The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

They say no army has ever set foot beneath the Shadeweald’s impenetrable canopy. That spirits and demons of the old world hid amongst its shadows, filled with malice towards those who walked beneath the sun. Not to mention the wailing ghosts of those who ignored the warnings of wiser men. What army would ever allow their commanders to risk even a single night in such a dark, uninviting place. Better to take the longer road, and for once the weary soldiers would not begrudge the extra miles.

Some storytellers, the most honest, perhaps, will admit that the empire of old may have dared it. Many centuries ago, before it crumbled to ruin and dust. So said the tales, at any rate. But no matter. What did ancient bravado mean to the lesser people living alongside its ruins. What the empire had once dared meant little to the lesser men following in its wake.

It was, perhaps, these very rumors that drove the raiders into forest. Surely, they thought, even the most relentless pursuer would blanch at following them.

They thought wrong.

Twenty some mounted soldiers, it must be admitted, do not make an army. But when you are only three afoot, twenty armed horsemen is as bad as a thousand.

This should have been a quick snatch and grab, as the raiders’ people were accustomed. The border was long and undermanned. A small force could easily get in and take what they wanted before anyone noticed. By the time anyone even started to track them, they should have been halfway back to home and safety.

Luck had not been on their side, though the trip had started promising enough. Young and inexperienced, the trio had been more than eager to bring back a good take. Something big. Something that would make their fortunes and win the interest of the village girls. When they discovered a richly appointed lodge nestled deep in the woods, they each said a small prayer of thanksgiving to the great spirit of daring for blessing their hunt.

The few terrified servants had run screaming at the sight of the sight of three large men, with their savage looking axes and long wild hair drawn back in a warrior’s knot.

A mistake, leaving witnesses, much less allowing them to escape. Had there been more than three, they might have considered taking some back as captives. The servants had been comely enough, to be sure. But there were only the three, and letting them run had seemed a minor detail at the time. Besides, the obvious terror gratified the young men’s egos. It let them feel fierce and grown without the effort and unpleasantness of actually using the weapons they had spent their youth learning. Anyways, with the servants gone, the house was ripe for plundering.

Three bulging sacks stuffed with gold and silver should be more than enough to justify straying from the main party. Precious metals would solve a lot of problems, come to think of it, including the frustrations any young man experiences while trying to court. Especially one who is untried and unblooded. Things would change when they got back. Even once the communal share was handed out, each of the boys would be more than enough left over to be generous. Their leader’s thoughts had already turned towards a fair freckled face, and the smooth bosom below it. A gold necklace, perhaps, would win enough favor for him to discover whether the freckles continued down under her clothing.

He would find out, he’d been certain, once they made it home.

If they made it home.

The boys had not counted on Marshal Rosalyn Emory, or her hand picked unit of border scouts. While the rest of her forces drove off the larger raiding party, she dedicated herself to tracking down the group who had dared raid the Duke of Ambrose’s newest hunting lodge.

It was the principle of the thing, she told herself. What would people think if they allowed raiders to attack with impunity? What could possibly be more brazen than stealing from the greatest, most noble man in the entire kingdom? Why, if they could attack him, those wretches would dare anything.

It was not to be permitted, and soon she would create an example of what happens when you crossed your betters.

There was little time to waste. The fugitives were almost past the border by the time she set out, but the river was wide and there were few places where a group could safely pass without a boat. She may not have been able to catch them before they slipped across, but she could at least cut them off from their kinsmen, not to mention an easy route home.

Marshal Emory had rarely been ranged far into the wildlands, and never with so few behind her, but her pursuit was relentless. Chasing their quarry, the group passed through half a dozen of the fractured, quarrelsome tribes without allowing time for even the briefest of challenges. It was frightening, daring the wildlands with only a small scout patrol, but exhilarating nonetheless. A heady mix of danger, righteousness, and excitement.

Her group was the pride of her border guards. A hand picked unit with some of the best scouts and skirmishers the kingdom had to offer. Herself aside, it was still a mixed group, with over half the horses carrying female riders. It was something she’d seen over and over again. Put a girl on a horse, and many of the body’s limitations were negated. There was nobody Rosalyn would rather be with, save for her patron, Lord William Ambrose. But of course, he was busy at court, and in any case they dared not risk him past the border.

They were nearing the end of their first day in the saddle when her second found the first discarded sacks. The young woman had gathered up the scattered contents, and brought it to her captain.

If anything, it was surprising that the goods had not been abandoned sooner. In fact, Rosalyn had considered splitting off a couple riders to look for the stolen items, just in case they had been missed during the pursuit.

