The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jafar could not remember whether he had turned her eyes green or Jasmine came that way originally. He could make them any color he pleased, of course, and he had tried a variety of shades and hues. Just now, he enjoyed them as sparkling green almonds, with dark emerald smoldering in the center. They were set like lovely lighted jewels in Jasmine’s face, which was burnt-gold and heart-shaped, framed by the Arab princess’ thick black hair. The sharp tips of her almond eyes each slanted upwards, the tear-shape of Jasmine’s eyes most appropriate to the apprehension simmering in them as she glided smoothly into the room and stood before him now, her eyes darting briefly to the Guest who reclined to Jafar’s right, the only other occupant of the dinner chamber. Jafar eased back on his divan, beaming as he let his gaze rove over her freely. She was an important symbol of his power, or at least her bondage was, and having reduced her to a sex slave, he had removed her as a viable option threatening his imposed regime. The pleasure he had taken with her was not incidental either.

“Good evening, Jasmine,” the mage burred. “I trust you slept well today. I know you were up quite late last night. But of course, that was private—our own little game, played out in my chambers. It’s time we take this little romance public, my dear. Our Guest could use a demonstration of the deep feeling that binds us.”

The Guest grumbled something about “unnecessary,” but Jafar paid no attention. The Guest had grumbled rather a lot lately, which Jafar thought rather unfair, given the fact that he had provided this otherworldly man with a complete alchemical lab, the finest library in the civilized world, and a beautiful doe-eyed concubine upon which he worked sex magick for the Guest’s portion of the Work, the great project to which both were devoted. Jafar had owed this largess to him, after the Guest saved his hide in the clash with Aladdin and the djinn, and did not begrudge it of him even now. But the Guest’s recent turn of attitude was tiresome, especially as Jafar did not understand what had caused it.

Besides, Jafar thought with a smile, he doesn’t seem to protest the display of our little princess slave too much. And this Jafar could understand. His gaze brushed across a pricelessly lovely face and trailed down the short, slender but sweetly curved body with which providence had gifted her. Jasmine wore a pale green vest that hooked together between her breasts, pressing them together tightly. This halter left bare her flat tummy and the sleek curve of her waist, bare to the hips, where a knotted string held tight the upper hem of harem pants, modestly opaque, but of sheer silk whose cling betrayed the slave’s shapely legs tapering down to small bare feet.

Jafar stood and held out an open palm facing the ceiling. “Behold my little treasure,” he said to the Guest, turning then to Jasmine. “Show your tits, girl,” he commanded with deliberate vulgarity.

Jasmine shook slightly, both from fury and with the frustration of knowing that ultimately she was powerless—she was in his magickal grasp, and would obey. She lifted her hands to the clasp and flicked it open, the halter-vest springing back as her sweet breasts bounced once and then settled high. She stood still, staring down at her breast buds, which quivered with her fast shallow breath. Jafar cleared his throat, and she frowned, shrugging the vest from her shoulders so that it fell to her feet, and then she stood still again, face downcast but shoulders obediently back.

It amused him and pleased him to see how desperately she wished to keep her clothes on, how terribly shamed she was to be so much as bare-breasted in front of this stranger. It pleased him, because this showed that his enchantment remained finely tuned, balancing slavish obedience with the continued embarrassment of a proud princess reduced to that bondage. It amused him, because he had once been in virtual bondage to her, the ever patient vizier often taken from matters of state to fetch toys for the coddled palace brat, or cosmetics for the spoiled teenager.

All that had changed when the Guest appeared at the crucial moment of a palace coup gone badly, and provided him the means to overthrow her senile old father, banish the prince-ling pretender Aladdin, and seize the palace as his own. The old ruler had been killed peremptorily, and not by accident or the heat of passion. Jafar saw no sense in tempting fate—or latent loyalists in the palace guard.

But the ruler’s daughter, Princess Badr al-Budur, had been left alive, and this was no accident either, although some heat of passion was in play. He had grown into middle age watching her grow into a shapely young woman. For the twenty years since the birth of this girl, Jafar had long been tormented by twin demons: one, the requirement that he—an educated and powerful minister of the realm—wait hand-and-foot on this spoiled child, and two, the fact that in recent years she had grown into tasty morsel, always at hand but ever untouchable. Until his seizure of power, at which time he had wrapped Badr in powerful enchantments, sealed by binding sex magick on the fine chilled evening a year before, when he had taken the crown in the late afternoon heat, and then took her as his slave that night.

