The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: You Remember

(mc / mf / md)

Description: Caught in the act, thrown in jail, stripped bare and held by chains, Terezen finds himself slated for a speedy execution. But now you remember how he escaped, don’t you?

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.

A brief note: This is a story set in the same shared world of Ephaos as our other fantasy works. Each is meant to be readable as standalone, but for more context (or further interest), Spellthief Stolen would be a good place to start.

* * *

It is memory, now. Shared, alluring, wonderful. Magical. Tell me, do you remember?

Do you remember a cold, quiet interrogation room, in a constabulary office, in a town near a villa where I sat in chains, asleep under enchantment?

I remember. And so do you, I can see it. I see it in your blush, in the flutter of your eyes. In the way your breath catches. I can feel it in the tension here, and here, and in the wetness...


Mmm, yes, I feel that remembrance. I see you’re remembering again. You’ve remembered many times since that night.

Just as you remember on that night.

Do you remember how I start awake? It is a distant memory, isn’t it, one from a lifetime away. But I know that you can. I know that you do.

You remember, how I shake off the sleeping spell like water after a rain. How I blink a few times. How there’s a bright light, a shadowy silhouette. I remember that clearly.

My voice croaks a bit. Hoarse. “Is it...” Do you remember, I slept with my mouth open, and I’m dry, parched. I try to lift my hand towards the table in front of me, only to hear a rattle. And I feel that cold, familiar restriction on my wrist. My eyebrow rises quizzically, despite the pain in my head.

“Chains?” I rasp, trying the other hand. “Is that really necessary?” I shiver a little, making the links clatter, and letting me assess my body; I’m not injured, not seriously, but I’m also... well, you remember.

I chuckle and clear my throat. The half-whisper of an unused and unhealthy voice emerges. “I would think that even a condemned man ought to be afforded the dignity of a loincloth.”

Only a shadow answered me. “Your state of dress should be the least of your worries, Terezen.” A woman’s voice, and a low one. “I’m sure you know that the crown hates to take chances.”

And it’s you. Do you remember? I remember that beautiful, calm, deadly quiet voice.

And you don’t move. Your silhouette stands in the middle of that bright light. I can’t tell—and who could?—if it’s an enchantment to hide your appearance, or just a ridiculously bright light.

“Confess what you’ve done,” you demand, “and this can all be taken care of quickly and easily. No harm will come to you.”

Do you remember your voice? Your tone? Commanding. Controlling. It gives me shivers. Yes, even now.

I take a moment, then, to listen and to think. It’s no one I know, unless the voice is disguised in the spell as well. “If the crown didn’t want me to talk, I would be dead now,” I say, careful, guarded, “so I have some information that the crown wants. As for no harm coming to me, somehow I doubt you can make that promise.” The edge of a smile plays around my lips. “I expect that you will turn me over to some other authority, and that the Crown will have me executed.”

“You’re right,” you say, surprising me some, “they probably will kill you.” And here I sit, expecting some promise of clemency, some leniency if I co-operate. “But you aren’t dealing with the crown just yet. You’re dealing with me.”

You step to your right, and the light follows you, keeping you hidden. “I’m here to get what they want. You can make that easy or difficult for yourself. You’re already dead, Terezen. You know it, and so do I.” You shrug, impassive. “You just get to decide what happens before the gods realize it, too.”

I shrug back, causing my chains to rattle. Arms and legs, I note. Nice. The chair seems solid, too. “I’ve been dead before,” I say, nonchalant. “The reason I keep getting work, dead or not, is that I don’t talk to the likes of you.“

“I don’t need you to talk to get the answers I’m here for.” You move to sit across from me, and the light vanishes. You look so formal, so strong. Black hair pulled back, a dark coat with accents of gold, deep blue coloring the lapel. No insignia, no royal marks, nothing at all to identify you beyond your rank. And that cool, critical gaze, a perfect match for the uniform. I remember. So beautiful, taken in its entirety. “I’d simply prefer it if you did speak, to save me the trouble.”