“Amateurs,” said the fiery haired lieutenant. Even in the fading light, her lips were red as the bright hair currently tied back beneath the soldier’s helm. Was that natural, or had she sought an alchemist to redden them more permanently. Rosalyn licked her lips, wondering if she would look more appealing after such a treatment. Something to seek out later, perhaps.

“They’d have to be,” Rosayln said, “or they’d have known to leave His Lordship’s belongings in peace.”

Kira, her second, nodded immediately, every bit as incensed as she was. Like many of Rosalyn’s other officers, this one had been personally handpicked by Lord William. Though only a middling rider amongst this elite company, her devotion to duty was unquestionable, and Rosalyn was glad to have her. Especially on the longer patrols, where the girl’s sleek curves and tight flesh helped warm many an otherwise lonely night.

Despite their inexperience, the raiders were on familiar ground once they passed the river, and made good time despite being on foot. Even so, their pursuers were mounted, and this chase was nearing its end. Then the tracks did the unthinkable, and veered into the trees.

At first they had thought it a ruse. A quick foray along the edges to throw off pursuit. But soon it became clear that the raiders had fled deeper into the woods.

The men grumbled, but Rosalyn trusted them to follow orders. It helped that most of the unit had met their patron in person. They understood how important it was not to let him down. The group may not have been an army, but for the first time in recorded history her kingdom’s soldiers stepped under those legend shrouded branches.

From the first, it was clear they had stepped beyond their long familiar world, into one that defied all expectations. Colors, smells, sounds, nothing was like any forest they had ever seen. Even the blackest parts of the primordial Direwood were still normal, but not here.

Birds cried out as they rode past, their shrill calls echoing amongst the trees. At least, Rosalyn hoped they were birds. Their calls were like nothing she had ever heard, and she saw nothing amongst the branches.

Worse, even the plants moved.

One of their scouts had stopped for a closer look at the trail, when a flowery vine began to uncurl from its tree trunk embrace. Slowly, it began to reach for her. The bright crimson flower, which had so recently looked up at the narrow streams of sunlight piercing the canopy overhead, began a languorous turn towards the dismounted rider. It was decided, after that point, that perhaps the tracks didn’t have to be quite so closely examined.

A slow hour’s ride after that, they passed their first creek. With waterskins running low after their single minded pursuit, a few of the riders stopped to refill.

As Rosalyn knelt to fill her own waterskin, her first warning was the sound. Not the normal, expected burble you’d expect to hear from a stream. No splashing against the shallow rocks. No, what she heard was a clinking, a tinkling. Metallic, except not, with an almost musical quality to it. A song just tantalizingly out of earshot.

She held up a hand, telling the rest of the riders to hold while she bent to investigate further. As she drew closer to the water, the scent was more obvious. Subtle, a mix of honey and incense. Inviting, compelling almost, but she did not trust it. Water should not smell like that. They could make do, Rosalyn decided, until they were were out of the woods.

Deeper into the forest, the riders realized that tracking their quarries would be no easy task. Not that the fugitives had taken any great pains to conceal themselves, but rather as though the forest itself was working to mislead them. The path would meander, circling and winding, only to vanish and reappear elsewhere. As even the thin light that pierced the leaves above began to fade, and they were forced to consider a night spent in the forest, even Rosalyn began to doubt their mission.

That was when the blue men appeared.

There was no warning, no sound. Just a face, where a moment earlier there had been only forest. There was a bow in his hand. Short, but he was standing only a couple dozen paces away. Maybe her armor would turn the long, barbed arrow. Maybe. Rosalyn didn’t feel like risking it.

Others began emerging, encircling the band. That decided the issue. Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her hand unclenched from the half drawn sword at her waist. She raised her palms in the air, holding them outwards to show that there was no ill intended.

Old campfire stories from years past flashed through her head. Tales of spooks and ghosts, told by amused soldiers to their indulgent commander’s young daughter. The forest snatcher, with fangs as tall as a child, mouth dripping the blood of its last victim. A score of different creatures from as many different tales, each spawned from “the darkest depths of Shadeweald’s heart”. The crying woman, the five handed ghost, and of course, the story of the careless girl who wandered too far and was snatched away by the pizkies.

It wasn’t hard to believe those stories, seeing that hairless, blue face. Not only was his scalp bare, but eyebrows as well, with not the slightest trace of a beard. Though the forest’s shadow cloaked his face, she could tell that his eyes were quick and sharp. The sort that saw much and missed little. With a careful motion of her hand, she commanded her group to stand down. The blue men could have loosed their arrows long ago. That they hadn’t done so already was a good sign. Probably.

The man spoke, a rush of fluid, melodic syllables. She didn’t understand so much as a single word.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

He tried again. It took two more tries before they found a common tongue. A halting, border dialect, barely comprehensible beneath his thick accent.

“Weapons down,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Off horse. You walk. Walk now.”

