The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Don’t run off just yet,” Lucia had told her as they filed back inside from the balcony. Angela—no longer Queen Angela—was more than a little surprised that being told that actually mattered to her. She lingered in the royal bedchamber, a room she still considered her own but which, she supposed, technically now belonged to the man who she had surrendered the crown to.

She wasn’t sure yet that such a decision would hold. Many of her court were not going to be happy about this, and she still harboured hopes that they would push back.

Still she stood where she had been stopped, knees weak, swaying slightly. Lucia had disappeared into the royal dressing room, from which Angela could hear her trilling a song. The former queen winced; her sergeant at arms—no; not her sergeant, not any longer—had never been taught to sing, or at least, not to sing as anything but the chorus to a bawdy soldier’s song. There was none of the training that she herself had in how to make her voice pleasing.

That didn’t seem to be stopping Lucia now. Strange, that a brush with death (as Angela imagined) had rendered her so much more closely intimate with her feminine side. There was something going on, she thought, beyond just the power of Xan’s baton.

She’d never doubt that power again, of course; all the same, it was pure pleasure. It might change what someone was willing to do, but would it change who they were? She rather assumed not.

So what had changed Lucia so much?

Lucia was floating in the clouds, or so it felt to her. So much pleasure, blended with satisfaction. Her Queen, her betrayer, the woman who had shaped her to be a better tool and used her as one—it was bliss to know she was downfallen.

…wasn’t it?

Something about her life in the moment felt… off. Wrong. There was something out of place.

There had been a fad, a generation or two before, in which great painters would conceal a skull in their paintings, added in such a way that it was only clearly visible when you stood at a specific angle to it. A joke, perhaps, at the expense of someone briefly famous among the artistic community, or a somewhat macabre demonstration of skills; Lucia had no idea which.

She felt in that moment like an art patron of the era might have when, after having their latest acquisition hung where it would be shown off to its best effect, they later catch sight of the painting from just the right spot while pottering about their room.

Something about all of this felt wrong, felt unsightly almost, felt uncomfortable. It was distressing.

She wanted to talk to Xan about it. Talking to him would clear it all up, wouldn’t it?

She reached out into one of the many wardrobes full of Angela’s royal garments, running her fingers through fur, and the sheer sensuality of it all thrilled through her.

She was singing as she lifted it from the closet, singing as she shrugged it on. But all along, her mind was still whirling with one concern after another.

Prince Xan had remained out on the balcony a little longer, speaking to those who were now, by her decree, his subjects. Angela knew there would be consternation in the city from some; that others would simply keep their heads down and hope either that nothing changed or that any changes to come would benefit them.

This was the way it always was when the crown changed heads, and the unusual nature of this one wouldn’t change that; it would just amplify reactions. She still had hopes that this would solve her problems; that members of her council would show up (this part would surely happen) and that they would push for her reinstatement, for the obvious interloper to be overruled.

Once he walked back in, the Prince did not seem particularly interested in making conversation with her; instead he walked over to Enna, his other captive, and started to talk to her instead. Angela wanted to fume, but her body remembered so much pleasure, so much bliss, that her rage could not fully form.

It was going to be, she thought, a frustrating time until this was resolved.

“How do you expect to get away with this?” she finally asked, after a while of quiet contemplation.

Xan’s expression as he looked up suggested that he’d entirely forgotten that Angela was in the room, and it was a slap in the face for a moment, but it was also too studied, too rehearsed, for her to believe it for more than a moment.

“I already have,” he said simply. “Your capital is spreading the news to itself as we speak; and as soon as I entered this Palace, my men rode back outward, telling every roadside inn they passed. There will be commotion, but to most of the inhabitants of this kingdom, I am already king. And that, I think, will be telling.”

He turned back to Enna, saying something else in low tones, and Angela saw her former handmaiden nod and smile, before drifting into the dressing room where Lucia had gone.

Prince Xan walked over toward Angela.

“Did you think I’d do this without a plan?” he asked quietly. “No, there was plenty of planning before any of this happened. And most of it wasn’t even mine.” He almost seemed to look at her with sympathy as he said, “You trained someone to hate you so much that they’d turn against everything they thought mattered to them.”

