The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Every time that Puck returns to Kanzibar, he starts off at the Shackled Swan. (Even if the owner has been talking about renaming it to the Shackled Swine.) He knows that there’s little chance of Truffles being there again, and even if she was, he’d have no way of getting her out of the thrice-cursed city, but... he still visits. While he obviously doesn’t partake of the specialties, the tavern’s food is quite good.

“Now, y’see... nngh~... this is the only proper place fer elves. Underneath orcs or goblins... aaahn~... even ’umans! Elves is made ta be fucked.“

And it’s a prime spot to gather information. Like right now, Rucktusk, a fat, orcish regular at the tavern, is getting his cock sucked. A dark-haired Swine Elf kneels between his legs, with golden brown skin, and a relatively trim figure. No doubt a beauty before her conversion, the glowing collar around her neck forces her compliance. The light of the tavern reveals a blue “B” branded on her buttocks, the counterpart to a larger and more detailed one over her womb. Sir Puck doesn’t want to watch, but he forces himself to do so. He has a mission, after all.

“This li’l Tree Elf, y’see... a druid, or somethin’. Apparently, she was brought in by an orc! Some clever, alchemist type. Screwed him over, I guess. Heh, bet she knows ’er place now...“

At the beginning of the Swine Elf mania, goblins were knocking up their new property as quickly as possible, to permanently seal the transformation, in case the elves made a concerted effort to get their women back. Now, as things have settled into an uneasy equilibrium, that’s not as much of a priority—after all, a pretty Swine Elf like this one can do more work without a litter of goblins gestating in her tainted womb. As the orc grunts, spewing a thick load of off-white gunk over her face and chest, that’s probably not very reassuring.

“Hnngh~! Theeeeere ya go... dumb piggy slut.“

Not that Puck can do anything about it. Elves have become somewhat unwelcome in Kanzibar, of late, after the repatriation treaty was effectively abolished. Even the Lundar family have left their holdings, returning to the Golden Forest—although there are rumours that not all of them got out. Which is why Puck keeps his hood drawn close over his head, covering his pointed ears, and shading his face from anyone who might recognise him. Continuing to listen, and reluctantly watch the Swine Elf continue to suck, Rucktusk’s loud boasting drowns out any other conversation.

“I got one o’ my own bein’ made, y’know! She’ll be done in a couple days, then I’ll ’ave a Swine Elf wrapped ’round my dick at ’ome and while I drink. She were meant to be a soldier, before bein’ kidnapped—an’ she’d killed a bunch of orcs, an’ all. I’m gonna try an’ use ’er to... wha’s the word... repopulate!“

Hearing that the orc has purchased his own Swine Elf isn’t good, of course—but it’s the elf’s identity that he’s interested in. Currently, most of the elves being captured by slavers are lowborn, or common merchants, taken from borderland farms or small merchant vessels. But occasionally, a member of an important family, or a higher-ranking officer disappears, and Puck is sent in to Kanzibar to discover their fate. It’s the best he can do, after being summarily dismissed from Lord Oriand’s service, and the Elven Parliament was practically begging for scouts willing to infiltrate into Kanzibar’s expanding territory.

Listening just long enough to find out where the orc acquired his latest possession from, Sir Puck pulls his hood tightly over his pointed ears, and exits the tavern into the warm, dusty air of Kanzibar. For just a moment, he pauses outside the entrance, sparing a glance for the ‘cock washer’ chained to a wall outside.

“Oink~...“

She snorts plaintively up at Puck, violet eyes barely even looking at him. A C-Rank Swine Elf, with a large green brand over her lower abdomen declaring her as such. Lower quality, and therefore price, it’s not surprising that she’s been relegated to such a demeaning task. Out in the scorching heat, a sheen of sweat covers her dirty body, along with plenty of cum—luckily, Swine Elves are hardy, resistant to sunburn, and able to digest almost anything.

Sir Puck hurries on towards his destination, purposefully not looking at the Swine Elf’s familiar hair, still curly and purple. Behind him, a man approaches the chained-up slave, loosening his belt and freeing his cock. Despite not wearing a magical collar, she wearily opens her mouth, for someone who might not even be going to the tavern. The horse that she cleaned earlier certainly wasn’t...

