The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The sign had been sturdily constructed, from two stout poles and a sheet of thick metal. But that construction had occurred a long time ago, and the sign seemed now to both sag and list in the crumbled dirt beside the leaf-strewn road.

A figure appeared, riding hard on a horse, a heavy traveling cloak billowing behind in the night breeze. The horse’s hooves kicked up silvery sparks as they struck against the road’s white paving stones. Mount and rider and livery were all in black, except for the eyes: a yellow stylized one positioned under the rider’s chin, pinning down the cloak, and the things in the sockets of the horse’s skull, clusters of lights. Blue and orange and purple.

Even with the cloak and the all-concealing helmet and the functional black body-armor, there was no doubt that the tall slender rider was a woman.

The horse slowed to a trot as it approached the sign, and the rider scanned what was written there. Originally, it had been a densely-written epic, filled with nuance and sub-clauses. In one corner was stamped a large shape inside a circle, a squat stylized tower, topped with crenellations. It bore a certain similarity in style to the thing mounted on the rider’s chest.

But the words had faded, and then some new person had come along and with a crude but firm brushstroke greatly simplified the message on display: BEWARE VIRGUILES

The rider took this in, then resumed full speed, galloping under the tall skinny pine trees, under the jagged mountain peaks, under the full moon rising from the eastern side of the sky to join the other swirling lights. The rocky trickle of a nearly-dead riverbed kept pace alongside her.

A short distance beyond the sign, the road and river emerged from the last clump of trees, passed through what had once been a gateway in an impressive stone wall, then began to descend rapidly into a valley, switchbacking its way down the steepening slope. The river became a chain of dry falls.

Reaching the valley floor, the road arrowed towards a collection of gray ruins, the biggest concentration of which was built directly into the high rocky cliff which formed the far side of the valley. This cliff was tall and emphatic, as if the ruined wall had merely been the outer defenses of some unimaginably vast fortress. The place squatting at the base of the cliff had a half-crushed look to it, something struck a single powerful but glancing blow from the heavens. The marshy remains of a large lake, clearly the river’s former destination, dwindled away to one side. More ruins surrounded it on all sides, flecked here and there with lights. Some of them were clearly fires, but others shone as bright and steady as the horse’s eyes, particularly in a cluster around something that might have been a functioning windmill.

The rider pushed on, passing the outlying piles and knobs without pause, and homing in on the central mass of stone. A collection of snapped-off towers loomed drunkenly against the brooding backdrop of the cliffs, over a wide central courtyard paved in the same white stone as the road. A large statue had once dominated the space, but only the pedestal now remained, along a messy length of rubble where its former occupant had toppled to earth.

Without apparent signal the horse came to an abrupt full stop, and the rider dismounted, the cloak swirling, falling neatly into place.

She thumbed cunning latches on her helmet. The smooth glossy thing hissed itself open and she slid it off, giving a glimpse of various lights blinking within, the same colors as the horse’s eyes. She put it on the saddle which she had just been occupying. Her own eyes were a cold pale blue and were framed above by short-cropped icy-blonde bangs, to one side by a vicious-looking scar which scored its way down her cheek almost to the corner of her mouth. Even with the scar, she would have been beautiful, if she allowed an once of emotion to scuttle across her features. She scanned the scene, her gaze perhaps lingering for an extra half-second on the pedestal, where a word had been etched in large blocky letters: HIRFANG.

On one of the woman’s hips was strapped a holster, containing a cylinder too short to be a sword, too long to be even the biggest pistol. Balanced on the other was a black belt-pouch, and from this she extracted a small round object, stroked its surface. A blue light appeared, spun itself in a circle for a couple of heartbeats, settled in a spot and blinked at her. Apparently satisfied, she put it back.

The statue-like horse made an indeterminate noise. Its rider tapped its gleaming side with a gloved finger, and walked towards to the waiting doorway, which stood open to the night, doors long blasted and gone.

Her boots thumped across the paving stones, up the shallow set of steps.