“Lucia?”

“At the least,” he answered. “But young Enna there doesn’t seem to be too loyal to you, either. True, both of them have recently been encouraged to think well of me.” He was smiling, but the softness in his eyes kept that from hurting. “But so have you. And by the sound of things, you still stand defiant.”

Her knees were so weak the only reason she stood at all was because she’d been told not to run off, but she kept herself from confessing that—against a first, mad urge from the part of her brain that expected doing anything he said to be rewarded with pleasure.

“I… I…”

Prince Xan—King Xan smiled, cupping her cheek in one hand, and he leaned in and kissed her. Her lips answered his without enthusiasm, but without resistance, and internally she felt the pleasure of his baton rearing its head again. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Now take off that dress, my little soldier girl’s handmaid is fetching her seamstress.”

Angela had been taught to recognise when someone was subtly choosing their words to make their allegiance known or to offer something politically.

That training wasn’t needed here; Xan wasn’t reminding her of her changed place in the hierarchy, he’d just already started to think of himself as the ruler here; there was no uncertainty, no doubt. If Angela still hoped her Council would help reinstate her, Xan certainly didn’t fear it.

She didn’t want to take off that dress, or at least, she didn’t think she wanted to take off her dress. Her fingers had twitched; her hands had actually started to move, but she had stopped them. It had been more effort than she would have imagined, had been a genuine struggle, and she found herself hoping he wouldn’t tell her again (even though it would be the simple and obvious thing for him to do) as she doubted she had the strength for it.

By the time she re-entered the bedroom, Lucia was wearing nothing but the huge fur coat Queen Angela had always reserved for the every-three-years-at-most diplomatic trips to the north of her empire, where the weather was so much colder and even windier than in the capital.

Occasionally, when accompanying the former Queen as her guard, Lucia had felt a little jealous of the coat purely for the warmth and weatherproofing she had imagined it would offer. Quite how good it could feel against bare skin would have been beyond her imagining.

She looked at herself in the mirror before she stepped back out, frowning thoughtfully. She was, mostly, happy with what she’d discovered, but the betrayal she’d carried out hurt now that it was done, wasn’t just something she was planning.

Walking back into the bedroom and seeing a crestfallen Angela, it hurt even more. She bit her lip, looked across to Prince Xan, and smiled.

To Angela’s surprise, it was neither the chamberlain nor her chancellor who led the delegation to confront Xan; it was the castellan, the man responsible for the security of the castle.

She itched to ask him exactly how he’d failed her in allowing Xan in, but her will was bound up almost entirely in not taking her dress off as she’d been asked to.

At least there were other members of her council backing him up; not as many as she’d hoped—and certainly someone who wasn’t in this delegation would not be wise to expect to be reinstated—but, she hoped, enough. There were only two of Xan and Lucia; there was only so much they could do and -

- and -

Lucia was wearing Angela’s furs, and it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing anything else. Angela’s jaw dropped in shock and outrage.

“This has gone on long enough, I think,” the castellan said. “Prince Xan. My apologies that I was not here to greet you correctly and by the rule of etiquette as you arrived.” His voice held all of the sharpness and fury that could not be detected in his words. “All the same, I must tell you that we suspect foul play in the recent announcement. I have sent for the Royal Guard.

“I tell you this as a courtesy; I think we would both rather that you have politely removed yourself before they have to remove you.”

Angela’s heart lifted from hearing this. The Guard had all but left her thoughts over all this, and she now realised that this was only because of Lucia’s betrayal; the rest of the organisation was safe and well, and had no reason to be on Lucia’s side.

Of course there was a threat Prince Xan would have to respect. And after something like this, she might even be able to avoid war with Marisal once he was dealt with; his father would be angry but the shame of the story would keep him in line.

She was, accordingly, not happy that Xan just laughed in response.

“The Royal Guard?” he asked. “Come, then. Let’s you and I go stand on the balcony and watch for their approach, shall we?”