Your uniform makes me give my head a shake and give you a low whistle. “A crown inquisitor. I have definitely attracted attention.” I meet your gaze, ice-blue eyes showing nothing but confidence in a long-practiced expression. In truth, while I’m confident, that confidence isn’t absolute; it would seem that I’m at a deep disadvantage. Do you remember your confidence? “It might save you the trouble if I talk, but think of all the fun you’ll miss out on.“

“I can’t imagine your goal was merely attracting attention, Terezen.” You sit back, retrieving a leather-bound book from a pocket and opening it to a page at the middle. “You were found inside the Duke of Alfir’s villa, and very near to his personal chambers.” Your eyes turn up to meet mine again. Such stunning green eyes. “What were you doing there?”

You have an inquisitor’s technique of asking a question like you already know the answer, as though you’re just testing me to see if I was going to say anything truthful at all. It’s delicious.

I manage a false blush, warmth even in the chill. “Oh, well, you see, that’s rather embarrassing. I’ve been carrying on a while with the Duke’s mother, and we had agreed to meet in his personal bedchamber. You know, the spice of danger and all that.”

You don’t react—and why would you? You expect me to say something like that. You know much about me already, don’t you. I can feel your cool assessment of my words even as they leave my mouth. “I would prefer, as well, if you kept your flights of fancy and falsehood to yourself. I’ll ask again,” you lean forward, just an inch, barely worth noticing, and I can feel a hint of something catch my attention for a moment. Something magical. “What were you doing there?”

Oh, so it begins. Well then. “I’m sorry, inquisitor. Did I say the Duke’s mother? I meant yours. And,” I offer a smirk, “I don’t particularly give a fuck what you prefer.”

You exhale, twisting your left hand in the air. Yes. Just like that.

The manacles tighten around my limbs, wrists and ankles both, and I shudder from the chill.

“Must you make me do this?” you say in put-upon exasperation, “You don’t have anything to hold out for. There’s no reason to make this more difficult than it has to be.”

My sigh is visible in the cool air, a brief mist of breath and thought. My gaze rises to the ceiling. “Who hasn’t heard it from cruel fathers, boorish husbands, violent police. ‘Why do you make me hurt you?’ they all ask. They all ask.” I look back down to you. “Inquisitor, by...” I pause a moment and guess that it’s the evening, “...tomorrow morning, I will be dead, or gone from here. You can either make my very short stay here pleasant, or miserable, but that’s up to you. You’ve got from me everything that you will. Unless you plan to toss aside that coat and anything you’ve got under it and ride me until the force of our bodies smashes this chair to kindling, we’ve got very little to discuss.“

You give me a slow, expressionless blink, and again that hand twists. A convulsive chill passes through me. I can feel it now, it’s wonderful.

You look down to your little book. “You were found inside the Duke of Alfir’s villa,” you say once more, and the spell takes hold of me. You remember watching the image of the palace spring into my mind’s eye, I can see that. “Very near to his personal chambers.” Another shiver, rattling my very bones, and I see the scene paint itself.

And now, your piercing question. What you really want to know. “What were you doing there?”

I grit my teeth, and strain shows on my face. “I told you,” I say, all pretense of jocularity dismissed in a flash as I resist the image, the spell. “We’ve nothing to discuss. You do not want to go down this path with me, inquisitor.”

A smile comes to your lips, no doubt because of the change in my tone. “Oh, I think that I do, Terezen. Once again, now.” You recite it once more. The spell is recast, redoubled, pressing into my flesh and into my feelings. “You were found inside the Duke of Alfir’s villa, and very near to his personal chambers.”

Again, the chills, and again, images flash in my mind, images of that night.

“What are you doing there?”

“The Duke,” I say, every muscle in my body fighting to keep the images down and the words back, as though my physical effort could contain your beauteous magic, your wonderful enchantments, “holds important... vital... meetings... in that room. Not... not the bedchamber.“

I walk through the corridor, towards the end of the hall where the architectural plans I’d stolen show the hidden room. I hold in my hand a small, dull gemstone, one of many items you will confiscate. “A listening device,” I say, before... before the image goes black. I wince; I hear, but don’t feel, the blow to the back of my head. I am careless, overconfident, too trusting in my power, and am hurting for it.

