The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Again with the marketplace. Sigh.

You can tell a lot about a city by its marketplace. A great center of trade will have thronging crowds, the smells of exotic spices, snatches of strange music, and everywhere carts and tables piled high with the goods of distant lands. A city of miners and smiths will have the clanging of hammers on anvils, the sizzle of hot metal, grim warriors and battle-hardened adventurers stalking from smith to smith seeking the finest in weapons and armor. A city of learning and magic will have books and scrolls, floating shops accessible only to wizards, traveling libraries, and robed scholars quietly debating the latest findings.

This city had an old lady who smelled of cabbage selling cabbages that smelled of old lady, a combination butcher-tanner-cobbler selling shoes made from the skins of unidentifiable animals and stew made of their flesh, possibly also containing yesterday’s unsold shoes, and a goat. The goat was standing next to a rug covered in scraps of cloth, which may have belonged to the goat’s owner. Or the goat may have actually been a very hairy, hungry cloth merchant itself, I never asked.

The market went on like this around three sides of the central square of the town. The fourth side was the town’s only inn, where we had spent the night. Unfortunately, so had everyone else it seemed—I barely got a (straw-filled, scratchy, bug-infested) bed to myself, and Iason had to sleep on the floor with twenty merchants and the aforementioned goat.

Hey, I’m a lady. It’s hardly my fault the inn had only one bed available. We all know, if there’s only one bed, who gets it.

Iason yawned, then said, “Somehow I don’t think any of these people have the book.”

“I’m pretty sure if they did, they’d try to eat it,” I said. “No, I don’t want a cabbage, thank you.” That last was to the old woman, who kept shoving different cabbages in my face, then grinning proudly as if they were her grandchildren.

“So this is the legendary marketplace of Mercia,” I said, shaking my head.

“Finest in the Tin Islands,” Iason answered. “As far as that goes.”

“Do I detect a hint of snark?” I asked. “I’m a bad influence on you.”

Iason grinned. “The absolute worst. Well, we’ve only checked the south end so far. Why don’t you check the west side of the square and I’ll check the north?”

I shrugged. Obviously, as the only one of us with magical senses, I’d eventually have to check both sides, but it was possible Iason would spot something before then. “Anything that gets us out of here and on to the next dunghill,” I answered.

I walked over to the west side. There was a slight tingle of magic from over here, but it was typical primitive hedge stuff. Amulets to keep away fairies, bottled minor curses, and the like.

The merchant standing by the cart gave me an oily grin. He looked typical Tin Islander—blonde, large, with big watery eyes and a broad stupid face—but there was a hint of animal cunning about him as well. “I can tell just by looking at you that you are a discerning student of the magical arts,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

Gee, what gave it away, the silver tracery on the inside of my cape that formed runes of protection? The amethyst set in my class ring carved with a rune of force projection? My classic Lemurian good looks? “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“No, no,” he said. “It’s true. You have the look about you.” He gestured at the junk he had on display. “Not for you, these baubles and cheap tricks.”

Well, you got that much right, bub.

“For you, my dear, I shall show you the prizes of my collection.” He reached under the cart and drew out a small box, about a foot on a side.

Three things about the box struck me. First was that it was oak, banded in iron—about as effective a barrier against magic as mere matter can achieve. Second was that it must have cost a fortune—only Lemurians know the secret of forging iron, and it is illegal to bring worked iron through a Gate. Oh, a few outsiders can work starbolt iron crudely—that’s where Iason got his nasty little sword, undoubtedly—but none can work earthly iron, and that means iron is rare and expensive.

Third thing was that it was leaking just a little trickle of magic—meaning whatever was inside it was powerful. Book powerful, maybe even.

Careful to keep my expression neutral, I said, “I might as well take a look.”

He shook his head. “Not here. Not in public. There might be thieves about, you know?”

Or Librarians come to claim stolen property on behalf of its rightful owners. But yeah, he did have a point.

“If you are truly interested, we can discuss the merchandise in yonder tavern over ale.” He smiled smarmily, or possibly smarmed smilingly. “Would that be to milady’s liking?”

I gritted my teeth and faked a smile at the creep. “Sure,” I said.

A few minutes later, we sat at a table (more of a sawed-off log, really) in the shadowy corner of a tavern, frothy wooden mugs of piss lurking by our shoulders, splinters from the rough bench working their way through the seats of our pants. Or mine, at least. Hragulf (he introduced himself as Hragulf, and I refrained from pointing out that his name sounds like a cat hocking a hairball) smiled at me, oily and crooked-toothed.

“So,” I said politely. “The merchandise?” By politely, I mean that I showed my impatience in words and tone and facial expression, rather than, say, burning his face off.

With an air of greasy drama, Hragulf again produced the box, and slowly opened the lid. A wave of magical resonance flooded out, and I leaned forward slightly to try to see what powerful book or artifact lay inside.

With a flourish, Hragulf withdrew the item and laid it on the table, then looked at me with expectant pride.

