The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Her pulse had slowed to a gentle crawl; just enough to keep her mind alert and focussed. Apparently ignoring the darkness, Kirsten gazed levelly at her charge. She took a breath for the first time in minutes, and let the comfortable weight of her blade balance the faint stirrings of anxiety. Even without checking her ornate pocket watch Kirsten knew it had been almost three days since she entered the crypt. Just a few more minutes and she could finally be certain that Lord Levy was well and truly dead.

Kirsten tried not to count the last seconds. She knew what could happen if a mourner let down their guard before the three-hour deadline, and did not care to share that fate. The Lord didn’t feel like an animate, but then not all of her senses were equally reliable. She was aware of her growing tension. Despite all her training the young woman found herself suddenly on edge and restless. Only when her watch softly chimed the end of that final hour did she risk another breath, and then let her heart pound once more.

The blade thudded heavily against her thigh. She took a moment to tighten the webbing, before withdrawing her hand and smoothing shut the slits in her skirt. Kirsten adjusted her frockcoat and then rose effortlessly to her feet. She stretched, feeling the reassuring clicks as her spine snapped easily back into place. Then, very carefully, she wrapped the heavy veil over her mouth and nose. Finally, after bowing respectfully to the Lord’s corpse, the woman slipped soundless from the crypt and out into the thick London fog.

High, stone walls surrounded the necropolis, topped with razor wire and patrolled by gasmasked soldiers. Unlike their fellows guarding the rookeries and slums, they weren’t there to protect the masses from the restless dead. The wealthy could afford the services of people like Kirsten to do that for them, with discretion and subtly. Instead, the soldiers’ role was to discourage grave robbers or even resurrection men from disturbing the recently departed.

Most of the guards knew her by sight. There were few enough mourners in the city and she certainly cut a memorable figure. The heavy metal shutters creaked open as she approached, and she acknowledged the sergeant’s cheery wave with a nod. Still gripped by the same sense of unease, Kirsten moved hurriedly, anxious to leave the cemetery grounds. Just as soon as she stepped out onto the street the shutters slammed back down with a crash.

It was late, and the majority of the city was already safely tucked up in their beds. Highgate wasn’t somewhere anyone but the truly reckless would visit after dark. Its reputation was enough to discourage even the most desperate. Kirsten peered through the gloom, noting how the old battered lampposts shed only enough light to illuminate the surrounding smog. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the soft howl of the Tesla grid, but otherwise the night was eerily silent.

She very badly needed a drink, and then perhaps something to eat. Her stomach lurched uneasily, as the first traces of foul air began to find their way through her veil. Kirsten lengthened her stride, suddenly eager to reach the high street. Flickers of unease continued to stir at the limits of her perception and unconsciously she loosened her skirt. The sense of danger grew more acute with every step, and by the time she reached the Gatehouse, Kirsten could barely turn the heavy metal handle, her hands were trembling so badly.

The outer door opened into a small chamber, into which, Kirsten practically fell when it finally snapped open. She stood still, trying to ignore the soft, tingling touch crawling over her body, while reminding herself to breathe. The pub’s auspex was old but apparently still reliable and, after barely a minute, the inner door cycled and she was admitted into the pub’s smoke-filled interior. Only after she crossed the threshold did the hunted sensation at last disappear and by then her shaking had finally settled.

There was still something out there, something that had managed to sense her presence. And that wasn’t supposed to be possible. She was a half-life; one of the few who had actually survived the infection. Without thought, Kirsten’s fingers stroked over her collarbone. She could feel the rough scar tissue beneath the expensive silk, and it brought back the cold shock of the attack. The young woman shivered, snatching her hand away quickly.

Ignoring the cheap doxies who prowled restlessly between the pub’s deeper shadows, Kirsten glanced around the room. Unsure what she was looking for, her gaze almost instantly found the auburn-haired owner. Devon was flirting outrageously with a group of gentlemen, and their ribald laughter periodically cut through the background hubbub. Irritation prickled, but she forced it down almost immediately.

She’d seen this dance played out all too often, and yet somehow they still remained together. Devon had needs, she knew. And it wasn’t just the vow to remain chaste that kept Kirsten from meeting them. She looked away. No longer able to watch as one of the men was singled out for special attention. Salt and hot copper scalded her lips, and with an effort she managed to force her jaw to unclench. The tip of her tongue found where a tooth had nicked the lip, and her stomach protested even more loudly.

