The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On the second floor of the manor, Francette approached a door labeled ‘servants.’ She had been in this wing of the manor years ago when she was first captured and trained. She entered and proceeded down a long narrow corridor while she listened to the rain hitting the windows as she passed them on her left. A series of doors to servant rooms were on her right. The hallway was only shoulder width forcing the puff of her skirts to dust the walls and windows as she guardedly creped forward. The narrow hall was claustrophobic but she knew mere servants did not deserve more.

But where was the staff? A large party needed a staff.

She peered into the first room with its built-in linen cabinets and a large wood worktable. It was empty otherwise and dead quiet. She continued down the passage. The next door had a sign labeled “Chauffeur.” Inside, she saw a thin uncomfortable looking mattress rolled-up and left sitting on a metal spring frame. She moved to the next room, which was labeled for the maids. It was larger than the chauffeur’s room and done to accommodate two racks of bunk beds and more mattresses tied into rolls. It was an unpleasant room with unvarnished wood floors and walls covered in cheap panels painted white.

Hopefully the next room was better.

Her long lashes batted several times as she squinted to see. There was only one more room at the end of the hall. As she approached the door of the last room, a fresh gold painted name tag became readable with her name, ‘Francette’ and a title underneath ‘Head Maid.’ Wow. Mistress Wicky did say the staff would be new. How did she arrange this so fast? She was a witch. She probably just ‘willed’ it to be so.

With all the turnover in staff, was she really the most senior maid now? Or maybe this was some kind of an offer to make her stay after the party. She felt excited and honored to be given the title of ‘head maid.’

She entered the bedroom. It was luxurious unlike the cold emptiness of the other rooms. It was warm. The wood stove had a fire in it. The bedroom was flat-out grand. Someone had taken care of every detail from a perfectly made four-post bed to a lovely set of window curtains with gilded ropes holding them open. She opened a closet door. Inside was everything she needed, a dozen neatly hung maid costumes and several black high heels. She felt giddy and sashayed pass the bed and into her own bathroom. She was in heaven.

In the bathroom she pressed her flouncy skirts against a porcelain sink with its porcelain centered stand. She turned on the water and hummed to herself as she dowsed a washcloth. A mirror over the sink showed her neck’s deep puncture marks and dried splattered drips that she wiped off her pillowy breasts. She even washed down into her cleavage and then under the dress’s material rubbing over her nipples. She could feel the cold porcelain against the tops of her thighs. She was a little horny. Maybe it was the feeling of getting away from her master vampire or the idea of being free soon or the fabulous bedroom or being a head maid. But somehow she knew it was something else.

Actually, when she thought about it, she was enjoying the idea of being watched. She felt the presence of the house again. She looked into the mirror, held her double D-cups and leaned forward with a bow at her hips. She was hot after all. Why not have someone watch her? She pursed her lips and kissed her reflection leaving lipstick on the mirror’s glass. Her boobs jiggled as the house shook. What was that?

The water sputtered when she touched the lipstick marks. She looked down at the faucet, gave it a gentle caress and felt the whole room shake again. The surrounding tiled walls changed to match the mirror. Her reflection showed crystal clear in every surface—even the painted wood trim was mirrored now. The painted radiator pipes were perfect chrome reflectors. The floor’s tiles now reflected a clear view up her ruffled skirts. She felt like the whole room was studying her. She stroked the faucet again. It moved. In fact it grew. She rubbed the chrome pipe once more griping it firmly. The water flow stopped as the faucet changed. Its metal animated and stretched changing from a curve aimed down to the drain to an erect line pointing straight at her.

A compulsion was building inside her. It was shameful. She thought, ‘No one was here though. Why not?’ She bowed and gave the faucet’s tip a lick. She had learned that the centered rimple between the underside of a man’s penis tip to the shaft was extra sensitive. Thw strong reaction she had seen from her vampire master had taught her that. She gave the faucet’s matching location a good side to side lick. The room violently shook. She took the chrome metal into her mouth, her boobs dipped into the sink and her hands grabbed the porcelain side rims. The whole house shivered as she pushed forward taking the metal shaft deep into her mouth swirling her tongue around its underside letting her lips rub the circumference as she moved her head towards the base.

She began sliding the phallic faucet in and out of her mouth. She felt an urgency to think of what to do next. How should she keep the house interested? The thought of the house as a person caught her by surprise, but she continued her act of fellatiation. She thought she was doing quite well until the lights dimmed. Was she being critiqued? Was that a good or bad sign? She continued to suck the metal inwards even harder till it touched her throat and then she squeezed her lungs increasing the pressure to slide the metal out. She gradually increased her speed and, as she kept the sink entertained, she reached under her skirts and pulled down her panties. She sensed the room was watching her do all this. The house was probably guessing what might be next. The faucet reacted by angling upwards. It wanted her as much as she wanted to know what it would be like.

