The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A Midsummer Night’s Dalliance

Classification: mc mf hu

Tagline: Shakespeare’s most magical romance is performed at Midsummer in England’s most magical place, and supernatural forces are unleashed. But in a nice way.

Glastonbury in Somerset is a magical spot, where the legends of old England retain their ancient power. King Arthur is buried here, under Glastonbury Tor: an eerie conical hill, jutting up from the misty Somerset levels. The ancient Celts called it Ynys Witrin, or the Isle of Glass, because it was a gateway to the underworld, enclosing a fabulous glass palace. The Celtic god Gwyn ap Nudd led the Wild Hunt that burst from the side of the Tor and roared through the countryside, while the poor peasants hid under their beds. Joseph of Aramathea, the tin trader, sailed here from the Holy Land with his young nephew Jesus the carpenter’s son, and decades later Joseph returned and hid the Holy Grail at the base of the Tor in Chalice Well, which sometimes runs red with the blood from the Grail.

And around the 21st of June, the most magical day of the year, a hundred fifty thousand revellers gather for the Glastonbury Music Festival. Many come only to hear the bands, but among them are hundreds of latter-day Druids, followers of wicca, shamen, astrologers, Tarot readers, mystics, healers, crystal vendors, and spiritualists of all sorts. Most of these are amateurs, without skill. But among them is one group of true magicians for whom the British are famous; whose talent is to summon up and be possessed by creatures and persons composed of pure imagination; and to impel their audience, for a little while, to see and hear people who never existed. Their craft is ancient and sacred. They are called actors.

Displaying her “Performer” pass, Melia Rebatini strode from her tent, past the gates and bouncers, to the actors’ area behind the enormous Theatre Tent. From the Pyramid Stage, half a mile away, she could hear Annie Lennox singing

There must be an Angel
Playing with my heart

Melia entered the caravan that served as a Green Room and changed into her costume for the dress rehearsal. Melia was annoyed. She was one of the leads in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, performed by The Cambridge Shakespeare Players, a “semi-professional” spin-off of Cambridge Footlights. Melia herself was the only real semi-professional in the troupe. She had had walk-on parts (as “Melia Reeves”) in a couple of big films, including Forget Carter and Harry Potter and the Spitoon of Doom. Melia wasn’t a prima donna – she thought it was unprofessional to insist on any special treatment – but she did wish the other members of the troupe took acting more seriously. They let personal issues affect their performance. The Director was having it off with Theseus, Egeus kept complaining that he should have been given a bigger role, and Bottom and Quince were upstaging each other because they both wanted to get it on with Melia. Melia just wanted to perform well.

The Director entered the trailer. “Hi, Melia. Auspicious day. We’re actually performing the Bard’s best comedy on Midsummer’s Eve.”

“Hi,” said Melia. Poof, she thought. Theseus entered. “Afternoon,” said Melia. Bumboy, she thought. Egeus entered. “Hello,” said Melia. Stuck-up prig, she thought. Bottom entered, and winked suggestively at her. “Hi,” said Melia. Reptile, she thought. Quince entered and glanced shyly at her. Melia said nothing. Not on your best day, she thought.

All dressed, Melia left the trailer for the blue-and-orange-striped Theatre Tent. At the entrance stood a “Festival Safety Officer”, posted to keep out the public during the rehearsal. He had an orange nylon vest, a pleasant, intelligent face, very short blonde hair, and arms like tree limbs. “Afterrnoon,” he said in a thick Somerset accent. “Oi hope yer reherrsl goes olroit. Oi’ll be watching. Never seen Shakespearr.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” Melia said kindly. She thought Yuck. Provincial peasant. Ignorant yokel. Hick. She walked on in.

In a bosky dell Oberon, king of the fairies, reclined on a couch of moss, and sipped nectar from a goblet woven of rowan leaves and cobweb. Picture him as taller than a tall man, dark as a Celt, handsome, with piercing black eyes. At his side lay his queen Titania, the golden-eyed and russet-haired. “My Lord Oberon, have you noticed?” she said, “In the adjacent world, the abode of mortals, there is a great gathering of revellers. Multitudes are met here, in this vale, to celebrate the Midsummer. At this time the membrane between our worlds is thin, and we can slip through. Shall we amuse ourselves and have some sport with them?”

“I have been observing them. Their music is not to my taste – they treat sheer volume as a virtue – and their mages are feeble. But there is one group of magicians that interests me. They conduct rituals in which they take on the appearance and speech of others – humans, animals, and gods – and are possessed by them. They call this ‘theatre’”.

“And do they summon up Faerie folk as well? Would they dare?”

“Even so, my queen. There is a troupe who have erected a pavilion on this spot. They enact a ritual – I have seen it before, I think—in which actors are possessed by the spirits of yourself, me, King Theseus, and star-crossed lovers. Look…”

The rehearsal began. King Theseus of Athens commands the girl Hermia to marry his chosen man Demetrius, who loves her. But Hermia loves Lysander, and the pair elope into the forest. They are followed by Demetrius, and by Helena (Hermia’s best friend, played by Melia) who is in love with Demetrius.

