The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The statue was of a familiar design, but Isleif found it mildly unnerving nonetheless. A woman: nude, statuesque, her breasts high and firm, her arms lean and muscular, her hips smooth in feminine flair. She stood with one arm raised in front of her, though the hand was broken off, leaving the gesture unclear. The statue as a whole tilted drunkenly, the ground beneath it uneven, the plinth sinking into the broken and moss-covered tiles of the courtyard.

But it wasn’t the age of the statue, nor its condition, that touched Isleif with an subtle shiver. For the stone woman was adorned with a single item of garb atop her otherwise complete nudity: a helmet of alien design. It was smooth and covered her head completely from crown to cheeks, with no consideration given for vision. The bottom edge was four semicircular rounds, the woman’s nose occupying the angle between two of them, her ears between the angles at the sides, and the fourth inverted ‘v’, at the rear of the helmet, had a ponytail emerging from it—or would have, had that part of the statue not been broken off.

Images of these strangely-helmeted women dotted the northlands; statues mostly, broken and old, although Isleif had heard of a ruin with ancient wall paintings far to the east. No one knew what the helmets meant, or were for, but without eye-holes they were clearly useless for combat, and the fact that the nose and ears remained vulnerably outside the helmet served to underline that fact.

Ceremonial, then, some ancient priestess class, nude and visionless—serving all comers? It was the general explanation. Far to the south in decadent Suria, stories said, helmets were made to mimic the ancient design; the more lurid of the stories featured courtesans wearing them in wine and opiate-fueled orgies.

The consensus made sense—yet whenever Isleif saw one of these ancient remnants, stained and broken, a woman’s smooth, sightless head atop an idealized body, it struck her as somehow... sinister.

If those perfect lips could open, what would they say?

“She’s a statue, Two-Trees, she’s not going to eat your pussy no matter how long you stare at her.”

Isleif kept her pivot slow and gave Eottir her best dirty look.

Eottir, and Seif beside her, grinned.

There were clans among the Norren where women who felt the low hunger as men did were made outcast, or were made to lie with men anyway. The High-Water-Sky-Trees clan was not one of these; nor, in fact, was being ‘crotch-bent’ an impediment to leadership, as Isleif’s command of this expedition attested to.

But that did not mean that any joke at Isleif’s expense was spared.

“I was merely wondering if she might be a better scout than you, Mudroll,” Isleif drawled. “At least she has an excuse for not seeing her hand in front of her face.”

Eottir laughed. “I don’t understand your fascination with these ruins,” she said. “The ancients are well gone, their homes picked clean by scavengers who themselves are centuries in their graves.”

Isleif shrugged, and looked around. The statue stood at the edge of a clearing, a ruined wall crumbled to a heap of rubble behind it. Once, the clearing had been a courtyard or plaza, but trees had thrust their way amongst the tiles, grown ancient, died, and been replaced by new trees; it was impossible to say where the edges of the plaza were, or where the buildings around it had stood. Only chance had left this single statue exposed.

“I don’t understand myself,” she admitted. “Perhaps it is just that they were so different. A thousand years from now, what of us will remain?”

“My legend,” Eottir said with a laugh.

“Yes—the legend of the half-ox woman,” Seif agreed, pirouetting away as Eottir thrust the butt of her bow at her.

“Hist,” Isleif hissed, and instantly the two were still.

A frozen moment passed, and then Eoryn stepped out from behind a tree.

Rather than speak, she gestured. Her signing hand bent into clear shapes.

Camp. Close. Follow.

Wordlessly, the three other women dropped into low, loping stances; Isleif put the ancient statue from her mind and touched her throwing axes as she moved swiftly and silently with the others, across the clearing to where Seif was already disappearing into the underbrush.

The four went single-file, spread out, skirting the bushes and low trees and avoiding the open paths of the summer wood. The land sloped gently downward beneath a thick canopy of oak and ash. In a few weeks, the leaves would turn scarlet and gold and begin their fall to earth; today, the only hint of the approaching autumn were the cool, misty mornings.

They slipped down the hill, three bowshots, five, and then they slowed, crouching even lower. Eoryn, squatting in a small copse of young fir trees, gestured again. Isleif nodded. She snapped her fingers, then waved silent instructions at the other three.

Seif went to the left, slowly, silently. Eoryn to the right. Eottir strung her bow, thrust a handful of arrows into the ground.

Slowly, Isleif crept forward towards the camp site.

They had been tracking the Viqqabi expedition for five days. Slavers, taking the Orren high road back from Thyr, wisely skirting the lands of the Norren, but moving slowly due to their doubtless unenthused cargo. Isleif’s patrol had found their spoor and pursued.

The Norren found slavery distasteful but had no interest in curtailing trade with the southerners—provided that none of the slaves were Norren. Of course, tall, strong, flax-haired slaves were ever popular in the markets of Kyur and Fashedia, and the Viqqabi trader was not yet born who would pass on the chance to take a Norreni south in chains if he could get away with it.