She was twenty now, a pretty little slave at his complete command. She had stripped for him before; indeed she had been naked more than clothed during the past year. And yet, again, just now, stripping before himself and the Guest, she felt that special humiliation he found so sweet. His magick held her well in the balance between obedience and shame. Still, he had to admit this wasn’t completely due to his gift for enchantment. She had served nude in his private chambers during her past year of slavery, but she had never been seen that way by guests. Persons attending the palace had glimpsed nothing more startling than a lovely black-haired houri slipping barefoot over the tiles, dressed with relative modesty for a slave girl. He had never displayed her like this before someone else before. Indeed, there were rumors that Badr al-Budur had escaped him entirely, gone to the hills where the rabble supposed Aladdin to be now.

It was this rumor that had brought the Guest to him in sullen anger. They had argued, Jafar furious with the Guest’s ridiculous failure of nerve. The Guest knew well that he held Badr in thrall, both by enchantment and as his legal slave, named Jasmine, her father’s pet name for her. And yet, the Guest had paced the room, babbling about her, about her father, and about Aladdin.

So Jafar had sent for Jasmine, a short walk for the girl, who had been waiting down the hallway to serve him after the meeting with the Guest. And now he’d had her bare her breasts before a stranger for the first time, a show to the Guest of the truth of her bondage.

“Well, you can see the girl,” Jafar told him, rising to step around Jasmine, and grip her shoulders. “You can see her quite well. And as you can see . . . .” He traced a finger tip around her left nipple, causing the flesh to pucker there. Jasmine’s body responded as under command, but she turned her face slightly, her cheeks gone the color of red wine.

This was part of the spell—that her body respond helplessly to him, her hated enemy, while she felt the disgrace within. “As you can see, she is perfectly in my power.”

Stepping back, Jafar snapped his fingers twice, a signal Jasmine understood from experience and which she obeyed immediately by falling to her knees on the carpet, her arms held behind her, hands gripping her elbows, back straight, a posture that presented her tits for ease of either view or touch. She had lovely breasts, small as befitted her slender frame, yet perfectly proportioned to it, beautifully rounded and firm, the brown of her skin creaming in the aureole around plumb little nipples that burned a dark walnut brown as he tickled them again. Jafar stepped around her and resumed his place on the divan.

“As for her idiot father,” he said, “he is of no concern to anyone save those he may be irritating in paradise.” He glanced over at his princess concubine, his belly warming at the slight tremor she forced from her chin, which she held up, so that her lovely face was presented for his pleasure.

“And Aladdin?”

For a moment, Jafar wondered if the Guest had gone senile. Then he became angry, wondering if the Guest questioned the power of his magick. “But you know! I cast him into the Void—cursed to go to a time and place of great chaos and little humanity.”

“Ah, yes, of course! And where would that be?”

Jafar did not appreciate the mockery in tone. “It could be any number of places,” he said. “Hell being the most likely.”

“He will have made his way beyond the Void.”

“What could be beyond the Void?”

“What, indeed? That doesn’t worry you?”

“Quite frankly, it does not,” Jafar lifted his chin, trying to sound regal.

“It doesn’t occur to you,” the Guest replied, face more dour yet, “that Aladdin’s particular talents, his special skills, might have made him something quite fearsome in a world of anarchy?”

Jafar stroked his beard a moment, then laughed. “Why, let him reign in hell, then! I had nothing against him, personally. It was a good fight. Seemed a very fine lad, Ali did. I begrudge him no good fortune in the outer darkness—provided he never disturbs the peace of this little paradise I’ve made for myself—with your kind assistance, of course, my noble Guest.”

“If he has prospered,” the Guest went on patiently, “then he may have found some assistance himself. He may seek out the Art that dispatched him.” The Guest’s voice grew shrill. “He might make his way back through the Void. Back to here. Back to your throat, and mine.”