She pulled her mouth away and climbed up onto the porcelain sink straddling its basin and mounting its faucet. Colors flashed across the bathroom tiles like a light show in sync with the maid’s eager moaning motion up and down. She wasn’t concerned with getting off herself. Her deepest concern was to be good enough to get the house off. She worried though that she might appear mechanical as she tried to hold back, but she was thrusting too fast and wanted to enjoy.

More nagging mental distractions started to interfere with her pleasure. Was she too fast or too slow? She tried to set them aside and ignore such worries. They returned like A.D.D. – wilder questions came to mind: would she be magically transformed? Roman mythology had people turned into objects. One woman became a weeping willow tree. The thought that this might be the end of her actually thrilled her. She wanted some one to love and protect her. She loved handing control over to someone. Let them decide her fate. She pressed her hands down to take some weight off her tiring legs. She loved giving herself over to someone or some thing. Nagging logic kicked-in again. She didn’t want anything serious just now. She wasn’t looking for a relationship; then even more logic entered her mind: why worry about this? She opened her eyes as she continued to pump the faucet. She wanted to ask if a short fling was OK though. Should she ask?

“Oh, oh,” she huffed. “I don’t want the long term thing. Oui?” There was no answer as she squeezed the faucet with her vaginal walls. Her body and soul wanted nothing but to be of service—to please. No one ever appreciated that part of her. She grabbed a nearby towel rack to switch to her shoulder muscles. Was she getting somewhere? She wasn’t going to be able to hold this pace forever. She also needed her own release soon. Holding back was becoming impossible, but the relationship thing was still bothering her. Her mind was so muddled. The worries were so absurd—was she actually worried about having a long term relationship with a house?

Lights flashed faster and faster. She moved her hips to keep pace which also built her pending climax but she held back until she felt the faucet starting to pulsate inside her. Warmth was flowing into her body. The bathroom door slammed behind her. She turned to look and then figured the house just wanted to assure some privacy. Did she do it right? Was she good? Should she move or would that disturb the house’s orgasm?

She decided to slowly rock and rotate just a bit to keep things interesting, but she never let up on firmly squeezing the phallic metal inside her and pressing it as deep as she could to let the faucet fill her full of warm liquid. She wasn’t certain what was entering her body. The lack of knowledge was a rush by itself. Was all this good, bad or just sinful? She didn’t know.

All the noisy thoughts turned her on. Her vaginal walls palpitated with a wave warming her whole body making her stretch back and scream till she felt her ribs vibrate. She stopped realizing that she was sitting centered over a basin with her puffy skirts covering the surround porcelain. She couldn’t see what was happening under her. It was a mystery what had just happened and how the parts fit together. The room stopped reflecting her image. The only reflection of her now was in the mirror where she could see how her long hair was disheveled in a mess covering her eyes.

It was so quiet. She gathered her thoughts. Her shoes had fallen to the floor. Her skirts wet from the water all around the sink. The metal in her pussy suddenly turned cold and retreated leaving her spread eagle on top of the sink with her hands pressed against the wall, her breasts heaving, and her body exhausted.

The room felt empty.

“Where are you? Comeback,” she pleaded. She returned to her non-existent knowledge of French and exaggerated accent. “Merci maison.” Trying to think in French, she added “Es ce se. Um.” She didn’t know why she even tried to speak French. She took a towel from a rack within reach and wiped sweat off her face and across her exposed cleavage. She reached under the puff and did a quick finger probe. She felt shame that she actually liked finding some stickiness to whatever was pumped inside her.

She stood and straightened her skirt and picked up her ruffled panties. She looked at the tiles, the ceiling, the floor. No life. The presence was gone. She whispered to the ceiling. “What le la happened? No?” “Ce qui est arrive?” she said to the sink. She waded her panties in her clenched fist worried she was in some trouble? She quickly wiped the faucet with her panties trying to hide any evidence. She then unzipped her costume and pulled herself free of its tight long sleeves. A servants’ bell ringing startled her. She would need to clean-up fast. She hoped the costumes in the closet were a good fit.

It was a couple minutes later when she changed and preened herself with a check of her hair and quick feel over and around all her skirts. The bell rang again. Hopefully, that didn’t mean a punishment was in order. Finishing her uniform checks, she realized that she had tucked one of the many petticoats into her panties. She started to fuss wrapping her arms around the fluffy bulk unable to see underneath. She was taking too long and now footsteps were approaching in step with sounds of a squeaking wheeled cart.

Shit, maybe there was a punishment. This wasn’t going to be good.

She gave her petticoat a tug freeing it from its tucked position in her panties and rushed to open her bedroom door.

Coming up the hall, an Amazon sized latex ponygirl clomped her hooves on the wood floors pushing Mistress Wicky on a two wheel cart. If Wicky had worn a hockey mask and a straight jacket, she would have been a female Hannibal Lecter.

Francette swallowed. She did do something wrong. She shouldn’t have fucked the house. That was a bad idea. It would figure the witch would know instantly. Oh no! Were they lovers? Crap! She hadn’t even thought of infidelity issues. Her first day as a head maid and she was already a slutty home-wrecker, in this case home-fucking home-wrecker. Francette curtsied out of habit but inside the fear was building. Her stomach was in knots. Only her cinching corset kept her body from having visible convulsions.

