The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Veins of Gold

(mc / mf / fd)

Description: A mystic of the desert, Ket’ia offers a lesson into the ways of her people, the ways of others, and the true powers of gold.

This is a work of fantasy, which involves magic, mind control, and sexual situations. If there’s any legality preventing you from viewing pornography, or you think you would find such a story offensive or inappropriate, please don’t read it.

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I have been told that the trading folk to the east of our lands, those that dwell on the coast behind their miles-high ramparts, have a saying about the bonds that tie them. ‘Veins of blood run deeper than veins of gold.’ It is a paltry phrase that fools would wield to swindle other fools into forging something they believe more valuable than gold and silver: a connection. A pact. A knot to bring two close and keep them there.

On the dunes of the Sel’het, we have a much better saying for this: ‘The closer the friends, the closer the daggers.’ To close the distance between individuals is to invite death into your home. It is to make yourself vulnerable, both to the friend that you thought you knew and to those that see your weaknesses. Those that walk the long roads of this desert, packs and animals laden heavy with goods and riches, they trust too much in that which they could never control. We put our trust in gold, instead, for three reasons.

The first: gold is a soft metal. It will not chip or shatter like brittle men can; rather, it will change shape, reforming itself, losing perhaps only its luster. It is malleable where men are not. It cannot be shaped into the point of a dagger, for it would only bend against one’s skin and turn on its owner instead. This is unlike blood, which is so fluid that we can die from choking on our own as the knife’s point reaches our lungs. We all aspire to the flexibility of gold in such a chaotic land as ours.

The second: gold is a durable metal. When the warlords, or heavens forbid, the Sel’haiat, ride into your village with screams of thunder and armaments made from lightning, bonds of blood and mere men will not save you. They will be beaten, broken, cut down or enslaved and worth nothing to no one. But gold? Gold will always have value. The shine of the metal is irresistible to even the mightiest Sel’haiat, and its accruement will always be their paramount goal. In this way, gold can save you, as gold will always endure.

The third: gold conducts power better than any blood can. The metaphorical power, where one can acquire whatever they wish and take from those blinded by its luster, yes. But that is the power of the poor girl, of the desert pauper with only one glittering morsel to their family name. The pauper whose mother gave her that stone, told her the legends of gold, the secrets it holds, the potential for it to be used. The girl who was forced to give that piece away in order to buy her own skin, to keep it from the most putrid man she had ever known.

I was once that girl. I saw gold as the westerners, the easterners, the southerners all see it: a currency, a barter, the means by which to achieve one’s true ends. But that is the secret that they miss. That metal is the end, should one learn how to wield its true power.

I am no longer the girl, you see; I am now a woman grown. The tumult of my years has taught me many lessons, and these that I tell you are the most valuable ones I know. Let me illustrate with an example, and should you not understand now, you will once it is finished.

Thirty years ago, I was that girl. I traded away my mother’s piece and had no gold to my name. Twenty years ago, I was a slave. My name and body were bought and sold by others’ gold, not my own. Fifteen years ago, I became a killer. I slaughtered the man who had purchased me, as he had become old, fat, lax, and comfortable in all his wealth. His gold became mine. Ten years ago, I was a trader. I spent my gold wantonly on goods and luxuries, bartering those for still more gold, but never letting any of the metal rest in my chambers for more than a day. Eight years ago, I was again a pauper. The movement of gold makes it shine beneath the light, and too much movement draws unwanted attention and unstoppable hands.

And when all else was taken from me, I was left with only the gold I wore: bangles about my arms, rings on each finger, anklets studded with gems, jewelry that pierced my ears and skin, the thread and chain which encompassed my lingerie, and the ring of a gleaming diadem. All of this was left to me, hidden beneath my shawl, as those who came for my riches were glutted on those they could see and had not the sense to search for that which they could not see.

Now it is five years ago. I had fled from that place and found a new home, a quiet village: Medrikesh. The people there were as simple and poor as I had once been, scrounging and starving for even a fleck of golden dust. I knew that I could hide there, wear my remaining wealth close, and live without fear of any greater reprisals. It was then that I met a woman, not unlike myself, had I less gold to my name—but she wore her riches openly, draped over her shoulders and hips so that it would jingle and flash whenever she took a step. I was amazed by this, how she could reveal both her body and her wealth so fearlessly, and I begged to speak with her so that I could learn her ways.

This was foolish of me. She could have taken all of my gold, the chains and the bands and the tassels, leaving me in the dust with nothing, like the rest of them.