The hulking ragged figure came at her the moment she crossed the threshold, one grimy hand reaching out, the other holding a knife that glowed in the darkness.

“Fresh meat—” The figure just barely had time to gloat the words before she moved.

She didn’t bother to draw the weapon at her side. Other shapes watched the resulting action, quickly came to a wordless but unanimous decision and faded out of sight.

She snapped the knife off at the handle, and tossed the pieces away.

She was in a vast hallway now. More enormous statues lined the walls, and moonlight streamed in through the shattered roof, which once had been made of elaborately swirled glass. In the center of it all, a wide flight of stairs elegantly swept up to spill out into empty air. Layers of graffiti coated the walls, as high up as a tall man could easily reach. Bits of rubble scattered across the floor.

Off to one side in what was once a tasteful antechamber lurked another flight of stairs, this one intact, and going down. She followed it.

The staircase came out into a large vaulted chamber, its ceiling disappearing up into gloom, except in two or three places where intrepid beams of moonlight stabbed down through cracks. An entire corner of the room was filled with the bulk of some ancient piece of machinery. Most of its intricate brass workings lay silent and coated with dust, but one sub-corner was still active, oiled gears and pistons methodically peeping and chugging away under a small “roof” made from a stretched sheet of canvas. The graffiti here was more elaborate, becoming art, and reached halfway up the walls.

The room had been bisected by a barricade, made of pieces of masonry scavenged from the walls. If the builders had lacked the best in tools, they had at least worked with care, and it looked quite sturdy. In a decorative touch, someone had carefully polished and lined a row of skulls across the top, one every few feet. At first glance, they were human.

The barricade was unmanned, with one incongruous exception: Mounted on top of the stones, in the center of the line was something that might have been a scale model of the windmill back by the lake, a pinwheel attached to a trilegged base. It was being powered by the machine; a cable ran from one to the other, and it spun.

The woman walked towards it, towards the pinwheel which spun and spun, glowing like the knife, flickering even.

She climbed the wall, and was staring into its depths, which went down and down…

Her hand grasped the powercord, and yanked it free in one quick jerk. The blades slowed to a stop, and seemed to wilt in defeat. She tossed the cord aside.

On the far side of the barricade was an encampment, showing signs of being very recently and hastily abandoned, with fires left burning in two makeshift pits, piles of sleeping rags, shabby belongings scattered about. It was possible a figure or two lingered in the darkened fringes, watching.

At the far end of the room, there was another staircase headed down, and she took it.

Even when the castle had been at its height of power and glory, this area had been a neglected backwater, and these steps had been crudely fashioned of slabs of heavy gray stone. They had thus long-endured, but like the sign before them, time had chewed at them: they were worn down by the passage of countless feet, some shattered and broken. There was light, not from fire or the moon, but a string of lamp-fixtures had also come through the convolutions intact, glowing crystals jutting methodically from their tarnished fittings near the ceiling, spitting out a cold clinical glow.

On one side or the other, as the trail corkscrewed its headlong way down and down, it passed by gloomy chambers, carved out of stone into whatever irregular shape had suited the moment. Some of these held only scatterings of blurred dust-shrouded shapes, others were hopelessly choked with piles of rubble which had spilled out onto the staircase, but then cleared away. The latter variety was more and more common the further down she went.

The walls stood free of graffiti.

She moved with easy silent grace, her boots no longer making any noise. She looked neither left nor right as she pressed into the depths, pausing a half-step only when she came to something new: a small alcove set into the wall beside the stairs, in which was positioned yet another statue on a pedestal. This one was intact and human-sized, but so dusty and cobweb-festooned as to be only a vague shape.

Confirming that the alcove was otherwise empty, she went on.

There were no more large rooms, only more alcoves and more statues. She checked each in turn. The lights marched on overhead. Dust gathered on the edges of the stairs, but in the center of it all, the stone was still clear. It grew colder.

And then the staircase ended. Or rather, it continued on, but the ceiling did not; it had joined its fellows and caved in. Back somewhere behind the piles of broken stone, a last light had survived the collapse, and still burned; once again, they had been built for durability. An icy breeze oozed up from the depths. But no human would be going further.