“He is no mage.”

“Sometimes I wonder about your own status, there.”

Jafar said nothing, fighting his anger back down first, and then the Guest spoke again.

“The Work goes slowly,” he complained. “On your part, I mean. You devote little time to your practice. Instead, you stay in your chambers, dallying with this concubine.”

“Emphasizing her reduction,” Jafar said, “is necessary to secure the throne to myself.” But he couldn’t look at the Guest as he said this, knowing this had little to do with his fascination for toying with his slave girl Jasmine.

“The Work is necessary,” the Guest snapped. “Necessary for my continued safety in this—place. And for your own safety, I might add. Your throne is hardly secure otherwise, no matter how many times you take this girl.”

“Her father is dead,” he told the Guest, “and she certainly can not rule. Not after her reduction to what she is now.”

The other chuckled, and when he next spoke his voice was warm, seeking reconciliation. “I don’t begrudge you, my friend,” he said. “I understand.” He gestured toward the half-naked slave kneeling before them. “She is a most delicious treat. And certainly tasty for you, I’m sure, given your history with the girl. But I am concerned—deeply concerned—about the danger that we may face a challenge to your supremacy here before the Work stands its shield to protect us.”

Jafar was puzzled. Wasn’t the matter clear? His Guest had proved to be many things, but he had never been dense. Jafar motioned Jasmine to her feet. She rose smoothly, eyes clouded with apprehension. Jafar pointed at her waist, then whipped his finger down toward the floor. She understood. He saw her shake in a single tremor that waved her slender frame from shoulders to ankles; her breasts lovely, quivering, blushed.

She closed her eyes, her hands shaking a moment, but Jafar muttered an angry word that snapped the spell down hard.

Jasmine tugged the string at her left hip so that the knot broke free, then grasped the band of the harem pants at her waist, and her slender arms reached taut as she slid the pants down, stepping carefully out of each leg, then tossing the filmy material into a heap just by her feet.

Irritated further by this graceless gesture, Jafar motioned her forward, away from the pile of material, so that she stood on the carpet quite starkly naked in the room with two richly dressed men.

“Posture,” he chided her primly, and she blushed a deep mahogany, for this was something he had once done when she was a child and he was her father’s vizier. Of course, she was then the richly dressed princess, never shy to heap her scorn on her servant Jafar. He had been constantly obliged to remind the little princess to stand regally straight. More often than not she had stuck her tongue out at him, laughed, knowing quite well he would be angrily criticized for her failings.

His tone was a taunt to remind her of that time, impress upon her the sheer pleasure he felt, eyes roving at will over the beautiful young woman she had become, enjoying each curve, hollow and plane of her body.

He had explored them all at his leisure, his magick lashing his pleasure into each pulse of her heart as his fingers ran over her silken body. As he was fond of reminding her, things had turned out very well indeed—for him.

“Your posture, slave!” he snapped, bringing her back from reverie, and she shifted into the stance she knew he commanded. With complete grace now, she shifted her body, one hand resting on a slightly out-thrust hip, a knee bent here, her waist pulled just-so to emphasize its own curve, her long legs taut. She flushed an even deeper red, considering how she appeared to the man who had served her in her childhood and now mastered her as a woman.

“Behold!” Jafar laughed. “The high and haughty Princess Badr al-Budur. A ripe plum indeed.”

He muttered in his native tongue, waving his fingers lightly at his shoulders, and a subtle shift occurred within the room, the light drawn toward the nude slave girl, pooling around her, highlighting the sweet curves of her slender brown body. Insofar as it centered at all, the light centered on the small triangle of curled black hair at her loins.

She blushed darker yet.

“She still feels shame,” the Guest muttered. “It is apparent.”

“Alas, yes,” Jafar conceded. He allowed a pause for effect before adding, “Yet how prettily it adds to her color!”

But the Guest did not join in his laughter.

Jafar sighed.