You watch it with me, unfolding in your own mind, seeing my steps, counting the torches mounted on the walls, the gemstone weighing in my hand, and the sudden, sharp blow that floods the image with black. You’re startled, and you think I can’t tell.

You are nodding as my vision returns, the recollection of the blow explaining the pain still in my head. Your quill is floating over the book, jotting your notes, recording what I can only imagine are your observations and my words.

I’m sure you remember it well.

“Let’s see here...” you murmur, flipping between pages as I recover from the image. The room isn’t supernaturally cold, not anymore, just... uncomfortably cold, especially for a naked, shackled man. Despite that, beads of sweat emerge on my forehead, enough to curl around one stray lock on my temple, sweat from the effort taken in trying to keep you from my mind.

“Not...” I take a breath, “not sporting, inquisitor. Not in the least.” I roll my wrists and ankles to the extent that I’m able, trying to relax, trying to relieve the pain from where they had strained against the manacles, in my futile efforts to escape your rapturous spell. My words are joking, but my tone is upset.

All while you give a simple shrug, scanning your page, not even bothering to look up. “I don’t enjoy it much either, Terezen, but this is how it’s done.”

And that is when you turn to a page of unanswered questions, and you glance at me before reading off of it. “It was a foggy night on the east side of Alfir, several witnesses reported that it was so thick, they had difficulties finding their front doors. You took advantage of the weather to gain entry to the villa,” you meet my eyes again, finally, that I might gaze into that beautiful green depth, “didn’t you?”

A hint of cockiness returns. “Imagine yourself a thief, inquisitor. Wouldn’t you use such weather conditions to the best of your advantage, if you were going to sneak in to a guarded villa?” I stretch my neck, feeling several pops as I do so.

The magic is set free on me again; the chains tighten, the cold sinks in, the images begin to stir.

I see myself walking the street as you once more describe the scene. “It was a foggy night on the east side...” I’m striding through what must have been the thickest part of the fog. Bewildered denizens pass by, searching confusedly, paying me no mind. You’re repeating your previous question dimly through it all, as though your gentle but firm voice were no more than a breeze vainly trying to dispel the darkness, and finally through the mist I hear you conclude, “...didn’t you?”

I set my jaw again, but the images emerge. People, confused, lost, in their own village, but not frightened. Calm. I, clearly an outsider, greet a guard, who has no memory of having seen me. I ask directions from a servant, who gives me his precise route to the entrance in the kitchens, information he wouldn’t normally just impart to just anyone, information he doesn’t remember giving to a stranger he doesn’t remember meeting. I take a deep breath of the fog, feeling its magical edge, the electricity in the air, and for a moment I lose myself in it, let it overwhelm me, confuse and baffle me, to check its force, before returning to my senses and... and brushing aside those images from my memory.

I see your brow crease, see your quill scribbling quickly. You flip a few pages. You had assumed it already, naturally, because you’re an excellent inquisitor, although I can see your confusion at remembering like a thief. You’re used to thinking like the police, not like the criminal.

You’re still holding me within the cold of your magic, and you’re talking again. “Almost all of the villa’s dwellers reported a kind of confusion regarding the night’s events. What do you have to say about that?”

I chuckle. “Only that... that if you had been there, you would have felt it, too.”

There is fog, the image of fog, the memory of it. You remember it even now, fresh, new. A certain young woman, ambitious, eager, rising through the ranks quickly, standing in the memory of the fog, black hair, dark coat, gold accents... and green eyes, peering off in to the distance, uncertain, but unafraid.

You blink. I can tell that you see the fog. I can tell that you are feeling the fog.

A twist of the spell melts that image, refocuses it, and once more we’re strolling down the street among the confused walkers, in the thick of the mist. Your voice has an edge to it. “You conjured the fog, didn’t you?”

I laugh. “You honor me, inquisitor, if you think I have that sort of power or understanding. Weather is a very complex thing, I’m told.”

“Then you harnessed it,” you press, ice cold air creeping over my naked body. “You controlled and manipulated it with magic.”

You remember, as do I.

