The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Outside the window, the wind howled.

It was the kind of storm that forced the High-Water-Sky-Trees clan deep into the caves. Snow that was more like ice, tearing at the skin as it whipped by in blurs. Trees popping and snapping in the woods, so many that at times it sounded like new wood in the fire. Iceblock shelters might survive, but tents would not, no matter how well-founded. And even the iceblock shelters might find themselves buried in drifts of snow so deep that the families would sleep and never waken, for lack of air.

The great hall of Promise Hold creaked, but held firm.

Mistress had renamed the hold on the first day of the year. Laird Gorran, now Gorran-slave, now spent his time pumping bellows and fetching water in the forge, blissfully pleasing his Mistress. When she proclaimed the new name for the settlement where once he was master, he smiled with glassy eyes and knelt to kiss her feet.

Isleif stopped stirring and looked into the bowl. Well enough mixed. She reached for an egg, broke it on the countertop, and dropped the contents in. She put down the eggshell and resumed stirring.

On odd days she assisted Lissira to make glass. The busty Fashedian, although smarter than Isleif had once thought, was unable to read; Isleif helped her with that, picking through the notes and instructions Mistress had dictated. Together they would blend the sand with ash and other ingredients before melting and pouring it, or blowing at the end of a long tube. Isleif had never known that glass was simply melted sand.

Which it wasn’t, of course—as she and Lissira were discovering, the type of sand and the things mixed into it made a great difference in whether one came out with a pane so clear it could be read through, or a brownish opaque lump that refused to even behave as a liquid when hot.

Today, however, Mistress had summoned Lissira into the hall, so Isleif came to the kitchen and found herself acting as another pair of hands for Thylja. The cook’s voice had the same Thyryn lilt as Brynwyrren’s, but was rougher, a good pair of hide gloves to Brynwyrren’s velvet. Thylja’s hair, too, was similar but different—generally the same orange-red but straighter, denser maybe.

“Finished?” Thylja asked.

“Almost. Two more eggs,” Isleif replied.

“Good. When it’s done, put it aside to rest. Then take some of the butter, there, and lightly smear the inside of the pan.”

“Okay.”

The wind howled and the building groaned slightly. Isleif mixed in a second egg, then a third. All she could see outside was darkness and racing snow.

“Are you cooking now?” someone asked.

She turned around.

It was Gwynn.

Isleif had not spoken with her since her return; she slept in Mistress’ room now, at the foot of her bed. The times when Isleif had visited the forge when Gwynn was working she’d seemed almost blissfully happy, her mouth curled into a permanent thoughtless smile. Isleif had not stayed to chat.

“Hello, Gwynn,” Isleif said.

“Hello, Isleif.” Gwynn smiled. She was vacantly happy—her new usual. “It’s nice to see you. I don’t think we’ve talked since I came back.”

“That’s true,” Isleif said, putting down the bowl and looking around for the butter. “It’s been a while.”

“I love it here,” Gwynn sighed. “How stupid I was to leave. Mistress... she’s so wonderful. Beautiful, wise... how perfect she is.”

Isleif nodded. She found the butter, a half-bucket, and scooped out a chunk with a spoon.

Gwynn sighed blissfully again. “And it’s so wonderful to be so useful to her. All that I’ve learned about metal, the pouring and smelting and alloying... she tells me it’s the cornerstone of what she’s building here at Promise Hold.” Gwynn looked serious. “And she’s teaching me so much! How to improve my steel, about alloys I’d never even heard of...” Her face lapsed into a dreamy smile again. “She’s so wonderful.”

“She is wonderful,” Isleif concurred.

Gwynn’s brow furrowed. “I was wondering, Isleif...”

“Yes?”

“Were we... friends? I mean, good, ah, close friends? Before I left?”

Isleif put the pan down on the counter, and looked at Gwynn. She was quite pretty, in that solid Kyurren way, her hair a single brown plait down her back, her nose and cheeks dusted with freckles. The muscles of her arms were rocks under her freckled shoulders; she had once told Isleif that she switched which arm she smote the iron with to avoid her arms becoming uneven.

“We were. Not... intimate friends. But we did confide in one another.”

Gwynn nodded. “There are things I... I don’t remember. Mistress removed them from my mind, to help me be a better slave—and I love her for it, she’s wonderful and I love her. But when I see you I think we used to be close but I don’t remember.”

“We were friends,” Isleif said, and put her hand on Gwynn’s shoulder. “Nothing beyond that.”

Gwynn nodded, then the furrow in her brow smoothed. “Okay. Thanks Isleif. Maybe I’m just confused, because we were friends, and you’re so pretty... but I know you and Brynwyrren are lovers and that’s really wonderful, but you know... if both of you were, interested?”

Isleif squeezed Gwynn’s shoulder. “I’ll suggest it to her. You’re a very attractive woman, Gwynn, and Mistress likes us all to be open—”

come

They fell silent and turned where they stood. The summons was Mistress but it seemed more... urgent than usual. As though Mistress were in need, not in fear or anxiety but just in need...

