The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When Donald woke up the next morning, he was back in his own room. He had no memory of how he’d gotten there. He felt relaxed and peaceful, though oddly tired. He could hardly believe what he remembered of the night. It was like his dream come true!

Even . . . He grew conscious of a faint burning sensation from a spot on his neck. Alarmed, he got up and hurried into the bath room, where the mirror above the sink confirmed his suspicion: the Lady Magda had bitten him!

The bite was small, a twin puncture surrounded by a little swelling. Its implications, though, were enormous. The ren were made this way, bound to their masters by the taking of blood. Was this what the Lady had in mind for him?

And yet . . . no. Everything he knew of the ren suggested that they were largely incapable of independent thought. They did as they were told, and beyond that, only what was necessary to keep themselves alive: eating, sleeping and so on. He felt no such difference in himself—although, he mused, chilled, would I?

Yes, he decided after a moment, he would. If he’d become ren, he wouldn’t still be afraid of that possibility—and he was, desperately.

Yet there was a difference. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could feel . . . someone else. Someone who was asleep right now, but who was linked to him even in sleep in a way he’d never known before. He might not have been made ren, but, he realized, the Lady Magda had marked him. He belonged to her now in a more intimate way than was ever possible among mortals.

Others could sense it, too, it seemed. When Doctor Friedrich saw him as he arrived for work that morning, the aged chief technician eyed him speculatively. Nervous under the old man’s interested gaze, Donald fingered the wound on his neck. Richards saw him doing it and muttered something.

Irritated, Donald snapped, “What was that?” He stepped closer to the heavily-built blond tech. “If you’ve got something to say, Richards, let’s hear it.”

“Vampire lover,” Richards responded sullenly.

Silence fell. That word was considered a deadly insult by the immortals. To them, apparently, it was a reminder of the time when they’d been forced to hide from mortals, when they had been hunted, as Donald knew, nearly to extinction. To use it was a shocking act of defiance.

It was the Doctor who finally spoke. “Herr Richards,” he said softly, “we have had words before about your intemperance. I cannot use an assistant whose lack of self-control endangers not only him but perhaps all of us. If you apologize, however, we will forget this indiscretion.”

“Sorry,” Richards mumbled. “Sorry, Doctor. Sorry, Fenton.” The big man was white-faced and sweating now, belatedly aware of the peril in which he’d placed himself.

Doctor Friedrich nodded, and Donald said, “Apology accepted. Forget it.” He might not like Richards any more than the other liked him, but the memory of the cross-bearer’s execution was vivid in his memory; he didn’t hate Richards enough to wish that on him.

Over the days which followed, Donald Fenton’s life settled into a comfortable routine of waking each morning, eating breakfast, going to work in the generator room, then returning to his chamber at night to take supper. Many nights, he dreamed of the Lady Magda—but he had almost begun to think his one real-life tryst with her was never to be repeated when, one evening, he heard her voice.

“Come to me,” it said. “Come to me, Donald. I will guide you; come to me.” The voice sounded so real, yet it echoed in his head rather than his ears, crowding aside all other thoughts. He was barely aware of rising and walking, out of his room and through the corridor maze of the castle. His body moved as though it knew exactly where to go, although he had visited the Lady’s suite only once before, and that time in the company of a guide.

At last he arrived. The Lady was waiting for him, dressed this time in a shimmering golden sheath. She had piled her rich hair high atop her head, and a jeweled necklace emphasized the cleft of her bosom.

“You like it?” She smiled at him.

“Beautiful . . .” he gasped.

The Lady laughed, delighted, and clapped her hands. “Ah, I hoped so! The material is imported, and I had it made from designs my servants found in pre-Downfall books. Your ancestors had their faults, Donald, but a lack of imagination was not one of them.”

Lady Magda looked at him more closely. “But come,” she said. “Our meal awaits. And afterward . . . " A pink tongue ran over ruby lips, and Donald’s heart pounded.

The food was delicious, just as it had been the first time. But when it was gone and the Lady led him into the bedroom, he hesitated at the door, Richards’ bitter epithet in his mind.

“What’s the matter, Donald?” Lady Magda asked softly.

Donald hesitated. Seeing his reluctance, the Lady stepped towards him. Framing his face gently in her hands, she looked into his eyes and said, “Something is troubling you, isn’t it? Something you don’t wish to speak of.”

“Y-yes,” Donald stammered. “I-I don’t, please, milady—!”

She stroked his face gently and chided him, “There can be no secrets between us, Donald, you know that. Open, open to me, that’s right. . . .” Her eyes became whirling pools of green once more, and the world receded into soft verdant shadows. He sighed, relaxing. Yes. Everything was fine. . . . Vaguely, he was aware that he’d begun to speak. He couldn’t focus on what he was saying, though, and it didn’t seem to matter.

