groaning like a steam engine. My eyes only open when I feel two lips press to mine. Eugenie’s face so close to mine replaces my restless tiredness with blissful relaxation. I lay my head on her lap and let my eyes flutter half open, unseeing. Eugenie strokes my hair. I hear footsteps across the living room, and Eugenie and Leashem’s voices, but I let neither rouse me, as I let my eyes-

‘Ah!’ Something cold as ice pressed against my cheek. Wide awake, I say to Eugenie, ‘What—’

Into my open mouth she sticks a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. I do not complain. I sit on her lap and share the bowl with her.

‘Thank you,’ I say, between spoonfuls.

‘Even this is ‘cause of you,’ Eugenie says with a mouthful of vanilla. ‘You know what you told me about the Vainglories?’

I feel phantom smacks on my bottom from when Leashem spanked me for suggesting to Mr Vainglory, of Vainglory’s Ice Harvesting, that he research artificial refrigeration. I was ‘womanishly explaining,’ Leashem told me.

‘See, Vainglory,’ says Eugenie, ‘took your advice and made a box that stays icy even under the sun, and with that box he sells this very ice cream. That’s why you’re my hero, Lou-lou, even under mesmerism you saved me, and then you gave me ice cream.’

The word ‘saved’ distressed me.

‘How many more women to save?’ I ask.

Eugenie’s smile flees in presence of my frown. ‘Around eighty,’ she says, ‘not including those out the country. You were always a hard worker!’ She chuckles half-heartedly before stopping when I sob.

I hug her tight, as she strokes my hair. I crumble like this every so often. She does not bother telling me it was not my fault that I violated all those women in body and mind. She does not tell me, because I know it’s true: I just cannot feel it’s true. Her warmth helps me feel the truth.

When I’m sure my tears have soaked through her shirt down to her breast, I look up at her. ‘Eugenie, will you marry me?’

‘Yes.’ An answer which, no matter the dozens of times I hear it, never ceases to make me happy.

Our marriage cannot be official. But given my marriage to Leashem, neither Eugenie nor I see much sentiment or authority within ‘official’ marriages. We will have a ceremony, as do married couples. We will live together, as do married couples. We will grow old together, as do married couples. We will not merely stew in our own bliss, however. We will resurrect the Sorority for Female Equality and call back those members not too wearied by this whole affair, and recruit new fighters. We shall change minds, not through mesmerism, but through truth—not to enslave, but to free.