Thylja had the presence of mind to take the food away from over the fire and slide it out of the ovens, and ensure that the ovens were all closed; she was thus last from the room, Gwynn and Isleif preceding her.

come

They filed up the stairs, joining with other slaves, female slaves, all crossing the balcony to where Mistress’ doors stood open, flanked by drudges. Isleif looked for Brynwyrren but did not see her—she would be coming later, having to cross from the work-shop while Isleif had already been in the great hall.

Isleif and Gwynn stood behind Soo and one of the Kyurren women as they entered the bedchamber. Mistress stood nude in the center of the room, facing the door, her pale body already glistening with oil; Lissira stood behind her, head bowed, hands glistening. Lyrr knelt in front of her, eyes wide; her brown hair had been braided into two plaits which hung down her back.

Gwynn and Isleif crossed to the left side of the room and sat down upon cushions. From the side, Isleif could see that Mistress’ formerly slim form was larger in the stomach; she hadn’t noticed under the clothes that Mistress now wore when outside of her room, but clearly the winter-enforced inactivity had given some roundness to her belly.

Isleif looked at Gwynn and saw the worship glittering in her eyes, the vacant look on her face as she stared rapturously at the nude form of her goddess. Gwynn would never run away again. Would never want to.

Someone was lowering herself next to Isleif and she turned to find it was Brynwyrren. They kissed a quick greeting, but this was no time for whispered words. Isleif settled for a long look into Brynwyrren’s green eyes.

Then, pain.

Not a sharp pain, a sudden throb in the stomach. Then, again.

The drudges closed the doors.

Mistress opened her mouth and groaned, and all the women in the room felt the wrenching in her body. She was blocking it, Isleif realized, shielding them, but they felt it just the same.

Lissira stepped close behind Mistress’ glistening white form and held her, arms folding upward beneath Mistress’ arms, hands crossing her breasts to lie along her collarbones.

Pain, again, sharper, and Isleif gasped in discomfort and in realization.

Mistress was giving birth.

But she was nowhere close to pregnant, not even halfway, and Isleif had a sudden fear for the child when that emotion swirled away into something much more fearful and deep.

It wasn’t a human child.

Mistress cried out and so did most of the women in the room, the pain was sharp now, it was passing out from her womb, distending her inner parts, and when the pain ebbed for a moment there was a sense of pressure, of bloat, and then pain again, and again; it came in waves and Isleif could feel the thing, the child, being pushed hard down from Mistress’ womb and out into her vagina.

But their heads had—the things had—how did it get into her womb?

Another push, another wave of pain that drove out rational thought. Later. Isleif would analyze it later.

There was a slipping and a relief—was it done? Was it out? But it wasn’t, it was still within, filling her cunt in a way that was now almost pleasurable, and Mistress’ legs had buckled open and now Isleif could see—

It was white. A smooth white curve, bulging open the entrance to Mistress’ pussy.

An egg.

Mistress shuddered and it was pleasure then, some deep and chemical reward; Gwynn moaned aloud. Mistress’ glistening chest was heaving, her breath coming in deep pants.

A moment to recover, and then—

Squeeze.

It was voluntary, now, Mistress flexing her pussy, and it felt good, great, sexual nerves suddenly alighting around the swollen thing stuffed inside her. Some part of it was still up inside her womb, some anchor, and then Mistress squeezed again and even Isleif moaned in pleasure. Her fingers scrabbled for Brynwyrren’s and she squeezed her lover’s hand as Mistress squeezed again, hard, as hard as she could.

Mistress’ hips turned again and Isleif could see the white surface of the egg, looking like a chicken’s egg held within the mouth only much larger, half the size of a head, and it was not in her mouth that she held it.

Isleif realized that she was pushing, too, squeezing, and suddenly wished for a toy or a stone or something to slide into herself so that she would feel so wonderfully full when—

Mistress squeezed again, and a spike stabbed its way out of the egg.

The image snapped into Isleif’s brain. The sphere from the cave. The sphere with the horn.

Mistress squeezed again and Brynwyrren turned, gasping, and sucked hard on Isleif’s shoulder. It felt so good, so good, and the pleasure washed over the tiny part of Isleif’s mind that was trying to learn, trying to understand, that was realizing that Mistress was giving birth not to a human child but to another one of those things...

open came the command, not for the women around the room, but for one brown-haired Thyryn.

O— and it was interrupted by pleasure-pain as Mistress squeezed involuntarily and the horn jutted out rudely, glossy with wetness. Gasping and panting, Lissira holding her erect, Mistress paused.

open came the command and it was tinged with fatigue. Then something else followed but it was not for Isleif and she did not receive it, just noticed it passing.

Ishinen crawled forward. She stopped just in front of Lyrr, and looked up at Mistress’ splayed sex and the insectile white thing that jutted from it. Then she looked at Lyrr, and her strong hands took hold of Lyrr’s head. Lyrr stared blankly into Ishinen’s dark eyes.

Mistress took a waddling step forward and lowered herself down.

The horn pushed against the top of Lyrr’s head only for an instant, and then pushed in. Isleif felt a touch of gratitude that Mistress’ glistening thigh blocked her vision.

But she could hear Lyrr’s gasp.

Mistress squeezed again and Isleif felt the wash of pleasure as it, whatever it was, was forced down from Mistress’ vagina and into Lyrr’s skull. Lyrr grunted, a second time, a third, then emitted a long, drawn-out mewling, a questioning sound, rising into a soft wail of pleasure.