“It’s a rock,” I said.

It was. Small, gray, flat, rounded on one side and irregular on the other, like a once-perfect skipping stone broken in half. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it had a spell of immense power and complexity laid on it, but it was completely dormant.

“Hang on,” he said. “Check this out.” He turned the stone so that the irregular side faced me.

I flinched back instinctively, preparing a defensive spell to fling up at a moment’s notice. It was unlikely the rock was a weapon—if Hragulf turned it on me, given how much power it was packing, it would vaporize me and everything I had on me, so no sale and no corpse to loot—but Hragulf was a local. I couldn’t trust him to understand magic or be capable of basic rational thought beyond “The cow goes moo.”

The spell began to take form, and I partially relaxed. It was a very complex illusion, with enough power to run basically forever and be visible to anyone on the right side of the stone, but purely visual. As long as I kept my magic senses up, I would easily be able to tell which images were real and which weren’t.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. “I acquired it in Kymri two years ago. Quite the find, eh?”

Acquired meaning stole, almost certainly. The spell built a complex, abstract pattern in the air above the stone, quite pretty but apparently meaningless and purposelss. Whoever built the spell had to be immensely powerful and skilled; why waste their time making a toy?

Hragulf babbled on, but I ignored him. Two possibilities; either there was something else to the spell, or some mortal artist was owed a favor by a god or demon and wasted it on this bauble. Or got tricked into wasting it on this bauble.

Alternatively, it looked broken; could it be a piece of a spell designed to do something else?

I studied the spell, letting my eyes wander idly over the swirling patterns of color and light while my magical senses roamed over the spell itself. It appeared complete, and completely harmless and pointless. It just made swirly lights according to complex rules that appeared to be utterly arbitrary. What moron made this thing, anyway?

A moron with a gift for art, I had to admit. The swirling colors were very pretty and oddly soothing, like sunlight through the leaves or reflecting off the tiny waves in a small pond, but with many more colors than either, uncountably many colors.

I gave my head a slight shake and tried to focus on the spell. Maybe the rock was supposed to be broken—some kind of messaging spell, but to send images instead of words. These patterns were just the spell displaying random nonsense because nobody was sending anything on the other end. But no, there would be a thread of magic trailing off in the direction of the other half, and this spell was completely contained in the space above the rock.

Ooh. Or maybe it was a magic detector? A spell this complex might be very sensitive to shifts in the local magical fields, maybe the seemingly meaningless patterns were actually showing vibrations from magic too small or far away to sense normally! That would be an incredible tool for finding books!

I studied the patterns again, trying to see if I could make sense of them. Hragulf was muttering something about how fascinating they were; well, he was right about that. I tried to follow individual details—that blue curve as it meandered across the air, this yellow spark as it danced lazily—but that just made me dizzy. Still, I was starting to feel like there was a meaning hovering just out of reach, if only I could find it. Finding the secret was important, even if I couldn’t quite recall why at the moment.

Maybe looking at details was the wrong way. I settled back slightly on the bench, relaxing as best I could, and tried to take in the whole pattern at once. It was very soothing, but so complex, and it filled my entire vision. It was hard to think with the colors everywhere, and then they seemed to slow their swirling dance. My thoughts slowed with them.

Hragulf still wouldn’t shut up, talking about how hard it was to think and look at the lights at the same time. I murmured agreement, and when he volunteered to think for me so that I could focus completely on the lights, I agreed.

He said some other stuff, but I was too busy watching the colors to pay attention to what he was saying. After a while, I’m not sure how long, he put away the stone. I sighed in soft protest at the removal of the colors, and refocused on Hragulf’s ugly mug.

Oh. Fuck. Not again.

I sighed. “This is the part where you turn me into your love-sick sex slave and then pump me for information, isn’t it?” I asked. My voice was a heavy, fuzzy murmur, like I was still asleep, and I was. I struggled to think, figure out a way out, but it was like thinking through syrup.

He blinked. “Is that... is that what you expect to happen? I’ve just been robbing people and making them forget I exist!”

“...oh,” I said vaguely. I reached for the bag of gold on my belt, vaguely aware that probably wasn’t a good idea, but unable to remember why.

He grinned. That wasn’t good, because of... something. “Follow me,” he said.

I knew there was a very good reason not to, but I couldn’t quite think of what. By the time I managed to work that much out, we were already outside the tavern, and entering a tent in the alley out back, apparently his home. Savory guy.

He pulled out the stone again, and I sighed blissfully as the colors swirled before me. I sat on the ground and relaxed completely, letting my concerns fall away. Hragulf asked me some questions, and I answered them, but that wasn’t important or worth thinking about. Then he told me some true things, but I was too busy watching the lights to pay much attention to what they were.

Some time later, I came suddenly and sharply awake. I sat on the ground, and Hragulf stood before me, grinning.

Impossibly gorgeous, worshipful, masterful Hragulf.

“Aw, hell,” I said. “What did I tell you to do?”

