The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The desert night stretched around, far and wide. Icy winds snaked among the dunes, shifting the eternal sands with impatience as a storm rumbled in the distance. The escorted caravan was camped a mere hour’s march away. The men would barely make the citadel by mid-day, even if they stirred themselves before sunrise.

But Ahma-al-Yusuf-Durr-Mehbeh had no thought for them, or for himself. His knees plowed the soft ground under his naked form, the fine silk and steel that had adorned him littered haphazardly in the shallow valley of sand behind him, a trail that marked his ascension and attested the overwhelming ache of his desire with every discarded piece of clothing.

The grin that now twisted to bare his teeth was frozen in a grimace of lecherous indulgence, and he arched his back, as if rising from the morning prayer, to proudly display the throbbing pleasure of his rigid flesh to the ethereal creature that had summoned him in this place.

The very eyes of desire are watching me, he thought fleetingly.

They were round and smooth, filled with the glow of the blood moon hanging far above, among the smiling stars. He grunted like a stallion as fire scorched up his throbbing organ, her stare caressing him like a courtesan’s practiced hand. Her smile became soft, her lips forming a silent bidding that willed his fingers to life, impelling them around his unyielding flesh.

She gathered her dark robes, as if moving with the shadows around her. The air sizzled around him as she hovered closer. Musings scurried in his brain as he struggled to understand the passionate madness that had possessed him.

He thought her a spirit, a Djinn perhaps. The fire of her hair blazed far too unnaturally as it tumbled down the arch of her bronzed shoulders, her features an eerie blend of Saracen and Frankish loveliness. She glided across the sands as if she owned them, her strides brazen and long, her legs rising from swirling folds to feed the maddening stroke of his hand. His eyes widened painfully, and every muscle of his frame grew taunt as she floated before him.

“The Moon calls to you to me, Ahma. You had no choice but to answer. Have others followed you?”

The warrior swayed on his knees as she spoke, enflamed by the sound of a voice more divine that Gabriel’s to the very ears of the Prophet. His grip tightened to choke the overflow of his yearning. Though accustomed to the harsh kiss of crusader swords and spears, he mewled like a frail kitten as she lifted a leg, and stroked the length of his shaft with the inside of her calf.

“I... dismissed all sentries... left my steed b-behind... no one f-followed—”

The struggle of his speech pleased her more than the admission itself. Her hand rose and caressed the dark flow of silk between the rise of her breasts, tracing precise shapes that leashed his attention. Bulging muscles strained to freeze his neck in place, while he made rutting noises in the back of his throat.

“The Moon and the River have brought us together, Ahma. You have led your men well, and soon they will know the comfort and safety of your uncle’s citadel.”

The night swallowed the last of her words in a gust of wind, but they filled his mind regardless. He could not stop to marvel at this, her naked toes brushing his rigid member once again, tendrils of seething desire seizing him, coursing in him with fiery heat carried by his pounding blood.

“You are Sahyid. Lord and Master. Your word is respected and unquestioned. No one will dispute your good fortune in falling upon the remnants of a lost Frankish escort seeking to return a lost nobleman’s daughter to the security of Acre.”

She admonished him softly, her every syllable knowing his sweeping assent. His hips jerked involuntarily as her will scorched into his mind. Memories of Edina, of his wives, of the peaceful gardens of his home past the distant Euphrates, memories of his children... all were consumed like a handful of branches from desert shrubs thrown into a blazing fire.

His very being existed to serve her pleasure, the knowledge bringing tears that flowing along cheeks parched by the merciless desert. He followed her audacious hand as it slithered downward, parting her robe with divine splendor to reveal the smoothness of her belly. Under it, shadowed depths thrived between her thighs. A golden chain hooked around the lush swell of her hips, attached to the navel ring that gleamed with wicked promise.

A cry of frantic longing as ancient as the bleeding moon escaped his lips.

“A fine prize, for your uncle’s house,” she moaned in the night air, her fingers playing lewdly in the petals of her flower, with lechery to shame a thousand whores. “Surely a lord of your renown will not suffer the protests of men who would only think of auctioning a prisoner to collect slave bounty?”