Another squeeze, and Lyrr’s voice barked again, nonsense syllables, and then she began to pant, grunting as though she were being fucked in her cunt and not in her brain.

Mistress squeezed again and Lyrr’s fucking noises rose and were overlaid with Mistress’, who cried out in a high pitched tone and pulled backward, staggering Lissira who still held her; legs still splayed wide, Mistress staggered away from Lyrr, leaving a glossy white wet mass attached to Lyrr’s head, stringers of translucent slime dropping away to the floor.

Something white and wrinkled still jutted from Mistress’ pussy as she Lissira gently laid her down onto the floor.

Lyrr was panting, moaning, crying out. Ishinen had dropped to the floor and slid back away, leaving Lyrr’s nude form kneeling alone.

The thing atop her head began to unfurl. Like a flower opening to the sun, four fleshy white petals pulled apart from each other and curled over, backward, inverting themselves, slowly coming down and closing around all sides of Lyrr’s head.

Lyrr’s body shuddered as she came—for the first or the fifth time, Isleif did not know—and the fleshy mass atop her head tightened itself to her. Isleif could see her braided hair, her nose, her grunting mouth—above that all was now the same grub-like white that rode atop Domina’s head.

Mistress moaned, and reached down between her legs, and pulled out a long, crumpled... something. Egg sac.

Isleif could feel her exhaustion—and her joy.

“My... mind,” Lyrr whispered.

Her hands had risen from her sides, and hovered near the thing riding her.

“It is in my mind. It speaks... I.... I...”

Suddenly Isleif wanted this. Wanted to see it through, wanted to see Lyrr become that which she was destined to be.

The thought was so incongruous that Isleif looked around—and saw Domina standing at the foot of the bed, body taut like a bowstring, so eager she was almost vibrating. It was her eagerness that now flashed into the minds of the slaves.

“I,” Lyrr muttered. “I am a slave. It... it is my Master.” Her hands began to flutter slowly downward, back towards her sides.

“I... I will obey. Yes...”

Lyrr’s body shifted, moving slowly, as though she were getting comfortable.

“Yes. Master. I will obey. I am... we are. We are your slave. We are your host. We will obey... yes. Joined. We submit and you command. Forever. Yes. Master. Yes.” The mouth muttered the words, eagerly, beneath the glossy whiteness.

Her hands were back at her sides.

“Obey... forever... slave...”

Lyrr fell silent.

Lying on the floor, Mistress groaned and raised herself to a sitting position. The women around the room breathed heavily; Mistress’ happiness filled them, her fatigue tired them.

Isleif let the happiness and the fatigue wash over her and swirl away the fear that she felt; fear that might disturb Mistress, were she to sense it. There would be time for reflection later. For now... Isleif turned to Brynwyrren and kissed her on the shoulder, on the arm.

From the safety of Brynwyrren’s hair, Isleif looked at Mistress, glistening and tired—and behind her, at the bowstring-taut shape of Domina.

Domina, whose belly was round and ripe.

Isleif was in the barn when she came.

The weather had turned again in the last day and was now clear and crisp and still. Isleif took some time to exercise the horses, bringing them out into the yard and taking them for short jaunts around the hold, not as far as the subsidiary farms but out into the woods and down to the fishpond.

Gwynn had fled the hold on foot, trusting in the snow to conceal her tracks. But it was not her tracks that Mistress used to find her.

Isleif made no plans, kept herself from making plans. To plan was to betray oneself.

Readiness was all.

She had finished her ride and was currying the horse, a fine, spirited mare, on the small side and doubtless of Nissiri stock. Most of the horses in Kyur Oversea probably were of Nissiri lineage.

The barn door opened and Isleif turned around.

It was Lyrr.

She was smiling vaguely beneath the glossy white shell atop her head. Her head turned as though she were surveying the barn interior. When her face turned to Isleif, she smiled.

“Isleif,” she said.

“L—” Isleif frowned. “Domina?”

Lyrr smiled again and walked across the barn towards her. She was in doeskin pants and a linen shirt, as usual. Golden motes of dust rose as she walked. She stopped a pace away.

Lyrr looked up—or cocked her head as though she were—to face Isleif.

“Slave,” she said. “Spread your mind.”

Isleif sighed and opened her mind. Lyrr slid into her, over her mind, across it. Reading, touching. Her presence was different from Mistress’, so practiced, so unerring, but also different from Domina’s, so vivacious and eager. Lyrr’s mental touch was... slight, light, like a cord that weighed nothing but could hold immense weight.

There was a tweak, a twist, and then a long probing push. Isleif winced.

Lyrr-Dominne slid out of her mind. “Very good, slave,” she said, stroking Isleif’s arm.

“Thank you, Domina,” Isleif replied. She looked down at Lyrr-Dominne and felt a desire to drop down upon her knees.

She acted on it.

Lyrr-Dominne smiled, and loosened the cord of her pants. Beneath them she wore nothing, her soft thrush-brown hair clipped short.

Isleif licked her lips.

“Service me, slave,” Lyrr-Dominne commanded.