“And here we have a fresh one for you ’orrible lot! She’s not just a pretty face, neither—this one was captured just last night, a Dragoon from the Elven Kingdoms!“

In a run-down warehouse near the Kanzibar docks, a new enterprise has sprung up. One of many smaller auction houses throughout the city, technically sanctioned by the Kanzibar Slavers’ Guild, but more or less run independently. Inside this one, a leanly muscled, green-haired elf is currently up for sale, with intricate dragon tattoos curling around her collar and hips.

“If ya don’t know what that is, means she’s trained as a warrior-mage for at least an ’undred years! Got separated from ’er platoon, but still killed three slavenappers on her way in. Oh, an’ she took some sacred vow o’ chastity or somethin’. But that won’ stop any o’ you, right?”

A ripple of laughter spreads through the large group of goblins watching this display, with a few scattered humans and orcs at the back. They all watch as another goblin, dressed in a bowler hat and vest, auctions off his latest acquisition. She’s a little bruised, but otherwise unharmed, although it’s obvious that the auctioneer is embellishing his story somewhat—but nobody seems to care too much.

“Which means this is a perfect opportunity to train ’er up ’owever you like. She’d make a perfect breeding sow, pleasure slave, street whore, or anything else you’d wanna use a Swine Elf for! Guaranteed A-grade minimum, or yer money back!“

Once word had spread about the original, everybody suddenly wanted a ‘Truffles’ of their very own—and demand led to supply. That led to a more formalised Swine Elf ranking system, based on desired physical attributes like their ears, snout, figure, and the presence of a tail. Refinements in the process, and a gradual upswell in the number of captured elves, led to the creation of a robust chain of converting raw material to a finished product. Starting off, with the auction house.

“Now, startin’ at twenty gold pieces, ’ave I got any bids?”

Unsurprisingly, for an elf of such high quality, plenty of hands shoot up.

Shrugging his shoulders, the cleaner leans on his broom, obviously just happy to talk to anyone. Thankfully, despite access to the auction house’s records being impractical, the staff are happy to gossip.

“Or it was somethin’ like that. I know dat a gnome bought ’er, though, not an orc.”

Pursing his lips, Puck gives a nod in thanks, then flips the man a copper coin. Two weeks ago. That’s when Dragoon Captain Vertimor led a platoon into the lands surrounding Kanzibar, intent on pursuing some raiders. She never returned, sacrificing herself to allow her outnumbered soldiers to retreat from a trap—and then, a day after, she was sold. To a gnome, apparently, which can only mean that she was purchased by a Swine Elf converter.

Despite having been in Kanzibar for half a month now, it’s possible she was kept in storage for a while, to be resold back to Rucktusk the orc. If that’s the case, she might still be elven enough to risk rescuing her... but that will all depend on her condition, and if Rucktusk is even the customer buying her.

Counting his blessings, few as they are, Sir Puck follows directions to Wyndle’s Swine Elf Emporium, as named by a rather new sign on the wall. It’s clearly been converted from some other function, probably an old tavern, but the explosion in Swine Elf popularity has led to some rapid developments.

Passing by the front of the building, Puck pauses for a moment at the sight of a low-walled enclosure. Animal pens aren’t uncommon, especially in the outer parts of Kanzibar, but this... is something he hasn’t seen before. A filthy Swine Elf lies on her back there, with a familiar boar rutting her into the ground. That’s bad enough—but to top it all off, there are also a handful of piglets in with her, one of them suckling at one of her multiple teats.

Despite not having seen it, he has heard about some of the early experiments in tweaking the Swine Elf formula. And he even recognises the subject as one of the guards that Lord Rustermere Oriand took with him to try and fetch Amberlynn. His first attempt to get her back, at least—in the early days after Truffles’ public impregnation, the roads from Kanzibar were watched closely by Lord Oriand’s men.