She turned. There was a last alcove, only it wasn’t a alcove at all, but a recessed doorway. The wooden door was still there, a tall narrow thing bound in iron straps. She rooted in the pouch, confirmed the blue light; it spun, blinked brighter, faster. She outlined the shape of the door with her fingertips.

She stepped back, and drew the cylinder from its holster. A rod, black and featureless like all the rest.

The door splintered under her boot. She moved seemingly via teleportation, changing her position without crossing the intervening space. From ‘out’ to ‘in’ to ‘no longer framed in the doorway, but lurking in the shadows at one side’.

The room was long and narrow and low and stuffy, with vaguely mossy stone walls and a floor covered with a variety of overlapping carpets, many of which featured a third circular seal, this one of a pine tree, a copy of the living ones she had passed on the road. Halfway down the right-hand wall there was a fireplace, a real fireplace with a pile of neatly-split wood and rack of iron tools. In the hollow flames flickered, the smoke eventually escaping to the outside by who knows what route. The two long walls were studded with five more alcoves, three and two, each filled with a bone-white statue, wearing flowing robes and standing on a pedestal ringed with a strip of emerald. Each of the alcoves, and the fireplace, was labeled by number fussily chiseled into the stone: 4. 8. 15. 16. 23 (the fireplace). 42.

There was a iron bookshelf, maybe half-filled with an ill-matched well-used tomes, mostly bound in leather. An enormous oak chest. A narrow cot. A table with a plate and a mug, sitting on a metal tray. The only wall decor were countless bits of tacked-up paper, all covered with writing and equations.

And nearly at the far end of it all, a wooden desk, strategically positioned under the room’s only (functioning) crystal-light, so as to capture as much of its glow as possible. It had once, long ago, been a powerful and important desk, in front of which underlings had cringed and sniveled, but now it was battered and stained. One of its legs was gone, and been replaced with another chunk of the castle’s stonework. It was covered with stacks of paper, and many more were piled around it on the floor.

Behind the desk sat a man.

She took all this in with a glance, less than a glance.

The man was staring back at her, or at least looking into the shadows in her direction. He was short and thin and dead weeds fringed the edges of his skull. A thick black pen was clutched in one fragile-looking hand, and he wore a pair of large black-rimmed spectacles, which had been mended with a piece of tape.

The tip of the weapon she held began to pulse red.

She raised the thing, extended her arm out to its full length, advanced out of the shadows, her boots once again thumping, even through the carpets. She spoke the voice of doom.

“Hector Hovage. You have been mercifully judged—”

“Have you ever stopped to consider, Proctor.. Kala?” He interrupted with raised eyebrows, his tone that of an earnest academic. With his free hand, he traced an aimless pattern on the desktop.

“—and found guilty of the crime of Intellectual Sabotage against—”

“Considered why you do what you do?” He tapped the center of the invisible pattern.

“—the University and its Truth. The sentence is—”

“Ever stopped to really think about it?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Death.”

The two of them formed a silent tableau, with the flames flickering to one side.

He sighed and clicked the pen into a waiting silver holder, which was brightly polished and easily the newest thing in the entire room.

Kala stopped and thought about it.

She thought about the life she led. Sleeping in her room in the Dorms. Receiving her latest orders from the Senior Faculty. Mounting one of the steeds down in the stables, riding out from the walled central Campus. Riding out South or East or West, going down into these hadeholes out on the Fringes, Blasting little worms like the one cowering cravenly before her at this very moment. Blasting them with the cleansing fire. She smiled, the particular motion of muscles unfamiliar on her skin. They (the worms) often tried to use slippery useless words, the ones who wouldn’t fight and die like men.

She thought, suddenly, about the one who’d given her the scar. She couldn’t remember his name, if she’d ever known it in the first place, but he had been a tall man, with black hair and a beard. He had clearly had some combat training, and had fought well.

Quite handsome, actually, until the fire took him...

