The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

No matter what her mood, no matter what the events of the day or the tensions in her relationship or even the health of her children, Lady Frost had always managed to find refuge in the thick sheets and blankets of her marital bed.

The first night she’d arrived at Frost’s Keep, the biting cold had taken her by surprise. She’d known it would be startling, and she’d tried to anticipate the severity of the conditions, but the cold managed to exceed even her wildest expectations. By the time she was ready for bed, Merrida had been almost totally exhausted and ready to cry.

But just as the south’s winter chill had shocked her, so too did the warmth of her four-poster bed, especially when her husband had joined her in it. The southfolk had grown proficient at creating warmth in the snowy conditions, and ever since that night, no matter how low she felt or how weary she was, the thick woolen blankets were enough to cheer her up.

Except tonight.

For reasons she didn’t understand, they no longer provided a familiar comfort. They felt heavy and restrictive—she wanted to throw them aside, cast them to the floor and feel free.

It unsettled and alarmed her, and so in response she pulled the blankets tighter, trying to force the feeling of comfort. It wasn’t long until she felt so stifled that it was all she could do not to scream.

And that was when the music started.

It wasn’t the tune that she’d heard earlier, although it contained colors from the same palette. This one was looser. Lighter. This one had inklings of freedom and bounciness. It had tones of liberty, dancing from room to room, peeking through the doors to see what was within.

This one made her feel alive.

At the same time though, it had been a long day, and Merrida knew that her children would be unable to sleep if the music continued. She needed to get up and stop it…

…but she was so tired.

For the next few minutes, the most powerful woman in the south continued to hesitate, torn between her duty and the sudden exhaustion that seemed to fill every bone in her body. Several times she talked herself into getting up and reprimanding the handsome young bard, but each time it was too easy to find an excuse to stay in bed, a reason to continue laying there and just enjoy the melody.

At the end of this section, she told herself, but the end never came, with each part of the song seamlessly merging into the next. In the next minute, she reasoned, but before she could count out the seconds, she was again lost in the tune, her mind dancing along even as her feet remained still.

Finally, she softly drifted into sleep, lulled into a trance by the beautiful tune. Still, her memory of what she should do remained, what her maternal role insisted was her duty.

And so as she slept, she imagined leaving the bed. Her unconscious mind managed to perfectly emulate every sensation, every smell and touch and sound of the action. It was as though she was really setting the blankets to the side, swinging her long legs out of the bed, ignoring her thick fur slippers and standing barefoot on the smooth stone of the keep’s master bedroom.

She knew it was a dream, however. In reality, she would never have done what she did next, unlacing her nightgown, her hands deftly untying the knots and allowing the soft fabric to fall to the floor, revealing her nakedness underneath.

For a moment, as is so often the case in a reverie, she felt as though she was able to see herself from the outside. Not even thirty-five years of age, her body was still firm and appealing. Although she didn’t have a specific exercise regime, life at Frost’s Keep did not allow one to become out of shape and slovenly. Her breasts still stood firm on her chest, her brown nipples hardening rapidly at the cold. Five children had caused a slight sag, but she knew that her bosom’s size and firmness were enough to cause jealousy even in women a decade younger than herself.

Her legs were long and shapely, and her husband regularly assured her that even in his younger days, he’d never encountered an ass like hers—although their religious beliefs forbade it, there had been numerous times during their lovemaking when his hands had slipped around and explored her tight rosebud. While they’d never directly spoken about it, Merrida had silently begged for more, more, more.

But the moment that told her that her experience was certainly a dream was when she unlocked her bedroom door, and allowed it to slowly swing open.

She was Lady Merrida Frost, wife of Lord Mikkon Frost and Lady of Frost’s Keep. She was born Merrida Storm, daughter of Lord Whent Storm and Lady Tyfany Stone. She had given birth to the heir of Frost’s Keep. Her father fought in the War of Tenpenny Kings.

Her figure was one of gravitas and authority, and she was loved and respected throughout the lands. She certainly wouldn’t open the door bare, allowing any passing servant to see her naked form.

Not in real life.

In a dream, of course, she was under no such restrictions.

As the door opened, the music grew louder, almost as though the bard was playing it directly outside her room. She smiled at the sound—the music had grown faster, practically pulsating with rhythm, filling her bones with joy. She wanted to dance…no, more than that. All of her noble life, dancing had involved slowly swaying while being held by a borish fool (and then, later in life, her beloved husband. Mike had many strengths, but he would be the first to admit that dancing was not among them), and that wasn’t what the music was calling for her to do.

She wanted to do more than sway, more than move her feet to the pre-coordinated steps that the families of New Eastland had been following for generations. She wanted to live. She wanted to improvise a dance of her own accord, one that allowed her to move her body in such a way that it paid respect to the music.

Merrida Frost wanted to worship the song with her body. And, with a smile, she remembered that this was a dream—just a dream, and nothing more—and so she could.

Placing her hands above her head, she began slowly moving her hips back and forth. As the music grew louder and more intense, her entire body joined in; her shoulders moved from side to side, her hands began drifting around her body, occasionally touching her soft skin, or moving out in front of her, as though inviting someone to come join her.

Her long hair began rapidly whipping back and forth as she found herself getting more and more into the dance of her own concoction, and for the second time that evening, it was as though she stepped out of her own body, and was able to watch herself as she gyrated to the tune.

Soon, the music was almost overwhelming, as if the bard was playing the flute just a few feet away. A stray thought shocked Merrida, as she briefly wished that he was, as she prayed that the stranger was directly outside the room and would perhaps peek in and watch her dance, peek in and enjoy the show that his music had inspired.

She imagined him peering around the side of the door frame, the flute to his lips and a mischievous look in his eyes. Although she was coated in sweat, she imagined his heart filling with lust at the sight of her body.

It was exciting to her, the idea of a strange man looking at her body. It was exciting to her, imagining that she was showing off—for the first time—to a man who wasn’t her husband.

Soon she was gasping and panting with the exertion of her dance. The music felt as though it was building to a climax, and Merrida’s hands moved behind her (as if of their own volition) and slapped her ass, hard.

With that, the music stopped, and Lady Frost fell backwards onto the bed, completely exhausted. She didn’t know what had come over her, but she knew that she’d liked it. No, loved it. Her door slowly swung until it was closed, and as she lay on the bed, breathing deeply, she slowly drifted off, too tired to even wonder how she could be falling asleep within a dream.