“Francette, don’t be afraid of all this,” Wicky said in reference to the overbearingly sized ponygirl and the cart. “Sometimes I just want to get around faster and though Forte here can appear menacing, she’s totally obedient.’ Wicky gave an order to the ponygirl. “Forte, wheel me back to the maids’ room.” The hallway was too narrow to turn around, so the cart was slowly backed-up to the previous door.

Francette followed as they all moved into the empty maids’ quarters. Wicky was angled upright in the room’s center. She pulled out a vial of white liquid from between her boobs and beckoned Francette to approach.

“You just need a dab,” Wicky said touching the cream to the maid’s puncture marks and erasing them like a smug. “There. I use this with blood slaves all the time.” She tucked it back down the front of her dress, gave her breasts a few jiggles to get the contents in place making a few glass clinking sounds, and then she wiggled her body over to a closet.

Ponygirl Forte took an ominous position behind Francette.

The maid bent her head back expecting maybe to see the underside of the ponygirl’s chin, instead she saw the underside of the breasts. The monster-sized woman was just that tall leaving the maid feeling helpless. Did they know that she had just fucked the house? Were they just playing with her mind now?

Francette’s eyes looked left and right. It was as if, the ponygirl’s hands were poised to grab and, within a second, snap the neck. Francette gulped.

Across the room, Wicky was poking her head into a closet. The maid took a few steps forward to look inside. She really didn’t care, but distance from the ponygirl seemed wise. Francette pretended to be interested at the only contents: three black feather dusters hanging from some rather large rings on the ends of their handles.

Wicky picked-up one of the dusters.

Francette wondered if those rings were actually brass cock rings? Somehow each ring penetrated each duster’s seamless wood handle.

“Meet your staff,” Wicky said brushing a duster in her hand against the nearest cobweb she could find. The duster’s feathers expanded out, stocking covered legs unfolded as the cone of feathers grew. The duster handle now walked on a pair of sultry legs and high heels with a skirt just like Francette’s but with feathered petticoats. The handle then grew and expanded into a beautiful blonde maid with the cock ring piercing her nose and dangling down over her lips.

“Ya ya,” she said in a Swedish accent as she curtsied.

Wicky took another duster and swiped it against another cobweb and then the third and last duster too. As two more maids formed, Wicky lectured Francette. “They are all new, so you’ll have to give them specific instructions. They’ll also want to dilly dally and you can’t tolerate that.”

“Oui, Mistress Wicky,” Francette said with her own curtsy.

All three blonde maids had seamless cock rings piercing their nasal septums just like nose rings for bulls. Francette thought about the painful piercing done for rings with made of such thick tubing.

The second blonde was recovering fast from her transformation. She gave a quick curtsy and tried to get the others in order. “Schnell, schell, we wait,” she said to them in her German accent put-on as bad as Francette’s French.

The last blonde maid formed, moved her neck like she had just experienced a bad chiropractor. Her eyes converge to her nose ring. “Like, no waaaaay,” she said in a valley girl voice. “The ring, like stays? Like, come-on.” She touched and gently tugged it. She turned and saw the witch and quickly curtsied. She turned to Francette and did a second curtsy.

The head maid returned the gesture.

“Good,” Wicky said clapping to get focused attention from the giggling blondes. “Now girls, we have short time to make use of. Francette, you’re head maid. I will give you your tasks. As for you girls, get your little feathered skirts downstairs and make something of the dusty rooms.”

The girls poured out of the tiny room as Wicky swatted their butts and Forte tried to find any space left to get out of the way. The ponygirl obviously didn’t like the little giggling women. But then again, she didn’t seem to like anything.

Wicky had a smile as if satisfied that things were finally taking shape. She glanced at Francette. “You’ll need a slight change in your uniform to match the girls. Their petticoats are made of feathers that will keep them in check and I want to know that I can trust you.” Wicky looked in the closet and removed a featherless duster handle. She retrieved her wand from her cleavage and zapped the handle into a maid uniform. A pink ribbon tide a cock ring to the costume, she considered it and pulled it free. “Hm.”

Francette gave a sigh of relief when Wicky took the cock ring and began to stuff it down her cleavage with who knows how many other items down in there.

But Forte spoke for the first time and she did so like a security consultant. “Mistress Wicky, I highly recommend that all maids get nose rings. It keeps them inline.”

Francette leered at the Amazon with her best “fuck you bitch” look.

“Hm, OK,” Wicky said handing the ring to Forte and tapping her heels rapidly passed the dolly and into the hallway. “Get Francette set-up and meet me in the spell room. And Francette, don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty much human and nothing is permanent unless you’re bad. The uniform has feathers that will dig into you if you do something wrong. It’s very painful. Except for the panties; the dress, shoes, stockings—basically the whole outfit will be glued to your body until dawn after the party. It cleans itself by the way. Come dawn after All Hallow’s Eve, you’re free to go.” She paused and tapped her chin with her forefinger thinking. “The nose ring, well that is something you might have to get cut off. I’m not certain. It might be permanent. Sorry about that.” Her dark figure wiggled away as she rapidly clicked and clacked her heels in tiny steps.