Which made Isleif’s routine patrol through the Tyrwood suddenly much more interesting—if the Viqqabi slavers had no Norren amongst their chattel, they would be allowed to go on their way. But if they had even a single member of any Norren clan, they would release him or her—or die.

Of course, it was likely that Isleif’s small band was badly outnumbered by the Viqqabi and their guards, which made the element of surprise crucial.

No smoke was visible, but now Isleif could smell the hint of campfire. She dropped to her knees behind a yew bush, leaned forward, and looked.

There. Tents, a long bowshot away. Well situated atop a rise, and they had made some effort towards clearing the underbrush nearby. Not that it would matter.

Isleif dropped onto her hands and made her way towards the campsite. She knew that half a bowshot away from her, behind, to the right, and to the left, her hunters kept pace with equal stealth and skill.

Fifty feet from the closest tent, Isleif paused. She drew a breath and as she slowly freed it she felt herself sharpen—the distinct smells of the forest, pine and earth and sunwarmed oak untangled themselves from a general backdrop of scent and stood each distinct. The forest sounds resolved into wind-rustled aspen, twittering brownling, hunting raptor. Each motion, be it squirrel, scrub jay, or wind rippled foliage, stood alone; the mosaic of the forest had resolved into a thousand thousand individual tiles.

Among them, the tents stood out, as did the scent of smoke from a banked campfire. On her shins and forearms Isleif crept closer, moving when the wind did, invisible.

Something was odd.

There seemed to be no one there. It was well past midday, they could not be abed in their tents; even were they, there would be some about. But there was no sight of human motion—of greater import, there was no sound. Only the rustle of oiled canvas.

In a patch of hand-deep bracken beneath a tall pine, Isleif paused. She waited for twelve hundreds of heartbeats.

Then, slowly, she stood up.

The camp was empty.

She made no handsign as she entered; her rangers would know what she was about. Empty. A central fire, now banked. Eight tents. A slaver caravan, when headed over the mountains, would often have no pack animals—at least, not of the four-legged kind. And packs there were, stowed neatly, perhaps half full. Inside them Isleif found loaves of bread, dried meats. The jerky smelled of the southern spices of Viquir.

Eight tents—eight large enough for four apiece, one larger and finer.

But no one present at all.

Was it a trap? That made no sense. But they would never have left their supplies unguarded. Even with the negligible chance that other men might come by, the forest animals would not leave the foodstuffs alone even several hours.

Which meant that there had been people here, and recently.

But where were they now?

They would discuss the matter elsewhere. Isleif turned to go.

A red thrush that was not a red thrush gave its distinctive call.

Down, into her crouch, half height, Isleif scrambled back to the bracken beneath the pine. Axe in hand, she lay still, and waited.

People were walking up the slope from the opposite side.

They walked quietly, not speaking, but making no attempt to conceal their approach. Isleif had not been spotted. The newcomers walked into the camp.

Four of them, all women. Slaves, probably, by their clothes, which were well enough mended but old. No collars, though, nor chains. Two young, two more mature, all attractive. Prime slave material. None were Norren.

They began to gather up supplies, choosing packs, stuffing them with foodstuffs. One went into a tent and gathered up bedrolls.

Clearly, none were armed.

Should she spy yet, or question them? What was the cost of making her presence known? Clearly there was no danger from these, but would it serve better to simply rise and ask them about their situation?

Some of the women turned to go. They bore full packs, both on their backs and slung awkwardly in front—clearly they were not planning to go far. Another camp, then—but why? This site was good, clean, hard to sneak up on for bandits or, well, anyone who was not a Norren hunter. Not nearly befouled yet from any lengthy human presence.

One at a time, they left. Isleif watched them go, considering.

Only one was left—a woman Isleif’s age, clearly Thyr-born, the brows shading her eyes the same pale orange as the long curls atop her head. No friend of those who led her south, then—the Thyryn were a fierce people, spirit-kin to the Norren. Although they fought amongst each other and took cruel joy in selling captives into slavery, the defeated did not settle lightly into servitude. A Thyr spouse was well-regarded in the camps of the northmen, good for breeding strong children.

Isleif turned her head. Scrub jay, two calls, pause, then two more. The Thyr woman might know the difference between this birdsong and the true, but it was unlikely.

The reply came quickly—red thrush, once, pause, once again. Then a bushtit.

No one else was coming.

Isleif rose silently and approached the tent.

“Ho, sister,” she said in Thyryn.

The redhead’s head snapped up. Her eyes—pale green—widened.

“Run,” she said, rising. “Run fast, run now. Before she knows. She will see you in my mind, but if you have fled far enough you may yet stay free.” Her voice was a fixed blade, intent, unwavering. “If you value the freedom of your mind, run now.”