She pushed the image aside.

“I enjoy what I do, worm.”

He sighed again, and drummed various combinations of his fingers on the desktop, as if playing a piano only he could see.

“Sadly, it is my experience that enjoying something and seriously thinking about it are often mutually exclusive. Take this very mission for example. Did you stop to ask the Senior Faculty exactly what I did that was so awful?”

Kala scowled.

“You were mercifully judged and found guilty, worm. The sentence is death. I need know nothing else.”

“So someone just handed you this information and you accepted it without question? Have you ever actually attended a Judgment, Proctor?”

“There is no need for me to do so, worm.” She gritted the words. “You were mercifully judged and found—”

“I did. Attended a Judgment, that is. More than one, over the course of my painfully long career at the University. It is and always has been a corrupt steamroller of a process, used to inflict petty spiteful vengeance, and prop up the University’s crumbling grip on power.” A pause. “Well, no, I speak a lie, not always. When the University was first founded—”

“You speak heresy, worm.”

“But again, you don’t know that.” Still said without any real rancor. “Let me reiterate. Some minor Faculty member came down to what is laughingly referred to as your “room” in the Dorms and woke you up. Handed you, I suspect, a copy of my official staff picture from the Archives with a large red X stamped on it and told you to go forth and bathe me in fire. This is what happened, yes?”

“Yes.” Why did she suddenly find herself unwilling to say that one word?

“You don’t know if it’s because I’m truly guilty of something, or whether one of my ex-colleagues wants to shut me up because..” He laughed, a short dry sound. “..I might cause personal trouble.”

“It does not matter—”

He slapped the desk with his palm, causing the papers stacked there to swirl.

“It does matter, Proctor Kala Kay, formerly of the village of Greenvale. Even though, as it happens,” another self-deprecating laugh.. “I am in fact quite guilty of stealing something from the University’s Main Central Library Archives and as the plebes say, doing a runner. I eventually found my way here to the ruins of Castle Hirfung..” a general wave “..and offered my services to the poor wretches who live up above. I flatter myself to think that our relationship has been a mutually beneficial one... Ah.” He looked distracted for a moment, and she lurched a step closer to him. “I do hope you didn’t kill too many of them on your way down here. I did warn them to step aside when the Proctor, whoever she turned out to be, came for me, but people never..” He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his beaky nose, pushing at his glasses as he did so. “I’m getting off the subject here, which is a lifelong failing of mine. I was trying to make an intellectual point.”

She growled, and fantasized about pushing the slider, watching him burn, horribly, slowly.

It was delicious.

Greenvale?

The word zoomed across her mind like the shooting stars she used to watch in the spring. On the hillside. In..

Greenvale?

“Getting back to that point. If I had in fact been innocent of the charges leveled against me.. which some of your victims have been, by the way—”

In her rage, she managed another step.

“You lie, worm!”

There was a pile of folders at his elbow. He sorted slowly through them, extracted one. It had KAY, KALA stamped on it in large black letters, and was held shut by a red string, wrapped around a metal nub. He unwound the string, flipped open the flap. A gnarled finger traced its way down the revealed sheet, finally bumping up against the line it had been searching for.

“Melvin Mupperson. 22 years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, and so forth. You killed him.. just over a year ago now, on the docks in Freeport. He was some variety of sailor, evidently. You killed him not for anything he had done, but because his father had crossed a Faculty member in a business deal, and had too much protection to be personally touched.”

“He was mercifully judged, and found guilty—”

“Political protection, mind you. Which just goes to show you. The University, while still powerful in many ways, nevertheless is on its last legs. Unless something is done, within a generation, the Merchant Guild will become the true power in the land. Already, only petty revenge can be taken on a young oaf sitting in..” A disdainful glance at the folder.. “.. ‘The Soused Bivalve’ tavern on the Freeport waterfront.”