The Guest had given him the magick to overwhelm Aladdin and his faithful djinn, and for that Jafar was certainly grateful. The Guest knew what this still-spoiled former princess had not learned in the course of her concubinage, which was that the original darkness within the land had been within her father. Jafar had not seen any reason to share the details of that past with her, preferring that she find the severity of her slavery and the harshness of her punishments to appear just as capricious as his own persecution, punishments and maltreatment by her father had been. The failures of Princess Badr, and the Sultan’s tendency to direct his anger onto Jafar, had led to more than tongue-lashings. The Sultan could not so much as frown at his beloved daughter, but in the privacy of his study, furious at her misbehavior, he would take a crop to Jafar in an eye-blink, Jafar’s pride and skin made to pay for Jasmine’s arrogance and tantrums.

The Guest had appeared to Jafar after the worst—and the last—flagellation. As always, Jafar had understood the Sultan’s underlying anger at Badr. She had just caused a war. Many fine young men would die, soldiers the Sultan could hardly spare, as he was already fighting another war caused by one of her taunting tantrums thrown hard into an earnest suitor-prince’s face. For Badr, of course, this was nothing; she was daddy’s little Jasmine, and he would fix things. But this meant, in fact, that Jafar must fix them, and when he explained the difficulties to the Sultan, recommending that Badr might for once in her life apologize for her contemptuous abuse of others, he was rewarded with a lashing that left him bleeding, his arms badly gashed, as the Sultan stormed out.

And there, in the Sultan’s wake, appeared the Guest. The Guest had brought a fine healing magickal salve for Jafar’s wounds, and answers to his every prayer.

But the creature is so humorless! Jafar thought now, glancing over to see that the Guest was not even looking at the splendid little beauty undraped for his enjoyment. Jafar knew that the Guest was a man like himself, or at least enough so that he made regular use of the concubine Jafar had provided him. Yet now churlishness was his only reaction to the sight of a beautiful girl stripped naked and displayed like a bauble on a string. At times like this, Jafar wondered just when exactly the Guest would leave as long promised. Ah, yes, Jafar thought sourly, when the Work is done.

Meanwhile, perhaps a little demonstration would convince the worryful creature that the slave he had named Jasmine—her late father’s pet nickname for her—was no longer a candidate for royal office. He raised his hand.

“Come, my dear,” he said, voice kindly. “Don’t be afraid.” But she knew better, and her eyes grew more wary with each quiet step she took.

Following his gestures, she took her knees just before him, again holding her arms behind herself, and lowered her head so that her full raven hair fell as a curled curtain around her face and down onto her breasts. He lifted her hair up and carefully placed it over each shoulder, then idly twisted one nipple between his right fingers, grazing the back of the fingers of his left hand against her other breast, enjoying the pleasant plumb curve from the nipple to her chest.

“Do you recall being a princess, Badr?” he asked. A tiny tear caught in the corner of her eye. He reached it, perched it on the tip of his forefinger, and then rubbed this salt water into the aureole of the nipple which he again started plumping and pinching gently. He slid down onto the floor, crossing his legs as if to meditate, but his gaze was fixed on her luscious form.

“You were a very naughty little princess, as I recall,” he said. He pinched her nipple harder. “Ever so spoiled. Yes? Or no?”

“Yes, master,” she whispered.

“You see,” he glanced at the Guest. “She knew along. Took full advantage.” He looked back at Jasmine. “And yet you were never punished. Spoiled badly. Unfit to rule. And so you do not rule. I do.” He pulled on the nipple with a little twist, drawing her toward him, and then grabbed her at the hip and guided her body over so that she lay on his lap, face down, her mid-section over his lap, her arms now stretched out in front of her, palms braced on the floor, her legs likewise stretched behind her.

Her hair had spread like a curtain over her back and reached down with the shape of a flame, ending in a final thick curl that tickled at the base of her backbone. He parted the hair, shifting it in equal halves on either side of her supine form, and enjoyed the sight of her long smooth back, eyes following the gentle sweep of silky brown skin down to her firm round ass. He leaned down, lifting the hair from just around her ear, and whispered, “You see, there is justice, after all.”

He sat up straight again, running his left palm down the beautiful sweep of back and then squeezing her left buttock, working it in a hard massage. Jasmine moaned, shifting slightly, but not daring to move away. At his thigh, he felt her throat constrict as she swallowed, and her chin set hard, getting ready for what was coming. He smiled brightly at the Guest, still giving her ass-cheeks as hard massage.