Ahma grunted his mindless approval, his loins aflame with need. She sensed it and drifted forward, her hips swaying closer and closer, her fingers continuing their depraved dance. Her scent drove all reason from him, his lips trembling in anticipation of a taste of her passion. Teeth drew blood on his lower lip when she halted, the biting pain forgotten in a swift moment as a rush seared the hairs of his beard. She lowered herself upon him with breathless grace.

Her panting burned against his cheek while he slowly slid into her. She was wet for him, soaked with desire.

He made soft animal noises to match her own.

“...Yesss... let me be your fine priiiiize, Ahma”

The crimson moon bloodied the sand around them. She rose and fell effortlessly upon his pulsing shaft, coaxing him for the flow of his seed. His desperation for release became frenzied as he struggled against her slow rhythm, but she thwarted his pathetic attempts to ram hurriedly into her with a forward lean that forced him back on his palms.

He coiled fists into the sand, gasping when she took him to the hilt. Her lips traced soft kisses down his neck, feeling out the pulse hammering against his skin to the beat of his thrusts. She stroked the back of his neck with the sharp edge of her long nails, guiding his mouth to hers, wallowing in the salty taste of his blood and bearing down on him with complete abandon.

He came up for air when she deigned to release him, and stared up at the heavens, life and will draining from him, creeping blackness filling the edges of his sight. His stiffening sinews were surrendering to her every whim, the merest twitch of his body now matching the strange dance of the nails biting into the skin of his neck.

“Give yourself to me,” she spat hoarsely.

His limbs hardened and he unleashed a primal cry as the burst of his seed filled her womb, the heavens exploding in his eyes. Her searched madly within himself in that moment, eagerly, despairing for a fragment of his free self, untouched by her spell. Something to offer on the shrine of her power over him.

But there was nothing left to give.

The citadel loomed near the shores of the Yamuk river, a speck of polished sandstone against the rugged peaks jutting from the desert.

It raised staunch walls towards the skies, untouched in six years of crusader scourge. Its open gates now welcomed travelers and faithful followers of the Crescent, with little worry of assault so far east of the stronghold of Tyre, where the Rampant Lion they called Richard licked his wounds.

The garrison thus busied itself with matters of escort and security, rather than siege defense. The warren of corridors and chambers had been stripped of stored weapons, replaced by bright banners and silk. Open courtyards within the citadel were filled with the blithe chatter of attendants, while pilgrims and merchants alike basked in quietude amongst marble fishponds and tended gardens, taking rest for a few days before resuming their respective journeys. The cries of exotic fowl rose up excitedly through foliage, so thick in some places it obscured the gilded edifices safely protected by the battlements.

It was an oasis of serenity, and Emir Al-Zahir-Durr-Meheb, master of the lands in name and law, had fought hard to keep it thus.

Long years of battle, against Byzantine and Franks alike, had left him wearied, eager for a peace only the desert could afford him. He shifted restlessly upon his seat as the distant drumming neared the entrance to the council chamber, and he was bitterly reminded of the howl of thunder that roared in mountains on the horizon, when moisture hung heavy in the air, and the coming storm was fast approaching. His convened entourage huddled around him like nervous children near a father of furious disposition. No doubt they had heard of his displeasure at the news of the prisoner brought by his nephew Ahma.

Beard of the prophet, how he would teach his brother’s son a lesson! Glory was best left to those willing to tolerate its misfortunes. Salah-al-Din, pillar of the Faith, stood ready to challenge the infidel all across the land, Al-Zahir knew the Frankish mind was a peculiar one, rising up from near defeat to lash out from great distances at the news of besmirched honor. The slightest threat of such unwanted attention made him seethe in quiet rage.

El-Hedar, to his far right, stood stiffly, careful to keep his long facial cast as unreadable as his many tomes of astrology. Afdal, the master-of-arms, showed no such discipline, leaving a large, knotted hand to roam tensely along hilt of a gleaming scimitar. Around them, attendants and servants clamped their mouths shut and took great pain to busy themselves with menial tasks. Only the Emir’s third wife, Dunyzad, lithe and serene as she wallowed comfortably in satiny cushions, showed little concern, save for the curious smile with which she always greeted news of unusual intrigue.