Angrily, she signalled the bartender. But, even before she caught his eye, her platter had already arrived and she winced inwardly at the thought of being quite so predictable. Pouring herself a generous measure of brandy, she poked distractedly at the dark, heavy bread and suspiciously fragrant cheese. Her stomach growled a warning, and when the fiery liquor did nothing to still its complaints, she began to pick reluctantly at the travesty of a ploughman’s lunch.

Kirsten pulled the heavy curtains wide, letting the pallid light of morning spill into her bedchamber. The sky was stained dark, and the weak sunlight barely made an impression. Tall chimneys dotted the cityscape, spewing their foul corruption. But the oppressive wrongness of the night had finally departed and, to Kirsten at least, London seemed suddenly beautiful.

“Morning,” Devon greeted cheerfully, walking into the room without bothering to knock.

With an exaggerated sigh Kirsten turned from the window and stared into her friend’s shining eyes. The older woman was flushed, and it wasn’t just the mourner’s imagination that made her seem lush and somehow ripe. Someone had enjoyed a productive night it seemed, and it was an effort for Kirsten to chase away the jealousy and disappointment.

“You look well,” she ventured carefully. “Should I be worried?”

“Never,” her friend grinned, stepping closer and letting the door swing shut behind her. “Everything’s been taken care of.”

That grin was just too infectious and, though she shook her head in consternation, Kirsten couldn’t quite keep the answering smile from twisting her lips. Devon was playing with fire, and yet, what other choice did she have?

“Would you like that?” Devon wondered her voice a whisper and, abruptly, Kirsten was horribly aware of just how close they were. “To be taken care of?”

She tried to step back, only to find her spine pressed hard against the window. No one else could affect her like this, although many had tried. Devon smiled, showing her teeth and Kirsten could feel her pulse hammering. She swallowed hard before she spoke, not quite trusting her voice.

“Devon,” she hissed, but there was far more concern than anger in the word.

“I know,” her friend pouted, “You mustn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Kirsten whispered, holding the other woman’s gaze for a long moment.

“I want you,” Devon breathed, and for an instant their bodies were pressed together.

One long finger stroked softly against Kirsten’s half-open mouth and the woman hushed her to silence. Kirsten fought the urge to suckle, and instead let the calming exercises fill her mind. Devon’s smile broadened, and the digit slipped lower, pressing gently between Kirsten’s suddenly dry lips.

“But I can’t have you,” the older woman sighed. “It’s alright, Kirsten. I am already sated, and you have nothing to fear from me.”

“I do not fear you,” Kirsten said, as the probing finger withdrew.

“Liar,” Devon laughed easily and then swept from the room.

The group of gentlemen from the night before were still milling in confused circles by the time she finally returned to the taproom. Kirsten recognised their clumsy gait and slurred speech as more than simple intoxication. But the barman seemed oblivious as he calmly reminded them exactly what had happened.

“You’re taking an awful risk,” she suggested, sliding onto the hard wood bench. “These ones have money and, more importantly, the will to use it.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” Devon smiled, before shifting her position slightly and letting their bodies brush together for one long, shivering moment. “They won’t remember anything Cristo doesn’t want them to and, by the time they notice their party is one short, they will have forgotten their visit here completely.”

Kirsten flinched away from her friends knowing gaze and found herself staring down at the meal laid out before her. A meal only Cristo could have prepared. Suspicion begin to itch somewhere deep in her belly. But, when she glanced up into her friend’s face, she was relieved to find just how easy it was to push those stray thoughts aside.

“And he deserved it?” she asked softly, the question almost a plea.

“Yes, love,” her friend assured her. “We both keep to our promises, maddening though that is.”

By then the party were laughing amiably with the heavily tattooed barman, all their earlier confusion forgotten. Another round of drinks sloshed merrily between them, drowning the remnants of their mistrust. Kirsten stirred her thick porridge carefully, but her eyes never left the scene playing out before her.

Their eyes were shiny, minds open and compliant, but she couldn’t quite shift the feeling that she had recently gazed into eyes just like that. Memories rippled uncomfortably, like the water’s impossibly smooth surface. Fractures spread outwards, masking the underlying image and adding only uncertainty.

It took her several moments to recognise that Devon had been speaking. The other woman appeared concerned, and her expression suggested she was waiting for some kind of response. Kirsten shook her head gently, trying to escape the relentless tug of déjà vu.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “What were you saying?”

“Are you sickening for something?” Devon asked, her voice filled with concern. “I can prepare a tonic if you need one.”

“No,” she replied, far too sharply. “Thank you, that’s not necessary.”

“Alright,” her friend placated, holding up her hands in resignation. “I just want you to be at your very best when you meet with Lady Levy. When is your appointment, by the way? Aren’t you cutting things a little fine?”