Francette turned to the tall menacing ponygirl. The phrase ‘pretty much human’ didn’t sound good.

Forte stood on real horse hooves, not human feet jammed into ponygirl boots, but real horse hooves. She was a human encased in a latex body suit and hood with holes exposing only her eyes and lips. Holes in the suit allowed her hybrid human-horse ears, ponytail and clydsdale sized hooves to protrude free of latex. Her human legs were coated in black rubber down to where human ankles should have been, but instead there was short fur above where her hooves began. She was a tower shadowing everyone around her—she was a monster.

Francette didn’t want to ask Forte anything, but Wicky wasn’t there and she would be too busy to answer anyway. The maid tried to sound genial. “When I put the costume on the body, I’ll still be the human, no? This be my last week. No?”

“I don’t care. Next time listen closely,” said Forte pulling Francette’s hair back forcing the maid to point her nose to the ceiling.

Francette felt the metal ring press hard against her nose’s septum. An electrical spark ignited and it magically snapped through the cartilage like a nail being hammered through her flesh. The pain was excruciating. She was dropped to the floor holding her nose, but applying pressure didn’t stop the pain.

A bolt the diameter of a pencil had just gone through her nose. It almost blocked air coming into her nostrils. In fact when Francette tried to take-in air through her nostrils the metal was sucked-up instead. She also tasted her blood. The maid switched to breathing through her mouth as she took the fetal position near the wall.

“Welcome to the staff bitch. I’ve heard that if you try to cut it off. A new one grows back. Now you heard Wicky, get dressed and report downstairs.” Forte barked the last sentence like a drill sergeant and walked out rolling the dolly behind her. She might as well been cheerfully whistling.

Blood dripped everywhere staining the head maid’s tiny white apron and making a mess on the pine boards. The ring’s diameter was as wide as her mouth reaching the bottom of her chin. She hinged it up. It was like having a doorknocker on her face. There was no seam. The idea that it might be permanent angered her. She was supposed to be human after this, not cursed.

“Baiser!” She knew some vulgar French – at least she thought it was vulgar.

Francette made her way back to the head maid’s private bathroom. She checked her nose in the mirror. “Please house, don’t make this forever. No? Maison?” As she reentered the bedroom, she stripped off her blood stained uniform – her second for the day. Her new feathery petticoat maid uniform sat on the king sized bed. She closed the closet to the uniforms she had hoped to wear. Now she was now going to be stuck 24-7 with feathers. She laced her inner corset, snapped her garters to her stockings, covered herself with down feathered ruffled panties and stepped into the many petticoats made with layers of white feathers.

Pulling the skirts to her waist brought the costume to life. She could feel thousands of invisible quills dig into her skin from the corset, from the skirts and even from the mesh stockings. Only the skirt had feathers, but she felt the pins and needles of quills everywhere now. She took deep breaths, pulled the black dress over her head sliding her arms in to the long sleeves. The quills intensified. She zipped the back and tried to relax. The quills wouldn’t relent against her bare skin. Her arms, legs, torso were being stabbed by thousands of needles. How do you get use to this? The ring in her nose slapped hard against her forehead as she looked down for her shoes. She pressed her hand against her forehead as she stood and the rig hit hard against her chin bone.

“Le fuck!”

As she laced-up her outer corset, she let her stocking covered feet search for her shoes. She righted them with her toes and pushed her feet into the tight fitting high heels. She could feel the shoes seal around her toes like glue. She pressed her left shoe against her right and tried to pull, but she knew it. They didn’t budge. She was going to be stuck all week like this.

“Maison. Le help. No?”

There was only silence.

The head maid resigned herself to her fate and checked herself in a full length mirror. She looked good, but secretly was being tortured by flesh digging quills that weren’t even there. She stroked her mesh stockings where there were no visible featehrss but she could feel them. There was no relief. She slowly walked about her bedroom until she noticed that on the floor, slipped under the door, was a task list. She cringed as she picked it up. The quills were digging deeper as she moved, especially bowed. It was like they felt eager to break the skin and claim her forever. As she read the list and walked with care downstairs, the costume slowly began to let up.

Maybe as long as she worked, the costume wouldn’t hurt her so much.

Deep in the woods Forte entered a cathedral circle of trees that reached-up to the sky and arched their branches together in an intermingled structure. She wasn’t spiritual and revered nothing, but in this place she was the closest to feeling any such ideas.

“I’m here. Again!” said Forte loudly knowing that she was being heard. She dropped a heavy sack onto the ground.

Leaves rustled out beyond the tree line. Multiple women with antlers, deer–like ears and tails, plus hooved feet much smaller than Forte’s Clydesdale cloppers emerged in to the open space. They were furries and unlike Forte, who was covered in latex except for the bit of fur at her feet, their bodies were covered up to their shoulders in short fur. This group was mostly deer girls. One or two had bunny ears and tails with paws for feet.