“You pretend to care about the University and its Truth?” The rage threatened to split her skull. “You, who have spit and vomited—”

“Proctor Kala!” He slapped the desk again, harder, and she flinched. For the first time he showed genuine anger. He took a deep breath and pulled his hand away as if the desktop was sticky. He removed his glasses, found a bit of cloth in a pocket of his threadbare tweed jacket, and polished the scratched lenses. Finishing this ritual, he returned both items to their original locations. He spoke in a calm, even tone. “My apologies for my unseemly outburst. Despite the various disparaging comments I just made, at the end of everything, I love the University. Or at least the concept of it. I want to see it saved, and restored to its former glory. I want to see the Fringes and even the Deadlands all cleaned up, restored and revived, a thousand flowers blooming. The thought of those bloated Freeport moneygrubbers being in charge of security.. It can be done. It will be done.”

Kala looked into his eyes, and for the first time in.. a very long time..

Greenvale!

She felt fear.

She tried to Blast him, thumb the slider straight to maximum, Blast him and the whole room, the desk, the statues, all of it, bring the ceiling crashing down.

Bring the ceiling down on both of them. Something was coming, the color of rot and horror, and suddenly, she wanted no part of it.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t move anything but her mouth.

“What.. what have you done to me, Hovage!? You will pay for this! No one—”

“Please be quiet now, Proctor Kala.” He didn’t sound angry, but strangely worn down and tired.

Her mouth clamped itself shut.

That was frightening. But far more worryingly, she also felt another new stirring inside her. Not fear.

Sympathy.

Sympathy for this walking abomination, who..

What had he done to her?

“You’re probably wondering what I have done to you.” He closed the file he had been reading from, carefully wound the string back, inserted the whole thing back into its place in the pile. “Let’s just say.. there are many things buried in the MCL Archives. Things dating all the way back to.. well, the beginning. Before the Virguile incursions from across the Gulf, before the so-called Unification War created the Deadlands, before even the Fall itself. Artifacts and manuscripts of deepest power tossed into plasticoid boxes and shoved aside to crumble. I found one of them..” He looked tortured for a moment. “No. No lies. Pettergrab found it. Brilliant young lad. But.. wrong-headed. He would have...” He seemed to shrivel in on himself and for a moment looked truly old. “When I fled the University, they had not even found his body. Not that they would care, compared to what ultimately brought you here. Brought us together.”

He began stacking all the papers and folders on the desk, forming them into fussy piles and clearing the space. Last of all, he lovingly transferred the pen-stand to one side using both hands.

Finally, a bare desktop.

His fingers loomed over it.

He paused.

“I realize. I should be clear. When I said I was guilty.. what the University is so enraged about was not this..”

He touched the desktop, all ten fingers splayed out.

Still locked rigidly in place, Kala orgasmed. A single sharp burst, thrusting thickly between her legs, it was the most intense physical pleasure she had ever felt. Even more so than..

Greenvale!

The Pit!

The Pit?

Razor-thin green lines oozed out from his fingertips, forming interlocking patterns.

They were the most beautiful thing Kala had ever seen, they spun and twirled without moving.

She realized he was talking again, forced herself to listen, not get totally lost in the patterns..

“..but rather these records I took..”

Kala became vaguely aware that the file he had consulted, or one just like it, was floating up into the air beside the desk, spinning slowly in circles... the pen-stand joined it in a sort of elegant dance..

I danced. In Greenvale. In the square as the pipemen played. With..

“They don’t even know about the real treasure I took. And now have learned how to use. As Pettergrab said, it wasn’t even in the official records. He only found it by accident, while looking for those old Prederghast.. something else. But I realized.. as soon as I realized what had come into my possession, once I learned how to use it.. I could fix everything.. make everything right again... but I also realized that I would need to have a way back into the University when the time had come. An inside ‘man’ as it were. Because you see, Kala Kay, I knew that if I experimented with it any more inside the University.. sensors would be tripping everywhere, alarms going off, calloo calley. I was nearly caught as it was.”

A skinny boy.. but with wonderful black hair.. he played the pipe himself.. we were in love..