“Walk where?” she asked.

“Come now. Walk. Guests. You guests.”

She took a long, pointed look at the arrows.

“Guests now,” he insisted, “Come.”

They weren’t shooting yet. That was a good thing. Those arrows did look quite sharp, and the men weren’t offering much room for argument.

“What happened to my...” it took her a moment to remember the word. “scouts. What happened to my scouts.”

There had, of course, been outriders. They should have prevented the larger group from being encircled, or at least provided a warning. If they hadn’t...

It took the man a few seconds to puzzle over her words, after which he nodded with an expression of cheerful indifference.

“Also guests.”

Wonderful. It looks like they were all about to become guests. Rosalyn couldn’t see any other alternative. At least not right then.

Their weapons were quickly stripped away, as gently as one could hope for with arrows trained upon you. Their hands were bound with ropes of soft fiber that almost reminded her of the courtly silk she had grown so fond of. Starting with Rosalyn, their hands were tied behind them. Though tight, and hardly comfortable, the knots were not painful either. A few surreptitious attempts had proven that the bindings would not be easily slipped.

When they stepped out of the shadows to bind the captives, Rosalyn learned that she had been wrong about two things. Their captors were not, in fact blue. Instead, their faces were covered by a thick coat of blue paint. As the pigment reached down to their bare chests, it split off, diverging into lines and patterns that trailed over the rest of the body. Some were almost elegant in their angular simplicity, while the most complex were a dizzying maze of lines within lines. She wondered how they could possibly keep such fine tracework intact while sneaking through the forest, when it was so hard for her own cosmetics to last a single night at court. An incongruous thought, out of place even as it flashed through her mind.

It was these patterns, or rather the bare chests they covered, which informed her of the second mistake. Their captors were not, in fact, all men. Some of the blue painted figures that stepped out from the shade were clearly, definitely women. Every bit as bald headed and bare chested as the men.

They tended towards lean and lithe, with not a one of them that could quite be called “buxom”. At least not by the fashions at court this season. Nonetheless, their paint and posture did little to hide their femininity. Quite the opposite, in fact, with many of them bearing spiraled tracings that highlighted and enhanced their bosom.

It wasn’t until the group was quite disarmed, with their hands safely bound, that the captors brought out the second set of ropes. The ones meant for their necks. Rosalyn protested, but what could she do? No weapons, no hands, and even if the bows were put away, they were still within reach.

“Guests,” the leader repeated with a smile, then took her rope in hand and began leading her deeper into the forest. She had little choice but to follow.

For some reason, it reminded her of his lordship, the duke.

As drums beat out a slow, pulsing rhythm, Rosalyn stared across the firelit circle, taking in the small, elderly man who was facing her. Unlike those who had ambushed her, he had a full head of hair. White with age, though head and beard were dyed with long streaks of blue, presumably the same paint as the warriors. His face was painted in lines and patterns reminiscent of the warriors’ body paint, rather than a full covering. Unlike the warriors, he was clothed above the waist, wearing a long, loose robe. Also white with blue patterns.

The colors meant something. That much was obvious, though it wasn’t clear what. The woman sitting at the chief’s left, for example, wore green. In the firelight, the paint almost reflected onto her skin and hair, giving them a distinct greenish hue. She said very little, staring off as though watching something none of the others could see. Perhaps she was. This was the Shadeweald, after all. Rosalyn couldn’t have even begun to guess her age, and would have believed the women was twenty no less than she would have believed an answer of eighty. There was a certain... presence to her. Something indefinable that told Rosayln that there was more to this woman than the mere shell of a body sitting in front of her.

But then the woman turned and smiled, and for one brief moment she didn’t seem quite so inhuman after all.

The drummers wore green paint as well, though little else. Not even the brief lower coverings of the warriors. Their patterns were sparse and bare, without the woman’s ornate tracery, but were every bit as flowing. Drawn in a way almost reminiscent of creeping, growing plantlife. So did the woman’s, come to think of it. But more sturdy, solid. A tall tree reaching towards the sun, where the others were mere vines grasping at the surface.

Those drums had worried Rosalyn. They still did. They had seen things in the forest, things whose attention Rosalyn would not care to draw. Even with their “guides” (involuntary though they had been), the group hadn’t been completely safe.

They’d been perhaps an hour’s walk from the ambush, following a winding trail that only the painted men could really see, when their captors halted. She didn’t even have time to speak before she was being pulled down to the ground. She gasped, straining against the rope around her throat, but before she could protest, it was there.

A moment earlier, it had just been them. A small group of scouts on their way to an uncertain fate, but well enough for the moment. Then she... heard something, felt it. Or both. Or neither. It was simply there.

