The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Summer turned into fall.

Life at Thaer Gorran—Mistress had not seen fit to change the name, though it belonged to her now and the former Laird was her slave—had become tiresomely easy. For the Norren slaves, there was little work. Drudges did the cleaning, the laundry, they harvested the grain and carried the water and milked the cows and did all of the scut-work in general.

They did not complain; they did not think at all. They simply obeyed.

There had been no visitors, other than farmers from within the holding. Kyurren ideas of land ownership were strange to Isleif; apparently the Laird owned all of the land but the farmers had paid “quitrents”, allowing them to farm the land and to pass it on to their heirs without further payment to the Laird, but they were not allowed to sell it on or to “waste” it, whatever that meant. Isleif had read the contracts.

She had read almost everything there was to read, in Thaer Gorran.

Her days consisted largely of keeping herself amused. At night she would take a shift on patrol, but other than the occasional game animal there were no surreptitious visitors nor any other disturbances. Some days she would go afield and hunt, bringing back fresh meat for Soo or Thylja to cook.

Maedwyn, the hold’s original cook, was now a drudge, and no longer possessed the ability to cook without direct supervision.

There were nineteen drudges. There would have been twenty, but Mistress decided that Gwynn the blacksmith was too useful a slave to have her mind erased. So: twenty three slaves, not counting the children, and nineteen obedient, mindless husks.

Any of the slaves could command them, and they would obey, unless they were already performing a task set directly into their brains by Mistress or by Domina.

Domina. As the days passed her body continued to change. Her formerly teak-dark skin had faded to a much paler hue, although not quite as blue-white as Mistress’s skin. Not yet. Her hair, at least that below her neck, had fallen out, leaving her sex nude, her labia a shade darker than her now waxy skin.

Isleif had somehow been expecting the thing on Domina’s head to darken, to become night-black like Mistress’, but it did not; it remained the same slightly translucent white as the day it had burrowed into Qin’shaliri’s mind.

Domina’s tongue however... stretched. Like Mistress’, it was now as long as Isleif’s forearm, tapered to a rounded point, but where Mistress’ was black underneath, Domina’s was white. Somehow the creature that had bonded with her brain had reached through her skull and extended itself along the underside of Domina’s tongue, growing the tongue along with it. On top, it was a tremendously long pink tongue; on the bottom, it was a waxy white tube.

And it was very prehensile. Only three days before it had been coiled inside of Isleif’s vagina.

Domina seemed to be more aroused each day. There had been no sex—at least, not with either Mistress or Domina, Isleif and Brynwyrren had found some time—the first two weeks at the hold. But in the last four or five days the two “joined”—as Mistress referred to them—had held sex parties every night, sometimes even summoning their slaves for copulation during the middle of the day. Isleif and Brynwyrren had been sitting on the bridge dangling their toes in the stream just yesterday when Brynwyrren stiffened and announced that she must go to Mistress.

When she returned a few hours later, she was flushed and sweaty, legs unsteady, and sat on the bridge while Isleif held her.

Today Brynwyrren, along with the other Thyryn, were working on one of the new buildings Mistress had ordered constructed. The drudges were doing most of the work, but they required direction.

Mistress had been making plans, extensive plans, and they required new buildings. From what Isleif could tell, Mistress wanted to start making glass, and she had instructed Gwynn to melt down all the copper both at the hold and from all of the hold’s outlying farms. Out of the copper she had created large tanks, one with a long series of coiling tubes; what the coils were for Isleif did not know. Perhaps they had to do with the glass, perhaps not.

So the slaves were busy; the Thyryn were busy, the Kyurren were busy, Lissira and the other Fashedians were busy, Soo and Thylja were busy, and the drudges were busiest of all. Everyone was constantly working except the Norreni.

Isleif yawned, and waited for night to fall.

To her surprise, that night she found herself on patrol with Gwynn.

“I thought Mistress kept you busy with her metal working?”

Gwynn nodded. “Aye, she does. But we are waiting for... to be honest, I’m not sure what, but we’re waiting for something to be finished in that new building of hers. So for the moment I’m back to horseshoes and plowshares, and for now we’ve few of those that need work. The drudges can make the nails.”

Isleif nodded.

They walked along the creek. For the first several weeks, the patrols played a hunter’s game, with a holdswoman walking in plain sight, distracting any interloper with the obvious presence of a guard. The Norren woman, silent, experienced, stalked through the forest, ready to apprehend any such interloper.

No interlopers came.

So they relaxed their guard. Now, whichever two were on watch simply patrolled the outskirts of the hold, relying on moonlight to see by. They carried lanterns but did not use them save when the moon was new.

At the join of two fields, Isleif and Gwynn turned to ascend a hill, walking towards an area of woodland at the crest.

“Isleif...” Gwynn began, looking back at the buildings of the hold.

“Yes?”

“I swapped with Breccan for this watch.”

“I see.”

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“Speak.”

Even in the dark, Isleif could see Gwynn looking down, preparing her words.

“The drudges. They... they were my friends. They have names, families they came from... I... I love Mistress. And I want to help her. But...”

She faltered, and they walked up the hill in silence.

Gwynn tried again. “I find myself asking... why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did Mistress turn them into drudges? Why did she erase their minds, the people they had been. Not... I’m not just thinking of regret. But functionally, why? They would have worked as hard if she had let them be.”