Isleif paused. “We fear no slavers, sister—”

“Run!” the woman demanded, stepping forward. “You do not understand what you have stumbled into. She is no mortal- ... mortal....”

Her voice trailed off and her expression softened, her head lolling gently into a slight angle. Her eyes became unfocused, the tight expression lifted away from her face, leaving it blank and smooth.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Strangers are here. One, a Norreni. Probably more, they hunt in packs. Yes, Mistress, I told her to run from you. Yes, Mistress, I understand. I will obey. Yes, Mistress.”

The woman’s head rolled gently back to center, and her eyes alit once more on Isleif.

“Mistress wants you,” she said softly, happily. “You will come.”

come

The Thyryn woman turned and walked away.

Isleif found herself following.

Her axe was in her hand, but... she had no will to use it. She would only—could only—walk along behind this red-haired girl, hands at her sides.

come

Distantly, like listening to a conversation being held on a quiet hillside a stone’s throw away, Isleif felt thoughts forming. She should, perhaps, warn her comrades? Let them know what was happening? She wouldn’t run away, that would be to do other than to come, but perhaps she should... yell? Or at least sign. That something was... something was...

come

The axe almost tumbled from her hand. Reflex slid it back into its sheath on her thigh.

It felt... nice. To know what she was doing, and to do it, without thinking about it. Those distant hillside-thoughts were still there, but they were just idle noise, pointless theories. Where was she going, why, how was... was ‘Mistress’ doing this? Isleif found herself unable to care, barely able to form the thoughts to begin with.

The redhead had a nice body. Isleif would enjoy seeing her nude, stroking the flame-colored patch between her legs. Of course she probably wasn’t crotch-bent, so few women were. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did, except

come

Down the hill now, at the bottom, where a small stream ran merrily over mossy rocks. The Thyryn girl turned and followed the stream, stepping lightly, swiftly. Isleif followed her, though she suspected she could find the way regardless.

The others must be baffled, straining to keep up without breaking into the open. Ah well.

Isleif noticed sounds, clinking and scuffing. Ahead of them the stream widened and Isleif observed that it was dammed up, and beyond the dam were women, walking with baskets, baskets that they dumped onto piles of earth. Baskets of dirt. The women turned from the pile and walked back down a slope into the hillside.

come

The redhead led Isleif up onto the dam and Isleif saw that there was a gap beyond it, a large excavation, mounds of dirt downstream and a great gash in the hillside, a trench as wide as two men with their arms outstretched. A trio of women were working with axes on a fallen tree; one of them raised a fresh, rough-hewn plank and walked with it into the cut in the hill, passing another young woman who emerged with a fresh basket full of dirt and rock.

The redhead, and Isleif, hopped gingerly down the rear face of the rough earthen dam. The woman with the plank suddenly lowered herself to her knees, as did the girl with the basket.

Then she emerged from the dig.

Isleif inhaled.

She was tall, very tall, and utterly nude from her thighs to her neck. Her skin was pale, alabaster, with a strange bluish tinge to it—and flawless, taut, her sex strangely (yet hypnotically) hairless, her breasts high and firm as though she had grown them only yesteryear. Her eyes...

...were hidden beneath a helmet. It was glossy black.

It looked like a headsman’s hood, only it was glossy in the filtered sunlight, as though it were hard like a beetle’s shell. It covered her eyes and curved down over each cheek, revealing a proud nose and luscious, dark-colored lips. The lips were smiling.

Her hand, blue-white and strong, rose and beckoned.

come

Isleif hastened to approach her. When she was just close enough to touch, Isleif stopped, and looked up at the glossy black where her eyes should be.

Ancient.

The statue. The ancient helmet. The stone was white—but it was stone.

The woman’s smooth pate was black.

She smiled, and licked her lips.

“Beauteous,” the lips said. “Tell us, how mought more of thee aight a’woods?”

“Three,” Isleif eagerly replied.

The woman craned her neck slightly, as though looking into the trees. Her burgundy lips curved.

“Yes. They o’erwatch us, they stand near.”

Then for a long moment, she just stood there, head slightly cocked, lips smiling gently. She was so tall, her breasts were at Isleif’s head. Her nipples were pale, blue-white like her skin. She moved, and Isleif looked back up at the black carapace atop her head.

“And there. They... come now. Beauteous as thee? We shall sight.”

Her head turned down to face Isleif.

ungarb

Isleif blinked, then realized what the woman wanted. Quickly, happily, she shed her clothes, her boots, the forest jerkin, the deerhide pants, her belts and straps, her frock and undercloth. Her axes clinked as they dropped to the ground.

She stood nude, panting slightly.

The woman’s head moved slightly, like a leaf at the end of spider silk, as though she could see through the glossy black atop her head. Her lips moved, pursing, smiling.

“Beauteous. We are pleased to take thee.”