Forte crossed her arms and almost sputtered like a horse. “I can’t keep coming out her. My mistress needs my assistance and she gets testy when she has to do things without me. Are you in or not?”

A fourteen point antler deer girl took charge of the troop of furries. “We’ll help, but we want more humans there. Wicky hasn’t invited enough humans.”

“If we add a bus load, would that help?”

The deer girls and bunnies looked at each other nodding in agreement.

“Settled then,” said Forte uncoiling some leather straps that she brought in the sack. “I need a couple girls now though. A sign of good faith.”

“No straps,” said a doe with felt covered stubby antlers. This girl knew she was about to be volunteered.

“Hush,” said the fourteen point deer girl. “Take her and this one too.” A bunny was pushed forward.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” said Forte pulling bridle straps around the doe’s head. Forte tightened the network of straps and closed a collar. She reached around the girl’s chest putting a wide strap just under the girl’s breasts.

“Whoa, no,” said the girl when she saw leather wrist cuffs hanging off the wide band wrapping her torso.

Forte looked at the leader.

“Just put your wrist through,” came the order.

The doe looked at her friends for support, but they stood silent. Giving in to the peer pressure, she lifted her hands. Forte secured them snuggly against the sides of her fur covered breasts.

The bunny girl stepped forward and resigned herself to the same treatment.

Forte dropped a pile of more leather straps at the hooves and paws of the other girls. “Anyone showing-up without wearing these won’t be allowed inside the manor.’

Behind a wall of glass and submerged in faintly green tinted water of a mermaid tank was a murky view of Wicky’s new secret spell room. The tank covered an entire wall with its display of fancy corral decorations and rough textures done with sea themed molds that created the illusion of a deep ocean going off into the distance when actually the tank was only about twenty feet wide in any direction.

The tank’s one mermaid swam to a rock and plopped herself down. The new tank was bigger, but it was still a prison. Her long hair flowed around her. Her bare breasts pointed to the glass wall she stared out of. She could see the larger, newer spell room Wicky had built with ponygirl labor and magic. A fire burned under a boiling caldron in a huge stone fireplace that a golf cart could drive through. In fact at that moment the back wall magically opened, the caldron slid to the side, and a flat four-wheeled cart carrying a horizontal Wicky pushed its way through. Forte was pushing the cart and had to crouch down to get her immense height clearance through the passage. Wicky with her hobble skirt could never get through by herself since she couldn’t even bend at the waist. The ponygirl effortlessly picked the witch up and stood the hobbled figure like a chess piece. The servant then bowed and removed the cart and herself from the room.

The mermaid watched as Wicky began to gather ingredients around the spell room as if no one even lived in the tank. It was like she wasn’t even there anymore. She had long ago given-up on pounding against the thick glass in her old tank. This newer tank was built even stronger. She had also long ago given-up on being human again when she watched her tail gradually loose its human contours and rigid restrictions from having leg bones under the fish skin. She had cried in the water when the last curves of her knees and heels sank into a smooth flexible fish tail no longer limited to jointed human legs. That was when she knew she would be a mermaid for the rest of her life.

The glass and water distorted the view, but the mermaid could figure out that Wicky was extra busy. The mermaid swam to the window and squinted. A calendar on the spell room wall showed a dark circle on the last day with the word ‘midnight.’

It was October—Halloween! The circle was a drawing of a full moon at midnight! The one hope available to be human again was coming soon. That’s why Wicky was working day and night. The mermaid swam to the surface. A steal cage covered the water inches below the open air. The mermaid yelled sending only bubbles to the surface.

Wicky had promised just one year as a mermaid. Then that year passed. Then her leg bones melted away. Then came a solitary life of silence in water watching people in the spell room get turned into horrible creatures—and worse, the extraction of mermaid essence.

The coming full moon meant one chance to escape. She pushed against the square door near the edge of the tank. The lever to open it was out of reach. She shook the metal grate. If she could get someone into the tank with her, she could be human again. But guilt filled her soul. She couldn’t do that to someone else. She sank to the bottom.

Wicky walked by with a beaker. She tapped the glass and pointed into the container with her wand.

“Crap! No!” mouthed the mermaid. She pounded against the glass with her fists. Her flexible tail slapped viciously against the glass. She watched as the witch put the beaker next to the glass and pushed her wand into the surface like a needle. The mermaid’s body jolted. She convulsed. Electricity covered her body. Water dripped from the wand into the beaker held by the witch.

Every muscle in the mermaid’s body involuntarily flexed and pulled. When would this end? She vowed never to turn any human dropped into the tank. She couldn’t forgive herself if that happened to someone else. At least she wasn’t like the pet albino octopus. That was worse.

The mermaid’s body went limp as she passed out.