But she did not. She heard my story, saw my state, saw my wealth diminished and she took pity on me. She taught me her ways, her methods, the same deep and dim secrets that my mother had once revealed to me, the things I had thought impossible to learn.

It is now three years ago. I have put these lessons to work, and Medrikesh is prosperous. There is water in our wells and food in our stomachs. The people smile. Some even wear chains of gold beneath their scarves. I lead the village now, and our wealth is small enough to hide from the warlords, but great enough to draw eyes from afar.

One can always tell when a westerner thinks himself clever. He will stand at the gates of your village, his light skin sizzling beneath your evening sun, his gloved hands against his sides while he grins and utters something in his incomprehensible dialect. He will bring his train of animals and all his cohorts into your town, requesting the most luxurious of lodgings from you: he thinks that you will think this is a blessing, when for him it is a bargain. Your village is far from the trade roads and all the tolls that they extract on their travelers. Here, he can avoid these fees, and the price of rooming comfortably in clay houses is minor to the cost of tariffs and sleeping on freezing sand.

He will tell himself, and all others, how clever he is. He will think that you and your people cannot understand him, and so he will smile to your face and tell you what a fool he thinks you are. And then he will drink from your wells, eat your meals, and leave your village with nothing but dust and trinkets come sunrise.

But if you are like me, you would do something else instead.

I let this man, and men like him, into Medrikesh. I allow them to enter and I make them comfortable, for they are not nearly as wise as they believe themselves to be. On this night, three years ago, the man had been so bold as to pantomime that he wished to stay in the largest residence in town. He wished to stay in my abode.

This was fortunate. Often I had to first convince them to lie beneath my roof, instead of within a much smaller domicile. Most travelers were unlike this one—they feared many things, when it came to spending an evening in the home of the village’s negotiator and de facto matriarch. The price, of course, was always a concern with merchants. Not to mention impropriety, offense, or the chance that their desires could get the best of them.

My home rose three floors into the air, with winding staircases and several rooms within. I placed him in the highest one, enduring his snickering, ignoring his words. I could not, and still do not, understand the tongue of the Damean kingdom. The syllables do not sit well within my ears; rather, they slide through my skull and pour out the other side of my head, with no meaning filtered out along their journey.

My servants carried his bags, and when they had finished I shut the door after them, leaving him alone in what he surely expected was my own room. Every inch of floor I covered in patterned carpets, from the ceiling hung veils of silk and silver chandeliers, and the walls were covered in ornaments, tapestries, sconces for brightly blazing candles. I am sure that he thought himself clever.

I went instead to the second floor, where behind a simple wooden door waited my true room. One lit candle hung from the ceiling, illuminating small idols of the goddesses, one carpet for prayer, a bed only large enough for one covered in a threadbare sheet, and a wooden dresser. By now, my art is as routine as prayer, but I still took time to still my quivering hands and calm my shaking thoughts. It was not nerves. It was anticipation. It was excitement. It was energy.

I traded my thickest shawl for what was perhaps my lightest; exchanging black for pale orange, thin enough to see the outlines of my gold beneath. I had learned to wear it at all times, now, not solely for safekeeping but also to use that energy. To be able to wield it like a dagger of my own. This meant I could leave the knife aside, when I chose to climb back up the stairs.

I eased open the door to find him lying on the large curtained bed; not facing toward me, but instead to the side with his head buried in a little book. I closed the door behind me and chuckled softly—he swung his neck around and jabbered something surprised at me.

I smiled. “Don’t be afraid,” I said, rubbing one of the room’s thinner veils between my fingers.

He said something else in reply. But as I have said, I could not understand his tongue—but I could understand his tone, his face, his body. He could not understand me, I knew, but he could see my face now instead of merely my eyes, and he knew I meant no true harm, just as I knew he was cautious and intrigued. His eyes held mine, but I could see how they sought to dip low and examine the curves of my form.

“Are these lodgings to your liking, my most honored guest?” I asked.

He did not know how to respond.

I knocked my fist gently against the ceiling, then spread the same hand around the room.

He knocked against the bedframe with a raised eyebrow.

I nodded.

He nodded, and spoke a curt affirmative.

“Good.” I drifted between the hanging layers of silk and smoke, indicating the center of my bosom with the same open hand. “I am Ket’ia.”

His eyes moved slowly down to my open palm, left and right to the swell of my breasts on either side, then returned to my waiting stare. He put his palm to his own chest: lean and bare, his shirt having been discarded before I entered. “Verda. Brenner Verda.”

“Verda.” I chewed the word out deliberately, saw the way he shivered as I spoke it. “It is my greatest pleasure to cater to you this evening, most honored Brenner Verda.”