Her hand rose again, fingertips beneath Isleif’s chin, and then Isleif felt her slide into her mind. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. She stared helplessly at the black gloss where the tall woman’s eyes should be.

spread open thy mind

Isleif reeled as, unbidden, she felt herself drop mental defenses she had been unaware of her entire life. Logic, cynicism, experience—her brain shed its garments of habit faster than Isleif had stripped her body nude.

Now both stood nude, soft, utterly compliant.

A tongue slid across the sightless woman’s dark lips. Isleif waited without resistance for her to do what she would.

The voice spoke again.

ours

ours now

“Yours,” Isleif whispered helplessly.

our slave

thou art our slave

“Your... slave,” Isleif agreed.

our slave by thy will. service unto us be all thou covet

Isleif’s mind swam as the words rooted into her mind. “Yes. I only want to serve you.”

love us

thou love us

“I... love you,” Isleif promised, and she did.

now spread thy mind, slave. Let thy Mistress read thee.

Isleif’s consciousness slid back to the far rim of her mind, pulling all open as it went. Spreading herself, parting, opening, revealing all to her.

To Mistress.

Then Mistress’ touch was everywhere inside Isleif’s head, reading, probing, stroking, touching with a gentle curiosity. She was learning everything that Isleif knew, everything Isleif believed, all of her secrets and dreams, the lies she told herself and the truths she kept close. Mistress was reading her mind as though it were a book.

Now and then Isleif felt Mistress pause, as something within her mind caught her attention.

Now and then, she changed it.

It was a tweak, a pinch, and then Isleif believed something different than she had a moment before. She had thought Mistress’ accent strange and puzzling; now it was strange and beautiful, the most musical speech Isleif had ever known. She had felt shamed to be nude before a company of strangers; now she was proud to display Mistress’ property to all. It had been uncomfortable, unnatural, for Isleif to obey another without even a thought; now it was the way things should always be.

And then it was over, and Mistress’ strong mind was pulling the cloth back over Isleif’s soft brain, drawing her consciousness back down from where it had hidden itself to watch, deputizing it to once more control the body that it no longer owned.

It had taken a moment; it had taken an aeon. Isleif felt exhausted, weak in limb and heart.

“A fine slave,” her luscious mouth said. “Thou shalt service us greatly and well.”

The words of praise stirred Isleif to shudders of bliss.

Then her head turned slightly, and Isleif felt them arrive.

Seif, Eoryn. Eottir. They drew up silently behind her.

down. abase. wait in calm

Isleif shivered and stepped aside, dropping to her knees. She would wait for her Mistress to command her again.

The other three Norreni stood at attention, bodies passive, hands at their sides. Their impassive faces stared at Mistress. Seif shivered.

Then they were disrobing, stripping off their gear, their clothes, dropping them to the ground.

Isleif could hear the voice from a far hilltop again, the distant sound that she knew to be her own thoughts. It was mulling, dispassionately echoing whatever ideas came to it. It was a shame, the voice said, that she hadn’t told her comrades to run—now Mistress would own them too. But of course that would please Mistress—they were young and attractive, and had skills as valuable as Isleif’s own. They would be good slaves. And Isleif had brought them.

The pride that warmed her somehow felt strange.

Mistress had bid Isleif to be calm, and calm she remained. One at a time, Mistress enslaved her friends, raising their chins, looking into their eyes with her own gloss-encased face, molding their soft, helpless minds. Seif she took first; for long moments the black-haired girl stared blankly as her mind was reshaped, her powder blue eyes wide with a look of shock. Then she blinked, and her eyes filled with love. Nude, she curtseyed and knelt down.

Eoryn was next, chin gently lifted, face stretching slowly in shock. The clearing was silent, save for the birds, the creek. Squirrels chased each other up a tree. The slaves in the long ditch, whom Isleif had not yet seen, continued to work, but none of them emerged to disturb this tableau.

Mistress released Eoryn’s chin and Eoryn’s eyes fluttered closed, her head drooping. A moment passed, and then she looked up with a smile, eyes glittering with devotion.

Eottir was last. Mistress touched her and she shuddered. Long, white fingers took hold of her jaw, and Isleif saw Eottir swallow as she looked up at the glossy black mask. Then her golden eyes went distant and vague.

Mistress’ other hand rose from her side, and a finger stretched to stroke down the slope of Eottir’s breast, stopping at the nipple, the other fingers rising to stroke from beneath, then Mistress’ entire hand was slowly stroking Eottir’s breast, then the other. Eottir’s breath was coming faster, the skin of her chest turning red and her cheeks flushing.

Mistress reached down to stroke her between her legs, running a long middle finger slowly up and down Eottir’s labia. Eottir’s mouth fell open with a soft, nasal whine.

Then Mistress stopped, and stepped back.

Eottir’s eyes closed, and her posture stiffened slightly.

She opened her eyes and smiled.

“Mistress,” she said.

“My life is yours.”

