The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Kirsten!” A voice screamed from somewhere close by and, a moment later, she could feel herself being roughly shaken.

Kirsten tried to shrug off the painfully tight grip, stirring groggily while those beautiful, shivering sensations slowly passed into memory. She didn’t want to wake. She was far too tired. But the screaming refused to abate and then, suddenly, recognition flared inside her befuddled mind.

“Devon?” she gasped weakly.

Abruptly the hands slackened their grasp and Kirsten found herself swept into a warm, comforting embrace. She clung weakly to her friend, nestling against the warm presence and breathing her in. Shivering violently, she rested there for a long moment, letting herself be soothed by the rapid stutter of Devon’s pulse.

“What happened?” they asked almost as one, confusion and concern warring for prominence.

Finally feeling strong enough to open her eyes, Kirsten looked around and quickly realised she was still in the grounds of Kenwood House. Dark earth stained her hands, stirring uncomfortable associations with grave dirt, and pain lanced through her shoulder. A look of concern was etched into her friend’s face, and the redhead’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

“How did you find me?” Kirsten whispered.

“You’re not that hard to track,” Devon smiled gently. “And I was worried when you didn’t come home.”

“Did you see her?” she asked urgently, the fear returning as she remembered the girl’s words.

A shadow passed over Devon’s features, sharpening them into feral intensity and sending a tiny tremor through Kirsten. Then it was gone, so suddenly she could almost convince herself that it had merely been her imagination.

“I didn’t see anyone, love,” her friend replied. “And this really isn’t the place for a conversation. Do you think you can walk, or will I need to carry you home?”

Devon was right. However safe the Levys’ estate might seem, it was courting danger to remain here any longer. Kirsten knew they couldn’t seek sanctuary inside the stately home. There was something about the noblewoman she simply didn’t trust. She had felt it, even before unaccountably losing the best part of a day.

“No,” she grinned wryly as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll manage.”

“Then you’d better have this back,” Devon smiled in return, offering Kirsten’s fallen blade, handle first. “I’m not sure when you dropped it, but I’d feel a lot safer if you kept hold of it.”

Kirsten seemed to grow stronger as they neared the Gatehouse. The old wound still throbbed angrily, but it was almost as if that pain helped to clear her head. Devon remained silent throughout the journey, but her eyes flickered restlessly and she didn’t visibly relax until they had entered the auspex chamber.

“Let me get you a tonic,” she sighed once they were safely inside the pub. Her hand rested gently on Kirsten’s aching shoulder, massaging softly, before she continued, “then you can tell me what happened.”

Fear rose up without warning, threatening to choke her. But Devon seemed oblivious. Kirsten concentrated on the calming mantras, taking control of what should have been automatic processes. She didn’t understand this sudden panic, and her only reassurance was that it felt nothing like the sense of danger she had experienced when the girl first appeared.

Her friend busied herself, mixing several reagents, while Kirsten grappled with the irrational terror. She could control her physical symptoms easily enough, but that still left the thoughts swirling angrily through her brain.

“Here,” offered Devon, handing her a small goblet of amber syrup. “This should help.”

She reached out, willing her hand to stop trembling. The sensation of panic spiked immediately and her, suddenly numb, fingers grasped for the tonic, only to have it slip free. Kirsten watched, fascinated, as the goblet shattered. Her hand clenched and familiarity bored into her mind. Images blurred, fine porcelain replacing the earthenware fragments while the amber stains darkened into smoky trails.

The soft voice whispered in the darkness, urging her to forget. It was so tempting, to simply give in and allow herself to drop back into comfortable ignorance. But every time she felt herself beginning to falter, her wound burned just a little more forcefully, snapping her back to the present and dashing away that hopeful amnesia.

“What’s wrong?” Devon asked, but her voice seemed to come from some great distance.

Strong hands cupped Kirsten’s chin, forcing her to stare up into her friend’s face. The room seemed to recede, leaving those beautifully green eyes apparently floating in space. She tried to blink, as tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. But Devon’s gaze held her, almost as though it could physically pin her in place.