They walked into the woods; the trees were well-spaced, having been logged several times with an eye towards improving the timber.

“My impression,” Isleif began, “is that she can’t control so many minds. When the Viqquabi slavers found her, she... she got rid of the men amongst them. Because by herself she didn’t want to have so many slaves. Couldn’t control them.”

“But that’s it,” Gwynn said, raising a finger. “What is there to control? Aren’t we... hasn’t she remade us? Would you want to obey her any less, in a year? Would you love her any less, if you were a league away?”

Isleif frowned. It was an interesting question—although treacherous. “I don’t... Leigrif and Borram, the farmers. The other farm families. They are leagues away. Do you think that her control... still holds them?”

Gwynn stopped. In the blackness under the trees, her eyes glittered. “I don’t know,” she said. “Mistress seems sure of them. But perhaps she holds them... less. Memory, Isleif. Memory. We forget. You see?”

Slowly, Isleif nodded. “I think I do. If Mistress, or Domina, don’t periodically reinforce our love...”

“That’s why she had to erase them,” Gwynn pursued. “Too many of us. Too many to be sure of, all the time. Which means that we might...”

“Don’t think it,” Isleif said. “Lock it away. If you don’t forget it on your own, it will be erased.”

Gwynn fell silent.

They came out of the woods, on the other side of the hill. Before them, the fields of grain swayed, pale in the moonlight. In a day, or two, they would be harvested; even the Norreni would be put to work with the scythe and the sickle, bringing in the food that would keep them over the winter.

Winter, in Thaer Gorran. What Isleif would emerge, in the spring?

They brought in the harvest.

It was hard work, even with the drudges laboring unceasingly and without complaint. One of them actually dropped to the ground senseless from exhaustion; the following day she was back in the field, blank-eyed, uncomplaining.

They cut the wheat in the fields, bundled it, and left it to dry; later it would be brought to the threshing barn, where drudges beat the stalks with chain-jointed sticks, knocking the wheat kernels from the chaff. The straw was heaped into piles of hay.

The grain was stored in a pair of tall buildings, poured atop the grain from the previous year. Laird Gorran had apparently been a firm believer in keeping supplies against potential bad harvests; but the harvest this year was good.

Other grain was laid by in burlap sacks. Apparently a tax was paid each year by the hold to the Margrave of Oversea Kyur, paid in grain. It seemed to be about a tenth of the harvest, so not onerous; then again, it might be unusual for such a far-flung holding to pay tax at all.

The arrangements of these ‘civilized’ peoples were still opaque to Isleif.

The harvest took two weeks, and it kept Mistress away from the hold; she traveled with Gorran and some of the slaves—but no drudges—to visit each of the twenty-seven dependent farms. Reinforcing the farmers’ love of her, no doubt, while at the same time ensuring that no misfortune prevented each of those farms from bringing in their harvests. For a small farm, a turned ankle or a snake’s bite could mean wheat rotting in the fields; the Laird’s procession, bringing extra hands to each of his farms, averted this.

In Mistress’ absence, Domina oversaw the hold. She seemed to do a credible job, though mostly staying in the background, in the house, and allowing Serena—Laird Gorran’s wife—to direct the work.

Serena was not Kyurren, she was from Suria, far to the south past even Viquir. Her skin was dark as aged wood, her eyes black, and she seemed to always wear a distant smile on her face. Whether her smile was natural or was the work of Mistress, Isleif had no way of knowing.

It was Serena who chose the order in which to harvest the fields, who indicated which wheat was to be set aside for seed and which was to be siloed, Serena who chose who would fill the sacks and who would thresh, who would scythe and who would push the barrow carts. Clearly it was something she had done for years.

At night, well after sunset, Isleif would curl up with Brynwyrren in her arms and fall asleep almost before her eyes had closed.

And then they were done.

In the morning, she was not awakened by a soft boot-prod and a whispered wake-up call in the dark. Instead, it was full light when Isleif’s eyes cracked open and she heard an insistent clanging sound. She rose from her sleeping pallet and looked out the window.

Out in the yard, tables had been set.

Brynwyrren still slumbered, so Isleif set to rocking her gently, kissing the back of her neck and her shoulders, rolling her gently forward and backward until she muttered something and yawned. She rolled onto her back, and her beautiful green eyes opened.

“It’s light,” she observed, in a gravelly voice.

“They’re calling us to morning meal,” Isleif said. “It appears to be something special.”

They dressed and went downstairs, and out into the yard. Serena and Domina were standing next to each other, talking—as Isleif and Brynwyrren emerged, Serena hastened over to them, smiling.

“It is traditional, when the harvest is in, to have a feast. Please, come and partake.”

Isleif and Brynwyrren sat at one of the long tables. Places had already been set. In short order drudges came by with pans and pots, and Isleif and Brynwyrren’s plates filled with eggs and cakes, honeyed ham and Surian sausage, biscuits and bacon and cheese.

It smelled delicious and tasted better, and as the other slaves emerged from the main building, Isleif set to with a will.

She watched the drudges as they served the food. Had Mistress never come, they too would now be seated, eating, talking, excited over labor well done and idle time to come. Now they were silent, will-less, wanting nothing and obeying all commands.

Isleif kept herself from forming any opinion.