The drumming ceased as the escort of guards ushered the captive in the chamber, and brought the strange woman before him.

Al-Zahir’s withered features smoothed at once, regaining a measure of youthful ardor as he beheld his nephew’s trophy. Worries and apprehension, thoughts of armies or raiding parties coming to his door, all of it vanished like so much spilled water upon sand. He slowly grasped the curves of his seat with massive hands, pulling himself upright. He towered, despite his old age, over the pair of bare-breasted guards that flanked him on each side; his measured steps took him across the white-linen covered dais, and upon the polished stone floor.

He found his hands curiously eager to fret along the ripples of his white sleeves, touched with gold-threads.

“Lady Constantine,” one of the men announced gruffly, unfamiliar with the flow of syllables.

Al-Zahir’s whistling breath was warm on his lips as his hushed prayers rose to the ears of Allah. The prisoner had thankfully chosen to renege her shameless barbarian ways for the time being, donning a veil in the Muslim tradition. The Emir felt a stirring in his blood he had believed long gone as he beheld this Latin beauty, wrapped in black silk before him.

She stood with all the ease and countenance of a distinguished courtesan in the Caliph’s court. Gold serpents snaked round her naked arms. Pendulous jewels rose and fell with the generous swell of her breasts, as if to herald the treasures of passion hidden from the eyes. Around him, breathing fought to regain a steady rhythm. Afdal glared more blatantly than usual, joining his men in silent awe, but El-Hedar surprised his lord with a reflective stroking of his thin beard, the nature of his thoughts both prurient and manifest. Even Dunyzad shared the men’s covetous glances, raising herself on her knees to gather a better impression. Her hand rose and touched her breast in stunned admiration; she seemed as spellbound as the rest.

The silence grew long in the chamber, and Al-Zahir wished for the sound of music to fill it, until he imagined it guiding the shape of Lady Constantine’s hips into a captivating dance. Could mortal men be made to give up all earthly belongings for the mere hope of such a sight? he wondered, now bewildered by the rekindling of his poetic spirit, soured by his years on the battlefield.

The old man fought for reason at last, but managed to loose his tongue an instant more when the darkness of the Lady’s eyes eclipsed the pale glow of torches lighting the hall around them.

She spoke in the Frankish tongue, but her wording held none of the brutish character customarily spat by the thick-skulled barbarians who had sullied the sands with their presence. El-Hedar, with knowledge of such matters, translated her words in haste when a sharp snap of his lord’s fingers broke his trance.

“I am your prisoner, Lord Al-Zahir. As is my right under noble law, I ask only that demands for my just ransom be sent to the city of Acre.”

The semi-transparent veil covering her mouth had swelled like the rippling silver gliding across the sea at dawn. Al-Zahir indulged in an imagined life spent worshipping those lips while the fabric of his robes stretched uncomfortably against his stiffening manhood.

He clapped his hands with force. A nearby servant jumped.

“Taster. Offer her drink. From my hand to hers.”

The Emir saw the shadow of Lady Constantine’s smile, and knew for certain that she was well versed in the traditions of desert people. His eyes narrowed in fascination. There was blood left in him to flush his cheeks as she bowed her head graciously, accepting the offer of hospitality, and the unspoken promise of safety that came with the gesture.

An attendant came forth offering a cup of rose water, chilled with ice from snowcaps in surrounding peaks. The Lady kept her eyes on the Emir as she lifted it in salute with delicate fingers, and moistened her lips upon it without raising the veil.

“Your request shall be met,” Al-Zahir pledged to her. “Messengers will be dispatched. My house shall be your haven in the meantime.”

Lady Constantine’s eyes fell to Dunyzad at these words. Her phantom smile widened an instant, before she looked up again.

“I accept your offer with thanks, Lord Al-Zahir. May the prophet’s blessing be upon your house.”

El-Hedar, who had opened his mouth expecting the need for his linguistic talent, was the only one with enough presence of mind to close it again. The Lady’s use of Arabic was utterly impeccable.

The Emir raised his white, bushy eyebrows. “My nephew tells me your escort was left behind when you crossed into the desert.”

He scolded himself at once, dismayed by his clumsy reminder of her capture, but her polite smile never wavered.