For a moment she simply sat there stunned. Then Kirsten’s hand snaked inside her coat and withdrew the pocket watch. She blanched slightly, glancing up from the simple dial and into her friend’s wicked grin. Scrabbling madly, she pushed herself up from the bench and sped towards the door.

“Good luck,” Devon laughter followed her into the auspex chamber, chasing away the last vestiges of her ruminations.

It wasn’t seemly for a young lady to run through the fog-blanketed streets, but then arriving late for an appointment would have been a far greater faux pas. Kirsten set off slowly, gradually lengthening her easy stride until she found the perfect rhythm. Her boots pounded the rough pavement, and she let instinct manage her balance while she peered ahead into the gloom.

Her rapid progress elicited more than a few startled cries, but the offended voices were soon lost in the swirling darkness. The Levys lived on the northern edge of the Heath. But, despite her tardiness, Kirsten wasn’t nearly desperate enough to take the most direct route. Instead she skirted the stagnant ponds and dense copses of twisted trees. She was not dressed for such exercise, but she wasn’t about to let a small detail like that slow her down.

Kenwood House was a sprawling stately home, whose wings extended outwards from the central Ionic portico. Its whitewashed walls were tarnished, but not nearly as extensively as Kirsten had expected. She assumed that servants were employed to keep the place looking pristine and found herself wondering at the extravagance such a display suggested.

She slowed to a demure stroll as she entered the grounds. Her pulse decelerated again, and she allowed her breathing to still. It was an effort to refrain from checking her watch, but she needed to appear calm and in control. The Lady’s servants would have already noted her hasty approach, but what occurred outside the estate would be a matter of supreme indifference to them.

The butler met Kirsten at the door, and made an immediate impression by inviting her to use the main entrance. Mourners were all recruited from the social elite, though occasionally an overzealous servant might forget that fact. The cadaverously thin servant didn’t even offer to take her coat; instead he led her into a small sitting room and offered to bring some tea while she waited.

She was enjoying the exotic spice of the Lapsang souchong when Lady Levy finally arrived. Kirsten rose to her feet swiftly, acknowledging the elegant woman’s presence with a formal bow. The Lady was not at all as Kirsten had expected. For, while her husband has looked every inch the octogenarian, his wife was a firm-figured girl who didn’t appear a day over twenty.

Kirsten knew that the wealthy had access to anti-agapics, near-perfect variants of the true-elixir that could slow or even reverse the aging process. But the cost of such treatments, both monetary and in terms of side effects, were far too steep for most to indulge.

“Miss Chapel,” the Lady greeted her coolly, “I trust they were no … complications.”

The beautiful woman’s face twisted as she sought the least distasteful euphemism. Kirsten bit back her reply, her professionalism arguing for politeness despite the desire to lash out. Having your dead husband rise again, consumed with an undeniable hunger for human flesh, was an inconvenience, no more, no less. Just so long as there were people like Kirsten, waiting to decapitate the newly awakened animate before they could cause any damage.

“No, Lady Levy,” she replied, straining to keep her voice under control. “No complications.”

“Good,” her hostess smiled, and it lit up her face with obvious relief. “And please, call me Bridget. I can’t stand formality.”

“Thank you,” Kirsten answered, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She couldn’t quite understand this abrupt change in the other woman’s manner, but it was unsettling.

Bridget sat opposite her, and indicated with the smallest nod that Kirsten should pour another cup of the dark, smoky tea. Kirsten marvelled at the other woman’s grace, recognising how Bridget’s poise rivalled her own. Her senses gave no indication that the woman was anything but mundane, but then she already knew Lady Levy had been dosed with at least one alchemical reagent.

“You’re a fascinating woman, Kirsten,” Bridget said after a moment. “Which is why I wanted us to have this talk.”

“I don’t understand,” Kirsten admitted, feeling suddenly trapped for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom.

“No,” the other woman smiled, “I don’t imagine you do.”

The fine porcelain rattled in her hands, magnifying the tremors into a tinkling chorus. The tea seemed to thicken before her eyes, ripples freezing into a static map of sunken troughs and rounded peaks. Kirsten watched the cup drop away, slipping through fingers numbed by more than the simple chill. The pottery shards scattered, mimicking the fractures she had sensed before. Kirsten could somehow sense reality fading and, as nothingness rose up to engulf her, there seem no way to hold on.

“You’ve felt it,” the maddeningly calm voice whispered, “haven’t you?”