Wicky loved giving her pet mermaid a little jolt in the morning. She sniffed the beaker, the essence wasn’t as strong anymore. Mermaids always stayed happier in pairs. She would have to replace this mermaid with a new one after All Hallow’s Eve. She watched the mermaid’s body float down onto the rough coral. She then examined the beaker, which just didn’t have enough essence. She pushed her wand back into the fish tank’s glass and extracted more mermaid essence. The poor girl inside jolted in agony again. Wicky pulled the wand free to let the creature rest. She carried the full beaker of glowing water to the center worktable passing by several small boiling caldrons and a white octopus half hiding inside a mason jar. She took a large dried sunflower blossom and chopped it in half. Somehow she felt like she was forgetting something, but what was it? Normally she’d have helpers but this herb mixture had to be a secret. She looked around the room. The mermaid was unconscious. The octopus couldn’t communicate even if the angry little cephalopod did know. Wicky returned to chopping the sunflower head mincing it.

Something was nagging her. What was it? With all the prep work for the big night, she was forgetting something—octopus! How silly of her. She slowly moved to the mason jar and pulled Octopussy out. The tentacle cups made multiple sucking sounds as they were pulled away from the glass. She petted the little creature as she maneuvered back to the chopping block. Tentacles started to grab Wicky’s long sleeves tightening around her waist and arms.

“Now, now Octopussy. Stop getting anxious. I need this. So let’s just get it done.”

The octopus dropped to the table and watched as Wicky minced another sunflower blossom.

“OK. I just need a tip,” the witch said holding her heavy cleaver.

The cephalopod quickly tucked its tentacles underneath.

“You know the deal Octopussy. You choose which one or I’ll just chop all eight off.”

Red and purple flashed rapidly across the creature’s skin.

“Don’t take that tone with me young lady. It’ll grow back. Stop being such a baby.”

Octopussy extended one white translucent tentacle.

Wicky raised the cleaver and slammed it down against the wood.

A cleaver hit a rotting board splintering it. Francette pulled the blade out and gave it another go. When she got enough of a purchase against the board, she pried it off revealing a rusty doorknob to a hidden door in the butler’s pantry. The house was magically restoring itself, but the servants’ areas seemed to be last. She freed the last board and tried the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge.

The valley girl maid approached. “Like, we, um, like, cleaned the ballroom on, like, way up, on, like, the third floor. Like, why? I mean, like why a ballroom on, like, the top floor? Like duh, lots of stairs. There’s like no elevator.” She rolled her eyes and swung her feather duster around. “Um, you want, like, um, the living room, like, next?”

“In the Victorian times, la ballroom was many times the location on the top. Et oui, zut-zut: le living room.”

“Zoot-what? Oh, like sure, but, like, what are you, like, doing?”

Both maids looked at the jammed door.

Francette pushed a shoulder against the door. “Help, do the like, with the like, and the like. Oui, No?”

“Like, are you, like, making fun of, like, me?”

“I like you to like the door, no?”

“Whatever!” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Then she gave in with a huff.

The two maids joined together banging their shoulders against the door. They hit it a second time. A third hit sent it flying open into a dark emptiness. The valley girl screamed as Francette hung onto the door swinging over a pit of total darkness.

“I, like, got you,’ said the blonde pulling Francette by a frilly petticoat to safety.

They both looked down into the darkness. Pieces of a collapsed staircase hung from the door’s threshold.

“Like, no way. There’s, like, no stairs. We, like, could have, like, fallen into, like, a pit.”

“Oui. Most dangerous.” She looked up at the ceiling. “A little bit the warning, no?”

“Like, who are you, like, talk’in to?”

Francette rested her hands on the girls shoulders and physically turned the dumb blonde around and gave her a quick spank through the puffy skirts. “Zut-zut. Le livingroom, it awaits you. No?” For a second there she actually felt proud about her silly fake French accent—then she realized she was loosing her perspective on everything.

Francette looked into the darkness again. Creaking and breaking wood echoed. The staircase to the cellar started to rebuild itself.

“Now! Now you put the stairs! A little late, no?” A cabinet door behind her spanked her fluffy skirt. She turned. “This is the most unacceptable.” A drawer from the other side ejected with a fast withdrawal after giving her butt another nudge. “You, wish that I do the travel down there no? Well, I say, no! Oui?”

Another harassing cabinet spanking followed.

Francette threw her hands up. “Oui. Oui! I go! But I need the find of the candle. It is the—too dark. I fall. No?”

The drawer that paddled her a few times before now slowly opened again. Matches and candles rolled around inside.

“Bonne!” She grabbed a candle and a match, then reconsidered and started tucking more matches under her apron sash and down her cleavage. She then took inventory and grabbed an extra candle with the idea of stuffing it down her cleavage, but that would push the matches down into the corset. She looked at her apron sash with matches tucked there and then reached under her skirts. It took effort to shuffle over layer after layer to get to her legs. The bulk of the skirts prevented her from seeing anything as her hands searched underneath. She tried to stuff the second candle into a stocking top, but gave-up and stuff the candle in the back of her ruffled panties by pushing it through a leg hole.