The image returns of my taking a deep breath of the fog, feeling its magical edge, losing myself in it for a moment, in the confusion, letting my mind slide into the fog. I shake my head. I’m used to this feeling, at this point. By the time my mind is clear, though, I’ve already spoken. “Added a spell on top of it,” I say, before I can shut myself up.

You nod. The quill makes a note. I can see your mind working, taking a new approach, flipping through pages of the book. “The following day, no one had any recollection of your details, not even the guard who apprehended you. Except for the court wizard, that is. How did you come to know them?”

I put on an obviously false air of confusion. “How did I come to know to know my details, or how did I come to know the court wizard?” I level my gaze at you, and you can see from my smile that I’m deliberately wasting your time, the only luxury truly afforded a man in my situation.

Your glare turns as icy as your spell. What a look! I think it would knock me dead on the spot if it could, don’t you? You’re not amused. It’s cute. “How did you come to know the court wizard?”

You call an image to mind, out of myself. A knock on a door of an isolated house, down near the lake. A beautiful vista. A friendly hand in yours, a turn, a smile, as we stand by the court wizard’s cottage together. The memory isn’t sensible, but it feels real, doesn’t it? We wouldn’t know each other, but there we stand on the stoop, waiting, hand in hand.

The door opens, and I’m alone once more on the step; I smile and meet her gaze, this new, amber gaze, and she gasps, and greets me as an old friend, which is, of course, ridiculous, as ridiculous as if you had been standing there with me. My fingers play over an old coin from a foreign land, tracing the familiar imprint of the face of a distant and long-dead king and the text of an ancient inscription as we discuss the weather, our work, our interests, our lives, and my hold on her mind grows deeper, and deeper...

You can feel it unfold, you can see it play out. You bend the spell, you recall the memory again, searching for details. Standing at the cottage, standing on the step, meeting the gaze, feeling the coin, feeling the hold growing deeper.

“You enchanted her,” you say, seeing the scene a third time even as you try to pull your focus away. I can see you trying to recall if that coin was among my belongings. But I remember where the coin is, do you?

My fingers unconsciously trace the memory of the coin even now, meeting your eyes. “You ought to see it, inquisitor. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t even think to resist.” I keep the image fresh in my mind. “Our eyes meet, the spell crosses between us, and...” I chuckle.

“... she should be trained,” you murmur, and meet my eyes through the fog of memory. “She is trained. How do you subvert her defenses?”

“You don’t understand,” I smile, as the memory of the evening progresses. “This... isn’t the night in question, you realize, not the night you’re asking about, not the night I was in the duke’s residence.” Wine is produced, poured, sipped, approved of. “But a few nights before.” I sit down in a chair, facing you, as you sip at your wine. “I don’t subvert her defenses, inquisitor. I don’t have to.”

We share a smile, she and I, a knowing, careful smile. “She wants to be taken. Wants to be enchanted.” She is about as far from me as you are, at about the same angle. You’re flushing at the taste of the wine, perhaps at something else, too.

A shiver runs through you, and not just with the cold of the room. “She works with you.” You frown, as I pour her another glass and you take a slow drink. “Why?“

“Watch,” I say. “You will find out.”

My fingers continue to play with the coin as she sips at her glass and nervously rises to her feet, blushing as her hands move to the belt of her dress...

You’re blushing, too, like an academy girl on her first private, secluded walk with a beau, away from prying eyes, with a certainty of what is to come. Is it the afterimage of the memory? Or the feelings it stirs all on its own?

You remember. How she feels. How I feel. How you feel. My hand in yours, the warmth of a summer evening, the depth of the look between us. You remember the kisses. The caresses. You feel every touch, every halting breath, every delightful gasp, every curious whisper and dangerous word and every inch, every glorious inch, every magical instant spent in that bed...

“You enchant her,” you repeat, trying to wrest control back, “before the night in question, but on the night in question, you...”

... meet her the lakeside. She conjures up a warm wind, as the memory roils up from within me, beautiful and gentle and, most importantly, damp, to meet the cool air, to deepen and intensify the fog, while I weave confusion into the mists, laying magic through the cloud, my fingers toying with the old coin. We share a brief kiss before the fog surrounds her, clouding her mind. I whisper directions in to her ear as she turns the wind towards the town and disappears into the fog, stumbling towards her home. Confused, but unworried. Like the villagers.