“I was separated from my servants and handmaidens after a raid of mounted archers. I was left only in company of two knights, and we traveled at night. We did not know that the right hand of Salah al-Din watched over these lands.”

Al-Zahir’s ears, trained to courtly flattery and wary of lofty compliments, did not find cause to object. His chest ballooned at the praise of her words, and he found himself huffing like an overzealous youth bathing in the warmth of a pretty girl’s smile for the first time.

“I... will make arrangements proper for a Lady of your station, of course. The wives of my household shall welcome you while a messenger travels under flag of truce to Acre.”

She bowed again. Her eyes returned to his wife. He had a strange impression, as if silent words were exchanged between the women.

“Yours is an infinite kindness, lord.”

The Emir clapped his hands twice. Swarthy eunuchs stepped from behind ornate curtains, obeying the summons instantly.

“See that she is well received,” he called out to his wife, but Dunyzad was already floating by the Lady’s side, with but a cursory bow to her husband. Her head was hunched forward as she led the way to the confined safety of the haram, the flutter of her veils forming an excited wake behind her.

The Lady Constantine followed, with the quiet assurance of a Sultan’s wife.

Al-Zahir watched them go with curious eyes.

Dunyzad frowned through the haze clouding her thoughts. Oversized silk pillows nestled around her, and she greeted the distant chant of a fountain with wonder, failing to recognize its oddly familiar sound. The scent of flowering lilacs, strung above the bed in magnificent display, also held strange reminders she could not wholly grasp. The shifting doubts needled irritatingly in the back of her mind, and she finally made them silent with a thrust of her tongue deep inside heavenly delights. She tasted of sweet female arousal with endless relish and cooed when her seductress’ laughter chimed up above her.

It was a sound both gentle and harsh, made welcome in halls where dark intrigue guided lustful designs. It rose up in the air to match the rhythm of stifled cries, making gentle music of two voices caught in the throes of ecstatic abandon.

Fingers caressed the nape of Dunyzad’s neck, intertwining the locks of flowing hair that loosed themselves from her intricate braid while she quivered between the splendor of Lady Constantine’s thighs. The kiss of pleasure coursed within her as she released a lamenting breath. Sweet agony starved her for release with each passing lick. She craved the heat of this touch with furious passion, her knees pushing deeper in the mass of cushions she had moved from their carefully arranged positions in her haste to worship. She found a dash of resolve beyond the urge to gratify with fervent lips, and obeyed her own desires as she slipped a hand under her swaying hips, to find her own wellspring seeping like a lust-river.

“Mmm... a much more preferable outcome than your misguided designs, is it not, my precious?”

Dunyzad acquiesced the truth of the words with her tongue, unwilling to suffer the impiety of ceasing her loving veneration of the Lady who now commanded her. Already, the ignominy of seeking Constantine’s corruption was fading. Her mind was now as supple and pliant as her well-oiled limbs, her skin, her breasts slick with the content of the sacred vials that came from the depths of Egypt she had left two summers past.

Recollection stilled her ardor momentarily as she grew haunted by the whispers of the Temple That Walks, who had instilled her with purpose when she had traveled beyond the horizons of Alexandria to find herself drawn in strange rituals, writhing in leather bindings and begging to for the hope of eternal service.

But a drop of this honeyed essence, the Goddess had warned her, and you will make any woman a slave to your whims. Return and marry... let your voice be mine as you guide the wives you will chose for me, and teach them the Truth of Isis...

And a drop she had used... a warm drop slowly massaged into soft skin, for every one the courtesans dwelling in the sheltered quarters at the heart of the citadel. The Temple That Walks had stretched her glorious hand, shaping her and her sisters into instruments of passion who now worked her will. Henceforth had their bows to the Emir been the stuff of silent pretense, while tender nights brought amorous pairings and burning affection that left them delirious and barely satiated.

How curious, how knowing Constantine’s smile had been as Dunyzad lured her to her chamber, leaving the gaiety of her dancing sisters lost in the reveling of opium. She had cradled one of Isis’ sacred vials in her palm as she spoke of innocent things, even as the heat of anticipation moistened the inside of her thighs.