And so saying, he simply walked to the balcony. Puzzled and cautious, Angela looked to Lucia, who looked equally unsure; the two womens’ eyes met and without words, both of them started walking toward the balcony in a mix of curiosity and caution.

Putting it bluntly, Saturnina felt troubled. Lucia’s return had been a surprise—a welcome one, but a surprise—and she didn’t like to be surprised. Her primary duty was as a sentry after what had been a very busy three decades or so for His Majesty followed by Her Majesty, and over that time surprises had become the root cause of the worst days she had.

No wonder, then, that she wasn’t entirely happy to see someone return from the dead.

All the same, as she stood and watched, she realised that she was not exactly clenching her jaw; it felt like it, because her lower jaw felt tight, but there was a gap between her upper and lower teeth. Probing with her tongue, she found to her puzzlement that she could almost taste steel there, not even cold but steel which had rested there so long it had reached the same temperature as her tongue and her lips.

She stood watching the road, and yet there was a moment where she felt something tugging at her. She turned to face the Palace for a moment before returning to her watch with a dim feeling that something was wrong.

Her tongue experimentally probed her mouth again, and she found the strange metallic taste almost welcoming.

Nominal head of the Royal Guard was Rino, who had joined the Guard as a foundling shortly after Queen Angela’s father had ascended to the throne, and who had not retired because there was no provision for the Royal Guard to retire. His arms, though, were not what they had been, over an accumulation of age and battle wounds that meant that raising a sword in combat was, if not beyond him, certainly not something he could do and expect to be successful.

He was hardly the first to become an institution in the barracks, overseeing and administrating. It seemed extremely unlikely that he would be the last unless something happened to the Empire itself.

He was wondering why it was he could taste steel.

He knew the flavour, for reasons he had not gone into with anyone he knew to be still living; there was, however, a gigolo in the bustling market city of Cupher, across the sea from Erethnis, who had a variety of metal toys he had worn or wielded, and who could certainly tell many tales about Rino’s familiarity—but who Rino would hope would not, if only for old times’ sake.

And yet there was a firm metal rod in his mouth, he would have sworn, if only that he knew none had been placed there.

He was staring at one of the walls, which had it not been there would have shown him his Queen’s palace, but as he often looked that way for inspiration he made no special note of this.

Standing atop the balcony, they watched the area of the city where the Guard’s barracks lay, and they waited.

In due course the Guard resident in the barracks began to file out, walking curiously, high-stepping forwards with almost mechanical precision. With every step they took, their knees rose level with their waists, their feet pointed so that their toes were directed straight down at those times. They moved as a single unit, marching evenly spaced with perfectly regulated cadence, without anyone beating time to keep them in place.

Having emerged out of the barracks in three long, thin lines, these lines marched in place for a few moments while their formation tightened up. Still raising their thighs high, they each turned on the spot, going from a narrow formation to the wide block formation of a military unit, and faced the Palace.

Angela frowned. There were two things wrong with this picture. On the one hand, they weren’t wearing their sculpted helmets. Their actual eyes, their actual faces, were on display. A curious crowd gathered around them doubtless wondered why.

They might also have wondered, as Angela did, why it was that each of the Guard’s mouths were slackly parted.

Xan raised a hand, taking a moment to be sure he was clearly visible to the whole of the Guard, and then lowered his arm, palm down, until it was level with his shoulder.

As one, the Royal Guard sank to one knee apiece.

Shocked gasps could just be heard from the crowd of onlookers. Here was something, they would be thinking. Quite possibly, here was magic, the occult. Something the average city-dweller did not understand and mildly feared.

And if it were not the occult, then the Royal Guard had made it very clear where their allegiance was.

“I trust I have made my point,” Xan told the castellan, who frowned—and lunged forward, a hand unfurling from his doublet, a blade in that hand. Xan, as confident as he had been, was unarmoured, unarmed, and unprepared.

All the same, Lucia was there, and while she too was unarmed that wouldn’t stop her. Her foot met his knee in a sharp downward kick that took one of his feet out from under him, knocking him forward. She caught his knife-arm with her hands, twisting it and disarming him swiftly.

Why had she done that?