Isleif obeyed eagerly, hungry to taste her Domina’s sex. She felt right, happy, eager to be doing this, and was a little surprised that she felt surprise. Servicing a Domina was the place of a slave—was in fact a reward, and a pleasurable one at that.

With a tongue now moderately practiced, Isleif licked at Lyrr-Dommine’s sex, slithering along its length, suckling gently, then probing alongside her clit, faster, slower, faster. Lyrr-Dominne laced her fingers into Isleif’s hair, and her mind radiated its pleasure into Isleif’s mind.

With a single grunt, Lyrr-Dominne came; Isleif was rewarded with a mental flash of the orgasm, then Lyrr-Dominne sighed slowly and happily, still clutching Isleif’s skull.

“Very good, slave,” she said. “Lace me up.”

Isleif did so, though it was a little strange lacing the pants of someone other than herself.

Lyrr-Dominne patted her on the head and left the barn.

Isleif licked her lips idly, then shrugged and went back to brushing down the horse.

After several days of bright sun the snow was now crusted with ice.

Isleif and Seif had lashed together frames for their boots, and were making good time across the surface of the snow. The paddle-shaped frames under their feet were awkward to walk with, but where the women would normally have been fighting each step now they strode lightly across the crusted surface.

They crossed a frozen creek, invisible beneath the snow, and passed through some woods. Up a slope—and uphill was notably more arduous than down, with the boot-frames—and then they could see the farmhouse.

There were children playing in the snow outside. As the Norreni cleared the treeline, the children looked up at them, faces crusted with the remnants of snowy projectiles. One of the older ones ran inside.

Mistress had farmed the children—actually, the families with children—out to the hold’s dependent farmsteads. They had doubled up with the farmers already living there, in some cases expanding the homes, in at least one instance building a new structure. If there had been any resistance to the idea of sharing farms, Mistress had erased that resistance and instilled the opposite—as far as Isleif could tell, the farmers were now uniformly overjoyed to share their homes and work with the newcomers.

As she and Seif drew near this farm, called Ostoren, a man and two women emerged from the farmhouse. Isleif had a momentary recollection of Leigrif and Borram, the Kyurren farmers they had first met, when Mistress was arriving and Promise Hold was still called Gorran.

“Ho there,” the man said, raising an arm in greeting.

“Hail,” Isleif returned. “We come from the hold. The Lady has learned that Yurrick is ill; we have come with medicine.”

“He burns with fever,” one of the women said. Her face was drawn and red ringed her eyes.

“He trod on an axe,” the man said. “It was buried in the snow. The cut was deep in his foot, and then he got the fever.”

Isleif nodded. Dirty wounds could lead to fever, and that fever could kill. Doubtless the farmers had known to clean the wound with boiled water, and dress it properly, but even then deep cuts could still poison the blood.

“The Lady—” for so Mistress had instructed Isleif and Seif to refer to her, when dealing with the farmers- “has sent medicine. Lead me to Yurrick that I might give it to him.”

The children stood around, curious but quiet, as the adults led Isleif swiftly inside the house. It was a fair dwelling, warm inside its thick walls, though the floor was dirt. Glass lanterns lit the interior as all the windows were shut—though the lanterns were glass, the windows were scraped hide, and doubtless kept closed through the winter.

There was a hall off of which opened six bedrooms—it was obvious that one side was newer than the other, added when the second family was moved here from the hold. Yurrick was in one of the newer rooms.

Isleif entered the room first and knelt by the bed. He was in a bad way, sweating, mouth open, his lips cracked and dry. She nodded to Seif, who pulled aside the blanket to expose his foot. Isleif winced. Although it was not rotted and stinking—and she had seen such wounds—it was swollen and oozing.

She opened her pack and took out several stoppered vials. Opening one, she held it up to the light; it was oil, olive oil from across the sea—but Mistress had mixed into it some powdery thing. Soo and Ishinen had spent much of the winter building a special shed in which they were growing molds. Mistress would visit and have most thrown out, but others she ordered spread into new bowls of gelatin or whatever they were growing them on. How she knew which molds were good and which were not...

Isleif shrugged; Mistress knew what she was doing.

She tilted Yurrick’s head and slowly fed him the oil. Thankfully, he swallowed it, though his eyes did not open.

Isleif beckoned to the woman who was clearly his wife.

“I have brought six bottles. You are to feed him one each day, in addition to soup for his strength. You are also to wash and clean his wound as best you can, and then rub this”—and she took out a preserve jar full of liniment, which Mistress had also provided—“oil into the wound as deeply as you can without causing further injury. Then dress it with boiled cloth. Do the same each day for six days, and Mis- and the Lady says that he ought to live.”

“Oh thank you,” the woman said, tears springing to her eyes. “We lost my father when he cut his arm on a scythe, and I’ve been so afraid...”

She hugged Isleif, who hugged her awkwardly back.

They left the medicine and also several fresh fish which had been caught in the pond. The adults waved as they left; the children watched silently as they walked back up the hill.

The wind had picked up and Isleif drew her cloak more tightly about her body as they trudged through the woods.

“We should make some skis,” Seif said.

Isleif looked at her. “Aye,” she said. “Good idea.”

They walked in silence for another moment.