He mumbled something with a similar sentiment. The caution in his gaze had melted to a state of general apprehension; he was not afraid of me, but rather, he was perhaps preemptively embarrassed by what images his mind was conjuring. Far from staying fixed to my eyes, his gaze was wandering now, twitching from my face to my shoulders, my waist and hips, and always the shape of my breast where my hand still sat, clutching the thin fabric of my shawl.

He was ready then. And with a deep breath, so was I. My lips opened to exhale a soft syllable of song, and my hand lifted, pulling the fabric of my shawl away to let his gaze settle on the bared skin of my cleavage.

He swallowed. Then, that clever smirk appeared, and he turned himself on the bedsheets to face me. To stare at my chest brazenly, and to beckon me to continue with a slow nod.

He was more than ready, I realized. So I began to sing. It was a song older than myself, older than the woman who taught it to me, older than Medrikesh, older than Verda’s kingdom. And the words were even older still. The woman taught me that they had been first spoken by the goddesses, that this song had first been sung to the oldest gods in the heavens. That this song had been sung for much more than mere pleasure.

For the gods of our land were tempestuous, rage-filled men, whose appetites were as endless as the Sel’haiat and warlords that they claimed as their progeny. The gods were the rulers, kings of the hundredfold heavens, lords over all that could be imagined. But they had never left the heavens. They had never moved from their thrones to crush the sands beneath their mighty feet, to bend the world to their divine command. They granted gifts to their warlords instead, those agents of chaos who wrought more destruction than seen anywhere else on the continent of Ephaos.

But why would rulers make lieutenants of men to do their bidding? Why would they not simply leave their heavens and do as they wished with their own hands?

Because their hands are occupied. Because their thoughts are occupied. Because a thousand years ago, and a thousand years before that, the goddesses of the heavens saw what madness the gods would wreak should they ever leave their thrones. They saw the ruin that would come to the world, and they sought to keep each god firmly in his place, never to do more than name his mighty subordinates.

This is why they sang. This is what I sang of: the song to sedate the gods. Sung from the lips of a hundred goddesses to still the minds of a hundred gods, to stiffen their bodies, to capture their emotions and ensnare their wills. The goddesses sang each day and night, filling the heavens with the most beautiful and enrapturing music ever once heard, bending the gods’ desires.

Those are the words that I sang to Brenner Verda. I told him of the many gods, their righteous ire, and the goddesses who stopped them. One woman for each man, one song for each pair of ears, one hundred bodies sat on thrones for a need to admire those songs endlessly.

Brenner Verda did not understand a word. But he did not need to. He only needed open ears and an open mind, and the magic I wore would translate as much as he needed. For I did not just sing for him; I danced for him. I swayed between silken veils, bending my body like the boughs in a full spring breeze. My hands unraveled my shawl, baring the curves of my body, the smoothness of my dark flesh. I revealed myself slowly, teasingly, drawing more and more of his attention with each syllable of song and each stanza of dance until I had gathered it all into my bosom.

I lifted the thin garment in one hand, watching his eyes watch it dangle, then let it flutter down to the floor. I had sung of song, but now that my gold was revealed, I would sing of dance.

The goddesses had worn gold, just like myself. They had gathered it from the earth to drape over their bodies: to make themselves more enticing, more inciting, more all-absorbing for the attentions of the gods. They danced as I had danced, tossing away their silks and veils, revealing the gleaming metals they wore beneath with each turn of their bodies. For the greed of the gods knew no bounds; they were hungry and lustful for that gold as much as they were for the goddesses’ skin and muscle.

And this is why the goddesses dance while they sing. They spin and twist and turn themselves around, floating like air around the gods’ golden thrones. Should the gods’ attention wander, a jingle of gold will bring their ears back to the song, and a flash of gold will bring their eyes back to the goddesses. They spin endlessly, sensually, longingly, making the gods ache for even a touch. Making their arms reach out, straining to touch one inch of flesh, before the goddesses twist away, leaving them empty-handed and reaching yet again.

In this way, the gods were first pacified, and remain so today. The goddesses sweat and strain to perform their eternal dance, but they are rewarded by our worship and exultation below.

Those are the words I sang then to Brenner Verda. And he did not understand the words, but he did not need to. For in those words were syllables of power, sounds of strength, snatches of the ancient tongue that bid him to heel. That bid him to listen. That bid him to stare.