Time seemed to slow for her as a chill ran down her spine. None of this was supposed to have happened, none would have happened without her. Guilt was a heavy weight sat on her shoulders, made of some vile material that poisoned the taste of pleasure and satisfaction.

She dragged the knife from his hands and dropped it over the balcony.

Xan reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder; she tilted her head, pressing it softly against him, very glad of the contact, very glad of his tacit approval.

…Was she happy about this or not?

She felt the tears rising up in her eyes and turned and darted away, back indoors, away from a crowd and away from Angela and Xan, fleeing where she could sit and be herself without any expectations.

Angela watched her betrayer run with bewilderment, looking back to Xan as she did, her mouth open with wonder and concern.

“I think we agree you have failed,” Xan said firmly, his eyes locked on the castellan with a certain distaste. “Choose another city in the Empire and I will find you a role of your same status there. In the meantime, I suggest you leave.”

Angela could see her former castellan weighing this up. She was sure the only reason he eventually growled assent and stalked away was that in a fair fight, the odds greatly favoured the younger fighting man over an older man who had already been hurt.

He turned back to Angela. “Before we go back inside,” he said, and he gestured out toward the waiting, motionless regiment of the Royal Guard. “I would have your advice, my subject.”

Angela shivered as if something had passed over her grave. There was no denying her new status now. She wasn’t sure she was happy about that, but she didn’t have a great many options for protesting it. “Yes, Sire?” she asked, and she meant her voice to be loaded with contempt, but what came out was honeyed and conciliatory.

He smiled, still looking at the Guard. “You will be wondering how I’ve already taken over the Guard,” he said, “considering that I still have not finished with you, and they are many.

“The spell they are under is not so… intense… as the one you are now primed for.”

Angela’s vision swam slightly at this talk. She shivered, her thighs clamping together instinctively, her head fuzzing slightly with memories of the baton’s pleasure reward. He’d warned her that her willpower would crack more easily every time; it was only this time, as the echoes filled her, that she realised just how true that promise had been—and how delightful.

“I don’t understand, Sire,” she said. “But I will take your word for it.”

“Admirably done,” he returned with a cheerful smirk. “Now, then. Naturally, I would rather my Royal Guard be an elite and loyal corps of soldiery, not limited to rather basic puppets. This is going to take some time.

“I would have asked my little soldier girl, but…” He fell silent. Angela read uncertainty in his expression; she wanted to console him, another indication that whatever he’d done had reached or was reaching full effect on her. “She’s… well. I’ll find out soon.

“Which of my Guard deserves treatment first, my subject?”

“Saturnina, Sire,” she answered without hesitation.

“Very good. Back into the bedroom,” he ordered, “and disrobe.”

“Yes, Sire.” She turned and made her way back in, fumbling for her dress’ fastenings as she did. The struggle to prevent herself undressing she’d worked through before was gone; she was falling harder and harder.

Over her shoulder she heard Xan call down. “Saturnina! Join me in the Palace bedchamber.” What the crowd of onlookers made of it, she wasn’t sure; all the same it was clear that Xan didn’t really care. Didn’t feel he needed to.

Still wearing only a thin garment around her groin, Enna was back in the royal bedchamber, and standing beside her was the royal seamstress. Angela no longer considered it her bedchamber, or the seamstress hers. More and more her mind embraced the pleasure it foresaw in a reality where Xan was King.

“Measure her,” Enna instructed the seamstress. “A uniform like my own.” The seamstress looked at her, startled and doubting, and Enna shrugged. “The King wills it,” she said, and Angela could see that this was something of a motivation to the seamstress. Doubtless Enna having gone to fetch her near-naked had sent clear signals of the new regime’s level of control.

Angela, meanwhile, stood meekly and was measured as the implications of Enna’s comments sunk in. “I am to be a handmaiden,” she said, very slowly, the news seeming stark and worrying. She had only said it aloud to see if that would make it real for herself.

Enna smiled, almost sympathetic, and shook her head. “No, my lady—uh—I mean—“

Angela swallowed and hung her head. “I am only Angela now,” she said quietly, “as you are only Enna.”