“Oh, Kirsten,” Devon sighed gently. “I couldn’t see it before, not when we were outside. But the signs are unmistakable. Someone drugged you, dear. They fed you a really powerful alchemic hypnotic. I know you’ve been told not to remember, just like I know you’re fighting it. And I can help with that, by fighting fire with fire.”

“No!” Kirsten snapped, far more angrily than she intended. “No more potions.”

“But…” Devon began.

“Devon,” she interrupted, desperately trying to soften her tone. “I already know who did this, but I’m just too tired to explore it. Right now, all I want is to do is sleep.”

There was far more at work here than alchemy and hypnosis, but for some reason Kirsten found she didn’t want to discuss that with Devon. The woman who had called herself Thanatos was the key and yet, for the first time she could remember, Kirsten had no one with whom she could share her thoughts. It was a shocking blow, but without understand why, Kirsten realised she no longer trusted her closest friend.

“Alright,” Devon agreed after a moment’s thought. “We can talk about it again in the morning.”

But Kirsten had finally surrendered to the lure of sleep. She didn’t stir, even when Devon lifted, then carried her up the staircase and into her bedroom.

She slept fitfully, her dreams a tangle of confused images and indecipherable symbolism. Kirsten woke to the sound of an angry voice, the sheets damp with sweat and her hair matted. Someone hammered on the door, dragging her free from the last trailing wisps of sleep. Belatedly she recognised Cristo’s husky tones, and she hastily covered herself before calling for him to enter.

The swarthy barman burst into the chamber, his eyes darting left and right. Kirsten couldn’t remember ever seeing him this agitated, and that seemed to have thickened his accent to the point where it became almost impenetrable.

“Slow down,” she pleaded. “Please, Cristo, I can’t understand you.”

With a visible effort he tried do as she asked. The stocky Romani took a deep breath and then let it out slowly in a series of shuddering gasps. She could still feel the anxiety pouring from him in waves, and his body seemed to quiver. It was obvious that he desperately wanted to do something, but had nothing on which to unleash his frustration.

“The mistress,” he managed finally. “She has not returned from her walk.”

Something in his tone suggested this was less ordinary than it sounded. Fighting to keep her voice level, she tried to understand what had happened. Up until now she’d had no doubt that Devon could look after herself, but Cristo’s anxiety was infectious.

“How long has she been out?” Kirsten asked, as calmly as she could.

“Since she put you to bed,” Cristo answered, his voice tight. “That was nearly eight hours ago.”

She couldn’t quite stifle her gasp of surprise, and the barman flinched, his face twisting into a grimace. It was all but impossible to still her growing fears, but Kirsten still clung to the calming rituals, taking what little comfort she could find.

“Where did she go, Cristo?” she breathed, hoping that he knew.

“The Heath,” he replied, glancing away, as his face flushed with shame.

“I thought she was sated,” Kirsten suggested carefully.

“Yes,” the barman nodded vigorously. “I believe she was. But feeding was not her intention. She told me there were questions that needed answering.”

“Levy,” she sighed, as the cold knot of certainty formed in her belly.

Unlike the last time she had made the journey, now Kirsten took her time. She was concerned for Devon’s safety. After all, if her suspicions were correct, Lady Levy had seen fit to drug her and then convinced her to forget whatever had happened as a result. But rushing in without thought would most likely lead to disaster. She would have welcomed the presence of Cristo at her side. But the barman had been ordered to remain at the Gatehouse and that was the only reason he had not already tried to find her himself.

As soon as she began to analyse the situation it became clear that brute force was not the way to proceed. So far she had no evidence that Devon’s disappearance was anything to do with the Levys, and although the mourners were granted a great deal of latitude, that would not shield her from the displeasure of one of the great families.

Instead she decided to be quite brazen and simply walk into the estate, unannounced. She didn’t think Lady Levy would refuse her request for an audience. Kirsten tried not to think about what might have happened the day before. Someone in that house had obviously gotten their claws into her mind, but Kirsten was sure she would be strong enough to rescue her friend. She simply had to be.

The servants paid her no heed as she walked carefully up the driveway. She wasn’t surprised to find the butler already waiting by the time she reached the house itself. Once again she was led through the main entrance, the déjà vu making the experience seem somehow unreal. By the time they reached the sitting room that sense was so strong Kirsten felt as though she was moving through a dream.