That is the true power of the gold I wear. That is why I adorn myself so. For gold conducts power better than any blood can: the words thrum and reverberate through me, out from within me, past my meager blood and into the gold that wraps my arms, the rings that gleam on my fingers, the crown that encircles my head. The gold gives power to the song and the dance, to the flashes of light and jingles of metal, making them more than mere seduction, more than mere decadent enticement.

Brenner would not have known any of this. Instead his smirk slowly faded to a smile, and his smile slowly faded into an expressionless open mouth. His eyes tried to follow the swirls and twists of my dancing, first tracking my swaying breasts, then my swinging hips, then relenting to simply follow my waving hands that weaved through the air. But after so long, assaulted by the song and immersed in his senses, he could only stare, looking wherever the latest gold flash appeared against my skin. I could bend the light to dance with me, borrowing flame from the sconces on the walls to illuminate whatever parts I wished, wherever I wanted his attention to lie.

And as I swayed to the edge of the bed, opening the thin silk curtains to dance inches away from him, whatever thoughts he might have had had been lost long ago to the jingling rhythm of the bangles around my wrists, the tiny bells that circled my waist, the little golden disks that made a curtain between my legs. He stared at me, devoid of thought, absorbed by the twisting motions my fingers made before his eyes: wrapping and dancing together between our faces, flashing with light from every golden ring, blinding him with light and beauty while I climbed atop the bed and straddled his hard, already-leaking shaft through thin trousers. For while he was devoid of thought, he was hardly lacking feeling.

This part was not necessary, I knew, somewhere in the recesses of my mind. I could have simply whispered into his ear the commands he would obey, the things that I told all men and women like him who brought their wealth to Medrikesh. But as often happens, as I so often enjoy, I was lost in the rhythm. My own ears were not immune to the sweet words I sang, my own body was not resistant to the emotions and feelings that my dance inspired. I could feel the wetness, the need welling up inside of me, the desire and lust that had to be sated. The same as I felt while dancing atop him, sliding my sex back and forth atop him, ripping his trousers to ride atop him.

I heard the moan that issued from his lips, the words I couldn’t understand but that I knew meant ‘yes, yes, yes,’ the need that was flaming in his body and the impetus that drove him. Drove him to stir from his enchanted lethargy, fighting it to grip my buttocks in his hands and pull me down over him, to push me up again while his lips sucked at my collar and throat and jaw and chin and lips. While I danced with his tongue, danced with his body, the thrusts of his cock a new rhythm for lack of a song to drift to.

He was rough, powerful, grabbing hard and pulling even harder. And I needed it. And I needed even more. We danced faster together, and faster still, with my body bouncing against his as he touched and teased and groped and pleased and enjoyed every inch of my skin, every curve of my form, every twist and shake and slide of my dance until I heard him groan, felt him twitch and erupt within me. But I didn’t slow, I didn’t cease my dance; I rode even faster, harder, louder with my moans while his eyes stared at the crown on my head, while his body melted into bliss, while his mind was lost to the golden gleam of my diadem, while I came, awash with power, drowning in feeling, bellowing a perfect note of song into the world’s deep night.

It was only after I’d recovered that I saw he’d been enthralled once more. And the sheer simplicity of that moment of staring eyes and open mouth, of the magic I wielded with the gold I wore, nearly made me come again. But I saved that moment, savoring it, rubbing my lower lips while my mouth bent towards his ear, whispered the few phrases of his tongue that I had trained and retrained myself to know by heart now. And once the repetitions had taken hold, once I felt them settle in the depths of his mind, I retreated from his room and returned to my own, to lie in my bed and moan my pleasure beneath the pleased eyes of a hundred goddesses.

When I rose in the morning he was preparing to leave. But when he saw me, even in my thickest shawl, he instantly became overcome with thankfulness, bashfulness and generosity, offering coin from his purse to my hands and those others who had cared for his train and followers. And I could not understand his words, but I knew what he was telling me: he was so grateful for our hospitality that he would return this way on every trip through the desert, east and west, and would have more to offer from the bounties of his caravan each time.

Verda’s gold, and the gold of the other merchants who try and skirt the tolls by passing through Medrikesh, pays for those very same tolls. The Sel’haiat is a greedy man, and all debts must rightly be paid. But when a little more than necessary is provided for payment… there is no reason that it should not go to enriching our little village, or my little treasury.

This is the way that it has been, the way that it is, and the way that it will be. I implore you to aspire to be as the gold we all covet: flexible, enduring, and powerful. In this way, you will earn much more than riches—you will earn the peace and comfort that I have finally won, after so many years and so many travelers. I imagine that you will need far fewer to prosper.

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