Her mind was empty, and the words simply echoed in that cavernous vault. Soft sensations rippled in the darkness, phantom touches on someone else’s burning skin. But the caresses shied away from her attention, fading as she searched for something solid enough to cling on to.

“The darkness,” the voice continued, snapping her focus back to the resounding words. “The fear. It is drawn to you, just as it is drawn to me. Two of a kind, girl.”

Fingers ran smoothly over sensitive flesh, stirring memories of forbidden pleasures. For a moment her thoughts seemed on the brink of hardening into something useful. But the sensations were just too insistent, and even that feeble resistance seemed to suck away what little was left of her resolve.

“You’re going to do something for me,” they urged and hot breath stung her neck. “Don’t worry, I know you won’t let me down.”

She felt herself smiling, feeling the pride surge at the compliment. The certainty pounded at her, reverberating in the background as she trembled beneath those practiced hands. Ever touch seemed to hint of other, darker promises and even the faint sense of wrongness wasn’t enough to jerk her out of this strangely placid dream.

“Find it,” the command sunk hungrily into her open mind. “Kill it. Then you will have your reward.”

Every muscle tensed, and just for an instant Kirsten could feel the truth of that offer. Then, it was gone, snatched cruelly away and leaving her feeling even more hollow than before. Faint memories of that perfect bliss ricocheted through the emptiness, sparking tiny echoes, which made her shudder in response. A deeper darkness reached up to smother her, while the voice coaxed her back into the shadows.

“Sleep now,” it whispered, “and forget.”

Night had fallen, and the strangely jaundiced moon cast the only light. Gibbous and swollen, it emerged only fitfully, finding the chinks in the night’s dark shadows. Kirsten stared about her, trying to remember how she had gotten here. She groped for those lost memories, finding only emptiness and the echo of yesterday’s events.

Without warning, fear stroked the nape of Kirsten’s neck, and the sense of horror clutched at her.

Her eyes swept rapidly across the grounds, searching for threats. She was already night-adapted, but the thick coils of fog made it almost impossible to pick out any details. Her hand had already moved to the concealed blade, before she recognised the taste of that fear. Then, a small figure emerged from the darkness, wreathed in smoke but still clearly visible.

Terror washed over her, threatening to turn her innards into water, and the girl smiled at Kirsten’s obvious distress. Infinitely old eyes stared back at her from the young woman’s face, and immediately forced Kirsten to rethink. This was no child, despite her appearance, and the long thin sword she wore, which, even sheathed, seemed to split the very air around it, was no ordinary weapon.

“Who are you?” Kirsten demanded, startled by how calm her voice sounded.

An all too familiar fear pressed down on her, its intensity crushing the remaining air from her lungs. The woman made no attempt to move closer, seemingly content to simply watch and wait. Kirsten really didn’t know what she was, although she clearly wasn’t a simple animate. But that knowledge proved cold comfort as the sense of imminent danger continued to pound at her.

“Don’t you know me?” the woman asked, her voice a hollow wind.

Recognition floated somewhere in the middle distance, tantalisingly close and yet well beyond her reach. The sword whispered from its sheath, the bare blade dancing with an opalescent sheen. Tension gripped Kirsten, jolting her close to full-blown panic. Her legs buckled; the muscles suddenly unable to support her weight.

She dropped to her knees, losing her grip on the weapon in the process. Kneeling on the wet grass, she fought to lever her body up against the weight of building terror. She could manage no more than a strangled gasp as the pressure increased, and the approaching darkness sought to overwhelm her. The strange woman loomed even closer. Kirsten could see that she was barefoot and, in the feeble moonlight, the girl’s every step marked the pristine lawn with another dark stain.

It took almost all her remaining strength for Kirsten to raise her chin and stare up into the deceptively innocent face. A sad smile marred the girl’s otherwise beautiful features, and something seemed to tighten around the kneeling woman’s innards, squeezing until she could only gasp. Fear mingled with something far sweeter, and her own voice was distant as she moaned her question.

“Who?”

“I am Thanatos,” the woman breathed, and the words echoed within Kirsten’s mind. “I am Death, and for far too long I have been denied.”

Neck muscles screaming, her chin dropped back onto her chest. Those wonderfully fluid coils wrapped her in warm silk, and then, just as she began to melt, they stretched so taut she could only howl. Kirsten’s fingers dug into the soft soil, as her hands clenched in reflexive spasm.

Somehow she could feel the sword as it was thrust towards her. She tried to scream, but lacked the strength to even make a sound. Then, the shining blade pierced her shoulder and there was only pain. Raw horror took hold of her mind and dragged down it into the waiting abyss.