But the prevailing rumour is that Iktik took his famous Swine Elf out of the city via the docks, to sail back to the goblin homelands a few hundred leagues down the Rawhide Coast. Puck can only imagine what that must have been like for Truffles, after Iktik knocked her up right in front of her father. Her entire life turned upside down, the treaty between Kanzibar and the High Elven Kingdom effectively nullified, and then taken even further away...

A concerted effort by elves could probably penetrate far into that poorly-developed land. But it’s a large area, and without any clues as to where the goblin came from, a hopeless task. The Elven Army is already mobilising to protect their borders, so Puck can only hope to catch word of Iktik’s destination. In the meantime, he does what he can to help the elven women currently in Kanzibar—mostly by letting their family know of their fate. He hasn’t managed to smuggle any of them out yet.

Creeping around to the back of the building, Sir Puck shimmies through a loose window at ground level, into the damp cellar, ignoring the well-lit office aboveground. A rank scent fills his nostrils, thick and pungent in the enclosed space. A space which is filled with about a dozen sealed wooden barrels, with paper labels pasted on the lids, along with a large stockpile of alchemy supplies.

One of them stands open, revealing that the barrel is about two-thirds full of an off-white, gloopy mixture. Clearly the fluid used to convert elves into Swine Elves, Puck is aware that it’s mostly composed of fermented pig semen, along with various other magical reagents—which means that all the other barrels down here must have half-converted elves in them. Taking a deep breath (and quickly regretting it), Sir Puck forces down his disgust to concentrate on the task at hand.

Quickly scanning over the labels, it doesn’t take long to discover the soldier that Rucktusk is buying—a Sergeant Greenblight (with extra orc semen). Not the elf he’s looking for, and apparently a pure coincidence that she was sent to the same place as Captain Vertimor, Puck still jots down the name to pass on. Which means that the Dragoon has already been processed and sold. Looking around for something which might tell him who she was sold to, Sir Puck’s eyes fall on a heavy ledger. Conveniently sat on a desk, on one side of the room, it surely holds the information he needs. But before he can open it to look, there’s a noise from above, of footsteps approaching the cellar...

Squignuck is a happy goblin. He used to just collect trash for a living, rooting around in alleyways, hoping to find some bread he can pick the mould off. There weren’t any thoughts in his head, aside from how to find his next meal. But recently, he got given a job—a real job, which pays him five copper pieces a week, along with room and board. All he’s got to do is make sure the elves go into the barrels, and then jerk off three times daily, for Mr. Wyndle to collect. What a life!

To make matters even better, the magic barrels that he puts the boring, nonsensical elves in open a few days later—and a Swine Elf comes out! Even a barely literate, acutely uneducated goblin like Squignuck knows what a Swine Elf is. Or, in his mother tongue, a horkh’nilta, something only made by frequently copulating with an elf, for several months.

“C’mon, elf! Get!”

Right now, the elf that he’s leading down into the cellar is especially exciting. With one hand holding a chain connected to her plain magic-suppressing collar, and the other gripping a short spear to ensure her obedience, Squignuck ignores her nonsense ramblings. Probably in some stupid elf language. Either that, or she’s just using words that are too long for him.

“I is gonna have you!”

When he was hired by Mr. Wyndle, the gnome said to Squignuck that, if he could save up twenty gold pieces, the goblin could pick out one of the elves that the gnome buys at the bazaar and have her for his very own! Even for one of the least intelligent members of one of the least intelligent races, he knew that was a good deal. So Squignuck scrimped and he saved, reaching a grand total of thirty-seven copper pieces... then he received a pouch of gold from a distant cousin of his, who used to be a trash collector like him!

“You’s gonna be da best horkh’nilta in Kanzibar!“

At first, Mr. Wyndle didn’t seem especially happy about the goblin’s selection, especially after getting such a good deal on such a unique property. But, after the thrill from the auction house wore off, the gnome smirked—and stuck to his word. Something about Squignuck’s choice seemed to amuse him. Either that, or he realised that the dumb goblin would make a fantastic scapegoat, if any elves came looking for Princess Paoletta. Second daughter of Prince Beriac, who is himself heir to the throne of the Elven High Kingdom, she is, to put it lightly, a very big deal.

