The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The rigorous sun of Cairo is a friend to no one. Even the flying insects fall prey to it if they linger too long on a pale surface, crisping before they can gather their strength to take flight again.

Ah, but the night is everyone’s friend.

Mother Night is generous with her suckling breast. She comforts both the industrious and the slothful. She gathers up the shadows and conceals the sacred and wicked with equal calm. I love Mother Nut. Her sleek cool flanks excite me and make me sharp. I can move through cold iron when Nut is my dominatrix. I can taste the gold in a man’s billfold while the stars glisten overhead on Nut’s navel and hard nipples.

Yes, Mother Night is everyone’s friend, but she takes very few lovers. I am one of the Chosen.

I was back in Cairo on business. Cairo was a mix of bright metal office towers looming over the same streets where I had gotten drunk and vomited over nine centuries ago. Not like the cities of the West, where huge metal buffaloes waddle the streets at night spraying water from their flanks and spinning their circular brushes into their vacuuming internal lungs. The streets of cities should never be black gum smoothed over like pitch on the deck of a ship and painted with orderly lines. There is no decent purchase to the feet on a street of asphalt.

There was a certain joy in slinking about the old city taking in the sights and smells. I love the smells of a real city like Cairo. Humans. Dogs. Goats. There is a choice blend of smells for a connoisseur like myself. A wicked potpourri of waste and suffering and good energetic living that make my mind run faster and tightens my gut. There is nothing like it in the sin halls and sad bright streets of Paris, Singapore, New York or Buenos Aires. They are all too modern. Those cities stretch to exalt their streets to demonstrate power.

Cairo knows it can’t and shouldn’t care for its unwashed streets. Cairo isn’t pretentious. It feels more like home.

Which, of course, it isn’t.

No, Cairo is home to the Temple That Walks, She of the Voice of Unreason. The Vixen of my desires that plays my heart like a worn jungle drum.

I was in Cairo on business. I was also trespassing on the territory of the Temple That Walks, which among our wicked company of old shriveled Evils could get me killed. I cared but that didn’t stop me from coming to Cairo.

That was one of my many character flaws. My mouth watered just thinking about the Mistress of Cairo. Imagining her cool black hair. Her dusky perfect ass. Dreaming about her scent. Knowing that she would kill me or worse if she felt like it didn’t affect my judgment at all. Some folks think I’m stupid. Some admire my courage.

Actually, I’m mostly a coward. I happen to be connoisseur of the best poontang in the known world.

So sue me.

The Pyramids of Egypt are ugly and immense. I never liked them. I never knew what it was that people saw in them. Even back in the days when they were sheathed in marble and gold, they were just overdone crypts.

Today, they are like awesome warts of stone on a sensuous desert.

Bah! Sorry, generally I liked the excitement of change. Being in Cairo and avoiding my Desire, my Vixen, was making me cantankerous.

Mullah Habban met me at the southern face of the Great Pyramid at the twenty-third hour. “Ah, Madame Mischief, it has been too long. I’ve brought you a bottle of that Greek Ouzo that you like so much. If you have the Brazilian item, I have your payment.”

I smiled and handed over the bottle of sun lotion with the gem inside. “Ouzo? Really? Ah, Mister Habban, you shouldn’t have.” I waited for him to check his goods.

“I know, " he grinned after a moment of squeezing the lotion bottle, “but I like you better when you are drunk, Mischief. And if you have time, I have another job for you. Nothing brokered this time, something for me.”

“Ah?” I pretended to be only mildly curious; it was a social thing between us. He handed over my payment. I opened the soft bag and counted the diamonds under the moon. Better. Good. Yes, these were excellent.

“A girl, Mischief. A thoroughbred of a girl I would like to own.”

I tilted an eyebrow at him, “You know I don’t filch people, only property. Why ask?”

“Ah, but this girl is property. She is a slave. She is a ponygirl from a royal race stable that runs out of Yemen. I’ve lost my heart to her.” He sounded mournful. “She is here in Cairo for this year’s Valley of the Kings Race.”

Negotiating already. Hmmm. “Mullah, you don’t race girls, do you?”

He started, “No! Of course not! What kind of thief do you think I am? Times are hard but I am shamed that you would think this of me.”

“Just checking,” I waved away any insult, “I generally don’t do work in Cairo, as you should remember. I brought you the package because I wanted to do you a favor.”