Hands alighted on Isleif’s shoulders and gently kneaded.

“You are enjoying the repast?” Domina asked.

“Yes,” Isleif replied.

“Good. Spread your mind for me.”

Isleif swallowed her food and placed her utensils on the table, and let herself relax. Domina entered her mind at once, reading, probing. Isleif sighed. Domina was much more practiced now than the first, brusque time she had entered Isleif’s mind, at the camp so far from here. Her presence was both like and unlike Mistress’, she felt... younger, less experienced, but also more... excited.

Isleif supposed that she, too, was more used to this; from the rooftop corner of her mind where her will watched, she felt less scattered and vague and more like herself, whole, patiently waiting as Domina-

-changed-

-things-

And Domina slid back out of Isleif’s mind. Isleif exhaled, shaking her head slightly. Domina’s fingers rubbed her shoulders some more, then lifted away.

“Brynwyrren-slave,” Domina said.

“Yes, Domina?”

“Spread your mind for me.”

A ladle moved over Isleif’s plate. She looked up at the white eyes and blank face of a drudge, one of the women, who waited for Isleif to indicate if she wanted some of the porridge she was offering.

She had just been thinking about the drudges, hadn’t she? Isleif couldn’t remember. She nodded at the drudge and watched as she emptied the ladle onto Isleif’s plate. The drudge moved on to Soo, who was sitting next to Isleif on her left.

They were kind of hot, actually. The drudges. At least, the female ones. To obey so totally, to think about nothing else... Isleif envied that, a little. And was slightly surprised to find herself aroused by it. To have her mind totally wiped, and eager obedience planted in her skull like a new seedling into freshly tilled soil... she watched the drudge move to serve the next slave.

Isleif wondered what Brynwyrren would think, if she were to have a drudge come to bed with them. Looking into those whited-out eyes, as that pretty face serviced her...

Brynwyrren exhaled, and Isleif turned to look. “Thank you, Domina,” Brynwyrren breathed.

“My pleasure, slave,” Domina replied.

Isleif watched Domina walk away, back into the house. She was wearing clothes but only just, a vest and a skirt, no shirt; her pallid breasts made rounded appearances on either side of the vest’s narrow fabric. As she walked away, Isleif watched her long black braid sway across the vest’s red silk.

Then she turned back to her food.

It was snowing.

Isleif sat looking out the window. First snowfall, drifting whiteness that was already beginning to hide the fields of stubble. From this window on the side of the house, she could only just make out the black sticks of the leafless trees on the far side of the clearing, across the creek.

“Where I came from, we could harvest three times a year. Plant in the fall, harvest in the spring. Plant in spring, harvest in summer. Plant in summer, harvest in fall.”

Isleif turned around. Serena stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame.

“Did it ever snow?” Isleif asked.

Serena smiled. “No. I first saw snow when Gorran brought me here. To be honest, I thought it was wonderful.” She walked into the room and sat down on the bed. “I still do. What do you think of it?”

Isleif looked back out the window. “It... just is. It means that game will be in its dens and warrens, it means taking the right precautions when going out, it means that the clans need to be in their wintering grounds and it means that it is the making time. As a child I played in it; later I learned what it meant for hunting and for travel. It can be beautiful. Mornings, after snowfall, when the world is still... I think it is never so quiet as then.”

Serena nodded.

“Do you miss your homeland?” Isleif asked.

“No. Oh, there are some things I miss—a day spent at the beach, the market in Tshiuul, the taste of fresh gormi onla... I think I miss the food most of all. But Suria is not a land where one can be free, not unless you are eagle caste. You own nothing that a higher caste can not simply take, when they wish—and that includes your land, your clothes, your tools, your lover. The Iquarriat forbids some takings, but... each caste is helpless to the whims of those above.”

“That’s...” Isleif trailed off. “The idea of caste is an odd one, to me.”

“And in Suria it is based on nothing, merely whose womb one crawled out of. Not like Mistress. Mistress is superior to us, it is natural and logical for us to be her slaves. We obey her because she is superior. The eagle caste princelings...” Serena mimed spitting. “Debauched and useless. When Mistress takes over the world, I hope she makes all of them drudges, to work in the salt ponds.”

“You think Mistress will take over the world?”

Serena shrugged. “I hope so. We need a strong, superior mind to guide us. When Gorran took me away from Suria and gave me this new life, I thought it was the best thing that could ever happen to me—but I was wrong. Being enslaved by Mistress is best. I love her so much, with all the love that I needed to give a superior being but couldn’t... because I did not know that one existed.”

Serena looked at Isleif with wide, feverish eyes. “Thank you for bringing her here, Isleif. You have completed us, made us whole.”

Isleif nodded. She thought about Gwynn, who struggled against obedience; and Serena, who embraced it with her very core.

“I was hoping,” Serena said, in a quieter voice, “that I might thank you...”

She stepped into the room and let her robe fall open.

Her body was hardly that of a woman of fifty winters, and Isleif realized that Mistress, or Domina, had been reshaping it. Her skin was lined but taut, and dark like Qin’shaliri’s had been, her nipples teak cones on the nut-brown of her small breasts.

“I do not have much... experience,” Serena was saying, slowly walking into the room, “but Domina has been... teaching me about the pleasure of women.”