I walk through the deep fog, arm in arm with... I smile. “Plessa,” you say, as I ask your name. The fog is dense from the wind and the magic, deep and full but not unpleasant. You’re glad to have an arm in your own, a smile to meet your own. A few bewildered denizens pass us by, searching around, paying no mind as we stroll down the middle of the street. Glad to take a deep breath of the fog, feeling its magical edge, the electricity in the air, and for a moment you...

You blink. No, this isn’t the right memory. It’s not the memory you want. You know this already.

The confusion on your face is deeply arousing.

You stand up from the table, hands drifting to the belt of the dress, adorable, nervous blush on your face, never looking away from my eyes as my fingers play over the coin and the wine warm in your breast. This is the one you want to see.

“She wants to be taken,” I say. “Wants to be enchanted.”

“No,” you say, as the fog swims back in to view, but it’s not clear what you’re denying. Fog, cottage, lakeside, villa, fog, you’re unsure, you’re in the fog, and if you were there, and you are, you’d have felt it, and you do. You see yourself stepping inside. The constabulary. You’re in the constabulary.

“I warned you, Plessa, that you didn’t want to go down this path with me, do you remember?” I smile kindly to you, and, without noticing, you nod agreement. “She falls because she wants to fall. You fall now, because...”

... because she wants to fall. The memory quivers; you see yourself reaching for your belt again, at the same time as you step into the darkened chamber where your prisoner was being held. Adjusting the buckle of your belt, the buttons of your coat, the state of your focus while you take a drink of wine. You’re in the constabulary, you remember it. You’re in control.

“Because you want to be,” I whisper. I call to mind a memory, that is presently a fiction; you, walking across the room, producing a key from your coat, unlocking my chains. You are in control. I am merely a chained prisoner, naked, handsome, aroused, arousing. It is memory, a memory of victory.

You shake your head, feeling the key slipping into each lock, releasing them in order. You try to focus on the why of the memory, and you realize that it’s because you’ve succeeded. Of course you’ve succeeded. You breathe. Your shoulders relax, your lips smile, your mind calms itself. You unlock the chains because you’ve succeeded, because I’m to be taken away.

In the memory, your hand reaches in to the pocket of your coat, and finds a coin, old, worn. Somehow you decide it’s important, important enough to have on your person. You take it from my belongings, from the box of my personal effects, when no one is looking. But now, you idly pull it from your pocket and put it on the table, as though it had no purpose, no meaning, just a piece of trash in your coat.

It isn’t important anymore, not to you. You step back from it, replacing your hand in your pocket, turning your eyes to the prisoner rubbing his loose wrists. “You’ve been very helpful, Terezen,” you say, because it only makes sense. I tell you what you need, so you unlock my chains.

“And you, Plessa,” I say, picking up the familiar coin. Always it comes back to me, its touch familiar and lovely. Warm, from your body. “Are there guards protecting this room?” My finger runs along the edge, feels the heat of it.

“Of course there are,” you nod. “This is the most secure room in the constabulary.” Just another memory, and you’re smiling in it.

“Excellent,” I say, reaching up to touch your cheek. “You can help me escape, then.”

You blink slowly as my hand caresses you. It feels real, but all the truest memories do... but why has this happened? And when? You try to think back; sitting across from me, holding the book, controlling the flow of power...

“She wants to be taken. Wants to be enchanted,” I whisper in your ear. Memories of fog drift through your mind as the coin in my hand grows warmer still. You want to be taken. Want to be enchanted. Your thoughts drift back to the hand on your cheek, the sudden warmth in the air.

“You enchant her,” you whisper, and you begin to feel the spell working on you, the spell which you remember from a lakeside cottage.

I nod. “I’m enchanting you,” I say, kissing your cheek. “You want to be enchanted, after all.”

“I want to be enchanted,” you repeat, and the memory of it grows in strength. It’s all a memory. It’s all already happened. There’s no way to fight it, no reason to. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t even think to resist. It has already happened, what is there to resist? It is past, and the past doesn’t change, it is only...