“So I staged my escape. Took these files. Picked the nicest juiciest ones I could find. Just to edge certain individuals up to the proper plateau of nervousness, knowing that once I revealed my location to an informant, they would instantly dispatch a Proctor after me. And, not incidently, so I’d know about the Proctor herself, whoever she turned out to be.”

He was so brave and outspoken..

They caught us..

The Pit..

THEPIT

“You know, I wondered once, long before all of this started, why we only use women for Proctors. So I made a discreet inquiry. It appears they tried both sexes when the program was set up. But it was soon learned that women are capable of being so much more focused and fanatical and vicious than men. The ability to experience multiple orgasms also was a factor, evidently. The Process worked so much better on you..”

taken down into the Pit hands grabbing you in the blackness lowered into the bodywarm sludge limbs strapped to the Rack head Clamped helpless naked every hole filled aroused unbearable Lights millions of greenish Lights blazing flashing spinning down and down Voices going down and down inside my head all our heads

“Which makes me think that what I have here is a related, but more powerful variant. Someone discarded it perhaps, not realizing what they had? It could have happened so easily.. a single misread test-result, sabotage of a hated rival’s promising work. Who knows?”

I remember everything.

The thought came clear and cold.

Oh God. So many people I burned. Those bastards! And they killed Yancy. I’ll go back there and rip their sacks off and

“Make them EAT them!” She screamed the words. Aloud. Suddenly, she was free.

Free.

Entirely free. She screamed at the ceiling, no more words, just sound. She was beautiful again.

She found her breath, and looked at the man with green-glowing glasses behind the green-glowing desk, who had broken off his monologue. The pen-stand and the report slowly orbited him like moons.

“Thank you, Professor Hovage.” Her voice came from very far away. The only thing that was close was the tip of the Blaster, still glowing red. And she had truly deserving targets now. “I have to go. Now. Goodbye.”

She spun on her heel, and started for the shattered doorway.

Only then did she truly notice.

The walls, the floor, the ceiling, were all glowing with the same green lines as the desk. They had always been glowing, but now were getting thicker, brighter..

It all came to her in a split-second. That in a perverse way, she should be grateful, because her months of Hazing in the Pit had sharpened her reflexes and senses to a razor-edge. That she was staring out into the relative darkness of the stairwell, not at the lights, the beautiful swirling green lights. That she had a split-second to decide.

Run for the doorway, or turn and fire. Rake the room from wall to wall after all.

That rhymes...

He wanted to make the University better?

She spun back, raising the Blaster as she did so.

The Blaster was plucked from her hand.

Again, she had to thank her training. She could tell it hadn’t been done by the floating power of the desk, someone had reached into her field of vision, and grabbed it physically.

Someone using a graywhite hand..

She was surrounded..

The statues. But after seeing that sign on the road.. I scanned..

She lashed out, trying to go in all directions at once, and nearly succeeding.

Nearly.

She connected, two or three bodies went flying, but other hands grabbed her, hands that clamped on with (quite literally) inhuman strength. She screamed and bucked, but it was useless. The hands, all of them, went to work, methodically unclipped her cloak.

Removed her armor, the breastplate popping off last all.

Everything else.

On the outside, wrapped over the bones of steel, the hands were soft and chilled. A long finger traced the Seal of the Eye wired into her chest, as if curious.

She was looking up at five.. women.. graywhite skin, purewhite hair that floated in long shimmering clouds, merged with the tattered (but oh-so-elegant) ivorywhite streamers which were their garments...

Their smiles.

Their eyes..

They dragged her to the desk. Professor Hovage was standing there, waiting.

Kala spat at him.

“I should have known. You’re working for Virguiles. You’re even worse than I thought! I.. I..” She trailed off as the three of the creatures not holding her down went to Hovage and silently knelt before him. The tallest held up the Blaster, which was spitting purple sparks into her skin, and causing her taloned hand to spasm. The pain should have been unbearable, even for her. Especially for her. She spoke, her voice a night breeze.

Bewitching.

And utterly bewitched.

“Did your slavebitches please you, Master?”