Isleif licked her lips. She was aroused, and Serena was attractive, and there was a bed in the room. And Brynwyrren had been working from dawn to dusk helping to construct a third shed, cutting and planing lumber, carrying and nailing and joining. By the time she came to bed, she was exhausted and passed directly into sleep.

Yet Isleif hesitated.

Then, the decision was moot.

come

Mistress had returned.

As Isleif and Serena entered the yard, they were washed over by joy so that they could not help but grin. Domina had run out into the snow, stark nude save for her boots, and was embracing Mistress tightly. Isleif could feel both Domina’s fierce love—and lust—as well as Mistress’ cooler happiness and maternal feeling, both radiating upon Isleif’s mind like twin fires.

All of the slaves had come out of doors as Mistress, followed by Gorran and the five others they had taken on the harvest procession, crossed the white-carpeted yard towards the hall. A pair of Kyurren slaves took their horses to lead them to the barn.

Mistress had not known how to ride when the procession set out. It was an odd incongruity, for someone of such stature to not know how to sit a saddle. But apparently she had fared well enough.

Isleif stood on the porch of the hall and felt the bliss of Mistress’ return. Domina was hanging on her, almost interfering with Mistress’ ability to walk. Yet Mistress did not seem to mind, stopping to kiss Domina deeply once, then again, then yet again, every eight paces through the yard, white flakes dusting the black gloss atop Mistress’ head.

Serena slipped a hand around Isleif. “Do you feel it,” she whispered.

Isleif nodded. It wasn’t just joy. It was need. Domina was hungry for Mistress, hungry to lie with her, and Mistress’ own need was growing in return.

The two that Serena thought of as superior forms of life were finally reaching the porch, despite hands that clung to each other’s bodies and constant pauses to slip unnatural tongues down each other’s throats.

Mistress turned her head to look at Isleif and Serena and Isleif felt the melting power of her attention.

“Therena,” she lisped, for Domina’s long tongue was still wrapped around Mistress’ tongue like a coiling snake, “thou thalt hie thee inthide, we thall drink from thy mind.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Serena beamed, and slipped her hand from Isleif’s waist to follow the two lust-besotted women inside.

Isleif looked for Brynwyrren and saw her across the yard. She slipped off the porch and hurried across.

Brynwyrren waited for her under the eave of a barn, and when Isleif arrived she slid her arms around Isleif’s back and kissed her deeply, hungrily. Domina’s need had infected them both, and they probed each other’s mouths—with their short, human tongues—and groped at each other through their clothes.

“Need you,” Isleif muttered, and saw in Brynwyrren’s green eyes the mirror need of her own.

Isleif turned, hand clasped around Brynwyrren’s, to lead her across the yard to the hall and up to their sleeping room, but Brynwyrren pulled back at her. “This way,” she said, and led Isleif into the barn, pulling the door shut behind them.

“The,” and she paused to kiss Isleif again, “room will be full,” another kiss, “of rutting slaves,” and yet another.

“Is that,” Isleif asked, interrupting for a kiss, “a bad thing?”

“Maybe later,” Brynwyrren said, “but for now,” kiss, “I want you to myself.”

There were blankets in the hayloft—probably for just this sort of activity—and Isleif and Brynwyrren made love on them, sliding across each other, unwilling to be out of physical contact for even a moment.

Eventually, after several orgasms apiece, they lay together on the blanket, on the hay, breathing the warm earthy air of the barn and watching dust motes dance in the beams of light that came through the chinks in the barn walls.

It was getting darker, and colder, and Isleif could sense the storm gathering strength. She pulled a second blanket down from a hay bale and drew it across their bodies.

Brynwyrren made a soft, humored noise.

“What?” Isleif asked.

“I want to taste you between your legs again, but I think we may be doing that soon enough on Mistress’ account and so I’d rather lie together like this, just being with you. Mistress doesn’t seem to inspire this sort of activity as much.”

“No,” Isleif said, “but you do.”

Brynwyrren hugged her tighter, and looked into her eyes.

“Ice people, my father called you,” she said. “White hair and blue eyes. Although your hair is more yellow. And your eyes... they’re not like ice at all. They’re like the sky, on a summer afternoon.”

Isleif ran her hand through Brynwyrren’s long red curls. “Fire and ice we are then,” she said, “fire and ice.”

She looked up at the barn rafters. They were becoming hard to see, and Isleif thought she caught a glimpse of her breath. Nude under a blanket would become untenable soon enough; they’d have to either dress or go into the much better insulated hall.

come

The decision was made. Brynwyrren and Isleif scrambled for their clothes.

The fire in the hall had been stoked high and was blazing in the great hearths on either side of the room, but no one was present in the hall.

come

The building was organized around its chimneys. Two flanked the great hall and warmed the hall and the rooms above; another chimney served the kitchen and the rooms above that. Isleif and Brynwyrren hurried up the stairs. Their bedroom was down the hall, attached to the kitchen’s chimney, but Mistress’ bedroom was next to the great hall. In fact, it had windows that opened into the second story space above the hall, were she to wish to watch events below; as Isleif hurried across the balcony space at the front of the room, those windows were closed.

come

The hall continued but Isleif and Brynwyrren stopped at the double doors. A pair of drudges stood alongside them, their faces blank, their eyes tiny black dots in pools of white.