How strange her own smile must have been when Constantine beckoned her on her knees next to the bed with the muted behest of enthralling eyes, before shedding the veil that enshrouded her form with a swoop of the hand, as mother night might cast off her mantle at sunrise.

The fall of masks had revealed all... Dunyzad, filled with longing as she espied this strange noblewoman who slipped sensual fingers across wholesome, plentiful breasts... her eyes had watched them intently, mirroring lustrous delight as Constantine bewitched her body with but a wordless moan, making her raise the sacred vial she held high in the air... tipping it slowly until she poured its content all over herself, its numbing heat melting all thoughts, leaving only the melody of Constantine’s voice.

Immediacy brought her back with the fall of her heaven away from her. the courtesan raised her glistening mouth, eyes brimming with sudden grief. Have I not pleased? Have I not loved thee well enough?

Fears collapsed her heart. She moaned in desperation, pushing frantically against the pillows to dive forward.

She soared in relief as steady hands slipped around her shoulders, raising her effortlessly. She came down again, her bosom mashing against Constantine’s before rolling to the side. She groaned in pleasure against the knee that found its way between her legs, and a shower of rich, crimson curls cascaded over her.

Labored breathing, hot and sweet, rushed over her trembling lips.

“Whisper your secrets, my precious. A thing hides in this place, invisible to mortal eyes, sheltered by the sluts of Isis. Where will I find it?”

Constantine’s words triggered a shudder down Dunyzad’s arm, but the reflex of her coiling fingers grasped empty air. Layers of bliss opened up to reveal more of Isis’s bidding in her mind, and she recalled the sharp blades concealed in hidden panels all through the haram, awaiting purposeful hands should eunuchs or the Emir be unfortunate enough to find a way past the warding that circled the Ghula’s chamber.

Tell her.

Isis’ words were still with her. They had been her very own each time a concubine had tasted of the sacred oil, to join Isis’s flock. Nothing shall disturb the peace of he who is the Temple’s eyes in these lands.

Something like sadness lived in her lengthy sigh. Her skin had drunk of Constantine’s will. The pleasure of being owned tasted sweeter with every step that sealed her betrayal. Isis had shaped her and her sisters into her own stabbing hand, yet every part of her was crying out, imploring her to succumb to Constantine and violate the Temple’s will.

Tell her.

Dunyzad’s fingers slackened, and she whimpered when Constantine’s knee brushed harder against her wetness.

“It dwells in a secret place, beyond the main hall,” she murmured. “It knows of Ksem, Thuranna and I. No one else is allowed in its presence. We come to feed it once, during the fullness of the moon.”

Constantine’s hand snaked behind her neck, and she purred as the gliding of nails on her skin sparked a delicious thrill down her spine. She breathed deeply, the scent of her arousal making her head swim. She knew not why her mind clung to the memory of Isis, but felt the painful hardening of her nipples as the willingness to lead Constantine into the forbidden chamber smothered it, sealing the rapture of her enslavement.

“I... will take thee—”

Lips descended upon Dunyzad’s supple mouth, silencing her as they savored a saccharine taste she herself still hungered for. The damp heat of her womanhood swelled with harder stroking, and she parted her legs wide.

She yearned for Constantine to drink her very soul.

The sky bled in his world.

He had no sight of his own now, but he still remembered the brightness of the red lightning that had taken his eyes, and he colored the world around him thus. Had a remainder of his self survived his final step in the Dance, he would have suffered the throbbing that still burned his empty sockets with terrible despair, but such parts of his self had long ago been taken from him.

There where charred ruins in every corner of his mind.

He frowned in concentration as the Little River took him, and he plunged deep in its current. A distant voice urged him into action, reaching from beyond. All through the palace around him, sleeping minds were open to him, waiting for his touch. With a will that was not his own, he reached out to one... a soldier’s, dreaming feeble dreams that pulsed in orderly fashion.

They held little interest for him, and he busied himself with his task, shaping images and thoughts to suit unfathomable schemes.

He sensed how the mortal stirred in his slumber, and carefully twisted the bonds that held them together. The weak mind yielded at once to the Little River, drowning in new understanding, and he withdrew with satisfaction, leaving it changed and pliable.