With the glowing light radiating from the kitchen into the cellar, the maid’s long legs dipped into the darkness of the staircase feeling with her high-heeled foot for a step and then the next step. She noticed that her feathers were leaving her alone. There was no pain even though technically she should be punished for playing hooky. Maybe the house tamed them. Maybe something worse awaited her and the feathers were laughing at her. She didn’t know why the house wanted her down here. Her heels descended further echoing off of several more wood steps until hitting a stone floor. She scooted her foot around some more to verify it wasn’t another step.

There was complete darkness around her. Her wimpy candle flame refused to cut through the black space. She stepped forward with an out stretched hand, inching her way slowly into the darkness leaving behind the light rays angling down from the kitchen sunlight. With complete darkness and nothingness, her candle blew out.

“Maudit!” She stroked a match accidentally dropping the flame on her skirt. “Tabarnak!” she yelled swiping the burning match off her apron. She covered her mouth. “Sorry.” She knew she shouldn’t curse in that manner. She quickly went with her American accent, “I meant to say fuck or cunt, really I did.” She covered her mouth again then apologetically switched to her porno French accent. “No?”

She continued forward until she found some wood framing and a narrow space defining an opening to a passage in between the walls.

In the library, Ponygirl Forte watched Wicky’s hand plumb her full cleavage pushing her tiny hand way down the front of her tight black dress searching and searching some more. She twisted her torso and tried again.

“Where is it?” Wicky said as she added another slight kink to her body. Her hand appeared stuck. “There it is.” A strong tug withdrew a tiny glass vial of red liquid. She uncorked the bottle and dripped a tiny speckle of red onto a padlock with a bat shaped symbol and no keyhole. The lock popped open. She dropped the vial back down her cleavage and gave her boobs a shake and her body a little contorted twist. Several glass bottles clinked inside.

“We’re going to need some more helpers,” she said pulling the lock off and swinging open a lead glass cabinet door of rare books. “This one will do,” she said removing a book, taking out a sheet of paper wedged in its pages and tossing the leather edition to the floor.

The book transformed into a bound gagged man struggling against his ropes. “Forte, put him away. That’s not the book I wanted.” As Wicky threw two more books onto the floor, Forte held the man down and rubbed his butt.

“Mmmm!” the man yelled into his gag as he transformed back into a first edition left opened to its middle pages.

The other two books each transformed with one forming into a cocktail waitress from a 1920’s speak easy and the other into a young sexy 1950’s school teacher with the pointed corner eye-glasses of the time. The waitress looked a little bit slutty and the teacher had the whole librarian thing going.

“They’ll do,” Wicky said. Forte promptly dragged the two woman out of the room.

Unknown to Wicky and her Amazon ponygirl, an oil painting of a General holding a sword had eyes that really did look back. They quickly pulled away restoring to a creepy gaze of an old man.

Inside the library wall, Francette struggled to climb back down to the cellar. She couldn’t imagine the punishment Wicky would administer for this adventure. It was then Francette found herself stuck. The wall squeezed her tightly. Instead of going down, she was pushed to the right and found herself pressed against the back of another portrait. A pastry tube probably squeezed the icing less than she got from being inside the walls. The house pushed her body around until her face lined-up perfectly with a magnetic spot in the canvas. She involuntarily kissed the back of the painting and her eyes suddenly had a clear view of another room in the house. It was like her face was pressed flat. The large nose ring became flat as tin foil. Her nose seemed to deflate till it disappeared.

She now had a view of the living room. Francette could watch as Pinocchia collected a candlestick, a leather book, a fancy envelope, and a cock ring. The human puppet, placed the candlestick on the fireplace mantle, walked away and started to pick-up, move and touch several random objects around the room. She came back to the candlestick, gave it a slight turn and waited as a secret passage in the fireplace opened.

Pinocchia disappeared through the passage as the living room double-doors opened for two maids rolling Wicky inside on a gurney that was padded and upholstered like a leather couch.

“Everyone leave,” Wicky said rolling to her side and propping her head up with a hand. She reclined there like a Roman goddess waiting to be fed grapes.

A dapper businessman strolled in. He nodded.

Wicky motioned that he should close the doors.

“So what have you come up with?” he asked. “My wife is hard to fool, so it better be good.”

Wicky remained on the gurney as she leaned against her left hand and gestured with the right. “Danior, I have what you need. But we need to hurry.” Instead of reaching into her cleavage, which seemed to be her normal supply cabinet, she pointed under her gurney.

Danior looked under the wheeled cart and removed a top hat. He spun it around and raised an eyebrow to question its use.

Wicky smiled proudly. “That Danior, contains a human that Vamps can feed off of anytime she wants and then put away.”

“But magic ruins the taste.”

“That’s the trick. Reach in and pull her out.”

“I don’t see how you managed that,” said Danior as pushed his arm deep into the magical hat almost up to his shoulder. He felt around and then pulled a set of satin ears partially out of the hat. Feeling the weight of the hat increase, he set it in the floor and pulled again watching a sexy woman dressed as a Playboy Bunny emerge with two notable additions to the classic costume. The first new costume feature was a large carrot stuck down her throat forcing her head back. The second feature was that her white French cuffs, snipped from a man’s shirt and worn around her wrists, had the cufflinks pinning them together like handcuffs tying her hands in the back above her large fluffy tail. The bunny’s eyes tried to look sideways to see where she was and who was there. She quickly surrendered and settled for staring at the ceiling. Green carrot leaves sprouted from her mouth where the nub of the carrot’s wide end pushed her jaw opened. The green roughage dangled down the sides of her face.