Somehow, without lifting his hands from the desk, he wordlessly patted her on the head, patted them all on the head, and took the Blaster, made it another moon in his orbit. Horrible red eyes glazed over with bottomless green ecstasy, and the Virguiles all swayed in unison. He seemed to grow larger, while they shrank, became three slender white weeds fluttering helplessly in a storm.

Two of them rose, wafted silently to their pedestals, turned back into statues. The other remained kneeling, hair drifting around his waist like smoke as her head moved towards his crotch, went to work. Stretching the green lines, he grew larger and blacker still.

Professor Hovage spoke as if nothing unusual had just happened.

“As I believe I mentioned before, in exchange for certain favors, I helped the poor Fringers up above with their problems. Along with some mundane technical assistance.. I cleaned up a Virguile infestation. (Another sign of weakness, allowing the creatures to come creeping back again!) As I have become more expert in its use, this.. process.. of mine can work its magic, so to speak, on any sentient female. No matter how.. strong-willed. And what is a Virguile, but willpower, sustaining itself?” He moved his fingers.

“NO!”

The green lights branched again and again.

“Miss 4 and the others have been tamed. They exist only to serve me, please me, and, as you have seen, protect me. Those skulls on the guard wall are from their male counterparts.”

Reached out.

Clamped onto her head.

“I am very likely to be the first human to have sex with a Virguile and survive.”

Pried her eyes open wide and unblinking.

“With their considerable talents properly focused.. It has proved to be most.. invigorating.”

Bent her body over the desk.

Pulled her down.

Pulled her in.

“Perhaps, before I send you back to convert the other Proctors to my will and begin my takeover of the University, I will allow my pets to show you. But now.. let us begin your lessons.”

Orgasms. Not just one, but dozens upon dozens, coming and coming...

In between the blasts, she traced the lines.

“And after we are done, I wouldn’t terribly mind having sex with a human again. The Fringers won’t let any of their women anywhere in my vicinity..”

They were everywhere in the room, wrapped three layers thick around the Virguiles, alcove, body, brains, blocking out scanners, reaching up towards the sky, blocking out light and hope and memory and will..

She traced the lines with her fingers.

With her toes and tongue and her tits.

She watered them from her burning dripping slit, and they shone brighter and ever brighter as they slid themselves deep into the Seal on her chest.

Slid themselves deep into her brain.

Nothing but green...

The man behind the desk finished sorting through the slightly-singed pile of files. He puffed his curved black pipe back to full life, and the smoke mingled with the beams of sunlight pouring in through the office’s enormous windows. A humphing noise escaped from his barrel-shaped chest.

“Stupid old dodderer. Came to a bad end, just like I always knew he would.”

“The enemy of the University and its Truth has been eliminated, sir!” The blonde-haired woman stared straight ahead, at the great Seal on the wall behind the desk. The Eye should have glared back at her, but it was grubby, and needed to be polished.

She remembered quite clearly. Riding out to the castle. Going down into that room and unleashing the fire on the worm even as he tried to spew his useless words. Weak and puny like all men except the Senior Faculty.

The man behind the impressive black desk glanced at her in a ‘why are you still even here’ sort of way, and turned a knob on a control panel which sat waiting near his hand. The thing clamped to her seal popped loose, the attached cable slithering the whole thing back into the waiting socket.

“Yes, yes. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!”

She turned and strode from the room, noiseless on her bare feet, past the prim Secretary typing at her keyboard, out into the carpeted hallway. Others, depending on their rank, either ambled or scurried past on various missions.

Like all men except the Master.

She saw someone coming towards her, a woman not as tall as herself, more rounded, with raven-black hair.

she resembles someone or other I knew, before I met the Master...

She raised her hand.

“Proctor Jadis.”

“Proctor Kala?”

No one was watching; people went well out of their way to avoid watching Proctors. She reached out a finger, sketched a pattern on Jadis’ naked chest, boxing in the other woman’s Seal. It flared green.

“You will come to my Room tonight after Lightsout. We have something very important to discuss...”