“And so for all thee,” Mistress said.

rise and present

Isleif hastened to her bare feet, and quickly joined her comrades. Nude, the four of them stood facing their new Mistress, hands at their sides, backs straight, ready to obey.

Mistress’ mouth smiled down at them from beneath the night-black carapace. “Our quartet of nimruda,” she said. “’Norren’ thou dub thyselves. Beauteous, strong slaves. When at leisure we art, enjoy thee and thy kind shall we.” Isleif watched those lips move, beautiful, rich, dark lips breathing forth an unique and lilting music. “But leisure stands not now, much doing is requited. Isleif-slave, Eottir-slave. Garb thyselves and provide us with meat. Our owning is fifteen slaves with thee; thou shalt provision us this even with game. Seif-slave, Eoryn-slave, thou shalt dig alike the othern. Qin’shaliri-slave comes; she shall appoint and arrange thee.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the four chorused in unison.

“Then to task, slaves.”

Quickly, they dressed.

As they thrust legs into pants and buckled straps back on, the routine of the other slaves came back to life around them. Women came from the ditch with dirt—some in bags, some in baskets, some carried in the sweep of a long apron. It was dumped against the rear of the earthen dam or in the piles opposite. The sound of digging emerged from the cleft, scraping and soft grunts.

A woman emerged from the ditch. She was a classic Viqqabi beauty, sun-darkened skin, long black hair in ringlets bound with a colorful scarf. Her eyes were fascinating, the dark brown at the center of her irises surrounded by shining gold.

She approached the four newcomers. “I am Qin’shaliri,” she said in a lyrical southern voice. “Mistress has instructed me to organize the digging. Which of you are to dig?”

“We are,” Seif and Eoryn chorused.

“Very good. Come with me and I shall set you to your tasks.”

She turned away and strode back into the ditch; Seif and Eoryn followed.

Isleif looked at Eottir. “We must hunt for Mistress,” Eottir announced, and Isleif nodded. Quickly, they moved their packs off to the side of the cleared area. Isleif unbound her bow and strung it. Then, without further speech, they loped off into the woods.

It was similar to living on the far side of the world, Isleif thought distantly. Everything was the same, only down was up and up was down.

Their hunt had been successful—unsurprisingly, for the game in this part of the Tyrwood was plentiful and lazy, and the only huntress better than Isleif herself was Eottir.

Mistress must have read that in their minds, to choose the two of them. Although Seif or Eoryn would have done as well, in such a prey-rich environment. Now each of them carried a brace of rabbits on her belt, Isleif had a dozen fine gamebird in a sack, and Eottir bore the already-dressed hart upon her back, carefully hung to leave the blood spatters on the leaves and not on her clothing.

“Let’s switch,” Isleif offered, and Eottir grunted as she rolled the deer off of her shoulder. She stretched with a groan, then nodded and Isleif handed her the bag of birds.

Isleif wondered what Mistress had done to Eottir; she had said almost nothing during the two-hour hunt, only what was necessary to co-ordinate, and there was a fire glittering in her eyes that Isleif had seen only rarely before. Once, she would have called it the light of Eottir’s will—but Eottir’s will was Mistress’ will, now.

Even more than Isleif, Eottir burned to obey.

Isleif grunted as she lifted the deer and carefully draped it over her shoulders. Eottir watched her settle it until Isleif looked up and nodded, then the two of them set off back towards the dig site.

What was Mistress digging? Why? And where had she come from—she was so clearly a sister of the ancient statues that Isleif had seen, yet they were centuries old and Mistress only perhaps three and a half decades, give or take.

And if these were the Viqqabi slavers which the Norren had been tracking—as they clearly were—where were the men? Tents there had been for thirty or more, but with Mistress there were only women; was there a male version of her? Tall, white, adorned with a shining black helm? Had he taken the men elsewhere?

But these thoughts were dim and irrelevant compared to Isleif’s need to return and provide Mistress with what she had requested, and Isleif found herself unable to follow them to any conclusion. She scrambled after Eottir, across a creek and up a rocky slope, then down the leafy backside. The light was fading, the ground growing dark as the tops of the trees lit with the golden glow of the setting sun.

They passed through a copse of aspen and spied the excavation site. Isleif’s soft mind wondered again what Mistress was seeking.

The sound of digging had ceased. A single woman stood in the cleared area next to the dam. Isleif allowed her foot to snap a branch, and the woman turned to spy them coming. She was short in stature and quite voluptuous; not a Thyryn, nor Viqquabi—Fashedian perhaps, brown hair, brown eyes, freckled skin.

She smiled as they drew near. “Mistress has returned to camp with her owning. She left me to await you. Come.”

Isleif and Eottir walked with the woman back up the gentle slope towards the tents.

“What is your name?” Isleif asked, and was then slightly surprised at herself.

The curvy woman and Eottir both seemed startled by the unprompted question. “I, ah... my name is Lissira,” the brunette finally answered.