“No discipline, you see, as a little girl,” he said. “And indulged terribly as an adolescent. Only proper, and completely necessary, my friend, that she receive some drastic correction as an adult. And we manage to provide that, don’t we, my dear?” He flattened his palm at the center of her butt, and ran his eyes slowly from the tip of her curly black head down the pleasant curve of her waist, the tight but well-rounded ass, and on down her shapely legs, stretched taut down to the toes that were already white at their tiny knuckles, braced as they were against the carpet.

“If providence has presented me this chore,” he murmured, “who am I to refuse? And if providence has brought her to this punishment in a form that makes the task pleasurable for me, is the duty any less required of me?”

He struck, his flat palm snapping up and back down at the center of the girl’s bottom-cheeks. She jumped slightly, the muscles along her waist flexing, her breath trapped in lungs held tight, then released in a quick sigh. Her head twisted slightly, lifting her left ear, as if listening for the air to swoosh again, so as to brace herself for the blow. But Jafar had been pleased to become quite adept at this light punishment, concentrated so much more in humiliation than pain. Jafar did not find delivery of pain itself pleasurable, and between his magic and his mastery of her mind, he had not needed it to control her.

He spanked her joyfully but carefully, measuring the swats, never striking that hard, but always hitting firm, and timing the strikes at random, so that she never quite knew when she’d be made to gasp and squirm again. Watching her hips writhe, her tan bottom cheeks jiggling with each swat, he felt himself growing taut beneath the trousers, and shifted his balance slightly so that his erection pulped up against the girl’s belly. Jafar smiled as she groaned at the intrusion of this foreshadow of the rest of her evening duties.

He could see his handprint on her bottom now in several places, at least a rough outline of the palm, each a warm dark burgundy. He paused for a moment, toying with the idea of branding her in the morning, or tattooing her, then he shrugged and went on with the night’s little ritual. He varied his shots so that both cheeks took on the shine of warm red wine, then concentrated on the area just where the buttocks dipped down to join her thighs. He gave her ten, then fifteen hard shots in this same area, until finally she was jumping with each shot, her shoulders shaking, and he felt her sobs by the quake of her rib-cage against his legs.

“There, my dear,” he cooed. “That’s enough. For now.”

He rubbed at her sore buttocks, then reached back to a little bucket he’d kept to his side. His fingers drew out a glob of creamy paste, a salve with a most pleasant aroma, and he began to work this into the tender flesh of Jasmine’s ass and upper thighs. Now the Guest showed interest in the ritual for the first time, his nostrils flaring at the magickal scent of the balm that brought supernatural levels of relief and healing. The mixture was also an aphrodisiac of no small power, against which Jasmine had always proved helpless despite determined resistance. Even now, she sighed from the cooling relief on her ass.

Jafar slid his fingers down the crease between her buttocks, and forced his hand between the thighs she had clenched tightly together. He rubbed the balm against her nether lips gently, the magick drawing forth a sweet and sticky dew despite the tense resistance apparent in her ass-checks. She held tight a breath, then relaxed her thigh muscles, and indeed her entire body, letting herself settle against him limply, her palms coming together, fingers intertwined. The pretty slave knew quite well what was coming, knew she was helpless against the arousal being rubbed into her flesh.

Guided by Jafar’s hand on her hip, she turned onto her back. Now her belly and the small triangle of black curls below was lifted up on his lap, her legs draped down on one side, and her head resting on the carpet on the other. Jafar’s left hand dipped out a creamy dollop of the balm, and with cupped palm rubbed this, then pumped this against her body’s lips, working her slowly, but building the heat inside her. She began to twist her hips deep into his lap, grinding against his stiffness just there, her face flaming at this unwilled wanton act.

“You see?” he smiled. He pulled his hand back suddenly. Instinctively, she lifted her hips, bringing her thighs closed quickly, as if to trap his hand, then gasped in shame at her own action, and turned her face away, staring at the far wall. He reached to her chin and forced her gaze back to meet his.