I thought he could figure that was a lie.

“Of course, I understand, Mischief. I am a foolish old man who is willing to pay a lot for this slave. Ever since my own sons got married, I don’t see enough young melons, you see. My root withers.” He sounded like he was planning his funeral.

I laughed, “Spare me. Since you are talking to Talent here, I assume you are going to flatter me with a price? You know I should be leaving town, not helping an old friend?”

He nodded and pulled something out of his jacket, a couple photos, “The one on top is the girl. The second one is your fee.” He chuckled.

I sighed, we were playing games now, but it was fun. I looked at the picture. Distance of forty feet, Japanese, athletic and pulling a chariot, I looked again. “Say, this is the World Cup Japanese track star who was killed skiing last year. Young and a very nice piece of woman flesh. I’ll be damned.”

He scoffed, “Aren’t you already?” He chuckled. I laughed with him.

I looked at the second photo and my breath caught in my throat. Dog shit! The scepter and headdress of the Shrine At The Delta of Two Legs. I couldn’t think of a greater gift for my True Desire. My mouth watered just thinking about those antiquities hanging on the wall of the Closed Club. I imagined the compliments She might pay me as she admired her returned possessions.

I looked at him and waved the photos, “I accept your generous offer. How many days until the VK Race?”

His smile gleamed, his eyes bright, “Tomorrow at midnight. How can I help?”

I frowned, “Tell me about her owner and how she is guarded.”

“It will be nothing for your Talent,” he began. I motioned that we should walk back the way we had come. He had done his research. I listened.

I gathered my thoughts and my plans, made my arrangements with Mullah, and arrived with the gathering of night. The Hotel Alexandria was of the old style, perfect place for a Yemen prince who didn’t bow to expectations or try to flaunt his power in the more modern hotels. It was also a good place to keep a stable of slave girls discreetly. I watched the hotel for an hour, to make sure I understand the rhythm of the place.

Then I went up the side to the penthouse windows of the seventh story. The windows were alarmed with two systems. I disabled them and entered.

Complete darkness and quiet—but the smell of men and guns and tension told me it was a trap. I debated leaping backwards through the windows, but I’m a coward. Hitting the street from over a hundred feet up was not a sacrifice I was willing to make.

Strobe lights flashed, scorching my night vision.

I stood still while the footfalls of five men moved cautiously near me.

Not expecting to entertain gentlemen tonight, I was wearing nothing but my gray and black night-striped body stocking and hood with a single edged blade in my silk belt. The knife was removed from the sash. I blinked my eyes hoping I could see something soon.

“Do it.” Someone said.

I tensed. Three shots. Darts. I felt the burn of drugs. I smiled. In the language of my lost clan, I told them what I was likely to do to them someday soon. Not surprisingly, no one spoke the tongue.

“She doesn’t look like much. Skinny. She looks Indonesian or Pakistani. No great runners are Pakistani. The Valley of the Kings Race demands stamina that I don’t see in this one.” That was the voice of a Yemen prince from his diction and position in the room behind bodyguards.

“Honored One, do not be deceived. It is said that Madame Mischief can run like a greyhound and jump like a gazelle.”

Dog shit. That was true. It was a handy talent for a coward to be a fast runner. They were informed.

“How long does the drug take to work on someone this small?” The prince behind the strobes asked.

About two minutes, I figured from the burning sensation now in my neck and limbs.

“Two minutes, Honored One. Her mind should be yours to command now.”

“Step forward, Lady Mischief.”

I burned. I took a step. There was a general chuckle from the nine men in the room. The five warriors moved to allow me some more space.

“You must speak Arabic, Mischief. I am your Master. You are my slave girl. You will run the Valley of the Kings Race for me tonight and win.”

I burned. I spoke in Arabic in slurred tempo, “You arre my Masterr. I am your slave girrl. I will rrun the Valley of the Kings Rrace for you tonight and win.” There was a general murmur of agreement. Crap-hounds. Camel-lickers.

They came about me and stripped me of my shadowy stocking and hood, tearing the expensive material in a show of strength. They fastened me in harness of leather. The rubber bit went into my mouth with quick efficiency and it tasted of a woman from Indonesia who hadn’t used it in at least six weeks. I wondered if she were dead. Do they shoot used-up ponygirls? They pulled the harness tight about my head.