”I think my memory is playing tricks, my Lord Oberon. It is wonderful how the magicians have conjured up these spirits, but I don’t recall that King Theseus ever wore a zoot suit. At least, not when I knew him.” She smiled at the memory of her dalliance with Theseus, three thousand years earlier. “Oh look, my lord, what a tangle these lovers are in. Puck – though he doesn’t look like our Puck – is about to put a potion of love-in-idleness on Lysander’s eyes, so that he will fall in love with Helena.”

”I’m not sure I follow this.”

”It’s very simple, my lord. Try to keep up. Helena loves Demetrius who loves Hermia who loves Lysander who loves Helena. Hopeless all around!” Titania laughed.

”There’s not a hope that any love-match will be consummated. A pity. I would have liked to see that.”

”You old goat! But I think I should lend a hand. Helena shall fall in love with Lysander. Of course Theseus is an old friend of mine, and I do hate to see his will being thwarted, but these forced marriages are never as fun as true love. I’m sure I can arrange it. I’ll give Helena the potion, and she will fall in love with the next man she sees, which will be Lysander. I have some love-in-idleness growing right here. And it has other stimulating side effects as well, which should please you.”

”Wait, Titania. I’m not sure you understand how this ritual works. These spirits are the magicians as well…”

”Lovers are lovers, no matter what their guise. Just watch, my love, I think you shall enjoy this.”

The players were rehearsing Act II Scene 2, where Lysander and Hermia are sleeping in the forest. Melia, as Helena, stood just offstage and watched. Puck approached – Melia wished Puck wouldn’t stomp so, it wasn’t fairylike – and pretended to smear the potion on Lysander’s eyelids. At that moment Melia felt a strange sensation – a faint caress on her own eyelids, as soft as a butterfly’s kiss. There was a scent of flowers. She looked about, and the first person she saw, across the theatre tent, was that over-muscled security guard standing in a doorway, watching them. She considered him for a moment. A sensation of warmth and ease came over her. He was clearly enjoying the play. It was really quite admirable, she thought, that an uneducated fellow wanted to improve himself by attending Shakespeare. It showed a positive outlook. Perhaps she had misjudged him earlier. And his broad chest and narrow waist were really quite nice features, for a boy of his type. She approved of his sturdy carriage and upright posture. He was doing her the courtesy of watching her act; she would reciprocate by giving him a quality performance.

A few minutes later it was her cue.

Melia always did her best work when playing to an audience. For the rest of the hour, she played to an audience of one. She used all her skill to project her voice and her actions to the figure at the back of the tent. Her soliloquies were directed at him alone. There was some saucy business, and she played it for all it was worth, turning and prancing to show off her lithe body. At one point Helena pleads with the disdainful Demetrius to keep her at his side, just as he keeps his dog:

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me, only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you…
Will you not use me as you use your dog?

Melia played the speech for bawdy laughs. She bent over with her rump to Demetrius, panting with her tongue out, waggling her hips. The double entendre was obvious. At “strike me”, she spanked herself on the bum, and yipped with excitement. The guard laughed out loud at this, and Melia was gratified.

”My spell doesn’t seem to be working, Oberon my love. Helena should be in love with Lysander now, but she still wants Demetrius.”

”I think your spell has miscarried, my dear. And not for the first time. Let’s watch; I think that some other amusement may come of this.”

After the rehearsal, Melia hurried to the dressing room to remove her stage makeup and comb out her chestnut hair. Rather than change back into camping clothes, she retained the tight striped cocktail dress that was her costume. She knew it showed her slender figure, hard round bosom, and long legs to good advantage. The guard was by the pavilion door, looking out at the passing crowd. Melia wondered how much working-out he must do, to get his shoulders so huge. “Hi,” she said. “I hope you enjoyed our play. Do you have to stay here for the rest of the day?”

“Nar,” he said with a charming smile. He looked quite handsome and boyish. She put his age at about 25, five years older than herself. “If yoou’re finished reharrsing, Oi’m done. Until this ayvening.”

Melia chatted with him, looking for an opening. She felt so drawn to him. What an incredibly attractive man. His name was Jim. He worked as a forester. She mentioned how hard it was living in a tent, and how she missed having hot showers.

“Not a problem fur me. Oi live foive minutes awai. Oi sleep at home every noight.”

“Oh! You’re lucky.” Melia raised her arms to push back her hair. She knew this did nice things to her figure, but Jim was too polite to glance down. His eyes were fixed on hers. Only a flicker in his smile revealed his amusement at her flirtation. She said, “Um… I wonder… is there any chance I could take a shower at your house? I’m sorry, it’s very forward of me, but I’m afraid I’ll forget what being clean feels like.”