She let the mantras run through her mind, focussing on them in preference to the room itself. Ghost images flashed, superimposing themselves in tantalising fragments. Her eyes were draw to a dark stain on the carpet, and Kirsten could feel the lump forming in her throat. A faint tinkling crash seemed to echo in the distance, and then the door swung open.

Lady Levy glided into the room, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. The lump seemed to tighten, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. Phantom fingers seemed to stroke delicately over the angle of her jaw, leaving hot prickles in their wake.

“Hello, Kirsten,” the Lady smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Lady Levy,” Kirsten began, her early confidence rapidly fading now they were face to face. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Nonsense,” she laughed easily. “It’s my pleasure and, as I told you before, please, be a good girl and call me Bridget.”

The same fingers touched her neck and ran smoothly over her skin, sending those delicious hot needles deep into Kirsten’s body. Muscles tensed under their attention then relaxed, leaving a soothing lassitude in their wake. She could feel herself clenching in anticipation, squirming in her seat as the touch reached the base of her spine.

“Bridget,” she sighed, her head spinning. “I’m sorry to bother you. But I am searching for a friend of mine and I wondered if you’d seen her, or knew of her whereabouts?”

Bridget leaned closer, briefly exposing her cleavage and allowing Kirsten a fleeing glimpse of ivory skin. Her breath was warm against Kirsten’s cheek, and subtle spices filled the mourner’s nostrils. Kirsten reluctantly pulled her gaze back to the Lady’s face, and tried not to press herself into the chair.

“Your friend,” Bridget asked very softly. “Does she have a name?”

“Devon,” she answered immediately.

“There’s my good girl,” the Lady smiled and once again those fingers began their slow descent.

She moaned, nails digging into the upholstery as her muscles clenched even more tightly. This time the prickling heat was more intense, burning into her spine and dancing along every nerve. Fire licked over her chest, stirring the sensitive flesh into tense peaks that continued to smoulder.

“Yes,” Bridget continued after a moment. “Devon came to see me last night. Tell me, Kirsten, would you like to see her?”

“Yes,” she gasped, the well-rehearsed mantras suddenly impossible to remember.

“Oh,” the Lady pouted, “That’s the second time you’ve disappointed me today. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and ask nicely?”

The shame lasted only an instant and then it was washed away in a tide of sensation. But that was long enough. The very last thing Kirsten wanted was to disappoint Bridget, and that meant she would have to try even harder from now on. The fingers lingered this time, stirring and stimulating as they scratched. Hips bucking, she ground herself down into the chair, wanting so desperately to hold onto the wonderful heat.

“Please,” she whined.

“That’s much better,” Bridget laughed. Then she rose and beckoned the stricken mourner. “Good girl. Now follow me and I will take you to her.”

The words spun away from her, while she followed obediently behind the tall Lady. She groped for them, feeling the mantras unravel. For so long Kirsten had shielded herself behind the repetitive chants, but now those defences were beginning to crumble.

Their pace was unhurried as they moved deeper into the house. Kirsten railed against the warm torpor that had engulfed her, but it was as if her own body was conspiring against her. Every step ground her thighs together in gloriously tight, wet friction, and those sensations seemed almost impossible to resist.

By the time they reached the stone staircase, Kirsten was whimpering weakly with each footfall. Bridget paused, before turning back and grinning in obvious delight at the mourner’s discomfort. Kirsten’s breath was coming in short gasps, and no matter how hard she tried she just couldn’t force her heart to slow.

“Down there,” the Lady told her, gesturing for Kirsten to take the lead.

Without thinking, she followed Bridget’s outstretched hand, descending the rough-hewn steps into the darkness. It took only moments for her eyes to adapt. But, that was long enough for her to sense the unmistakable presence of death. New mantras flashed into her mind, and she was already reaching for the blade before the Lady’s gentle voice pulled her back.

“No,” Bridget commanded, snapping Kirsten’s attention back to the warmth oozing through her mind. “That won’t be necessary. Now why don’t you be a good girl and give it to me?”

Her hand trembled, as raw need warred with a lifetime of experience. She saw Bridget’s eyes narrow and felt the hot lick of disapproval. But she knew full well what she had sensed, and besides, a mourner never relinquished her blade.