“Tada!” Wicky said looking more uncomfortable staying on her side. “She’s the first human to be wrapped in magic but not altered in any way. She also looks completely subdued and helpless. But! The carrot she’s swallowed like sword is actually a wood stake and, as she will now demonstrate, she can free herself.”

The bunny lifted one leg at a time pressing the knee against her boobs and stepping over her handcuffed hands. Once one leg stepped through, she straddled her bound hands. Doing the same contortion with her other leg, she got her cuffed hands in front where she could grab the green stems and slowly begin pulling up on the carrot leaves extracting the orange wood stake an inch at a time. The carrot moved faster as the bunny reached the narrowing end followed by its sharp deadly orange painted tip.

Danior clamped his hands. “Bravo. And she’s just Vamps’s type. You did well Wicky.” Danior took the carrot away setting it on a sideboard far from both women, but still too close for his comfort.

The bunny smiled and looked sideways at Wicky with a proud smugness.

“She’s wanted to be a vampire all her life,” said Wicky, “so the deal is she helps you and you help her by turning her. So when Vamps is asleep, the hat will push out our femme fatale. If everything is good, she’ll finish Vamps off. If not, then she’ll re-enter the hat and wait for a better occasion on another night.”

Danior gave the bunny a sniff. “She’s got some extra flavor. I can smell it.”

“I fed her the really good stuff. Vamps will love her blood.” Wicky slid her body a little showing a bit of regret that she did not have a servant stand her up for this meeting.

Danior grew his fangs out.

The bunny smiled and tilted her head exposing her neck to him.

Danior sank his fangs into her and drank faster than Wicky or the bunny expected.

“Dan!” Wicky screamed helplessly immobile on the gurney.

The bunny screamed. Her body began to shrivel-up turning to dust. Her long perfect hair fell free into individual strains. A pile of perfectly bleached bones wrapped in nylon and satin poured down on top an empty pair of high heels. The deflated pantyhose tangled around the satin bodice that hit the floor with various Playboy Bunny accessories and a skull. The fluffy cottontail bounced away and rolled under the gurney.

“Why?” Wicky asked pounding the leather cushion of her gurney. “Damn it! Why?”

“You did well, but not perfect. That girl had no fear or anger. Vamps gets off on that. You need a human that we can trust. Someone who wants pure revenge and also has some fear.” He paced around thinking. “You want a beautiful woman who lost a relative to a vampire or better yet, to Vamps herself. Hm, maybe brain wash her to think Vamps was the very killer or—wait, I think I know a perfect candidate, but can you alter her looks?”

“Sure. “ said Wicky trying to stand. She knew from previous times that her outfit made getting off the gurney into a standing position impossible, but her anger made her want to try. She rocked and rocked then gave-up with a huff. She took a deep breath to gain some composer. “I can bimbette someone just a bit and even change her face a little without ruining the blood quality.”

“There’s one woman. As a girl, Vamps killed her whole family forcing her to watch. She’ll be a perfect assassin.”

“Why is she still alive?”

“Vamps gets off on that. I think she hypnotized the girl to forget, but we can undo that.”

Wicky held out her hands. “Help me up. We need to clean this mess before anyone sees it.”

“Make this work Wicky.”

“Look if the girl fails, Vamps will know its me.”

“There’s only one chance for this. I’ll get you the girl.”

Above the fireplace, the portrait flexed back and forth. The eyes blinked and then the eyes turned to their normal oil on canvas look.

Inside the walls, Francette pulled her face away from the canvas. It was like peeling off a mask. When attached to the painting, her face felt flat with her nose and its nose ring were streamed rolled flat against her skull. She wanted to feel her restored mouth, nose, and chin, but she was squeezed too tightly in the wall. She couldn’t get her arms to move up to her head.

The house began to squeeze her body. She was being pushed through the walls. She was the toothpaste in a nearly empty tube.

As her body magically squeezed passed wood beams inside the walls, she thought about what she had just seen. She did not want to get in the middle of this feud between vampires. Why did the house show her this?

She then realized that the trio of dumb maids were probably looking for her by now. They were probably going to do something stupid like ask the Amazonian ponygirl bitch where the head maid might be. She prayed the house would push her body out into the cellar soon. “Zut-zut maison. I need to get back the quickly. No?”

The house pushed her body slowly through the walls. Somehow her body and uniform were not scathed by the many passing nails and wood splitters. Still she squinted her eyes as the wood support beams and bits of plaster passed by her face.

She thought how she only had to survive one more week. It was just a few days till dawn on November 1st. But could she hold on that long with a murderous household staff like this? Would she be free of her feathers and the brass ring in her nose? Or would she be cursed to be a French ditsy maid forever?