Impossibly large, menacing with unseen power. Still hidden, invisible in the forest’s unpierceable depths, but of such terrible awe and might that it could scarcely be believed even as it was witnessed.

Rosalynn no longer considered making any sound. Couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. Her captor chanted softly beside her, a fact which startled Rosalyn. Such a feat was quite beyond her right then. As was any movement. Her terror stricken body was limp as a wet tunic.

And yet, there was a part of her that wanted to see. Wanted to know what such a terrible, impossible creature might look like. To gaze upon it with her own eyes.

But the feeling passed, and so did the creature. Whatever it might have been.

They’d lain there for a time. To be sure the danger was over.

“You lucky,” said the leader as he rose, in answer to her unasked question.

“Old one take,” he said, “take and keep. Then poof,” his clenched fist shot wide open for emphasis, “all gone. Gone forever.”

“You lucky,” he’d repeated, jerking her to her feet with a tug at the rope circling her neck.

“You guests.”

There were things in the forest. Things more terrible and mystifying than a lost tribe of people, no matter how strange or competent. And now they were drumming, loud sounds let loose for who knows what to hear. They had only laughed when she protested the first booming notes.

“Is the way,” they had simply told her.

“The way of what?”

A shrug.

“The way it is done.”

To her relief, claims of guesthood had not proven completely empty. Once the group was safely inside the bounds of their small village, not to mention completely lost, they had been untied and invited to join in the festivities. To her chagrin, so had the three thieves their group had been chasing. Off to the side, and looking a bit uncertain, but none the worse for the wear.

The chief, she had noted, was wearing one of the Duke’s stolen pendants. A large, elegant gold chain and setting, sparkling with inset emeralds. A princely work, though as nothing next to the wealth and power of the Duke. To see such brazen thieves here did not sit well with Rosalyn. Not at all. When she had the chance, she fully intended to speak to the chief about this. Surely, no matter how strange they were, they would love thieves no better than any other people. It gnawed at her, looking at the three, seeing the small pieces of jewelry they had visible, and the hidden ones they no doubt still carried, but now was not the time for confrontation.

The chief clapped his hand. At once, the dancing stopped, and though not the drums. Those simply lowered to a steady thump.

“Welcome,” he said in the same border language as the warrior’s leader, though his command of the language was better and his accent clearer.

“Welcome to our distant cousins, long lost in the brightlands,” it took her a second to realize that what a barrier the broad daylight might be to a group long accustomed to living under the forest’s constant shadow. So the two groups felt some form of kinship? That could be a problem, depending on just how distant “long lost” actually meant.

“And welcome,” he continued, “to our other guests, strangers until today. Let us know them now, and be strangers no longer.”

The drums rose to new heights, even as the shaman threw a powder of some sorts onto the fires, making them flare into bright colors reminiscent of the bodypaint worn by the tribe.

There was a loud cheer, enough to make Rosalyn wince in fear of attracting attention from the forest, but it was hard to deny the good cheer of those around her. Perhaps tomorrow, after they had been formally welcomed, she could address the thorny issue of these runaway thieves.

Youths in white and black paint came around, bearing large cups filled with a sweet smelling juice. Rosalyn accepted hers with a gracious acknowledgement, though she got the impression that the youth did not understand her words. The chief smiled in her direction, said a few words she couldn’t understand in the tribal tongue, then bowed briefly over the drink. After the others in their circle did likewise, Rosalyn gestured to her group and had them follow along. First raising the cup over his head with both hands, the chief brought it back down to his lips and drained it in one swift motion.

Out of pride, perhaps, Rosalyn was determined to do no less, and brought the cup to her own lips. She was not entirely without trepidation as the first drops hit her tongue, but arrows could have taken them just as easily as poison. If the tribe meant them harm, there was little she could do to prevent it. Better, she thought, to demonstrate her good graces and see if diplomacy would succeed where force could not.

The liquid was every bit as sweet as it smelled, moreso, perhaps. Fruity, though she could not have said exactly what she was tasting. Not wine. There was no bite to it, no sharpness, but there was... something. Subtle, underlying the obvious tastes, but unmistakably there. Curious. Perhaps she would have a chance to ask later.

The youths were quick to refill the empty cups. Then again once those were gone. It was good that they were not wine, though Rosalyn could hold her drink better than most.

She’d been given no clear answer, when she asked about the beverage. There were no right words, it seemed, or at least none known to the chief or other elders. An important, essential even, part of the welcoming ceremony. That was all she had gathered.

They exchanged pleasantries, though it was hard to speak of much when the only language they shared was incompletely understood by both. Mostly, she watched the celebrating crowds around her, taking in this strange and wonderful new people. They were clustered in small groups, mostly by paint color. The warriors were obvious. Bare chested and heavily painted, though most had changed into ornate, heavily decorated kilts around their lower body.