“You can sense them?” the Lady asked quietly, uncertainty adding a discordant note to her lilting voice.

Kirsten’s fingers inched closer to their goal, and her entire body began to shake with the effort. Her eyes were still locked with Bridget’s and the guilt at this disobedience was almost overwhelming. She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

“They are no danger,” Bridget tried to reassure her. “Not to you, or your friend. Of that you have my word.”

Intellectually Kirsten knew exactly how much that word was worth, but the logical part of her brain seemed pitifully weak and all too easy to ignore. Her nails scratched against the blade’s handle, but the hand itself was frozen in place.

“Leave the knife where it is then,” the Lady sighed. “After all, I have nothing to fear from you, Kirsten, do I?”

“No,” Kirsten answered, as her muscles relaxed and the trembling faded.

“Good girl,” Bridget smiled cruelly, and Kirsten could only mewl desperately in response.

A well-hidden door in the house’s wine cellar led into a dungeon. There really was no other word for the small chamber. Dominating the room was a large steel cage, and the only illumination was the sunlight streaming through a high, narrow window set with heavy bars. Kirsten could still feel the animates, (there were definitely more than one), but although they seemed much closer now, she held onto the Lady’s assurance they were in no danger.

That left her free to concentrate on the cage itself, and more importantly its occupant. She recognised Devon immediately. Even though she had glimpsed no more than the shock of red hair. Moving closer, Kirsten could see her friend lying sprawled, facedown amidst the scattered straw. Devon was quite naked, and the mourner found her eyes inexorably drawn back as if she were being invited to explore those perfect curves.

“What,” she managed, stunned by her friend’s lack of response, “have you done to her?”

Bridget’s laughter seemed to tinkle down her spine, sending heated shivers through Kirsten’s body. The mourner’s hands balled into tight fists, and she fought to keep control. Anger was an emotion best avoided, but under the circumstances she was willing to have her judgement clouded if only it helped her beat down the seductive promise of the Lady’s whispered words.

“Your friend is a very dangerous woman,” Bridget explained, the laughter still in her voice. “But I am well protected here, as she discovered. Don’t worry she is merely asleep. I’m afraid we had to tranquillise her when she refused to listen to reason.”

“What do you want?” Kirsten asked sharply, finding new strength in the anger boiling beneath her calm exterior.

“Kill the girl,” the Lady hissed.

Kirsten opened her mouth to protest, but the words died before they reached her tongue. Shadows swirled through her mind, and Bridget’s voice seemed to echo in that blankness while her skin burned. She groaned, unable to resist, as she sunk weakly to her knees. Fingers probed expertly, kneading the muscles and lingering sweetly in the cleft between her buttocks.

For the second time, Kirsten tried to speak, but this time the interruption was far less gentle. Pain slid through her shoulder, skewering the joint and forcing a startled whine from her lax lips. Her arm shuddered, pinned in place by a shard of agony. She opened her eyes, blinking through the tears and, just for an instant, glimpsed the blade of that shimmering sword.

“No!” she moaned, suddenly free from the tender caresses.

The Lady’s face flushed with anger and, for a moment, Kirsten thought she might try to strike her. But instead the anger twisted those beautiful features into something far less wholesome, and Bridget’s laughter was suddenly vindictive.

“One of you will die tonight,” she almost cackled. “Who it will be is entirely up to you.”

Even though the pain was nearly unbearable, Kirsten still tried to rise. Bridget just ignored her feeble efforts, and moved to the cage door. She unlocked it, using one of a large ring of keys, which dangled from a hook on the wall.

“Kirsten,” she said, opening the door and ushering the mourner inside. “Be a good girl now and lie down next to Devon.”

This time Kirsten didn’t even try to resist. She wanted to go to her friend, had wanted that since she first laid eyes on her. The pain seemed to recede a little, allowing the deft fingers to renew their sensuous massage. Kirsten tried not to think about it, but even when she looked away, the image of Devon’s nakedness seemed to fill her mind.

The cage door slammed shut with a heavy clang, and Bridget practically leered through the thick metal bars. Kirsten lay back, propped up on her shoulders. One hand already rested against Devon’s neck, the original task of finding a pulse soon forgotten as she found herself stroking that surprisingly smooth skin. But her eyes were locked with the Lady’s and her anger was building again.