And Squignuck hasn’t the slightest idea. Leading her up a stepladder, towards a barrel prepared with the strongest concentration of Swine Elf fluid that Mr. Wyndle can make, his misshapen cock is already fully out of its sheath.

“Me fill dat bucket! Extra Squignuck jizz!”

Despite her obvious disgust, the chain around her neck, and the sharp point of Squignuck’s spear are enough to persuade Princess Paoletta to slide into the barrel. It seems that she doesn’t quite understand the gravity of the situation yet, as many members of elven society don’t take the Swine Elf problem seriously. Perhaps, if she’d known exactly what this would entail, she would’ve chosen the spear.

“We is gonna have lotsa babies once you’s out!”

Struggling back out through the window he snuck into the basement from, Sir Puck, formerly of House Oriand, feels a little sick. That was Princess Paoletta, still wearing her royal circlet! She shouted her name often enough, threatening dire fates to the foul creature that dared corral her like an animal, but the stupid goblin just carried on smiling as he forced her into the barrel. Unfortunately, there’s nothing that Puck can do about it.

Even if he did get the barrel open without anybody noticing, and the other barrels with half-transformed Swine Elves, how could he get them out of the city? Bribing a guard to let one elf past is easy enough, but there’s no way to get a dozen naked elves any further than the end of the street. This is just one more thing he needs to add to his intel from the mission—maybe it will even spur Parliament into some more decisive action.

But for now, he needs to complete his mission. Thankfully, after jerking off into Princess Paoletta’s barrel (again), then sealing the lid with an excited cackle, the goblin left the cellar empty again. Taking his time to look through the ledger, Puck noted down any names of interest, as well as finding Captain Vertimor’s destination.

It doesn’t take him long to get there. A relatively large house, constructed with wooden beams, and situated near the merchant’s district of Kanzibar. Likely owned by a merchant themselves—goblin or not, a Swine Elf can be a valuable status symbol... and a very pleasurable night-time companion. Strictly speaking, Sir Puck could leave his mission at this. He knows her location, and that she’s been processed. Seeing her condition is technically unnecessary, but...

“Oink~... can I help you?“

The front door of the house opens, to reveal a pudgy Swine Elf, dressed in a translucent blue negligee. Her forest green hair is pulled into two pigtails, tucked behind drooping, porcine ears, and her round face is graced with a wide snout, and plump mouth. Large breasts with dark nipples are visible through her nightwear’s fabric, which also reveals a large, silvery brand, marking her as a premium-quality A-rank Swine Elf.

And that brand cuts into a distinctive dragon tattoo, curving around her thigh and hip, with a matching one underneath the collar around her neck. There’s no doubt that this Swine Elf is, or was, Dragoon Captain Vertimor. Before Sir Puck can say anything, though, a gravelly voice calls out from inside the house.

“Greenie! Who’s that at the door?!”

Putting a finger to his lips in an attempt to keep her quiet, Sir Puck pulls his hood back just enough to reveal his pointed elven ears, the sight of which elicits a clear reaction in Greenie. Her eyes widen as a soft gasp leaves her luscious lips, and a series of emotions flit across her face—shock, confusion, fear. Hope. But also dismay, as the intricately carved collar around her neck starts to glow, forcing her to open her mouth and shout her response.

“It’s... mmmf... an elf, Daddy! Oink~oink! He’s come to steal me away!“

Her movements are stiff, as she futilely tries to resist her orders, backing away from Puck even as she mouths ‘I’m sorry’ to him. Catching a glimpse of a rotund goblin approaching her, just as Greenie slams the door, the alarm has already been raised by her shout.

A pair of guards point down the street towards him, one of them blowing a whistle, and a few human passersby also seem eager to join the chase. Pulling the hood back around his head, Sir Puck darts off down the street, cursing himself for not getting out while he could. The thought of Dragoon Captain Vertimor, a proud, celibate warrior fills his mind. Except now she’s a soft, pudgy Swine Elf, given a new name, trained to obedience, and likely already bearing a litter of goblins. Sealing her transformation in place. Permanently.