“We’re all going to become like Lyrr-Dominne, you know,” Seif added.

Isleif said nothing. She hadn’t spoken much with the other Norren; their enthusiasm for Mistress was unforced and Isleif found it slightly unnerving.

Now, it was strange to hear the logical conclusion coming from her comrade.

“Shaliri-Dominne is pregnant with another one of those... things,” Seif observed. “And then if Lyrr-Dominne and whoever is next also get pregnant, that’s four more by late summer. And then eight more by next year, which is all of us.”

“Yes,” Isleif agreed.

“Who do you think will be next?” Seif asked.

Isleif shook her head. “I don’t know.”

They walked up a hill and out into an expanse of snow-topped stumps, a field in the process of being cleared.

“It might be you,” Seif observed.

The thrill of fear was a tiny thing, well within the iron box Isleif had created for it. “It could be. But it could be Soo, or Eottir—or Serena.”

Seif nodded. “Serena would be a good choice. She knows so much, especially about Kyur.”

They froze. Movement.

For a few long, cold moments, the two Norren women stood motionless; in the open field, their dark cloaks were as obvious as a flame in an unlit room, but animals saw movement, not necessarily contrast.

It moved again. A hare, leaping away behind the stumps.

They resumed their walk.

“How do you feel... about that?” Seif asked. “About getting one of those things in your head?”

Isleif blew a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t... I don’t know. It seems unreal to me. I’ve not been thinking about it.”

“I have,” Seif said. They walked into the forest again. Isleif waited.

“I want it and I don’t want it at the same time,” Seif finally added. “It’s frightening. Something poking into your head. And what Lyrr said... about obeying. It’s like that thing is in charge, and it’s in charge forever. The rest of your life.”

She sighed. “But... I was talking to Lyrr-Dominne and she’s so happy now. Different, but happy. And of course now that she’s joined, she is Domina to you and I. It might be fun to be a Dominne, to control things with your mind and to have slaves obey you.”

“Perhaps, but what happens when we’re all, what did you call it? ‘Joined’?”

Seif sucked air between her teeth. “That’s what Lyrr-Dominne called it. Called them. Said that she and Shaliri-Dominne were joined. And she yammered on about how pleasant it was. I was a little distracted at the time.”

“Eating her pussy?” Isleif ventured.

Seif nodded, and her cheeks went a little redder than the cold demanded.

They rounded some large rocks and emerged into the west field of Promise Hold itself; at the top of the second hill to the east were the snow-covered roofs and dark walls of the hold buildings, smoke rising from the chimneys.

“Hist,” Isleif suddenly said, and took hold of Seif’s arm. Seif froze, and Isleif pointed out into the white field. The crust of the snow was broken—by fresh hoofprints, and deep, long lines.

The tracks of a sleigh.

One sleigh and four riders. Seven individuals, total.

Isleif peered around the side of the silo. Some sort of official delegation—the three mounted individuals wore armored breastplates with matching scarlet cloaks—also greaves, vambraces, and one of them was wearing a helmet. They sat easily on their horses, looking around the yard, hands on their pommels; their bodies were relaxed but ready, the posture of fighting men who expected no trouble but were prepared for the unexpected.

A woman seated in the sleigh had on a black fur hat and was wrapped in a scarlet blanket—there was a man next to her, and a driver perched on the front.

The occupants of the sleigh were talking to each other as the fourth guard, dismounted, stood rapping at the door of the hall.

“Gorran!” the guard shouted at the closed door. “Laird Gorran! Come out! By order of the Margrave!”

Isleif shot a look at Seif, who was peering around the other side of the silo. Kyurran officials, apparently... where was Mistress? She should have had Gorran and Serena emerging by now...

Then the door opened and Serena was there, in a finely-made dress, smiling. She curtseyed neatly and spoke with the guard in a quiet voice, who nodded and turned to wave at the sleigh.

The man in the sleigh rose and the woman laid aside the traveling blanket; he hopped down out of the sleigh and turned to assist her in following. Serena had come out onto the porch and was waiting, smiling.

A second guard dropped from his horse to accompany the officials across the snowy yard and up the pair of steps onto the porch, where they were greeted by Serena with kissed cheeks and more curtseys. She stretched her arm out and indicated the hold generally, doubtless explaining something to the guests. Probably Gorran’s absence.

Isleif remained hunkered down behind the silo. What was this about? Would they want to stay?

And where was Mistress?

The sleigh driver had come down from his perch and was talking to the horses. The barn door swung open; Breccan emerged. She approached the sleigh driver and spoke with him, then they began to walk the horses over to the barn.

Isleif looked at Seif, who looked back. In handsign, she indicated that they should stay put until the situation resolved itself. Seif nodded.

The officials were being taken into the hall by Serena. Two of the guards fell in behind them; the other two dismounted from their horses and waited in the yard. The sunlight glinted on their polished armor; Isleif didn’t recognize it but had no doubt it was either Kyurren Guard or some equivalent specific to Oversea Kyur. It was very attractive—the guard with the helmet on was a woman and her breastplate peaked differently than her compatriots’, enough to be slightly feminine without being dismissively sexy.