The soft voice in Isleif’s head thought that she might ask where Lissira was from, or perhaps give her own name in return. But Mistress had not commanded it and... well, it seemed odd now, to do anything which Mistress had not instructed.

And then they were approaching the tents. Women moved around, fueling the campfire, carrying skins of wine or trays of food. To the side, four women were bathing themselves from buckets, totally nude, scrubbing themselves with washcloths.

Lissira led Eottir and Isleif into the center of the tents, where the fire was already rising to life. The Viqquabi, Qin’shaliri, was there, and she turned to face them.

“Ah, the hunters. Your return will please Mistress. Give over the game to Thylja and Soo, they are preparing food this evening. Bathe there—” she pointed to where the other four women were splashing themselves from buckets “— and then enter Mistress’ tent, where she will make her will clear.”

“Yes,” Isleif and Eottir chorused.

“And you need not clothe yourself after bathing,” Qin’shaliri added. “Go nude to her.”

“Yes,” Isleif and Eottir replied again.

Two women approached them, a Thyryn who Isleif would describe as handsome, her snub nose and squared jaw somehow combining to form a beautiful yet not classically feminine face, and a Tsulengi woman. Isleif had met only a few Tsulengi, their narrow eyes and golden skin marking them across the north as foreign, but their traders journeyed far and few were the corners of the earth they did not visit. It was strange to see one as a slave, but her beauty was such that men might have risked much to make her so.

The Tsulengi and the Thyryn took the coneys, and the birds, and the deer, and smiled and withdrew.

Eottir and Isleif went to the buckets of water—the other women had finished and moved away, leaving the Norren to strip down and splash themselves with the cold water. Isleif took a cloth and washed her face, her arms, her torso; she cleaned her sex twice. At some point Lissira came and removed their clothes, weapons and all. Isleif didn’t ask after them; when Mistress willed, she would dress again. She turned to her companion.

Eottir stood nude. Her body was hard, lean, her breasts small and attractive. There was a long scar down her side from the tusk of a boar; Eottir had slain it with a knife.

Her hands were at her sides, her eyes on Isleif. Isleif nodded.

They walked through the camp, past the now-roaring fire, to the large tent. The women around the camp, eating or cleaning or washing, paused to watch as Isleif and Eottir passed. Isleif felt no shame at her nudity—Mistress had commanded it.

A tall, lean woman, blond but not Norren, smiled as they approached, and pulled aside the drapery across the entrance.

Inside it was warm and fragrant, the ground covered with carpets, the walls hung with colorful tapestries. Four glass lanterns provided ample light; the heat came from a metal stove at the side of the room, atop which incense smoldered.

Mistress reclined in a large chair; the frame was of wood lashed together, then artfully hung with pillows. A woman stood before her, nude, her head bowed; the dark ringlets of her hair told Isleif that the woman was Qin’shaliri.

As Isleif and Eottir approached, Mistress looked up and smiled. The black gloss covering her head glinted in the lantern light.

“Ah, our Norren-slaves. Pretty baubles thou art. Pet, here.”

Qin’shaliri walked to Mistress’ side, then knelt down next to her chair. She truly was a dark-skinned beauty, her breasts smooth and firm, her hips smooth, the fur on her pubis neatly trimmed. She looked up at Isleif and Eottir with a placid smile under wide, dark eyes.

Mistress stroked the Viqquabi’s head. “Thou,” she said, pointing at Isleif and then at the floor just in front of her chair, “Appoint thee here.”

Isleif stepped forward.

Spread thy mind

“Yes, Mistress,” Isleif thought eagerly. Once more, she felt her consciousness, her self, lift back from her mind, sliding away to the edges, opening her brain to Mistress’ reading and control.

It felt like a hand, perhaps wrapped in a glove, taking hold of her mind. Isleif found her arms rising, out to her sides, and her body began to slowly turn in place. Her consciousness watched placidly from the edges of her mind as Mistress moved her body like a doll.

Isleif rotated twice in place, slowly, and then was once again facing Mistress. Mistress licked her lips, the corners crinkled up into her slightly wicked smile.

Hie there came the command. It took a moment for Isleif to realize that she was to move her own body once more, then she instantly walked to the place Mistress had indicated.

It was Eottir’s turn.

Isleif watched as her comrade stepped forward. She could see the instant that Eottir’s will obediently stepped back and Mistress took control, the slackening of her face, the glaze on her eyes. Eottir turned in place, arms out, thrice.

“Thy scar is fetching,” Mistress said, “puissant and never-fear art thou. And beauteous thy face, yes—but we see poxen-mark athwart thy cheek. Hie hither, slave.”

Eottir stepped forward to where Mistress was reaching out a hand. Those long, pale fingers reached up to stroke her cheek, then stiffened into a wide-fingered grip. Mistress sighed deeply, her head tilting back slightly—then Eottir gasped. Her body trembled as Mistress’ fingers flexed, and soft short whines escaped from her mouth.