Darting through an alleyway to try and throw off his pursuers, the elven knight suddenly recognises where he is—and where a familiar hovel lies dark and empty. The place where Iktik kept Amberlynn, convincing them both that she needed disguises to keep away from her father’s rivals. It seems like a petty concern, now, but Lord Oriand’s truffle harvest was the principal cause of a lot of this. With his breath hitching in his throat at every man who looks at him, Sir Puck idly wonders how his old Lord’s estates are doing.

“Uh... sir? One of the trufflers is here to see you. Demetrius, from the southern hills. Apparently, well... I’m not entirely sure how to—”

“Just see him in, would you?”

Looking up from his financial ledgers with a scowl, Lord Rustermere Oriand fixes his steward with a glare. Since the blight on his pig stock, it’s been hard to draw in a good harvest, which led to a decrease in income, which led to a loss of confidence in his holdings, which led to fewer pig breeders willing to trade with him, which led to... a vicious cycle.

Part of that meant a lot of his best staff being poached by other elven lords. His old steward would’ve dealt with this matter in a much better way. Thoughts like that shimmer through his mind, distracting him from the task at hand, but his frustration all has one common root. A lack of Truffles.

“A whole basket, m’lord!”

And there, as if provided from the stars themselves, is Demetrius, his hands full with a large wicker basket. Exactly as he said, it’s chock-full of dark, knobbly truffles—probably more than he’s seen all season, just in his arms.

“I’ve got a whole cartload out front, m’lord.”

The farmer himself is a half-elf bastard of some minor nobleman with a human mother, sent to live in his lands some decades ago. A common fate for the part-blooded children of male elves with a wandering eye, and not a cruel one, based on the proud smile on this man’s face.

“How... how did you...? I thought your pig stocks were decimated!”

At that, the man’s demeanour shifts a little, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. His smile stays present, although he seems a little embarrassed now.

“Well, ’bout that... you see, m’lord, I had someone come to talk to me, a couple weeks back. Said he could help me with my truffle issue, and well... I didn’t want to bother you with hopeless efforts, but I didn’t want to turn him away, neither. Then he comes back, and shows me the work his team of swine did.”

Already, Lord Oriand is doing math in his head, working out how this might affect his income. The southern hills were historically his lowest producing area, with difficult ground for the pigs to navigate—but an entire cartload in two weeks? If that could be extended to his other truffle-producing areas, then...

But stopping short in his thoughts, Rustermere’s mind snags on the way that this man referred to the pigs. The presumed pigs.

“That’s... very nice to hear. Was there anything unusual about this man and his animals?“

Again, the truffler averts his eyes, but he’s quick with an answer. To his credit, he doesn’t mince his words, as he reluctantly tells his lord where the truffles came from.

“M’lord, have you ever heard of a Swine Elf?“

Lord Rustermere Oriand freezes, his mind going back to that hot summer day in Kanzibar. In the arena, where he saw something happen, and where he lost one of his best guardswomen. And then when he reported it to the representative of Parliament, how they told him that what he saw couldn’t possibly have really happened—but that he should report any more unquestionably false information directly to them, and to nobody else. With that in mind, the elven lord glances over at the basket, overflowing with truffles worth their weight in silver... and he answers his farmer correctly.

“No, Mr. Demetrius, I haven’t. And I better not hear anything about those... myths. Whatever your methods, I do hope that all of my lands have a harvest like this. There might be a bonus in it for you, if you get my meaning...“

Nodding his head fervently, Demetrius backs away, quickly turning to leave before he accidentally tells his lord anything about Swine Elves. Which he also has certainly has never heard about, or seen on Lord Oriand’s estates.

Just as the half-elf is closing the door behind him, Rustermere clears his throat, then makes a seemingly offhanded comment. Despite knowing exactly what it might entail, he can’t pass up this opportunity to rebuild his income base.

“Oh, and if we happen to get any more... stock... make sure they’re housed with the other pigs, would you? Maybe we’ll get some new piglets out of them...“

Puck’s pursuers haven’t let up yet, and he can hear shouts beckoning more people to join the chase. Catching a rogue elf in the city isn’t just about protecting Kanzibar’s Swine Elves—it’s also because whoever catches them gets a cut of the profits from their sale. Passing through familiar streets, and holding his hood tightly over his head, the elven knight spots some other pursuers ahead of him, fanning out to block the street. With his options dwindling, he darts to one side, into the first open building he spots.