Finally her eyes released him. The world returned, and he allowed her to lead him to the bed and ease him down onto it. She remained standing for a few moments, looking thoughtful, before she joined him.

The night was fire and ecstasy after that, and no thoughts at all. When the Lady’s eyes blazed red and her fangs sank into him, there was only pleasure as he climaxed over and over.

The next morning, Donald felt sick. He remembered the pleasure, but now he felt hung over, drained. Staggering to the bath room, he stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Bleary eyes stared back at him out of a ghost-pale face which made his morning stubble stand out harshly in contrast, and there was a fresh bite mark on his neck. The Lady had taken blood again—more this time, by the way he looked and felt.

Nor was that all. The sense of another presence in his mind was stronger now. He could feel the Lady’s satisfaction as she slept. After a few minutes, that sensation seemed to soothe his own physical discomfort, making it easier for him to get ready for work. It was almost as if he were drawing sustenance from her, as she had done from him.

He got through the day despite his lingering feelings of fatigue, and slept without dreams that night. The next morning, he felt better—until he reached the generator room.

Richards was missing, and the air was thick with fear.

“What happened?” Donald asked Doctor Friedrich.

The Doctor avoided his eyes. “They came for him early this morning, just before dawn. I have been informed that . . . he shall not be returning.”

“But why?” Donald was baffled. “What did he do? None of us has said anything about, you know . . .” His voice trailed off as the Doctor’s attitude registered fully. “No. I didn’t.”

But he had. He didn’t remember it, but he knew. The Lady Magda owned him now. She had sensed he was hiding something, and had looked into his eyes, drowned his will in her eyes, and he had told her of Richards’ outburst. And now Richards was surely dead, or soon would be.

“My fault,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean, I didn’t want—! But it’s my fault!” He turned, intending to flee, but Doctor Friedrich stopped him, resting a hand on his shoulders.

“Nein,” he said, his accent thick. “Not your fault. When our rulers command, we can only obey. She has taken you, bonded with you; you had no way to resist, once she asked you directly. We all knew that, even Herr Richards. It is the way of things, that is all.”

“But how can I keep on working here, after this?” Donald’s voice was strained. “How can you trust me?”

The older man looked sad. “I have never trusted you, Donald. Liked, yes—never trusted.” He held up a hand to forestall Donald’s protest. “I trust no one. Not even myself. When those above us can play with our minds like toys whenever they desire, trust is a luxury one cannot afford. I learned that lesson long ago.”

There didn’t seem to be any reply to that. That day’s work shift was a quiet one.

Physically, Donald recovered from his second night with the Lady Magda within a few days. Emotionally—that was a different story. Despite Doctor Friedrich’s kindness, he’d found himself avoiding any but the most necessary contact with his remaining co-workers in the generator chamber. He thought less and less often of his life before coming to the castle. He hardly even ventured outside, although it had been made plain to him that he was free to do so. Only at night, in his increasingly frequent dreams of the Lady Magda, were his emotions still vivid. The dreams left him shaken, wet with sweat and come, and eager for more.

It was another month before the Lady summoned him again. He had just returned from a difficult work shift, working with Doctor Friedrich and Harcourt to replace burned-out wiring whose failure had cut power to an entire wing of the castle, when her voice echoed in his head.

“Come to me, Donald,” she commanded. “Come! Come now!”

He obeyed. He could not even think of doing otherwise. His connection to his mistress guided him unerringly, as it had before, to where she waited for him.

“You’re looking well, Donald,” she observed.

“Th-thank you, milady,” he stammered. She was beautiful, wrapped in a clinging gown of midnight black which reached to her ankles, a white fur shoulder wrap and long white gloves. On her feet were black old-style high-heeled shoes, the heels themselves nearly six inches high, making her seem even taller than she naturally was. Her torrent of dark hair gleamed with ruby highlights. He stared, overwhelmed, until she turned and gestured toward the kitchen.

He barely tasted the meal laid out for the evening. He gazed at his beautiful Lady as he chewed and swallowed mechanically. When they were done, the Lady led him into her bedroom.

Their lovemaking was more frenzied than ever before. The Lady threw him down onto the bed, then danced before him, peeling off her clothes slowly in time to brassy music coming from some hidden source. First the gloves, which she pulled off slowly, slowly, with her teeth, holding Donald’s eyes with hers, compelling him to watch; then the fur; then the dress, abandoned in a slithering movement which brought a helpless moan from the young man before her. Finally, she stepped out of the shoes and drew off her sheer, hip-high stockings with her long-nailed hands. She finished just as the music died, and threw herself down on him in a frenzy, tearing at his own garments until he, too, was nude. Her eyes burned into his, sending him spinning through a fantasyland of fireworks as his body responded to her frantic caresses. He barely felt her nails clawing into his back; even when she clutched him with noss strength, cracking a rib, the pain was wonderful. Only one thing was needed to complete his bliss.