Hragulf kept grinning like a kid with a new toy made of infinite candy. “You tell me.”

Automatically, I responded, “I am your obedient submissive slavegirl, master.” Emotion swelled in me, submission and lust and devotion. “I desire you with every fiber of my being and love to obey you. I cannot act against you or your interests, and I cannot reveal our relationship or what you have done to me to anyone else.”

“There you go,” Hragulf said.

I tried not to pant in need, and said, “Clever toy you have there. No magical attack on the mind, so no magical defense works. The illusion just makes lights that, what, trigger a weakness in the human mind?”

“Hell if I know,” he answered. He unlaced his pants and dropped them. “Suck me off, slave.”

I got up on hands and knees and rushed over to him. As I took his hard, warty member in my mouth, I shuddered with pleasure and the feeling of rightness at being on my knees, serviving my master.

Hragulf groaned as I swirled my tongue around his cock. “Pull back!” he gasped out, and I did, just in time for him to spray all over my face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, “it’s been so godsdamn long... I want to fuck you just like that, slave, with cum all over your face. Strip!”

I tore my clothes off, overwhelmed with how good it felt to obey, and then lay back on the ground, master’s cum slowly dripping down my cheeks toward my ears and off my chin onto my chest. I needed him in me, then and there, and my body showed it: my face and chest flushed, my nipples hard as tiny diamonds, my snatch glistening with moisture.

“Please, master,” I begged, “fuck your little slavegirl.”

He was already hard again, and I noticed with some satisfaction that his dick twitched visibly at my words. He threw himself on me with a growl and plunged into me, and I moaned. I wrapped my legs around his hips and clutched his shoulders as he began to thrust. I cried and murmured and urged him on, while he thrust fast and deep and hard, and the pleasure of obedience, of being fucked body and mind, filled me.

“Cum,” he ordered, and I shrieked, clutching him desperately as pleasure raced through me. A moment later he spasmed, and his cum flowed into me.

I sighed and remained tangled loosely around him until, after a few moments, he stood up.

“How does it feel to have your master’s cum in you and on you, slave?” he asked

“So good, master,” I said. “Please, fuck me again soon. Use me however you want.”

He grinned again. “Gods,” he said. “I was thinking too small. With this stone, i can have any woman I want. Not just woman, women. Not just mousy little things, but tall, curvy women with great tits!”

I loved my master, obeyed him, submitted to his will, lived entirely for his pleasure. But still: Asshole.

“Get dressed,” he said, and I hastened to comply, still thrilling at the feeling of submitting.

As I finished fastening my cloak, he drew the stone out again. “I’m going to use this to put you under again, give you some isntructions. You are going to repeat them over and over again, and with every repetition they will become more true. Once they are completely, unchangeably true, a part of your essential being, you are going to have the best orgasm of your life. Then you will go to the tavern and stay there quietly for one hour. After that, you can return to whatever you were doing before we met. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” I said sadly, realizing I would not get to serve him anymore any time soon. I sat, and he drew the stone.

I sank happily into it. At least I still had the colors, for a little while. He said things, and I chanted them back. Then again. And again. And again. As I did, I realized my thinking was clearer this time. I gradually realized what I was saying, adn felt it becoming slowly truer. I was closer and closer to awake, but at the same time, the words I was saying were getting truer and truer.

It was a race. I struggled to wake, to stop chanting, before the things I was saying became completely true. As I did, though, I noticed something else: I was getting horny. More than horny; every time I repeated the words, it felt like an extremely talented tongue on my clit, in my pussy.

I was getting more and more awake, but still couldn’t quite stop saying the words. It felt so good to repeat them... look, you try making sane decisions while phantom cunt-lickers with millennia of experience go to work on you, and then you can criticize, all right?

I was getting closer and closer. Needed to fight, but had to cum. Had to fight, to cum, one or the other, gods oh gods yes...

I came.

I spent my hour in the tavern brooding in a corner while laughing idiots drank. Hragulf let me remember everything, including the new rules he’d given me. I wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not. I’d probably be a lot happier if I’d forgotten, but since I did remember, maybe I could fight the rules.

Except I couldn’t see any way to fight the rules. I wasn’t allowed to see any way to fight the rules, that was part of the rules.

Gods, the rules.

I wasn’t his slave any more. I didn’t have to obey, I didn’t especially enjoy obeying, I didn’t want to fuck him. As far as that went, I was free.

But I couldn’t tell anyone what he did to me, couldn’t tell anyone about the rules. I couldn’t seek any way to change the rules he’d laid on me or escape them, and I couldn’t act against him or his interests.

And one last rule. Insurance, he said, in case we ever met again: I couldn’t resist any attempt to enchant me or control my mind.

Fucker.

My hour was up. I stood and walked out of the tavern. Gods, was this a whole town of laughing idiots?

I found Iason still wandering the marketplace. He looked at me with concern as I approached. “Uh, Lemma?” he asked. “What’s that crusty yellow stuff on your face?”