Which, as luck would have it, turns out to be the Kanzibar Post Office. He spent a lot of time in here during Amberlynn’s descent into Truffles, while awaiting a response from Lord Oriand. And, looking around nervously, his heart sinks when one of the clerks recognises him.

“Oh, Sir Puck! We haven’t seen you for a while. Um... not surprisingly. Anyway, we’ve actually got a letter for you!”

Narrowing his eyes at the perky girl who is rummaging through a filing cabinet full of letter, thankfully out of earshot of any other customers, he edges closer. The clerk’s warm smile persuades him that she isn’t about to give him up, either unaware or defiant of the elfhunt he’s been embroiled in. And after a moment, she brandishes a small rectangle of card stock, then tilts her head towards an employee entrance in the back.

“You can get out through there. An alley leads to the next street over.”

Pausing only to grab the letter, and give the friendly clerk a nod of thanks, he hurries out into the afternoon sun. Planning to read the letter later, Puck gives it a glance as he moves through the alley... but then freezes in place when he recognises the handwriting. Unable to help himself, he starts to read what he realises is actually a postcard.

Dear Sir Puck,

Some time has passed since I last saw you, in Kanzibar’s arena.

At that time, you planted a seed in me, to grow alongside Iktik’s.

Verily, I will treasure that baby, just as much as all my goblin children.

Every day, I count my blessings that Iktik bought me, and made me his.

My father won’t understand that I can be happy here, as a goblin’s prize Swine Elf, only living to be bred.

Even so, I hope you can both understand that this is my decision.

From, Truffles

Furrowing his brow, Sir Puck is a little confused by the message, and not quite ready to believe that Amberlynn would be so openly happy as Truffles. And something about how it was written, the letters themselves, seems a little odd...

Turning the postcard over, Puck puts a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Imprinted onto the card is a sepia toned image, of Iktik and Truffles standing in front of a primitive, hidebound tent. Well, Truffles is kneeling—and cradling a heavily pregnant belly, with a sparkling, golden brand above her pussy. She is, after all, renowned as one of the few S-rank Swine Elves that have been produced. Along the bottom of the image are two words. ‘Just Married’.

But while Puck’s heart still leaps to see her, especially in that kind of condition (has she already given birth? Was one of them his?), that isn’t what really excites him. While the crystals used to make the images like this are relatively common, it’s less well known that the Hexif data of an arcane photogram can be used to locate where one was taken. If he can get this back to Lord Oriand, then-

THUNK

Preoccupied with studying the postcard, Puck’s attention had slipped from the alleyway he was standing in. Instead of making his escape when he had the chance, he lingered in place and... despite his martial training, and his innate elven advantages, a club over the head is still enough to knock him out.

“Well, well... if it ain’t a boy elf. Ain’t there one’a those gnomes that were after one? They need elf jizz to make more elves, or somethin’. Don’ want ’em goin’ extinct, after all!“

“Yeah, an’ for test subjects, right? Think ’bout that. Y’can’t breed ’em, but damn, they’d probably know how ta handle a cock...“

Standing over his unconscious body, and ignoring the thin sheet of card stock that had slipped from his fingers, two Kanzibaran residents move to pick up their quarry. They’re pretty pleased with themselves, not least because of the hefty payday they expect for selling him—but also because, as his hood flops backwards, the orc and human pair recognise his face.

“Hah! An’ this is the one that stopped us grabbin’ that Oriand girl! Back before she were a Swine Elf, remember?”

“Uh-huh, that I do... well, he’ll be gettin’ what ’e deserves, sure enough.”

The thin sheet of card stock had slipped from Puck’s fingers when he fell to the muddy ground—and that’s where it stays as his unconscious body is carried off towards the Grand Bazaar. In a single moment, the futures of Puck, Truffles, and perhaps many other elves, have shifted to a different path. But the strings of fate don’t always weave how you might expect, and a harsher journey often leads to a kinder destination...

Depending on your perspective, of course.