“I’ll leave you two for now,” Bridget explained. “I don’t want to lose either of you, Kirsten. That would be a terrible waste. But neither of us has very much time. Soon night will fall, and we both know what will happen then. Just scream when you’re ready to submit, I’ll be waiting. Oh, and Kirsten, don’t leave it too long, okay?”

Her pain ebbed away once Lady Levy left the chamber, but the erotic ruminations were harder to banish. Kirsten tried to empty her mind, letting her heart still once more as her breathing slowed. Nagging irritations fought for her attention, but she clung to the calming chants and the habits borne of numberless graveside vigils.

Devon didn’t stir for several hours and, by the time she was lucid enough to speak, the shadows had lengthened leaving the room in near total darkness. Her friend was still groggy, and seemed unconcerned by her nudity. Kirsten, for her part, had almost immediately lost her grip on the calming exercises and was unable to even glance at Devon without blushing.

Kirsten’s mind was racing, trying desperately to find a way out of the situation that didn’t involve sacrificing anyone. But the Lady’s prediction seemed accurate and, with Devon as her hostage, it was clear Kirsten would not be allowed to renege on any promise. In some ways the choice was easy. She would never allow anything to happen to her friend, and killing animates was what she did for a living.

The problem was the girl didn’t feel like an animate at all, and perhaps more importantly Kirsten couldn’t shake the feeling that Thanatos had intentionally spared her when she was entirely helpless and apparently at the girl’s mercy.

Worse still, the mourner somehow knew that killing Thanatos would have consequences she could scarce imagine. After all, if the girl had been speaking literally, what would happen if someone had the temerity to kill Death?

It was only when the moon began to fill the small chamber with leprous shadows that her friend became alert enough to recognise what was happening.

“Kirsten,” she said, “You have to get out of here.”

“I know,” Kirsten agreed. “But I can’t do what she asks.”

“You have to,” Devon pressed urgently, “Kirsten… please.”

She brushed her friend’s cheek, and Devon reached up to hold that tender touch in place. Tears glistened in her eyes and, for the first time since she had entered the cage, Kirsten felt no sense of shame or embarrassment at the other woman’s proximity.

“We’ll get through this,” Kirsten smiled, relishing the soft contact. “I promise.”

“You don’t understand,” Devon hissed. “I’m… hungry.”

Quite suddenly, Devon pushed her away. Kirsten tumbled across the cell floor, crashing heavily into the bars. Her friend rose, and Kirsten felt the breath catch in her throat. Devon was stunning and, despite everything that was happening, Kirsten couldn’t help but admire her toned physique. Devon tried to say something more, the entreaty clear on her face. But her voice was torn into a low breathy growl.

“Devon,” Kirsten whispered, and the change took her friend.

Devon bent forward, as her body convulsed, placing both palms flat on the stone floor. Then, she stretched, lifting her head and thrusting her hips backwards. The wet sound of shifting gristle filled the small room, as joints popped and stretched.

The beautiful auburn faded, as the colour washed out into shades of grey. Fur poured out over naked flesh, shivering in the moonlight and newly budded claws scratched restlessly against the flagstones. The growl deepened an octave, but now the sense of it was unmistakable.

“Run,” Devon snarled, and only the cage kept Kirsten from obeying.

Kirsten knew her friend was a Thrope, and that very strangeness had been part of the bond they shared. But she had never seen Devon shift, and had always kept her distance on the nights she had to feed. To experience this first hand was terrifying and yet, it was also strangely wonderful.

Her friend’s face stretched, mouth gaping to accommodate the bristling fangs. More fur washed over that muzzle, but still couldn’t hide Devon’s familiar features. Legs trembling, Devon thrust her backside upward, and her spine flowed into the length of a wildly thrashing tail.

The huge wolf padded closer. Saliva spilled from slavering jaws, while the pink tongue lolled. Devon’s eyes flashed green, and her hackles rose in instinctual response. Another growl rumbled deep inside her chest, and her breath was hot against Kirsten’s skin. Kirsten stared into her friend’s face, and wondered if she would scream.