You watch my face in the memory, watch my face in reality, and feel the spell circling around you in both.

“Then the dress comes away,” I say, nodding, hand stroking your hair. “And do you know what happens next? Do you remember?”

You shake your head slowly, too absorbed in this memory to conjure another. Your hand is on your belt buckle, your senses dull with wine, muddled with fog, your face lit with an adorable, nervous blush.

“She helps me. After a time, of course.” My fingers stroke your arm. “We plan, and scheme, and execute. And now, I think she will help me again.”

Quivering turns to nodding. Your fingers tug at the buckle, loosening it. Book and quill have long been forgotten on the table.

“With every piece of the uniform that falls away,” I say, very close to you now, “a piece of the inquisitor falls away, leaving only Plessa, very soon.”

The belt tumbles to the floor, your hand sets down the wine glass, and buttons peel apart one after another. She wants to be taken. Wants to be enchanted. You remember the inquisitor undressing herself, letting the coat fall away, letting the magical focus around her neck gleam in the light. A small, silver, circular charm.

“But not that,” I say. “Never that. That will be needed.”

A touch, light as a feather, traces around the chain of the necklace.

“It is Plessa who wields the inquisitor’s power now.” I chuckle. “You remember.”

“I remember,” you hear the inquisitor say, feel her lips move as she remembers sliding free of the pants, the shirt, the restricting undergarments. Plessa sees it all, feels it all, remembers it all, and then your eyes open.

Vacant, addled by magic, you stand naked over the heap that was the inquisitor’s garments. The heap that remains of the woman you shed to bare your true self to me.

“Do you understand now?” I ask, my voice full of kindness, and a certain breathlessness. My hand caresses your shoulder, gently. “Do you understand, Plessa?” Layers of meaning flood the question.

“I understand.” Your voice is calm, not confused. Confident. “I help you escape.” You smile and breathe in the warmth and freshness of the present. You remember this, after all, and so you must already be doing this, there is nothing to change, nothing to resist; it’s only memory. It is only memory, and even now, you cannot resist it, can you?

“Good.” I wrap my arms around you and pull you in for a deep, passionate kiss. You feel the warm coin in my hand pressing against your spine, a pleasant feeling; you feel my hardness pressing against your hip, even more pleasant. Warmth floods you, heat floods you, our tongues dance together. You moan softly as our bodies meet, your hips slowly twisting and grinding against mine.

“Now?” I ask, pulling back. “Here? Or after we escape?” My fingers dance over your spine as I press closer.

“Anywhere you want me,” you lilt, winding one hand around my back as the other closes around my member in a warm, delicate grip. And I know that you mean it.

I am tempted, deeply, but... “Let us flee from this place, and head for the woods, until we are free from danger.” I mutter, pulling you very close indeed, one hand on your backside.

“Yes, Terezen.” You nod, removing your hands and standing still, compliant as my arms slide free of your body.

“Tell me, how we escape,” I say, taking your hands in mine, looking deep in your eyes.

You recite it all, as if from memory. Because it is memory, is it not? You lead me through the doors. You overpower the guards. You delude and shield us from any who would cross us. You already serve me, don’t you?

I smile at you, meeting your eyes, seeing it both then and now. Seeing the perfection of your service. “Keep me safe, Plessa.” I give you a light kiss on the lips.

“Yes, Terezen.” You remember to smile and squeeze my hand, before rapping three times on the door, and summoning the blinding beam of light.

You remember a thought, that all they will find of the inquisitor is a pile of clothes and an old, worn notebook, when they search the room. The inquisitor was nameless. And the inquisitor is gone. Only Plessa remains.

You remember what no one else will, how we walk unchallenged from the constabulary office and, naked, into the night.

You remember comfort, safety. You remember the touch of my hand, the taste of my lips, the feel of my body, a villa by the lakeside, standing on the stoop, hand in hand, greeting an old friend. A place to hide. And more than that, a place to celebrate.

It is memory, now. Shared, alluring, wonderful. Magical.

Tell me.

Do you remember?

* * *