“Enter, slaves,” one of the drudges said in a flat tone, and the two of them bent over to pull open the doors.

Moist warmth wafted out of the room beyond, reminding Isleif suddenly of her first night in Mistress’ tent, of Qin’shaliri’s dance. Qin’shaliri was present now too, at least her body was, curvy and ripe albeit much paler, glistening slightly with sweat as she sat on the edge of the large bed.

The bed had been pushed back against the far wall, between two large windows slowly dripping with condensation. The room was full of women, all nude, standing or seated along the walls. Where the men were, Isleif didn’t know; all of the fourteen from the slave caravan were there, as well as Gwynn and Serena and the others of the hold who had not been mind-wiped.

The doors closed behind Isleif, surprising her a little, and she hastened to strip out of her disheveled clothes. Brynwyrren was doing the same.

In the center of the room stood Mistress, tall, white, glorious. She was standing with her arms at her sides, facing Domina and the bed and away from the door. All eyes were on her.

There was a space along one wall between Lissira and Ithrad, and Brynwyrren took Isleif’s hand and pulled her there. They knelt, then sat down on some pillows—pillows and rugs were piled in the room, covering the floor and heaped against the walls, save for an area around the roaring fireplace.

The doors swung open and four drudges entered. All were nude. The first one Isleif recognized—Maedwyn, once the hold’s cook—and she carried a great shallow bowl in her hands.

The Maedwyn-drudge walked to the center of the room, next to Mistress, and placed the bowl on the floor.

The other three drudges bore instruments—drums, a lute, and a cornamuse. They closed the doors and stood in front of them.

The drudges began to play.

The tune was simple, rhythmic. Of course it would be, Isleif thought, it had been programmed into them. Musical innovation, like all thought, was beyond a drudge.

Mistress began to move.

The Maedwyn-drudge had laid down on the floor. Mistress began to dance, swaying, hypnotic. Isleif had been having sex not twenty minutes ago but she felt her heart began to flutter once more, watching Mistress’ long, lean body turn and undulate.

Oil began to rise from the bowl.

As though it were a fountain, the bowl sent up twin streamers of oil, which curled around each other, dancing along with Mistress’ body. They turned and glittered in the lanterns’ light, and Mistress danced around them, stepping lightly, arms raised, palms turned, hips moving in fascinating circles.

Lightly, Mistress stepped one leg over the bowl.

The oil embraced her, slid across her skin, front and back. Where it touched Mistress glistened, her skin like wet marble, only moving, flexing, bending. Isleif was riveted, hypnotized. They all were.

Mistress danced and the oil writhed around her, pulling away, then leaping in to splash onto her skin. She turned and it trickled down her body, then turned again and it ran back up, waves of it, leaving her shining. It spiraled around her; a triple column rose from the bowl, turning, weaving a spiral, then it pushed upward and splashed against her sex, rushing upward around her ass.

Brynwyrren moaned.

Around Isleif the women were beginning to touch themselves, stroking gently, squeezing at breasts. Some began to touch each other—though there was no kissing, all eyes were locked on Mistress’ body, on Mistress’ dance. To look away was unthinkable.

Mistress stepped forward, towards Domina. Domina’s mouth was hanging slightly open; although her eyes were covered, she seemed dazed.

“Here is a great day,” Mistress said, raising her hands towards Domina. “Thou art grown. Our posterity beckons. We feel thy need and we answer. Join us.”

Domina rose from the bed, and a wave of sex-hunger washed over the room. A chorus of moans rose. Isleif wanted, needed, to go down on Brynwyrren.

But she had to watch.

Domina stepped forward towards Mistress’ glistening form. She raised her own hands.

“Fill us,” she said. “We need it.”

Their fingers met and interlaced. Their bodies drew together, and long, snakelike tongues slithered from their mouths to caress each other’s face and wrap around each other’s necks, breasts, tongues.

Mistress and Domina pressed together in a deep kiss. A ripple of lust washed outward, and the scales tipped—watching was no longer enough. All around the room, mouths joined, hands clutched and stroked.

Brynwyrren was on top of Isleif, kissing her furiously, her pale green eyes wide and alight with need. Isleif tried to move but Brynwyrren pushed her down, then slithered down her body, hands pressing her into the cushions, and then her mouth wetly gripped Isleif’s pussy and Isleif groaned and lay back.

Brynwyrren was licking, flicking, and Isleif almost couldn’t think, could only feel; the room was hot and moist, the music was thrumming, around her a dozen pairs of women were rutting, filled with the need coming from their owners in the center of the room.

Isleif looked up from Brynwyrren’s glorious red hair to glance at Mistress, and her eyes widened.

The hood was peeling back.

Mistress and Domina were still entwined, mouths locked—but atop both of their heads, the slick flesh that held them was rising, lifting away, like peeling back the rind of a fruit. Isleif could see Mistress’ slick hair—and she could see Domina’s cheeks, her upper cheeks—and then her eyes. They were closed and glistened with some sort of mucus, but otherwise seemed as though Qin’shaliri had only just closed them a moment ago.

Brynwyrren slipped a finger up inside Isleif and crooked it, making Isleif whine and her hips buck; when she looked back at the center of the room Mistress and Domina had turned. They were still flesh to flesh, but now they were back to back, their fingers interlaced at their sides.