“And you are a chambermaid,” Enna replied, “not a handmaiden. It will be your responsibility to keep the Royal rooms as they should be.”

Angela flushed. “I—I don’t really know how to do that,” she confessed awkwardly.

“The King knows,” Enna said, and her voice had a harder edge to it. “I have been instructed to teach you.” She paused. “As we shared such an… important… experience together.”

“Yes.” Angela swallowed, her next words seeming almost to stick in her throat before she forced them out. “I’m sorry, Enna.”

She registered the surprise on the other woman’s face, but the King had re-entered the room and so neither of them spoke.

“Ah,” he said, and smiled. “Progress is being made. Excellent. Enna?”

“Yes, Highness?”

“Set up the ropes, will you? Her former majesty will be joining Saturnina in priming the Guardswoman to break.” His eyes met Angela’s, and he smiled to see the way she was excitedly flushing at the promise of more baton strikes. “And then,” he said, “I will complete you.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but she knew the answer she had to give. “Yes, Sire.”

Angela was trussed up and balancing on the rope between her thighs again once Saturnina marched, high-stepping, into the bedroom, her boots seeming to echo as she stepped somehow so that the queen turned chambermaid (as Angela was resigning herself to her future) almost imagined the hollow clip-clop of hooves as Xan’s Royal Guardswoman walked.

Enna was smirking slightly as she reached out, grasping the air directly in front of Saturnina’s jaws, and pulled her forward without connecting with her. Whatever secret the King had used to control the Guard, he’d given it to his handmaiden, and she was more than happy to use it.

Angela gave Enna a small smile, as if the two of them were in on the same secret, hoping that Enna would accept it as a prelude to the two of them starting again. Then she met Saturnina’s eyes.

They were the eyes of an unbroken woman; certainly one who was nervous, on edge, probably too aware of how helpless she was (or just not yet ready to acknowledge how good it could feel to be helpless) and still embarrassed, uncomfortable.

“It’s alright,” Angela said softly. The jaws of the other woman, inexplicably open, twitched but no sound came out. “Really,” Angela continued. “Let this happen. Fighting it is so much less satisfying. All it does is slow down what can happen—and you want what can happen, Saturnina. You just won’t understand that until it’s happened.”

Enna, who was securing Saturnina’s wrists behind her back, was nodding along, smiling dreamily. Angela knew then that it wasn’t a case of needing to feel close to Enna; the King had made them close. They would come together in time, because both of them were only servants, only maids.

No, she corrected herself. Only was the wrong word. Far better for her to be a fervent, dedicated maid, one who understood the value of her duties. The King deserved that.

Saturnina’s eyes were full of hurt and confusion as King Xan re-entered the room, holding his baton lightly.

“Well,” he said. “I think we all know it’s time to get started now, yes?”

Angela bit her lip and closed her eyes, excited and ready even if all she would be doing was watching and twitching to keep the rope between their legs doing its job.

Lucia had fled out through the Royal rooms and eventually made her way up to the roof. She sat there with her back to the door, looking out over Erethnis and out toward the sea, knees up in front of her, arms huddled around them, the stolen regal furs keeping her warm.

Her head was spinning. She could hear her own heartbeat. It seemed to her now—though she could not swear with confidence that it was true—that she had betrayed her Queen not because she had wanted to, not because she had been angry with her, but entirely because she had been manipulated.

That she had given in to indulgence when she should not have done. The guilt her old self had felt was intruding on the reality of her present self.

Was she upset that Xan was now King, she wondered? After enough time to think it over, she concluded she was not, because it was still true that Angela did not deserve to be, and there were few others who the nation could accept as alternatives. Xan was at least of royal blood, and if he followed through with his plan to marry her, an orphan of the country, she expected that would be seen as a deep positive.

She hadn’t bargained for that; hadn’t even known it was coming. In his last days as Prince, on the ride toward Erethnis, he had seemed very possessive, had started calling her his little soldier girl, but she had assumed simply that he wanted to keep her by him. The role of consort had never entered her mind; even knowing it had entered his was… if not scary, then intimidating at least.

Was it something she wanted?