Then Mistress’ hand pulled away, and Eottir, who had been leaning forward, leaned back upright, panting. Mistress cocked her shiny black head, then smiled.

“We are yet strong in art. Hie there, slave.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Eottir said, and came to stand next to Isleif.

There were those in High-Water-Sky-Trees who had suffered badly from the pox, or simply from acne, and it had left them with cheeks like pitted stone. Eottir was never one of these, but like most she had been given the cattle pox young to protect from the great pox, and it had left a dozen small blemishes on either cheek.

Now they were gone.

Isleif stared for a moment as Eottir took her place. Her countenance was entirely without mark now, her skin perfect and smooth from brow to neck.

Mistress could shape flesh.

The entrance of the tent opened and women entered. Lissira the voluptuous Fashedian, Soo the beautiful Tsulengi cook, a southerner Isleif did not know, and one of the Thyryn, not Thylja nor the woman Isleif had followed from the camp but a third, small in frame with fine light brown hair bound with a pair of golden sticks. They entered and stood around the edges of the room, eyes on the floor, hands at their sides.

Qin’shaliri rose from where she knelt at Mistress’ side and walked to the center of the room.

Still another slave entered, another Tsulengi, her skin a darker gold than Soo’s and her body strongly muscled—a warrior or bodyguard, the veins visible in smooth branches atop the muscles of her arms and hard lower belly. She was nude, as were they all, and she carried in her hands a large alabaster bowl in which was a large leather wineskin.

She approached behind Qin’shaliri and placed the bowl on the floor. Kneeling, she lifted the skin, unstoppered it, and let the golden oil within pour out into the bowl.

There was a soft thump, then another. The Thyryn with the light brown hair had produced a small drum, and was now rhythmically beating on it. Then soft notes as the other southerner, Fashedian or Sura perhaps, began blowing lightly through a flute.

The kneeling Tsulengi slave put aside the now-empty skin and dipped her hands into the bowl of oil.

Qin’shaliri began to dance.

It was an undulation, a turning of her hips, her waist, her shoulders. She moved slowly, her hands curling, her eyes fixed on Mistress.

For a woman such as Isleif, it was almost painfully erotic.

Was Mistress like her?

The kneeling Tsulengi reached up and her hands slithered down Qin’shaliri’s thighs, leaving glistening strokes of oil. Those strong hands slithered down over knees, calves, down to ankles, then slipped back into the bowl. They rose again to rest on hipbones, then sliding forward to caress Qin’shaliri’s stomach, leaving her navel glistening and a drop of oil trickling down along her mons.

Isleif swallowed hard.

The incense, the beat of the drum, the hypnotic swaying of the beautiful Viqquabi body—Isleif felt transported, lifted away from herself. Her heart was pounding as shining golden hands cupped heavy brown breasts, fingertips swirled around on dark nipples, leaving them glinting and peaked. Qin’shaliri had begun to sing, a high, soft melody, wordless, the sound of her desert and jungle homeland.

Isleif’s hands were moving of their own accord towards the join of her legs.

She looked at Mistress; her rich, dark lips were smiling beneath the glossy black of her headcover, her legs were spread wide in the chair, revealing pale, blue-tinged labia. There was dew on them, wetness to match Isleif’s own.

The music, the incense... and a Mistress whose hunger mirrored Isleif’s own.

Was the drumbeat hastening? Isleif could not tell. Qin’shaliri was moving faster now, not quickly but sensuously, her body glistening from neck to ankles, the lantern-light shining from the wet surfaces of her curves. The Tsulengi’s hands were stroking her body, kneading her buttocks, slipping fingertips between her legs and then pulling them back along the folds of her sex.

There was a moan that was not Isleif’s own, and she looked to her side to see Lissira masturbating, curling a finger up inside herself, groping at a heavy breast. Next to her, the Thyryn with the pale brown hair was doing the same, her face clenched in need, her eyes riveted to the undulating body and stroking hands at the center of the tent.

Isleif had never felt like this; she touched herself when she needed, lying in her mind—only her mind—with that beautiful half-Thyr girl from the Rock-Tumble-Big-Sky clan, or another of the beautiful women she had seen. Eottir, once or twice, or Seif, had featured in her self-pleasure. But what she was feeling now, the sheer need for this dancing woman, the desire to feed between her legs and to have her tongue stuffed up into Isleif’s greedy sex... Isleif had never felt need so powerfully.

Mistress.

Mistress was feeling this. Mistress was horny—and it was bleeding from her into the mind of every slave in the room. Probably every slave in the camp.

Isleif resisted no longer and began to work her hands between her legs. She could feel it now, the arousal forcing its way into her mind, like the heat from a fire, an external source to match or even better Isleif’s own.

They were all masturbating now, except for Qin’shaliri, who was having fingers stuffed into her sex by the slave who had oiled her—and she was stroking herself with her other hand. Across the room, Soo and the other southerner, who had a comely broad face dusted with freckles, were each rubbing themselves.