Rosalyn and her band looked quite out of place in their travel worn garments, having been given no chance to change. Not that cleaner clothes would have made them fit in any more amongst this strange people.

Like the ones serving the head circle, the youths were mostly in black and white. A few, she’d noticed, had other colors mixed in. Streaks of blue, on occasion, or yellow. Never green. Neither the chief nor the green woman had cared to say why.

Yellow was the most common, followed closely by blue, though not all those who wore blue had the shaved head of the warriors. The yellows were more fully clothed, as were the greens who were not busy at the drums. Yellows, for the most part, wore brightly colored tunics, woven with shimmering multicolored thread. Rosalyn took note of that, thinking about how Duke William’s looms could be enriched by access to such dyes. Something to think about once they had been formally welcomed.

The greens, by contrast, wore the simplest of clothes. Plain, single colored robes or tunics that fit loosely around them, showing glimpses of the full body paint they wore. Strangely, the greens wore no shoes, not even the snug fitting sandals favored by the rest of the tribe. If they wore ornamentation at all, it was mostly plantlife. Flowers, garlands, or even oak leaves braided into the hair.

They had not eaten yet, though the savory smell of roast meat made her stomach rumble. A welcome change to the travel rations they’d been ‘enjoying’. Fearing rudeness, she had held off asking about the food. When she finally did mention it, the chief merely smiled and told her it would come later.

“Ceremony first,” he had said. “Takes time to prepare. Special food.”

“For guests,” laughed the leader of the warriors, seated at the chief’s right side.

Rosalyn chuckled at that, prompting a ring of laughter around the circle. Despite the terror of the early day, it was surprisingly easy to like these people. They had appeared hostile initially, but that was expected in such a forbidding environment. Certainly, they had made up for it later. If nothing else, they were quite a charming people. Rosalyn smiled warmly at her newfound friends around the circle.

Sometime after, there was a tug at her shoulder. She turned to find a young brown-haired girl in yellow paint, who was motioning her to a nearby dance circle. The drumbeat throbbed, urging Rosalyn to her feet, to motion. Still... she looked to the chief, not wanting to inadvertently give offense.

“Go,” he waved her off with a smile. “Dance. Is what night is for.”

A thankful Rosalyn hurried to her feet, letting the young woman guide her away. They welcomed her in, music and dance a common language they otherwise lacked. Moving to the beat of the drummers, Rosalyn was lost in an inescapable sense of freedom. Swaying in step to the music, she closed her eyes and let the sounds drive her.

A touch came then, hands on her worn traveling clothes. Rosalyn’s eyes opened to see the yellow haired woman unfastening her dusty tunic. What? Her lips started to form the question, before realizing that the woman would not even understand the question.

The warriors, Rosalyn decided. Perhaps she, with her sword and armor and mounted company, was supposed to be likewise topless. Smiling again, Rosalyn held her arms up to help the woman strip her clothes away. Of course she could trust the woman, it all made sense once she thought about it.

She did, however, blush at the appreciative murmurs that arose once her chest was bared. A quick glance at the head warrior showed his eyes fixed directly on her, that usual knowing smile across his blue face. Not that bare breasts were anything new to them, of course, but it had to be admitted that she was, well, a bit more endowed than the average warrior.

Quite a bit, actually. It wasn’t that the tribe’s women were all flat, by any means, but it appeared the more busty among them had chosen other paths in life. Rosalyn could sympathize. Certainly, she would have some serious second thoughts if she was forced to run around with her breasts hanging out. That was for court gowns, Rosalyn thought with an amused titter, not for battle.

The women didn’t stop with her tunic, continuing on to her trousers and underclothes, until she was standing completely naked. It was puzzling, since the other warriors were dressed from the waist down, but not terribly so. She trusted that it would make sense in time. Most of the others in Rosalyn’s party, she saw, had already risen to join the dance circles. For those few remaining, every so often she saw another smiling, yellow painted woman come to pull them away.

Rosalyn let the music take her once more, savoring her newfound freedom as the dance carried her along. Free from restraints, from cares and worries, she let the music take her. The dance was different now, without the confining clothing she had worn. More languid, flowing from her hips and core. More unrestrained.

More... sensual.

They came to paint her soon after. A smiling, green painted woman carrying a bowl of red pigment. Red. Strange, she had seen none in red so far. What did it mean? Perhaps, Rosalyn thought as the woman dabbed her finger in the bowl and began tracing the paint across Rosalyn’s abdomen, perhaps the color was reserved for guests?