At last, as Donald begged her to do it, she sank her fangs into his throat. He went rigid, paralyzed with pain and ecstasy which went on and on. And on . . . !

His vision blurred, and his muscles relaxed. He felt himself growing cold, numb, starting at his fingers and toes and moving inward and up, as if his very essence were flowing out of him, out, out. Frightened at last, he tried to struggle, but he could move no more now than before. His muscles felt as if they had turned to water.

Through the link between them, the Lady sensed his fear. “Calm,” she soothed him, her voice sounding in his head while her mouth remained clamped to his neck. “Pleasure. Surrender.”

His fear went away. He was calm; there was pleasure. He surrendered to the pleasure.

The world went dark.

At last, Lady Magda released her bite-hold on Donald’s throat. She disentangled herself from the inert form of her mortal lover, stood, and threw on the shapeless robe she had made ready for the occasion. Full of blood, her body was no longer lushly curved; instead, it was round and bloated. A tick’s body, she thought, as always at these times briefly disgusted with herself. She was proud of her beauty, and despised the needs which forced her, even for short times, to mar it.

She looked down at the unconscious Donald. His breathing was fast and shallow, his face a waxy white in color. Shock, physicians would call it. It had been close, very close—in her lust, fed by her awareness of Donald’s own excitement, she had nearly drained him entirely. Daintily, she picked up a cloth from the bedside table and dabbed blood from her mouth and chin.

Bending, she lifted her lover’s limp body as if he were a child. Carefully, she carried him forth, through the hallway and down, to the windowless basement chamber she had prepared once she had made her final decision. His weight was nothing to her.

A ren servitor was waiting when she arrived. “Everything is ready, mistress,” the servant said tonelessly. She was sure it was so; she had summoned him mentally and given him the necessary instructions before Donald had arrived at her suite. Nevertheless, she inspected the preparations carefully. Everything had to be right. The crossing was dangerous. Even the slightest mistake, the slightest failure, could doom her chosen one forever.

At last, satisfied, she said, “Very good, my servant.” Her eyes flashed briefly, and the blond man shivered in pleasure, then stilled, waiting for her next command.

The Lady Magda regarded the man who had once been technician Richards. This was much more efficient, she thought, than simply killing him for his insolence. As ren, he would live out his life eager to obey her in all things, his onetime rebelliousness wiped from his mind. A pity his technical skills had had to be erased as well, but she lacked the skill to strip him of the memories which fed his hostility while leaving that knowledge intact. Doctor Friedrich would simply have to do without him—and without Donald. Replacements would have to be found for them, as they had replaced others—and as Doctor Friedrich himself would eventually have to be replaced. It was difficult; the Lady considered, briefly, whether she should finally establish a true school rather than relying on the blood priests’ tutorage.

She shook her head, dismissing the problem. There would be time to address it later. For the noss, there was always time.

Bending carefully, she lowered Donald onto the cushioned surface of his bed of rebirth. He was breathing so faintly now that even she could barely see or hear it. Her mental connection with him had gone quiet as well. She looked down at his still form with fond concern, then closed the heavy lid over him, sealing him in.

She turned her attention back to the ren Richards. “Servant,” she addressed him, “guard him carefully. You are to check him regularly for the signs I showed you, and notify me at once through the link we share”—she tapped her forehead for emphasis—“if anything seems wrong.” Her servant said, “I hear and obey, mistress. I shall not fail you.”

The Lady’s eyes flared again, coldly this time; Richards whimpered in fear under her mental lash. “You had better not, servant. If my chosen should die the death from which there is no return, you will wish it had been you instead. You will wish it for a very long time.”

The blond man nodded, terror in his eyes for a moment before his face settled back into ren blandness.

The castle’s undead Lady swept out of the room. She had done all she could. If all went as it should, on the third night, Donald Fenton would rise immortal, a noss himself, a consort for her who would not wither and die. Then they would feed together on the blood of the mortal now waiting chained in the larder, and Donald would be hers forever, bound to her by the strongest bond.

She headed back toward her rooms. The blood was making her sleepy, as it always did when she fed so heavily. She would rest now, perhaps even sleep until Donald was ready to awaken. And when she went to meet him, she would be beautiful once more.

She smiled, showing fangs.