His manhood throbbed. He felt it harden and rise. The Dance of the Ancients was a thing of unrivaled intricacy, and it roused him to play his part in it with such mindless devotion. Even his remembrance of the Goddess’ cruel laugh piercing his ears brought him unfettered delight. The final crack of his knees upon sandstone, too, was cherished, as was the remembered sensation of Isis’ favored courtesan ramming the scepter of obedience into his body.

A Ghula has no will of its own, he knew. But Isis was nothing if not meticulous. The Ancient ways offered numerous means to bind failed Kinspwan into eternal servitude, and the Temple That Walks had chosen a scepter for him even though she had made him drink of the Great River.

Twice broken he had been. What had survived afforded him nothing but obedience.

He flexed his thighs, felt the hardness inside him, and praised Isis for the gift of living death.

Somewhere close by, a moan troubled the quietude of the night. His musings interrupted, and he raised his chin in the air to search around him with the River’s sight. His withered limbs became agitated as he sensed someone nearing him.

He sucked in a breath as a wet mouth captured the tip of his hard flesh. The shock of a presence evading his unnatural senses froze him as the soft lips traveled downwards, sheathing his shaft in hungry passion.

The Little River obeyed his summons. In moments, he stirred it to life, feeling its might coursing in the vessel of his flesh. He reached out with fury to the mind that feasted upon him, ready unleash torrential passion. He made haste, aware of the sword dangling over him should the pleasure master him.

Something dark and deep rumbled inside him.

She would lick him. His lips. His fingers. His body. His manroot. Again and again. Drinking, swallowing... serving him with her delicate, whoring mouth...

His chest heaved. He groaned in supplication as the tides of his power ebbed. His fingers twitched as needles of fire sizzled upon his skin. He was unprepared for the swell of the Great River crashing into him, and his spine cried out in mercy as he contorted with pain.

The kiss of lightning, amazingly, did not course up the length of his rigid organ. The mouth servicing him slowed its tempo as he shuddered, taking great care of swirling a tongue around his flesh, as if to comfort his agony.

His world swayed. The beat of his heart hammered painfully inside his ribcage.

“What name was yours before Isis took it away, Ghula?” a voice called out to him.

He chilled when he heard them, soft spoken words dripping with timeless depth. His blind-sight expanded anew, and this time, his mind beheld the hidden beauty that stood near him.

She was very close, stroking the neck of the creature who kneeled and lived to worship the his loins. The glory of the Great River was hers, and he saw its colored swirls trickling from her fingers, slipping underneath her slave’s skin, warping her obedient mind. It nourished the compulsion to hone all of her sensual skills, summoning in her a frenzy of lustful hunger.

He slipped a groan past clenched teeth, its meaning clear even in the heat of his desperate struggle.

There was no name to remember.

She nodded her head slowly, as if moved by a hint of with pity. “Strange that thrall or Chosen would leave you to this fate. The ancient Cat does not take your kind gently.”

She was touching the River as she spoke, the seduction of her words already leashing him with invisible strings. Blood swam in his mouth, and trickled warmly from his ears. He looked up to the waning ripples of light, slipping off the transmuted shape of her body,

He beheld her second face. The daughter, now turned Dark Mother.

“Hekate,” he hissed, with all the hatred Isis had instilled in him.

She reached out and touched the back of his neck, even as the harlot’s cheeks hollowed. The spear of pain shot through him as she grazed his skin, but his whimpers were for his irrevocable fall deeper in carnal struggle.

His enflamed senses saw her limned in the River’s traces and eddies. Its fire caressed her hair as the Ancient withdrew a bloody nail. He took her to be staring at the rich crimson drops staining the floor at her feet. Her avid curiosity told him that she learned things from the dissipating traces of energy fleeing his spattered blood there.

“The Knife’s blood?” She could scarcely hide the awe in her voice. “Were you a gift to Isis then?”

The Ghula’s voice was beyond coherence. He spat uncontrollably upon hearing her delight, a taste of his seed bubbling out of the tip of his manroot.

The Ancient sifted through his mind, probing the cold ashes of a long-smothered fire.