Then, Soo turned her head, as did the southerner. They shared a look.

Then they started to kiss.

Isleif moaned and came.

Across from them Lissira and the Thyryn with the light brown hair were kissing as well, mouths locked together, tongues probing. Their breasts mingled sweat and their hands slipped from their own pussies to stroke each other instead.

Isleif groaned, twitching from her orgasm, already high and needy again.

Pet, hie here

They all heard it but it was for Qin’shaliri, who undulated her way across the short distance to Mistress. They all watched, hands on each others’ bodies, as Qin’shaliri knelt between Mistress’ splayed legs and began to feed at her pale, hairless, glorious sex.

Mistress’ long fingers curled into Qin’shaliri’s hair and her lips moaned out her pleasure.

Isleif suddenly thought on Eottir, next to her, and realized that they were paired. She turned her head, full of need but somehow... fearing?... what she would do.

Eottir was staring back at her, masturbating frantically, mouth open and mewling. Isleif needed to kiss it, to twine tongues with her comrade from when they were young... she could see the need reflected in Eottir’s eyes, but Eottir had known what Isleif was and had decided it was not for her, had chosen long ago not to take what Mistress was now shaping her to want...

Another wave of pleasure came from Mistress and Isleif turned almost thankfully to look, fingers working in her snatch. Qin’shaliri had risen and turned around, her legs slipping slightly apart, and Mistress leaned forward, tongue extending—and extending, and extending. It slid across the surfaces of Qin’shaliri’s ass, pointed and as long as Isleif’s forearm. The top surface was pink—but underneath the pink shaded to black, as though a dark cord ran along the underside from root to tip.

Isleif stared in erotic disbelief. Was she human? Was she something else?

Mistress’ inhumanly long tongue coiled and slithered down to lick at Qin’shaliri’s inner thighs and then coil its way into Qin’shaliri’s pussy; the Viqquabi cried out, a sharp bark slipping into a long moan. Mistress’ long hands took hold of her waist and guided her backwards, leaning back into her chair as she pulled Qin’shaliri on top of her, the chair creaking alarmingly. Qin’shaliri’s oiled body slipped backwards along Mistress’ firm torso until her head drew level with Mistress’ cunt, and Qin’shaliri eagerly took it in her mouth once more.

Across the room, Soo and her southerner lover had assumed a similar 69 position, lying sideways, heads between each others’ spread legs. Lissira and the Thyryn were still using hands, their mouths entwined, bodies slick with sweat.

Isleif would fuck Eottir. She needed it—and it was what Mistress wanted.

She turned to find Eottir already leaning towards her, eyes hungry, mouth open. Her perfect, smooth face—newly perfect, newly smooth, gift of Mistress—was so familiar and she wanted Eottir but Eottir had never wanted her, they were friends but not-

Mistress came and Isleif forgot everything. She fell back, coming as well, more than coming, experiencing pure ecstasy poured directly into her defenseless brain.

Isleif woke and it was dark.

She was nude, but warm—a fur had been drawn across her. The interior of the tent was dark but not too dark to see.

Mistress.

There. She was there, lying motionless, Qin’shaliri curled up against her. Was she sleeping? The black gloss remained on her head, covering her eyes, but her body was relaxed.

Isleif remembered her tongue, inhumanly long, curling up into Qin’shaliri’s sex.

What was she?

She was Mistress. For now, that was all Isleif really knew.

Isleif’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. She realized that she was sharing her sleeping fur and looked down.

Eottir was asleep next to her. Isleif moved to stroke her cheek, but stopped. She looked peaceful; for her entire waking life she was so... taut, so purposeful, so fixed. Only when asleep did Eottir relax.

Mudroll. That was her nickname. Strangers to the High-Water-Sky-Trees clan thought it funny, but to those who knew it was a name of respect.

The boar had killed. A hunter, losing his footing, his vitals taken out with a single vicious cut from its tusks. The clan had pursued it but the boar had retreated into its haunt, rocky burrows too small for a man, covered in bracken and tearing thorns.

Too small for a man, but not for Eottir. She had gone in with a long knife—if the burrows were too small for a boar spear, they were too small for the boar to charge her, too small for it to run away.

She was crazy, but the hunter had been her affianced.

The rest waited outside, poking at the briars with their spears, twenty hunters of the clan. Listening for Eottir’s death cry.

Instead they heard the boar, squealing, pitching from a cliffside hole to plummet ten feet into a muddy pit. Eottir burst out after, falling, dirk in hand, and the two animals fought ferociously in the mud, one atop another, twisting, stabbing, shrieking hatred.

When Eottir emerged, there was no flesh showing, only the whites of her eyes atop the grey mud and red gore.

Isleif stroked her hair. “Sleep, sister,” she whispered, and lay back down.