Jim was a perfect gentleman on the drive to his place. Melia could hardly keep her eyes off his body. His shorts showed off his massively muscular thighs. She glanced at his crotch and found herself wondering whether his cock was equally… No! She tried not to think about that. (But she did anyway.)

She stole glances at his broad back and tight bum as he showed her around his modest house. She thought, This wonderful man and I are alone in his home. Anything could happen.

Jim said, “Here’s the bathroom, and there are plenty of towels. Help yerself. Shampoo is in the shower. Oi’ll make some coffee for after.”

The shower was hot and luxurious. Melia felt the grunge of the festival dissolve from her skin. As she stepped out of the shower, she felt fresh, relaxed and glowing. She wrapped herself in a big soft towel, and tied her dark hair up in another. Then she opened the door and called, “Jim? Jim? Could you please do something for me?”

He appeared, wearing clean clothes and carrying a mug of hot coffee. “Sure. What?”

“I was wondering – would you please dry my back for me?” She turned away from him, and let the towel slip a little down her back.

Jim didn’t move for a moment. He cleared his throat. “Um… you want me to droy yer back?”

“Uh-huh. It’s so hard to reach. Please?” She let the towel droop so that her spine was uncovered.

Jim set down the coffee, picked up a hand towel and began to gently wipe her neck, and then her back. She sighed, “Ah, that’s nice.” He reached the base of her spine. “Don’t stop,” she murmured, and lowered the towel further, exposing part of her sweetly rounded bottom. She could tell from his breathing that he was excited. He caressed her buttocks with the hand towel. She closed her eyes. She could feel her nipples stiffening. “My legs? Please?” Still facing away from him, she pulled the towel around to leave the back of her body exposed, and crossed her arms across her pert breasts. Slowly and carefully he wiped her legs; first down the backs and sides, then across her feet. “… Not dry yet…” she sighed. He seized her hips and turned her to face him as he kneeled before her. She still held the bath towel over her front, down to her knees.

He wiped upwards, lingeringly, up her ankles, shins and knees. When he reached her inner thighs she said “oh!” with surprised pleasure and steadied herself against the doorframe. She felt a tightening between her legs. He gave a tug on the bath towel and she let it slide to the floor. She was entirely exposed to him. She looked down at him, lips slightly parted, her pupils dilated with arousal. He stared with unabashed pleasure at her peaky breasts, slender waist and neatly trimmed pubis. Then he leaned forward.

The cup of coffee cooled, and grew cold.

”Well, Titania, that was an amusing ritual, well performed, was it not?” said Oberon, reclining on a verdant bank, where the wild thyme grew. The brook shimmered. The afternoon sun was nearing the distant sea. Butterflies and honeybees were making last journeys to the thyme and primroses. “The lovers have consummated their match, and provided us with a… stimulating spectacle. Are you pleased with your work?”

”Not half as pleased as I think you are, my lord. Oh, I am happy for the lovers – but poor Lysander and Demetrius are now bereft. And Helena is a noblewoman of Athens – it is not appropriate for her to wed this rude mechanical. This is not what I had intended.”

”There is time to undo it. The ritual is performed again this evening. Perhaps you know the antidote?”

The evening performance was a triumph. Every one of the nine hundred seats was occupied. Melia, euphoric from the afternoon’s lovemaking, was on top form. She was the star of the show. Curiously, at the moment when Puck enchanted Lysander, Melia once again felt a delicate touch on her eyelids. There was a faint odour of soured milk. She looked across the packed tent to see if Jim was there, but the doorway was empty. Not surprising, she thought. Seeing a play twice in one day is too much to expect from a fellow like that. Uneducated. Provincial. And that haircut! Alright for an impromptu fling—and my God he was good in bed—I came three times! But… not really suitable for a boyfriend.

After the happy wedding of the four lovers, and the applause, and the cheers, and the bows, and the curtain calls, and the high spirits in the dressing room, the troupe was ready to go out and tour the festival. Melia briefly considered inviting Jim to join them; but he wouldn’t really fit in. And she didn’t want the others to know that she had been shagging… a security guard. The pack swept out of the theatre, with Melia in the middle. Jim was waiting there. Melia gave him an apologetic shrug as they passed him. He smiled wryly and waved.

Bumpkin. Oik, Melia thought. From somewhere, she again heard Annie Lennox singing

It’s a multitude of angels
Playing with my heart

”Well, my Lord Oberon, we have knit up the ravelled sleeve of unrequited love,” said Titania. They lay in the soft grass under a great English oak. The effulgent full moon clothed the dell in shades of silver and jet. “The lovers’ revels are ended, leaving not a wrack behind. The rite of love is done.”

”Is it, my Lady? For the mortals, perhaps. But this is Midsummer’s Eve, and it lacks only an hour to midnight. You and I have not yet consecrated this most magical night. We should be ashamed if humans were more diligent in the worship of Aphrodite than the Faerie folk.” Oberon snapped his fingers. A mist drifted over the moon, and the dell grew dark. Titania smiled, her golden eyes glowing, as Oberon bent to kiss his lover.