Mistress was beautiful; her hood or helmet or whatever had lifted its petals away to reveal high cheekbones and elegant eyebrows.

Mistress tilted her head backward, slowly. Domina was doing the same, and the creatures atop their heads pressed together.

Penetration.

Isleif came and so did everyone else in the room. The things, the things on Mistress and Domina’s heads were mating. They pressed together and in their centers something had penetrated from one to the other, or possibly both ways, and both Mistress and Domina and all of their slaves came.

Isleif sagged bonelessly on the cushions. Brynwyrren lay panting, her face between Isleif’s thighs.

Isleif stared across the room at the strong, elegant face of her Mistress.

Head tilted backward, body locked in a strange backward embrace with Domina, Mistress opened her eyes.

Her eyes were lavender.

Slowly, Mistress’ eyes rolled around, swept across the ceiling. Then in small steps, they turned down, looking around the room. Unerringly, they turned until Mistress was looking directly back at Isleif.

Mistress winked.

Isleif found herself thinking about them whenever her mind wandered. How surprising they were, both their color and the simple fact that they were there, apparently perfectly functional. That Mistress had possessed the presence of mind to wink, while the thing that was bonded to her head mated with the thing bonded to Domina’s.

It had curled back down soon thereafter and once more Mistress looked like a tall, thin, pale, beautiful woman with her head above the nose covered in black wax. Isleif watched through a bleary eye as Mistress had left the room, left her sleeping thralls and walked nude out into the corridor.

Then Isleif, too, had slept.

“What are your thoughts?”

Isleif shook her head.

Around her, the forest was white, cold, and crisp. It was the middle of the night but the moon was almost full. The air was fresh and felt sharp in Isleif’s nostrils.

“Sorry,” she replied. “Just day dreaming.”

“You would be,” Gwynn replied, “were it day. Is this the famed Norren woodcraft that I was raised to hold in awe?”

“Hrm. No,” Isleif replied, drawing her cloak closer around her neck. “This is not.”

They were patrolling together. There was, of course, nothing to patrol for; they passed the occasional track, deer or squirrel or hedgehog, creatures that should have been sleeping but for one reason or another had stirred. There were the prints of birds, small ones, and some of fox. But no signs of humans other than those from the hold.

Isleif could see the hold through the trees; they were circling it widdershins, just... patrolling. It was Mistress’ will, so they did it.

“A question,” Gwynn said.

“Go on.”

“Why haven’t your people come for you? The Norren do come here to trade.”

“In the winter?”

“Hm. Well, no, but you arrived in the autumn.”

Isleif shrugged. “I have thought about it. Although our trail from where we met the Viqquabi caravan to here would be trackable even by a blind woman, or a blacksmith, it’s entirely possible that whoever eventually came looking for us was unable to tell we had... fallen in with the caravan.” She shrugged again. “In the north, sometimes people go missing. After they could not find us... well, the clan will see us again, or it won’t.”

What Isleif did not say that there was also a possibility—remote, but possible—that the clan had tracked her here, and seen strange things, and chosen not to make their presence known. She hadn’t seen any sign of that... but she had quite deliberately not been looking. And not been thinking about the possibility.

“Your people won’t miss you? Your family?”

“They will. They do. But... I must obey Mistress. She has tasks for me here.”

“Yeah.”

They walked together through the snow. The forest opened into the flat bottom area of the north-east field, and Isleif hesitated, scanning the treeline. Then she resumed her walk, out into the open white drifts.

“And you?” Isleif asked. “You are not from here. Have you family awaiting your return?”

“Parents only, and a pack of siblings. My father taught me to smith but I wanted to remove myself from his shadow, and my brothers, to be respected for my own work. I had heard good things about Gorran and the life oversea never frightened me. So I came here to ply my trade.”

They walked on in silence. The creek that drained this bottom was frozen almost solid, and they crossed it carefully, then bent their path for the eastern fields, keeping the dark outline of the hold just barely in sight.

Something moved and Isleif froze, her hand suddenly on Gwynn’s sleeve. To her credit, Gwynn stilled immediately.

An elk. Just inside the trees, a long bowshot away.

Isleif had her bow, but the hold was well-stocked with food and carving an elk in the dead of night, with the blood chilling quickly on her hands, had no appeal. Slowly, Isleif pointed at the silhouette of the beast. Gwynn looked for a long moment, then her eyebrows rose.

Slowly, Isleif began to walk again. Gwynn walked beside.

“I’m going to leave,” Gwynn said.

“Don’t tell me,” Isleif replied. She paused. “Can you?”

“I think so. I have almost convinced myself that I can obey Mistress better if I learn more. And I can’t learn more here. I mustn’t tell her, of course, but I can believe that she won’t mind if I head south—”

“Be silent,” Isleif said. “No more. Good luck to you, Gwynn of Kyur. If you don’t mind, I am going to forget what you have said.”

Gwynn stopped speaking.

They crossed out of the north-east field and into the eastern fields, slightly hillier waves of featureless white.

The elk finally noticed them and raised its great head. Steam issued from its nostrils as it considered the two women traversing the field. Then it walked away, deeper into the dark woods.

Isleif pictured Mistress’ purple eyes.

Although her task invariably kept her up late, Isleif liked rising with Brynwyrren. It gave them time to be together before Brynwyrren became busy with her work in the ‘work-shop’.