“Offer me answers, Ghula...” she enticed soothingly. “Your heart thunders faster and faster with want... with need...”

She stroked her slave’s neck with deliberate slowness, matching the beat of her words with her caress. The lips around his shaft tightened unbearably.

His mouth gaped open, but no sound would come out. The bond of the River that tied him to the will of Isis was snuffed out as darkness engulfed him. There was nothing but the sound of her voice now, beseeching him with soft, unrelenting urgency.

“Whisper... whisper Ghula... your heart gallops faster... faster... you can feel it... almost... almost bursting...”

He couldn’t feel the pain of the River’s touch anymore... the pounding in his chest came in frantic stabs... molten heat poured in his veins, in his sex, with the sound of her every word.

Fractured memories surged to the surface. He gave voice to them in haste, sputtering. The mouth who obeyed the Ancient’s will took him deep, his engorged member stifling her moans of pleasure, and he arched his head, smiling in mad ecstasy.

Hekate’s gratified tone reached his ears over the rush of his blood. “Now yield to deliverance, Ghula.”

The flow of his pleasure exploded with the knifing pain inside his chest. Ripples of the River, shaping his reality with her words, made his insides twist and bleed with succulent agony. The blissful thrust of his hips came in harder and harder spasms, and he toppled backwards on the floor.

The lips remained wrapped around his flesh, drinking avidly, absorbing the violence of his shudders. He spiraled into an abyss, but even in dimming awareness he obeyed the power of the voice that eased the fits coursing through him with but a tender murmur.

He fought to whisper something past the oblivion engulfing him. His mouth quivered once, and grew still.

The moon waned, drifting low in the sky. Hekate leaned upon the citadel’s battlement, carved out of mountain bedrock. The howl of the wind had gone, and she breathed the still air of the desert before turning resolute eyes westward.

Salamander will take notice, and rejoice of Cat’s misfortune. But he will be careful to guard himself nonetheless.

Hers were dangerous steps in the dance, in and out between two Ancients who struck at each other with the fury of flashing blades. Her fate balanced precariously on those sharp edges, making them all the more hungry for her blood should an accidental step lead her in the heart of the conflict.

She made her sigh a furtive one out of habit—the River’s tricks had done away with the guards who stood in sentry.

Dunyzad was not so mindful, overwhelmed by her own promiscuous touch. Her nearby panting came in sharp cries from the slab of stone where she had scrapped her knees as she fell in desperate adoration.

The Dark Mother turned, her smile glowing brighter than her eyes. The Emir’s concubine had followed her without a care, without the gift of the River to make her movements unseen, risking a punishment for leaving the confines of the haram both fierce and immediate.

She hadn’t found the words to offer herself, staring up pleadingly instead. Her naked thighs were bathed in the bluish gleam of moonlight. The movement of her hand transfixed Hekate’s attention in a flash of passionate brevity.

“Go back and dream on your bed, precious,” she chided softly. “The wrath of Isis will be all the worse if you loose your pretty head.”

Dunyzad choked off a sob, angrily searching for a voice that refused to come. Painful tears fell generously down her cheeks. Take me away from her. Make me yours. Forever!

Her blood chilled when the fire-mane seductress turned away.

“You have what you want, precious. Isis seldom leaves her lands, but she will come here. She’ll find a dead servant and a broken one. Curiosity will temper her anger long enough to reshape your faithfulness to her so she can come to trust the truth you will relate. She will be very, very diligent when she takes you.”

Dunyzad shifted back on her knees, troubled by the heat conjured in those words. Her wet fingers played more brazenly as she contemplated her fate.

Hekate laughed to the sound of her moans. “Perhaps the Cat will keep you at her side after all. She detests the taking of her property. She’ll be most anxious to reclaim it.”

Her robes shifted against the black of night. In a few steps, she stood before her kneeling conquest.

Her command came soft and gentle.

“Touch yourself and think of me, whisper my name in blasphemy of Isis every night... and dream of a better place.”

The courtesan licked her lips, her eyes frozen ahead, engrossed by magnificent revelation as her seductress parted folds of silk with exuberant majesty.

She felt a finger guiding her chin forward, closed her eyes in reverence, and drank the very sweetness of paradise.