The strobes were shut off. The transparent nictitating membranes on my eyes retracted. I blinked as normal lights were turned on. The prince and his coterie came forward and pinched my muscles. They made an efficient hands-on study of my potential as a runner. They prodded my legs with fingers. One pulled hard on the highest of my right nipples, which immediately made me wet and aroused. Rough play always has that affect on me.

So sue me.

The prince at least met my eyes, “You don’t look like much. I may run the Asian with you, just to be sure.”

I found a crooked grin and put it on my brown hawk-nosed face despite the mouth-bit, “I don’t look like much. You may run the Asian with me, just to be sure.”

He laughed. I was impressed; he could tell I was making a joke.

He looked at a smaller fellow who smelled like a Thai. “We need to train her quickly while the drug is at full effect.” The prince received an immediate nod. So that was the Trainer.

Around me, two of the bodyguards and one of the warriors continued to slap my ass and pluck at me. The Nipple-puller had discovered that mine enlarge to three times their quiet state when abused. As each infidel touched my flesh, I touched them inside where I knew their hearts and minds were one state. I set their leashes in place in the Ancient way.

I spoke Arabic, “Now. I can’t stay all night. Stand very still, all of you.”

The prince nodded, “You can’t stay. We’ll stand very still.” He raised an eyebrow, peering at me as if to see how I was mocking him.

A murmur of disquiet spread. I quickly reached out for the four warriors who hadn’t fondled my flesh and therefore been touched by my will. The one behind I slapped with the Mantis stroke on his neck. He fell. The right two moved a little faster and one had my knife, so I took them next. A neck grip on one and then an elbow smash downed the other. The two remaining warriors were behind me now, one stepped back at my will as he had enjoyed plucking my nipple and I had leashed him. I balanced and swept kicked the last one. He crashed into the furniture.

Dog shit! He landed badly and broke his neck. Too bad.

I centered and turned about. “How many of you are expected at the race?”

All five shocked men tried to answer at once in three languages. I held up my hand, “Silence.” They were quiet.

“All raise hands who are expected at the race.” Two hands went up, the prince and the small muscled fellow who smelled of Thai food. “Good,” I looked at the Thai, “you are the trainer?”

“Yes. How are you doing this? Why is the chemical not rotting your brain?” He glared at me.

I ignored his stupid questions. “Fine. You two I need.” I raised my voice a hair as I pulled their leashes tighter. “None of you can describe me. None of you remember exactly what went wrong here.” I paused a moment and went about the supine warriors to make certain their minds were in accord with my wishes.

“All right.” I pointed at the warrior and two bodyguards; “You three will stay and suck cock until morning. These reviving men are your lovers until dawn. I want you to be real men and swallow their seed as they come in your mouths.”

Their faces twisted and paled. I saw that they understood and had silently agreed.

“You two—.” I paused for effect and watched the eyes of the prince and the trainer. The trainer whined in his throat. The prince smelled of fear but held his poise. “You two are my trained servants. I want you to pretend you are taking the Asian and myself to the race. We are leaving now for the Valley.” I pointed to the door.

Both men shivered and muttered, “Servants. To the race. Leaving now.”

They escorted me out of the room.

Mullah Habban met me at the southern side of the Sphinx at the twenty-third hour. “Ah, Madame Mischief, I had no idea you were interested in racing.” He studied my escorts before returning his eyes to my race harness and exposed skin.

I smiled, pulled off the headgear and gestured the Japanese girl to my side. “This is the girl. I’m afraid they used something on her mind. There may not be much conversation in her, Mister Habban.” I waited for him to check her over.

“Conversation is nice. I’ll look to her education in that respect.” He ran a hand over her muscled back and ass. He flicked a glance at my escorts. “I wasn’t planning on being identified, Mischief.”

The prince stepped closer to my side, “I have information that will buy my freedom, Madame.”

I eyed him, “Have your say. If I find it has value, I’ll release you.”

He smiled and pointed at Mullah, “This is the man who told us you would come for the girl. He told us of your athletic skill and gave us your life for a price.”

I looked at my Arab broker, “Is this so, Mullah, son of Ahmal, son of Haj?”

He lowered his eyes and then his head and sighed, “Yes, Ancient, it is true. I sold them the information and did some bragging about your skills.”

“Only some bragging?” I arched an eyebrow.