As a rule, Norren did not wear armor—nor did Thyryn—but there were enough clansmen who had gone south to fight for coin that the theory and practice was well-known. If they were expecting a fight, these guards would have worn chainmail beneath the plate, but it looked like they were just wearing well-padded cloth—ceremonial guards, on a visit that should not have been a surprise.

Breccan emerged from the barn and spoke with the two guards in the yard, then led their horses away. The guards stood at the edge of the hall’s long porch, their breath misting the afternoon air.

Seif clicked and Isleif looked over. “Go?” she handsigned. Isleif nodded.

They rose together and slowly walked around the silo.

To their credit, the guards saw them immediately. They watched without particular concern as Seif and Isleif approached across the yard; as the Norreni drew closer they could hear the ongoing conversation.

“I still think you should have left it in the sleigh,” the male guard told his colleague.

“It keeps my ears warm,” his colleague replied. They fell silent as Isleif and Seif drew near.

“Hail,” the male guard said.

“Greetings,” Isleif returned.

“What brings a pair of Norreni to Gorran Hold?” the woman asked. She had the blue eyes of a northerner but her nose was a straight ridge from brow to tip—quite attractive, Isleif thought, if exotic.

“In truth we are wintering here,” Isleif replied. “With some companions.”

“Truly?” The guard’s eyebrows raised. “I thought you icebloods could come and go at will even in a blizzard.”

There was a moment of tension, then Isleif laughed. “If only. Now, in fine weather like this even leafless southern sticks can travel—but why return to a smoky cave when we can stay here and drink wine?”

“Fair enough,” the guardswoman said. “It’s Gorran’s hold, if he’s willing to put you up more power to him. You’re not sleeping with him I hope?”

Seif stiffened a touch but Isleif laughed again. “Not hardly. You saw his wife. Gorran is a man who prefers dark meat.”

The guards both laughed.

“So why are you here?” Isleif asked.

“Hold tax,” the woman replied. “The Margrave plans to sail south as soon as the ice clears, and he wants to have as much of his money as possible when he does. Got to put on a good show at court.”

“So you’re from the capital... what is it called?”

“Whitefoam,” the man said. “Yes. Mighty capital of Kyur Oversea, where anything that isn’t frozen smells like old fish.”

Isleif snorted. “Will you be staying at the hold?”

“Tonight,” he said. “Thank the twin gods, this is as far as we go. Tomorrow we’ll head east for—”

With a slam, the door burst open.

One of the guards came reeling out, backward, sword in hand. “Deviltry!” he shouted. “Arms!”

Faster than Isleif could react, both guards had their swords out. The woman leveled hers at Isleif.

“Back,” she said.

Isleif and Seif both stepped back slowly, raising their hands in the air, palms up.

“What is it?” the guardsman demanded of the other.

“Demons! Horrible, horrible things—I went to the privy and when I returned, these demons were in the room with Lady Meledith; they had the bodies of women but their heads were like... like eggs, like bug eggs! And they had ensorcelled Lady Meledith, and Tirgar, and even Jorn, they were all sitting there stupidly and didn’t even look when I—”

Lyrr-Dominne stepped out of the front door. She was nude, her slim body already going goosepimpled in the frosty air.

All three blades were immediately pointed at her.

“Friends,” Lyrr-Dominne said, her hands remaining at her side. “There is no call for this.”

She took a step out onto the porch. Then another.

“Just relax,” Lyrr-Dominne said, and Isleif could feel the control reaching out from her mind and washing over the guards. “Lower your weapons. No one will harm you. Let’s just... talk.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a sigh, the male guardsman lowered his sword. A second later, the one who had come running out of the hall did the same.

Isleif looked at the woman.

Her sword didn’t move.

“Isn’t that better?” Lyrr-Dominne purred. “We’re all friends. This is what you want.”

The guardswoman leapt forward and impaled her.

Lyrr-Dominne screamed and grabbed at the blade suddenly buried in her abdomen.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, witch,” the guardswoman said, “but you die now!” She pulled her sword out and raised it to chop.

On the downswing Isleif caught it on an axe.

As soon as the guardswoman had moved, so had Isleif, whipping out her axes. She didn’t want to kill this woman but she had to protect Lyrr-Dominne; when the guardswoman drew back for a second blow, she was close enough to catch the blade and yank it from the guard’s hand.

Or try to—the woman whirled and her blade slipped free of the axe—and Isleif stumbled backwards. Lyrr-Dominne crumpled, blood pulsing from her stomach.

The guard lunged at Isleif and Isleif parried, almost too slowly—and then the sword moved and it was stabbing at her hip and she had to leap away. Seif had drawn a long knife but it was all she carried, and no match for the reach of the guardswoman’s blade. Nor was Seif nearly so good a fighter.

In truth, neither was Isleif—she was a huntress, but the guardswoman was a fighter of men. Both of them knew who was better.

STOP

All three of the combatants looked at the doorway—Shaliri-Dominne stood in it, nude, pale, her hand raised. Lyrr-Dominne lay at her feet; the two male guards were also prone, lying on the porch steps.

The guardswoman growled and advanced on Shaliri-Dominne.

Eottir slid out of the doorway to stand in front of Shaliri-Dominne, sword in hand. Her eyes glittered as she dropped into a fighting crouch.