Mistress had dubbed it that, though what it had to do with a shop Isleif could not tell. Work there was plenty, though; Gwynn had been leading a team of slaves producing a never-ending series of small metal bits to Mistress’ specifications, ‘cogs’ and ‘screws’ and ‘gears’—some of them had obvious utility, most did not.

They were also putting together vats and shells of metal; one such device, a barrel of copper surrounded by a great length of coiled tube, was already dripping out a fluid that smelled like the headache at the bottom of an ale barrel. It burned, too; Isleif had seen Mistress light a cup of it in the yard.

Burning water.

Isleif’s clan rather passively believed in spirits, and some among them felt the presence of their ancestors when the seasonal rites were performed. Keirik had not been a believer in the spirits but he had firmly approved of honoring the ancestors—after all, they would be among them one day.

Some of the Viqquabi traders that had visited the High-Water-Sky-Trees clan over the years had been adherents of different southern cults, most of which seemed to feature demons, creatures of evil magic that had inexplicable powers they used to tempt and ensnare mortals, generally leading them to miserable or grotesque ends.

Had she been Viqquabi, Isleif might have thought Mistress one such. She certainly showed all of the characteristics.

The dawn light crept in through the window and Isleif inhaled deeply of Brynwyrren’s hair. Another demon-trick that Mistress had seen to was the small waterfall; although the great hall had running water from a cistern on the roof, fed by wind-mill pump, Mistress had added a second great tank and placed a firepit beneath it.

She had shown Gwynn the casting of a “ball valve”, and although the resulting product leaked somewhat, there was now a spigot in the newly constructed bathhouse, adjoining the kitchen, that had both hot and cold running water. Hot water, assuming that a drudge had fed the fire early in the morning, but drudges were nothing if not reliable.

Which is why Brynwyrren’s hair smelled slightly like soap and a lot like Brynwyrren, and only a little like filed metal.

Brynwyrren rumbled sleepily and Isleif slid her hands down to cross over Brynwyrren’s belly, pressing her breasts into Brynwyrren’s back.

“You should sleep,” Brynwyrren mumbled.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Isleif replied.

Brynwyrren rolled in place and kissed her, holding it for a long moment, then looked into her eyes. Then they rose and dressed quickly.

Breakfast was in the great hall; both fireplaces were lit, if not roaring, and the long tables were in place down the center of the room. Isleif and Brynwyrren sat down and a drudge quickly brought them each a plate of food, porridge and biscuit with a few strips of bacon, a boiled egg.

Mistress often rose late but this morning she was already in the high seat, wearing a silk dress with a fur shawl over; the winter cold had proven itself too much even for Mistress’ preference for nudity. Her head turned to watch as her slaves drifted in. She smiled, vaguely, then turned her head back towards the fire and resumed her reverie.

The door to the outside opened, admitting Lyrr and a swirl of snow. The slight Thyryn walked down the room, passing behind Isleif and Brynwyrren, and approached Mistress.

“Mistress,” she said. “Gwynn has gone.”

Mistress swiveled around in the chair and sat erect. “Truly? Spread thy mind, Lyrr-slave.”

Lyrr’s arms fell slightly open as she spread her mind for Mistress to enter.

Across from Isleif, seated at the other table, were Lissira and Melidi, the Fashedians. Lissira gave Isleif a quick glance, then all four of them were staring at Mistress and Lyrr.

Mistress’ ripe mouth curled downward into a thoughtful frown. “Indeed, she hast gone—forge cold, bed cold, an we gower trail cold. Lyrr-slave, sit thyself here.” Mistress gestured at a pillow next to the high chair, which Lyrr sat on. Mistress stroked her head, like she was a dutiful hound.

“Melidi-slave, fetch Domina hither.”

“At once, Mistress,” Melidi replied, and stood and darted out of the room.

Mistress laced her fingers together, then stretched them forward, palms out. She tilted her head slowly to either side. She leaned back in the chair, and stroked Lyrr’s soft brown hair.

Domina came hurrying into the room, Melidi trailing behind her. “Mistress, I am here,” she said, approaching the high seat.

“Enjoin thyself an us, Domina,” Mistress said, “we have a stray what to gather in. Thou shouldst gain the kenning of this.”

Domina knelt on a cushion at Mistress’ knees.

For a moment, all was still—then Isleif felt them brush past her mind, identifying her, touching just a moment, zephyr-like, before moving on.

And all was still again.

Isleif looked at Lissira, who looked back, and then looked at Brynwyrren. Brynwyrren turned her hands over in a gesture of ignorance.

Nothing happened for several more moments.

Isleif picked up her spoon and took another scoop of her egg.

Soo and Ishinen entered the room, speaking quietly in Tsulengi. They looked down the room at the tableau of Mistress with Domina at her knees, then at Isleif.

“What is this?” Soo asked.

“It seems that Gwynn left,” Isleif replied. “Mistress and Domina are finding her.”

Soo nodded, face thoughtful. She and Ishinen sat down just opposite Isleif and Brynwyrren. Isleif looked at Ishinen’s strong hands and wanted to ask her for a massage.

A drudge brought plates of food to the Tsulengi. They began to eat.

Mistress and Domina, and Lyrr, remained passive and inert.