He sighed, “I told them you ran faster than a dog and could jump like a deer.”

I shook my head, “Well, I’m very angry. You know I run faster than any dog ever born and as for jumping—the King of Fleas can not jump as I can.”

Mullah smiled and shrugged, “I’m am very sorry, Ancient. I will do better next time. Perhaps you will allow me to use your words? I do like the King of Fleas bit.”

I nodded and looked back at the prince, “Sorry. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

He stared at me. His mouth opened but he had nothing to say.

“You will forget this man, Mullah, my boy prince. You will not remember him even if you meet again.”

His eyes looked wide and pained, “I will not remember.”

“Good boy.” I turned away. “Now my payment, Mullah.”

He led us to a hidden Range Rover. In the back was a small crate. He stroked the Japanese girl’s hair while I checked the goods. I replaced the packing material and closed the top. “Very good. I want the car, too.”

Mullah rolled his eyes to Mother Night above, “I am but a small man in a dark and dangerous world.”

I nodded, “Thanks.” I motioned to my boys, “Get in, we have a delivery to make.”

They did, of course.

We stopped at midnight in the city. I gave them instructions. They carried the crate from the car down the small street. Hidden amongst the regular establishments, down an unmarked alleyway and past the discolored sandstone archway was a plain door. Behind that particular door was one of Cairo’s best secrets, a nightclub called the Closed Club.

I sent my boy prince and trainer with my priceless gift for the owner of the Closed Club, not quite trusting to set foot near the place myself.

Oh, I wanted to. Desperately hungered to go and see Her, even if just to sniff at the Club’s interior precincts, even if to be refused or laughed at again. But in truth, I’m mostly a coward. I also happen to be connoisseur of the best poontang in the known world.

So sue me.

I dreamed about Her scent while waiting in the dark street. I tried to conjure up Her wanton smile, as it might appear when She saw my gift delivered. I played with my sex and built my figments.

I smelled the air of Mother Nut, taking deep breaths. I fingered my dripping arousal. I put one foot up on the dashboard and squirmed deeper in the old leather seat. I set my left hand to circling my nipples. I closed my eyes and pretended that my right hand was Hers. That She might touch me again as She had sometimes consented to tease my flesh in the past.

When was the last time? The riots here in Twenty-three? That long ago? It wasn’t important.

I leaned my head back and opened my eyes. My fingers danced below in soft sopping folds. The smells of the night were mundane and earthy. The wind softly oohed and aahed above me. The stars winked at my wicked spectacle.

I have nothing to attract Her. I’m homely. I cut my black hair close to my head. I have a nose that is like a great blade of rock pushed into my plain face. My high breasts are very slight. Which is better than the lower two sets which never really came in at all. What did the prince say? Yes, I’m skinny. Bones show at odd places. I’ve been mistaken for a boy with my clothes half off. The little Japanese runner was two inches taller than I was.

The Temple That Walks was a living Dream. I was a scruffy picaroon, an old Rat. Neither of those things would ever change. I licked my fingers and sighed.

Footsteps approached. I slid naked from the driver’s seat of the Rover. The Thai trainer came out of the darkness. His eyes were still wide with wonder.

I thought I had my answer in the missing prince. “What did the Lady say? Where is the prince?”

He focused on me and scowled, as if my face brought him back to earth from visions of paradise. “She says she forgives you for stinking up her city. She says you have free passage. She says she likes your gifts and will keep your prince and treat him well as a favor to you. She says you are not to enter her Temple.”

Not. I sighed and looked up at Mother Nut.

“She sent a gift,” He added.

My hand whipped to his ear and grabbed it tightly lifting him a bit off the ground as I pulled him close. “Yes?” I whispered. “Give it to me now!”

He lifted his hand and opened his fist.

I smelled it. Paradise. I stared and then smiled. Cheese. Cheese for the Rat. Old and very sharp and it was drenched in her Divine Lasciviousness. I let go of his ear. I smiled and gently pulled it from his hand. The viscous strands of wanton flavor I slowly licked from his palm.

“Drive, boy.” I walked around and climbed into the car studying my treasure. “Drive to the river where I may enjoy my succulent fortune in contemplation.” He took the wheel. I laughed as we drove off.

Ah, euphoria! Mother Nut laughed with me this evening. Did I not tell you I was Chosen?