The woman hummed softly as her fingers traced their lines across Rosalyn’s flesh. The painter paid particular attention around her bosom. Tiny, delicate spirals dancing around her breasts as they wound their way in towards her nipples. These had, of course, grown hard under the other woman’s careful touch, though Rosalyn did her best not to react. Whatever this paint meant, it was clearly an important part of the tribe’s identity. She wouldn’t cheapen it by becoming crassly excited by the process. Or at least she would hide that fact.

Around the fires, she could see that the rest of her company were drawn into the celebration. Some already painted and marked. Kira, especially, looked radiant as they traced out patterns in a red paint that matched the woman’s fiery hair.

The fingers against Rosalyn’s flesh lowered, gentle touches drawing lines down across her midsection. Gently around her belly button before winding their way lower. Rosalyn bit back a moan, unable to keep her face passive any longer, but at least hoped she was able to stifle any noise. The markings circled her legs, patterns and fingerstrokes that moved inexorably inward. From the base of her ankles, up her calves, until the fingers gently stroked their way up her inner thighs.

She looked now to the tribe’s war leader, watching her intently from across the circle. Rosalyn licked her lips, wondering what he saw just now. Did he like the way she looked in her new paint? Suddenly, his approval mattered quite a great deal.

Rosalyn gasped as the fingers touched her lower lips, sliding up to oh so barely brush against the nub at the top. Her breaths were coming out in short, ragged gasps. Her entire body felt warm, and not just because of the celebratory bonfire. No, there was an altogether different sort of fire burning inside her.

It wasn’t until the green painted woman appeared in front of her, blocking her view of the war leader who had captured her, that Rosalyn realized that the painting had stopped. No more touches, no more fingers on the skin, but the fire still raged.

The woman’s lips pressed against hers. A taste of berries and honey. Or something more primal. An intoxicating nectar drank straight from the lips of the woman before her. Rosalyn returned the kiss, savoring it though the pleasure did little to slake that terrible need.

A touch on the temple told Rosalyn that the fingers had returned. Without in any way breaking or interrupting the kiss, the woman began gently brushing her fingertips across Rosalyn’s face. She pressed herself against the soft, body before her, returning the kiss with an aching necessity whose intensity should have frightened her had it not been so sweet and fulfilling.

At long last, the kiss broke. Rosalyn did nothing to resist as the other woman pulled away. With a gentle tug, the woman returned Rosalyn’s attention to the war leader and his chief. It was then that Rosalyn understood.

Dropping to her knees against the soft ground, Rosalyn immediately bowed before them. The chief, the war leader, how could it possibly be that she had failed to recognize the greatness inherent to both. And she? She was nothing, a stranger, a nobody, unless they deigned to make her otherwise. So she bowed low, offering herself to them in any way they desired, desperate for their approval.

Did they desire her? Would they accept her service?

“You see,” laughed the war leader, drawing aside his loincloth, “special food for guest.”

Oh, yes. She was on him in an instant. Kissing, touching, pressing against him with those same soft breasts that had caught his eye not long ago.

There was a touch at her other end, and she lifted her rear to accommodate. Without pause or preamble, she felt something slip between her lower lips, filling her completely. It was right and proper, she knew, for the tribe’s chief to be the first to spill his seed inside of her, if he so desired. It appeared, she thought as she pressed back against him, that he did so desire.

The first seed, as it happened, came not from the chief behind her, but the vigorous young war leader to her front. Pulling her face to him, the war leader bucked his hips and released her first helping of the tribe’s special “guest food”. It was not to be her last.

As Rosalyn moved to kneel beside her worshipful tribal leaders, she saw that the rest of her band were currently preoccupied in much the same way she had been only moments ago. All, except a last few still being painted, were on their knees or backs serving the tribe as best they were able. Always, it was a blue they served, whether warrior or elder. Though on occasion, there might be a green beside, gently stroking the flesh as she whispered encouragement in the newcomer’s ear.

Not just the tribe’s men, either. Most of Rosalyn’s men, and no few of her women, had their heads pressed deep between the spread legs of a bare chested warrior woman. This was right and proper, Rosalyn thought, it was where they all belonged.

As the last of her company was shown the truth, it came time for the tribe to enjoy the feast itself. This time, of course, it was to be the guests who served the tribe. Her entire company, she was glad to see, was freshly painted and eager to please their new friends. Rosalyn herself, she was surprised to learn, would not be serving at the chief’s circle. Instead, he summoned the three raiders to where she knelt in the dirt, together with another pair of women from Rosalyn’s company.

“These ones,” said the chief, “are knowing in the proper courtesies of a guest. Where were your pass-gifts, your greetings of fellowship. You who had to be roped and led like outcasts dare take grievance with these ones? Serve them now, you shall, until I say otherwise to you. My gift to a proper guest, you are.“

Rosalyn saw delight blossom on the young raider’s face, and felt an immediate wave of contrition. How dare she pursue and harass friends of the tribe. If only... if only it had been someone else they had stolen from, rather than his lordship the duke. Still, the chief had commanded, and here, now, in the heart of the forest, that was what counted.