Isleif and Brynwyrren finished their breakfasts. “I guess I should go to my work,” Brynwyrren said. Isleif nodded, and gave her a kiss.

Mistress inhaled.

The slaves all turned to look, Lissira from where she had been standing as she was leaving the room.

Mistress smiled, and rubbed Lyrr’s head.

Domina twitched, then stood up with a groan.

“An thou seest, yet one lamb gathered in,” Mistress said.

“Yes, my Mistress,” Domina replied. “She was so far, and yet...”

“Her mind was marked,” Mistress said, standing up. “She appertaineth to us, she is ourn. Not one day’s walk nor yet three would serve to hide slaves we have taken to our breast. A week perhaps, were quickness in her.” Mistress smiled. “We were a poor slave-mistress, to let chattel a week alone.”

She looked down. “Lyrr, attend us an our chamber.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Lyrr replied, standing.

The three of them left the room. As they passed Isleif and Brynwyrren, Mistress let her fingers trail across Isleif’s shoulders.

That evening, Isleif made her patrol with Fyrria, one of the Kurren slaves. She was the mother of three children, and seemed as devoted to Mistress as Serena was. Isleif wondered what role Gorran was filling, she had seen him less and less as time passed.

In the morning, Mistress was not at breakfast. Isleif and Brynwyrren chatted idly with Ithrad and Thylja—the other Norren rose as late as Mistress, all three of them having been on one of the night patrols, and Isleif rarely saw them in the morning—and then the three Thyryn went to work.

Isleif went to the forge.

It was still cold.

She went out and entered one of the work-shops. It was warm, despite winter’s chill; there were no fewer than four fires going, in furnaces or ovens of different type. One crackled below the copper barrel that was in Brynwyrren’s charge, others served to melt or heat or steam or bake other strange processes at Mistress’ direction.

Isleif walked through the long, single-story building; they had build strong rafters and lain boards above them, partially for insulation, partially for storage space.

Brynwyrren was at one of the rough-hewn tables that ran down the center of the room. She looked up at Isleif’s approach and smiled.

On the table before here was a stump-forest of vessels, glass and clay and wood, with various liquids or powders within them. A pile of paper stood towering next to them, covered in spidery writing. Most days Mistress spent hours dictating to not one but several slaves; she seemed to want at least two copies of everything.

Isleif realized that she had not known Brynwyrren could read.

“I had not realized,” she said, stepping close to her lover, “that you could read.”

“Surprising for a Thryryn wildling?” Brynwyrren replied, turning to slip her arms around Isleif and kiss her.

“Most of the hold-chiefs spurn it,” Isleif said.

“As do most of the clans...”

“We are both fortunate, then,” Isleif replied. “I can read as well.”

“If you tell Mistress, she might set you to more profitable work.”

Isleif sighed. “In truth that might be nice. I have grown very bored, patrolling an empty forest and idly wasting the days.”

Brynwyrren nodded. “Speak with her then. Perhaps you could assist me with the burning water tasks.”

“I shall,” Isleif said. “And why not?”

She kissed Brynwyrren again, and left the work-shop. It was a short walk across trodden snow to the side door of the great hall. Inside it was warm enough to hang her cloak on a peg, then find her way to the stairs and up to the second floor; across the balcony of the great hall, and to Mistress’ door.

Drudges, eyes white and faces blank, flanked the doors. As Isleif stopped, one of them leaned over to open the door for her.

Inside, someone was speaking.

It was dim in Mistress’ chamber, and it took a moment upon leaving the window-lit corridor for Isleif’s eyes to adjust. There were four women within. Domina sat on the bed, her white head-carapace turned to the side. Lyrr stood near the door, a vague smile on her face. Both were watching the other two women.

One was Mistress, nude, legs spread, seated on a velvet-upholstered chair.

The other was Gwynn.

Gwynn was on her hands and knees, face between Mistress’ legs. She was speaking quietly.

“Yes,” Gwynn was saying. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Good,” Mistress purred. “And lick.”

Gwynn leaned forward and began to suckle at Mistress’ sex.

Mistress’ glossy black head turned towards Isleif. “Our huntress. Seekest thou what then, Isleif-slave?”

Isleif’s mouth felt dry. “I,” she stared. “I was... bored. I thought perhaps I might be given a task I can assist with during the daylight hours.”

Mistress’ mouth curled down in though. “Mayhap.” She looked down again, and gently pressed Gwynn’s head backwards.

“Spread thy mind wider, slave,” she said.

“Yes,” Gwynn whispered. “Yes. Yes.”

Isleif stood for several minutes while nothing transpired beyond Gwynn’s softly whispered promises of affirmation. It was arousing and it was terrible, and Isleif resolutely did not consider why it might be either.

“Good,” Mistress said, nodding. “And lick.”

As Gwynn once more began to lick and suck on Mistress’ labia, the slick black face turned to Isleif again.

“Aye,” she said. “So it shall be. Lissira crafteth crystallics for us. Thou shalt assist her... on odd days. On even days shalt thou aid Brynwyrren with the alcohols. Thou may hie hence.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Isleif said, nodding, looking for a moment at Lyrr’s hypnotized face. The slender Thyryn’s mouth was open and her nipples were hard points beneath her shift.

Isleif slipped out of the room.

Behind her, Gwynn resumed saying “Yes.”