Shaliri-Dominne called out—Isleif felt it in her mind. A cry for Mistress.

The guardswoman stabbed at Eottir but Eottir blocked, and they beat at each other for a few breaths. Isleif could throw an axe and hit the guardswoman—but she was armored and anyway Isleif didn’t want to kill her.

Other slaves were emerging into the yard, coming to the windows and running out of the work-shops. If they could get clubs, poles, they could beat the guardswoman down.

Then a faint voice, as though shouted from a far distance.

helmet

Shaliri-Dominne thrust out her hand. With a snap, she flung it upward.

The guardswoman’s helmet flew off through the air.

The guardswoman looked around—she was surrounded, and more than surrounded. Her eyes lit on the barn, where the horses were.

Between her and it was Isleif.

She charged Isleif and Isleif brought her axes up in guard—but the blade was faster and as she blocked a thrust at her face she felt the sword slicing down her side, shearing along her ribs, but she twisted to stay on her feet as her blood sprayed out across the white snow.

The guardswoman ran past, towards the stable.

And slowed.

And stopped.

Isleif looked back at the porch. Shaliri-Dominne was there, hand raised, face focused on the woman. Isleif could feel the force of her mind.

The guardswoman sighed, and her sword dropped into the snow. She turned around.

sleep

The guardswoman slumped to the ground.

Shaliri-Dominne dropped to her knees next to Lyrr-Dominne. “Hold on, sister,” she said. “Hold on.” She pressed a hand to the wound.

Isleif felt dizzy and realized that she was still bleeding, that her right side was gashed open, and when she looked down she saw a large flap of skin hanging the wrong way and white ribs showing beneath. The sight was sufficiently horrible that her knees were no longer able to support her.

Seif caught her. “I’ve got you,” she said. “Eottir! Come! Help me!” Seif looked down at Isleif; to Isleif Seif’s face seemed blurry.

“It will be okay,” Seif promised. “Domina is stabilizing Lyrr-Dominne, then she’ll help you. She can weave flesh, she’ll put you back together. You’ll be okay.”

Someone was lifting Isleif’s feet—it might have been Eottir but things were just too blurry to tell. Someone was telling her that it would be all right, that Domina would fix her, but then the blue sky rapidly got darker and Isleif wondered how night could fall so fast...

Lavender eyes.

Isleif woke up.

She was in a bed, in a room. She felt... okay. Her side was stiff, but otherwise she felt near to normal.

Under the blanket she was nude, so she looked down. There was a thin white trace down her right side. Otherwise, there was no sign of the wound.

She remembered seeing her own ribs and her gorge rose.

Isleif let the blanket fall back. Lavender eyes; she had been dreaming of them.

Sunlight was coming in through the window. This was a guest bedroom, in one of the secondary buildings; the Kyurren slaves had been staying here. It was small, just the bed and a washstand, but it smelled clean. There was a picture on the wall, a small oil painting of a boat.

Isleif lay in bed and felt herself breathe. There had been... Kyurren officials. Guards, in armor—that woman.

Helmet.

She tried to sit up and succeeded with a groan. Her side felt stiff—she had never been injured like that before, cut so badly. At home it might have meant death. The blanket had slid to her waist and she raised her arm to look at the injury again—a thin white line, a scar, no redness nor swelling at all.

How long had she slept?

“Draut we hie in?”

She stood at the door.

Mistress.

Isleif looked up almost expecting to see lavender eyes but Mistress was hooded, glossy black to her cheeks, her plush dark lips curled in a smile. She was nude, blue-white pale, and her beauty felt like a rush across Isleif’s skin.

“Art good? Art repaired? Stand, slave, let us inspect our craft.”

Isleif turned her feet out of the bed and, gingerly, stood up. Aside from the stiffness in her right side, she felt almost normal.

Mistress considered her. “Our craft is good,” she said. “Though in truth the proving was in the other.”

“Lyrr-Dominne,” Isleif blurted. “Is she all right?”

Mistress nodded. “Verily. It were a close race yet she retaineth life. Abed she, yet were well soon.”

“And the Kyurren?”

Mistress smiled and stepped closer. She raised a hand and ran it along Isleif’s shoulder, down her arm, and then up to squeeze a breast. “Inquisitive thou art, our huntress. Impertinent perhaps.” Mistress stepped around close behind Isleif and let her hands slide down Isleif’s body, down the curve of her sides, onto her hips. Her own breasts pressed into Isleif’s shoulderblades.

“Yet we favor thee, our huntress. Thy spirit pleases us.”

Isleif shivered as she felt Mistress’ tongue alight on her neck, slither down around her throat, and slide across her chest. The tip coiled around one hard nipple as Mistress’ hands slipped inward and fingertips pushed against Isleif’s labia.

She wanted this, she wanted this...

But the tongue withdrew and the hands slipped back across her hips and away.

“Soon, pet. Soon.” Mistress stepped away. “We have burthen to do now. The Kyurren, thou requite? They leave right soon, ken-ful that Laird Gorran ageth and hath appointed a fine Lady for to aideth him; their Margrave hath had his taxes accounted in full, to follow on at the time appointed. A pleasing, normal visit, an they believeth so to their cores.”