Jafar stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers, reached back to trail his fingers up her moist slit, then rubbed her juices between his thumb and forefinger, and painted a little tear-drop beneath her eye.

“You can not suppose,” he said to the Guest, ‘that the people will ever accept her as queen? She is only what I have made of her—a luscious little plaything.”

“This is how you use the gift?” the Guest asked him.

“For pleasure, yes,” Jafar said. “My pleasure.”

“You mean a never-ending revenge.”

“Initially, perhaps,” Jafar shrugged. “But if it has escaped your notice, my esteemed Guest, she happens to be a beautiful young woman, and as a woman, she was put on this earth for the pleasure of men, and as my slave girl, she shall most certainly serve that purpose without question.”

“Pleasure?” the Guest scoffed. “You humiliate her.”

“Surely,” Jafar answered, “But that is a matter of righteous revenge. And in the end, she quite often has her pleasure, too.”

“Oh, is really so often?” the Guest scowled. “And even then, it’s all part of the humiliation, that she receive her pleasure only at the command of a sworn enemy.”

Exasperated, Jafar threw his hands up and let them fall back on his knees, looking skyward, from whence came the Guest. “But there is no pleasing this one!”

“And all that the people know,” the Guest went on, “is that their precious Princess Badr al-Budur has been held prisoner by you. They do not know of her reduction in status.”

“For that, I have the Mirror,” Jafar snapped back. “I really have thought this through, my Guest.”

“The Mirror is a toy,” the Guest muttered.

Now Jafar was particularly angry. The Mirror of Memory was a favorite conjuration of his. The Mirror recorded all things that happened in the palace and showed them in its surface at Jafar’s command. No secrets could be held from him.

“The Mirror is an instrument of policy,” he replied to the Guest. “I will invite influential members of the populace here and replay for them the conquest of Badr. I’ll show them Badr, as I’ve shown her to you. And they’ll leave here bearing the word that Badr is no longer royalty—indeed, is no more, for all legal purposes! In her place is only the lovely slave Jasmine, reduced to a bobble, serving as a sex toy. And I shall see to it they have no doubt she is a slave.”

“They do not trust you,” the Guest answered. “And they fear your sorcery. They’ve no wish to be enthralled by your magick. They will not come to the palace.”

“But I will give them my most solemn vow!” Jafar spread his hands widely, then clapped his hands together. “And a promise of entertainment. Something they can not resist.” He chuckled. “You forget, my acquaintance with many of the elders of the city goes back a good while. Many of them felt this little beauty’s scorn. They’ll rush into this palace at so much as the whispered rumor of seeing her as you have.”

The Guest stood abruptly, shaking his robes, then smoothing them down with his palms. “Nonetheless,” he said. “You have difficulties on the horizon. And you will do well to stop toying with this girl, and return your full attention to government.”

“So be it, then,” Jafar said. “As I would never ignore your wise counsel, my lord. But surely this can wait until the morning?”

“Yes, of course,” the Guest replied angrily, striding to the entrance. “I would not dream of interfering with another session of humiliation for the unfortunate Princess Badr.” His last words reverberated in the outer hallway. Jafar listened to his steps grow more faint, then motioned to Jasmine, who lowered her eyes and crawled naked to him as he leaned back on the cushions.

“I will admit,” he says, twirling her hair in his hands, then pulling her face down to his lap. “In the beginning, humiliation was a prize to itself.” He eased back further on the cushions, another hand loosening the flap at which his flesh now bulged, pulling the flap aside. Jasmine’s tongue did its duty and found her master with a long warm swab around the head, causing him to moan. “Now simple pleasure, dear girl, endears you to me.”

The mirror on the far wall showed him the curves of her lovely ass, his own face high above. As her tongue slathered patiently, he whispered a phrase in Sumerian and the glass went pale, then jet black. He muttered a few more words in Sumerian, lashing these together with Akkadian, and the mirror added to the pleasure pooling in his lap. He had pulsed hard, tickled harder still by the flickering tip of her tongue, and now she gloved him with her moist hot mouth. The glass came to life with images from the beginning of his mastery, the nights when he first plunged into the pleasure of owning his long-time nemesis, drawing his revenge from her body with long measured thrusts.