“Of course,” she said, bowing before them, “as you command.”

Rising to follow, she could not help but see the eagerness that shown in the man she’d been told to serve, the leader of the three raiders. Even now, a certain nervous anticipation tempered the expression. He was, she realized, quite young. The age when she had begun patrolling in her own right. She tried to remember how she felt back then, and was doubly impressed how he had handled himself. The way he had evaded her for so long. Even when he should have been caught, he managed to gain the upper hand.

Nevermind that they’d had help. That someone else had performed the actual ambush. He had come out on top, despite everything. He was so incredibly clever to have sought out and placated the mysterious men of the forest. Not to mention brave, to stride boldly into the legendary forest.

Handsome, too, despite his youth. Well built, lean and strong. A bit lanky, perhaps, but that was to be expected. He would grow into it. A warrior’s stance. Not quite tempered by experience, but powerful and desirable nonetheless. The fire in her loins had never gone away, it was not the sort that could be slaked by a single coupling, but now it burned fiercely for him.

“So,” he stammered in his own tongue. Another border language, but one she was more familiar with.

“You’re, like, my slave now?”

“I,” Rosalyn paused. She hadn’t thought of herself like that. Not in those terms. But... “yes, I am yours, so long as the elders will it.”

That was true. She was his, his to do with as he willed. Enslaved by will of the tribe, and by her own desires.

Somehow, that make the youth all the more nervous, biting his lips and looking away. Sneaking a glance at her chest, only to look away again. Surely, he wasn’t so inexperienced, was he? Not this strong, clever man. But maybe, maybe if he’d only been on one or two raids (it never even occurred to her that this might be his first). His people set great store by such things. No wonder he had been so eager to strike his fortune, however unfortunately he had chosen his target.

“I order you to, um I mean, I command you to,” he paused, indecision masked his face. Rosalyn felt a pang of pity, even as desire filled her. She knew where her duty lay.

“To pleasure you, my master?” she asked, draping an arm around his neck. He could only nod.

She pressed in close, kissing him even as she worked to remove his clothing. A tribal garment, which should have been a warning earlier that evening. Now, it was only an obstacle to her duty.

His return kiss was shy and fumbling, but sweet nonetheless. She could feel his desire, restrained beneath a nervous tension he had not yet released. She would deal with that next.

He climaxed for the first time into her hand, when she’d touched him as she touched her naked body to his. His shame and contrition were immediate, but she smiled and brought her hand up to slowly lick the remnants away. He started to regain some confidence, with more to follow as she knelt down and used her mouth to prepare him for a second attempt.

As soon as he was firm, she again directed him towards his seat, straddling his lap as she impaled herself on him. The pace was slow, teasing, giving him time to explore her eager body to his heart’s content. She continued moving, sliding up and down on him as she showed him where to touch, what to do, in order to inflame her lust. Yet always slow, at a pace which satisfied neither his lust nor hers. There was one lesson yet to teach.

It was in his eyes, the frustration, the desire. In those eyes where she saw the first spark of resolution. She paused then, holding herself just above him as she rocked side to side. Still teasing, still denying what he so desired. Then he moved.

In a moment’s time, her back was on the ground, pressed against the short mossy grass as he took her. This was what she had wanted. That power, that strength which he had shown so clearly in the field, but buried beneath his nervousness tonight.

Now it was out. Unleashed, unrestrained. She arched her back, touching herself as he plowed into her. What had been building for so long now crashed over her, blazing brightly throughout her whole being as the sensation overwhelmed her.

“You love that, don’t you,” she head him say as awareness returned. He was still pumping inside her, and she writhed at his touch.

“Yes, oh yes,” she cried.

“Look at you. The famous marshal, now just a tribesman’s fucktoy. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, oh god yes. I’m your toy, your fucktoy. Please”

There was no resistance, and little in the way of thought. Just need. Burning, carnal desire.

“Beg for it,” he commanded, and Rosalyn was helpless to resist.

“Fuck me. Cum in me! I need you!”

“Good girl,” he said, and Rosalyn climaxed once more.

When she finished, she looked up at the man who had just spent himself in her, the man who had mastered her. There was no hesitation now, no nervousness. Not after the way he’d just claimed her. Rosalyn could only gaze up in wonderment at the man her arms were still wrapped around, the man whose weight pressed down upon her. Servitude and desire mingled into a most delicious state of submission. Now he had truly become a man.

In time, though, the moment passed, and he rose to his feet. Motioning to the people around them, Rosalyn remembered that they were not alone.