Mistress walked to the door, her ass swaying hypnotically. She paused in the doorway.

“Five days, pet,” she said. “hath thou slept.” She turned her head—‘looked’ never seemed to be the right word, though the motion was the same—down the hallway. “Ah, an thou hast a visitor. Thou shalt entertain us later; yet we dare that the delay shalt not sting keen.”

She left down the hall.

A visitor?

Brynwyrren.

Isleif remained standing, nude, as a new woman walked into the room.

It was Gwynn. She was nude.

Her head was coated in translucent white.

Gwynn smiled at her.

“We are joined now,” she said. “Shaliri-Dominne birthed us the day after you were hurt. We are regretful that you missed it. It was...” Gwynn shivered. “Wonderful.”

“You’re... a Dominne,” Isleif said stupidly.

Gwynn—no, Gwynn-Dominne—smiled and slipped into the room.

“Yes,” she said. “We are. Our minds have been joined, Master and slave, and now we are one. Oh, Isleif...” she sighed. “It is so... wonderful. To be joined. To understand our true purpose.”

“Which is?” Isleif asked slowly.

Gwynn-Dominne laughed and stepped closer.

“To obey, of course,” she said quietly, stepping even closer, until her breasts touched Isleif’s. “The slave obeys the Master. The joined obeys the Mistress. You think you understand,” she said, so quiet as to almost be a whisper. “But you do not. You cannot. Not... yet.”

She leaned over and pressed her lips against Isleif’s, and Isleif found herself responding, opening to Gwynn-Dominne’s still-human tongue. Gwynn-Dominne’s hands found her ass and Isleif’s hands slid around Gwynn-Dominne’s waist.

Isleif did not close her eyes, staring at the pearly white where Gwynn-Dominne’s eyes should be as though to penetrate it with vision, but she could see nothing there except the featureless curve of the shell on her head.

Gwynn-Dominne broke the kiss. “Gwynn wanted to make love to you... very much. At least, once Mistress had altered her desires away from men.”

“Gwynn was... you are... very beautiful.”

Gwynn-Dominne smiled, and slipped her tongue into Isleif’s mouth again.

They kissed for a moment, then Gwynn-Dominne paused again. Isleif stared at her.

Her face... her smiling mouth, the line of her jaw, but above it where her eyes should have been was dipped in candle wax. It was strange in a way that seeing Lyrr-Dominne or Shaliri-Dominne had not been. They had been strangers, women she had known but not reached out to. Gwynn... had been different.

“You hesitate,” Gwynn-Dominne said.

“I...” Isleif tailed off.

Gwynn-Dominne smiled. “Happily, we can fix this. Spread your mind for us, slave.”

Isleif sighed quietly and relaxed her mental defenses.

Gwynn-Dominne entered her like heat, like the warmth of the forge, not a blast but a steady force, undeniable. She slid around Isleif’s mind, reading, leaving warmth in her wake.

“This is still new to us,” she said, and listening to her was like listening through water; Isleif’s mind was spread and passive, unable to focus attention. “It’s wonderful, though. Understanding the why of people. And then—” and there was a quick change, a searing that did not hurt- “changing it. Human minds are so malleable... Gwynn didn’t know. Couldn’t have. But we understand now. And we revel in it.”

Isleif vaguely anticipated that Gwynn-Dominne would leave her mind then, changes complete, but Gwynn-Dominne lingered, sliding her heat around Isleif’s brain, probing deeper into her memories. Isleif felt more changes, more differences in who she would be from now on.

Then Gwynn-Dominne was finished and left her mind. Slowly, Isleif slid back into control of herself.

The Master atop (and inside!) Gwynn-Dominne’s head was unbelievably sexy.

“How do you feel now, slave?” she asked.

“I am well, Domina,” Isleif replied. She felt pleased at her superior’s interest in her, and happy with her own immediate desire to obey and please.

“Well adjusted?”

“Yes, Domina. I hope so.”

Gwynn-Dominne took hold of her chin—Isleif had bowed her head and lowered her eyes while speaking—and raised it, and kissed her fiercely.

A Domina was kissing her. Nothing was more erotic. Isleif whined and kissed back, and this time when Gwynn-Dominne’s hands closed around her back Isleif clutched her eagerly.

Gwynn-Dominne lowered her to the bed, and smirked as Isleif grunted as her injured side complained.

“Do you feel up to this?” she asked.

“Yes, please, Domina,” Isleif pleaded, and Domina lowered herself on top of her, pressing her into the bed, and Isleif stared into the insectile white covering that made Gwynn-Dominne her superior, that made her the object of Isleif’s greatest desire, and their tongues danced.

“Normally,” Gwynn-Dominne said as she slithered downward on the bed, “the slave services the Dominne first, but you’re injured so we’ll make an exception.”

“Thank you, Domina,” Isleif hissed.

Gwynn-Dominne licked both of Isleif’s inner thighs. “Plus, we’ve been hoping to taste your pussy for quite some time now.” She slowly dragged her tongue up along the length of Isleif’s labia, causing Isleif to whine. “Mmm. We will enjoy this.”

Gwynn-Dominne set to work. Even with her tongue still only human, her cunnilingus was spectacular.