The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Wizard Enslaver

2

The Senate Hall of the Island-Republic of De, fittingly enough, was located near the center of the city of the same name, which, again quite fittingly, was near the center of the island sharing the same title. The notion of centrality had escaped neither the builders of the edifice nor the land’s original settlers. The exterior of the Senate Hall was mostly grayish-green marble, with smaller supporting buildings of gray-and-white resting against the north and south faces. The grand eastern entrance, designed to welcome the rising sun over the plains and river, was flanked by twenty-foot-high statues representing the Republic’s first lawmakers, three on the right-hand side, two on the left. There had originally been a sixth statue, also on the left, but a long time ago a Deinian wizard took a disliking to the representation and brought it down. Actually, more precisely, he cast it up, far into the sky, where it eventually landed some miles distant, causing minor damage to some orchardist’s field. As with the notion of centrality, the lesson was not lost on the lords and ladies of the Republic: you can say and do whatever you want, but remember who’s really in charge. The empty plinth was filled in, and hardly anyone in modern De even noticed the architectural absence.

The main feature inside, aside from the outlying rooms where the real business of government took place, was the assembly chamber. This room was paneled in polished oak, and the seats were arranged in half-circles around two boxed platforms, also of wood, between which was a lowered round space which had been used for several purposes over the years, from speechmakers who wanted to get closer to their audiences to trials of high treason to public executions. In the middle of the space, a polished wooden pole had recently been positioned upright. On the floor around it had been inscribed a circle of runes and other magical sigils. A pair of chains dangled from the pole at human height.

Eria had seen it earlier, in passing, as she and her cousin had been shuffled through a nearby hallway. She was alone now.

How long she had waited, she didn’t know or care. She kept her head down the whole time. She heard her name called, at last, though. Even from outside the doors to the chamber, she discerned some boos and hisses (not many, though: overall, the reaction to the revelations about her husband’s indiscretions had mostly been a silent one). For a moment, she couldn’t will herself to move, and panic set in. She couldn’t do it. She just flat-out couldn’t do it.

For a moment, the idea of going in there, in front of the world, and declaring herself a slut and a willing slave was impossible. To go in there, too, and actually ask to be made a slave girl: it simply wasn’t possible. The shame alone would kill her. And then what would happen to her two daughters?

The knowledge that, for all intents and purposes, it was already a done deal, didn’t help. In a way, everyone’s awareness of what she was about to do made things worse. I can’t do it, she believed . . . and then, startling herself, she began walking into the chamber anyway.

No magical control was needed. No outside influence. The strength came to her, in the end, because Eria knew she had to do it for her daughters. For them. There were no other alternatives.

Eria had to make her way from the left so that she had to walk alongside the Deinian senators and other onlookers seated there. All her family’s noble creditors were also seated in that section. The looks she received from them were frank and intimidating. Chros’ was the worst. She despised him, almost as much as she did her late husband.

What she wore to this “event” was simple; it had been provided her by her cousin, a white, floor-length dress. It was cut high to reveal little cleavage, yet it remained disgracefully sleeveless nonetheless, showing the entirety of each arm. She had nothing on underneath. She wasn’t even wearing shoes.

Eria kept her head down as she walked up to the atrium. “Slut,” she heard some woman whisper as she passed. “Whore.” Eria’s face was already flush; she couldn’t get much more red. Surprisingly, however, one old lord reached out and took her hand gently. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her, and then let her go. Another older woman gave her a sad look as well.

A pair of prefects was waiting at the end of the audience row. Eria reached them, and one took hold of her arm on each side. They helped her down into the central area and then turned her to face the rightmost raised platform. In the boxes there was a duo of senior lords in full magisterial gowns. The woman-wizard Noalassa sat looking expectantly of them in the opposite raised area. Eria shivered.

They began.

“Lady Eria Scarphn,” one of the men on the right said. He did not add ‘Head of House’ afterwards: she had already previously relinquished the title. “Shame has been brought into this assembly.” A curious way to say that, Eria managed to think. He didn’t say she was the one who had brought it. But what had they expected her to do, truly? Keep it all secret, and let Dyno and Eida be enslaved while she remained honorable and free, albeit destitute? At least this way, her daughters would be free—destitute, yet free—and her sale would satisfy—for a time, anyway—some of her cursed husband’s debts. If she could have brought him back to life just long enough to murder him, she would have.