“A nice enough dessert,” he said, motioning to those who had watched the pair while eating their own meal.

“But I think I’m about ready for something to eat.”

Rosalyn bowed.

“Right away, my master,” she said in his own language as she rose to obey the order.

Hopefully, her accent hadn’t been too wretched. And even more hopefully, for one coupling was hardly enough to quench the fire that burned within her, perhaps he would be ready for a second performance after his meal.

As it happened, Rosalyn did not, in fact, get a chance for another repeat performance. Though to her satisfaction, she at least got another taste of him as he ate his meal. The chief, however, had another task for her, so away she went. Rosalyn could tell her master was disappointed. This saddened her, but she must obey the chief’s commands.

Soon, Rosalyn found herself kneeling at the feet of a blue painted warrior, a woman this time. She looked down at Rosalyn, face filled with scorn as she grabbed a fistful of Rosalyn’s hair.

“Is no warrior,” she said, “is barely thrall.”

Despite her words, she continued to give Rosalyn a long, appraising look as the warrior’s eyes swept up and down her kneeling form. With a sharp tug that left Rosalyn’s hair aching at the roots, the warrior pulled her head back until their eyes were locked. Rosalyn trembled as she was forced to look, unable to match the intensity she saw in those eyes. Flush with shame at being found wanting by someone so far above her.

Her other hand grasped Rosalyn by the chin, turning her head side to side while she appraised it as Rosalyn might have examined an untested recruit. There was an impassive frankness to that gaze, one that the most jaded sergeant might have envied. Satisfied by whatever she saw, her hand slid downwards, trailing a sole finger along Rosalyn’s collarbone.

Head still forced back by the grip on her hair, Rosalyn couldn’t see her finger as it continued down the flat of her breastbone. She could only feel as the warrior cupped her right breast, eliciting a moan as she circled Rosalyn’s nipple where the paint had just recently dried. She cried out as the warrior gave the nipple a sharp twist before letting Rosalyn’s breast hang free once more.

“Is barely a thrall,” the warrior repeated, releasing her grip on Rosalyn’s hair.

“But,” she said with a growing smile, “can make it work.”

“Good,” the chief said, before addressing Rosalyn once more.

“Is eighteen warriors who took you in the forest,” he said, “eighteen to thank personally for safe passage. You already thank first. Now number two.”

The warrior wasted no time taking hold of Rosalyn once more as she found herself pulled in between the warrior’s legs. This was going to be, Rosalyn began to realize, a very long night. But as her tongue tasted the sweet nectar hidden in the warrior’s folds, she realized that she wouldn’t want it any other way.

It was nearly two weeks later that Rosalyn once again found herself at the forest’s edge, this time looking out. As she felt the unfiltered sunlight warm her skin for the first time in weeks, she was hit with a profound sense of loss. She turned back, watching the path slowly fade away as she continued onwards. Within a few minutes, there was nothing left but mile after mile of indistinct, unbroken treeline.

As she reluctantly turned her focus to the path ahead of her, Rosalyn saw that she wasn’t the only one in her party that had looked back wistfully. Most of the group wore glazed, regretful expressions, even as they followed their leader back home.

Rosalyn’s command instincts warned her that this could not last. This was no pleasure hike, and the wildlands no place to lose focus. Still, it could wait a while. Until camp tonight, at least. After all, she knew exactly what they were feeling.

The paint was gone, washed away in preparation for their departure, but Rosalyn still imagined that she could feel it on her skin. A distant echo of that blissful sense of belonging that she yearned to recapture.

It hurt a little to let the raiders get away with their stolen goods. Even though the His Lordship would hardly miss a few trifles stolen from one country lodge, it pained Rosalyn to allow anyone to steal from him at all. Nonetheless, it was the chief’s will that they keep the goods, and she bowed to his wisdom.

Besides, Rosalyn though, blushing as she remembered the weight of the raider pressing down on her, the memory of him inside of her, these weren’t just any raiders. These were friends of the Tribe. That made it all right. Almost.

And anyway, contact with the Shadeweald tribes was nothing to scoff at. Not only contact, but a trade agreement, and maybe even an alliance. Surely that was prize enough to make up for a few lost baubles.

The best part was, no treaty could be made in a single encounter. Rosalyn had a feeling that she would be returning a great many times before this was through. Already, she was planning who she would bring next time. In her head, Rosalyn began forming a list, trying to decide which border guards were the comeliest. Which would please her tribe the most. And of course, any significant negotiation would require the presence of nobility. Rosalyn could think of more than a few large chested court puffs who would benefit from a an introduction to the tribe, and a close personal lesson in the fact that they were not the center of the world.

Rosalyn wouldn’t mind such a lesson herself, but for now she had only her blissful remembrances, and the knowledge that she would see them all again soon.