Her stomach twisted somewhat at the question and at first Lucia took that for a clear answer, confirmation that no, in fact she didn’t. With a few moments’ more consideration, though, she realised what was actually making her uncomfortable.

Lucia was trying to make decisions for herself.

It was something she’d only ever done by accident. For years—decades—she’d carried out the decisions of King Adin and then Queen Angela.

She’d pushed Xan to depose Angela out of fury, but it had been his decision, and she had followed his plan; the contributions she had made were pushing him to do it in the first place, and telling him that she would be better spared but set to work as a maid—and that had been anger more than rationality.

Her decision had come not from her own intent but from the emotion she felt.

Fighting the castellan had been as instinctive as everything else. There was no decision making in there; there was no hesitation, either, or questioning. She had simply done what she knew to be right, without any question or thought.

Prince Xan had not broken Angela’s hold on her to give her free will; he had broken the former Queen’s hold because she had raised Lucia against him as a weapon, and he wanted to disarm her.

And Lucia had been happier that way.

She had always done as others decided. Now, finally, she obeyed out of pleasure.

King Xan’s pretty little soldier girl rose slowly and descended back into the palace, hurrying to the King’s side.

Angela had lost her breath.

She’d forgotten just how gruelling Xan’s methods could be, as good as they felt, and though she had not been the focus—his hands and his baton turned against Saturnina—she had realised quickly that she was his tool in this.

That felt better than she would have imagined. Rolls of her hips when she’d seen Saturnina starting to weaken had set the rope bouncing, adding that extra distraction, and she’d been able to watch the other woman crumble, the fear and confusion in her eyes dying to be replaced by bliss.

The King put his hand to Saturnina’s forehead, his thumb dancing, and he said something to her. Though her moans and whimpers had sounded strangely muffled even through her always-open mouth, the next thing she said was clear as crystal. “Yes, Highness,” she said, and her voice had a strange, smooth cadence, her tone weighted with bliss.

King Xan chuckled to himself, then turned back and walked toward Angela. “You’ve done what I wanted,” he said. “And I think you want it too.” He left that statement hanging there, almost a challenge, but he didn’t leave it for long. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, Sire,” she mumbled, and there was a nervous excitement that stopped her voice from echoing the tone of his newly enthralled Guard.

And then he had his thumb against her forehead, muttering something in syllables that sounded like they didn’t belong in human mouths, his thumb jerking around from point to point, tracing something, etching a design not into her forehead, not into her skull, but directly into the brain beneath, and her fragmentary thoughts crackled with energy and potential and something, but she felt too good, waves of need and bliss shuddering through her, to think, to act, to change anything, to do anything.

She could feel the magic flowing through her, not just the pleasure from the baton but a spell, one being worked on and against her.

“You’re going to love this,” he promised her. “You won’t have a choice. Not that you’d choose otherwise if you could…”

He took his thumb from her forehead with a flourish, and Angela could feel the spell hanging in her head, ready to complete itself, but she couldn’t do anything else. She hung, limp but just about supported by the ropes, aching with the pleasure of surrender, panting shallowly. With an effort she looked up at King Xan.

She wasn’t shy. She wasn’t nervous. She knew exactly who she was and what she was. She was a maid. She was a subject. She was a tool to be used, and she knew her duty.

“Thank you, Highness,” she said, and her voice seemed to crack and break with emotion.

Xan chuckled. “Cut my chambermaid down,” he told Enna. “And send in the next Guard, for Saturnina to help me with.”

“My King,” another voice cut in before Enna could speak. Lucia had entered the room, was standing with her arms together, head bowed, the furs she wore parted to show the softening body of a warrior becoming a lover. “May I ask a favour?”

Xan tilted his head, watching. Lucia seemed to take that as invitation, Angela thought, as she forged on, “I think… I think your hold on me has cracked.

“My King, I want to be put back in your embrace. I want you to hold and control and bind me, just as you wish. I want to be your hand.

“Please, my King, put me on the rope before you bring in more Guard. Make me your hand, your slave-consort, and nothing more.”

King Xan looked at her silently for a long time, then chuckled. “Now how could I resist a request like that?”