The second senior lord asked if Eria had a request she wished to make. She nodded, not looking up.

“You must speak aloud, Lady Eria,” the man said.

Oh my God, she thought, eyes closed. “Yes,” she said. “I have a request.” She was then given permission to address the assembly. Again, she nodded, and she slowly turned to face the audience.

Steeling herself, not thinking, just doing, Eria took the cloth of the dress she wore in her hands and pulled it over her head. The crowd erupted in noise: shouts, claps, boos, general pandemonium. She cast the dress away from her and went to her knees amidst the uproar and laughter of her creditors.

She spread her thighs to the senate chamber and knelt back as she had seen countless property girls do.

“I beg enslavement,” she said, softly at first, and when the senior lord asked her to speak louder, she shouted it: “I beg to be made a slave!”

Sheer pandemonium.

“My husband . . .” she began, amidst the noise, then stopped, knowing she couldn’t be heard. She was unable to breathe for a moment. She felt faint. One of the prefects moved to help her, but he was waved off by the other.

“Slave!” she heard a woman hiss at her from somewhere. There was a chorus of boos, yet at the same time, to her surprise, not a few hands clapping, and not in a derogatory manner, either, but in obvious support. “Up House Scarphn!” she heard, and Eria’s heart bounced in her chest wildly.

It was several minutes before the assembly could be brought back to order. Some in the audience were forced to leave. Throughout it all, Eria continued to kneel in the middle of the atrium, the wooden pole at her back, the guards to either side.

At least one person spit on her. She closed her eyes, enduring, wondering when it would be over.

Eventually, the noise abated, and one of the senior lords asked Eria a question. For a moment she didn’t respond. “Lady Eria,” she heard. She felt faint. The ceiling began to spin. “Lady Eria!” She felt a hand on her shoulder. Everything went black, and it wasn’t until cold water was splashed in her face that she recovered. She looked around her. About half the senate had cleared. Her creditors, of course, had remained, as did a large number of other interested parties. Many of them were women.

Despite the wetness, Eria’s face felt like it was aflame.

“Stand, Lady Eria,” someone ordered her, and she did so, though only with the help of the guards. She was turned once more to face the lords sitting above her. They looked down at her as if from the top of a mountain. “You are the Lady Eria Scarphn?” one of them asked, formally, as if he didn’t already know. Apparently there were legal requirements that had to be satisfied.

“Yes,” she said, dully.

“You are the former Head of House of House Scarphn?”

“Yes, my lords.”

“You have willingly relinquished your title as Head of House of House Scarphn, though?”

She nodded. “You must speak, Lady Eria.”

“Yes, my lords.”

“You have made a request of this body, Lady Eria. You have requested to be made a slave. Is this an accurate statement, Lady Eria?”

Eria felt pressure around her mouth, as if her whole face was tightening. She opened her mouth, and so quickly did she that she bit her tongue on the sides. She felt like she was dying. “Yes, my lords.”

“You wish to be enslaved?”

“Yes, my lords.”

The first lord had been doing the questioning. Now, the second spoke. “Why?” he asked, sharply.

Noalassa stood. The assembly quieted. Her dress—what there was of it—was scandalous, merely a pitch-black strip of cloth descending in front and behind and connected at her throat with a white cameo. Seen from the sides, she was practically naked. “Senators,” she said, “I have an objection.”

The old lord who had taken Eria’s hand briefly came to his feet. “You have no right to address this assembly, wizard. You are no citizen of De. You are no noble of De. You are, at best, a guest here and may not speak without permission.” A few neighbors booed him. One tried to pull him down, the hands of whom he shook off. He was a brave man. Though the woman-wizard’s magic could not affect him directly—he was male—a wizard nonetheless she remained, and as Eria knew it was a risky thing to condemn one. Noalassa looked daggers at the man (metaphorically).

Lord Chros stood, surrounded by his cronies and a number of Eria’s creditors. “I move that the Wizard Noalassa of the Nycclethnim Order kindly be given leave to speak. As Lord Teuthes has granted, she is a guest of the Senate and should be afforded every courtesy.”

“I second Lord Chros.” Another of Eria’s creditors.

At length, Noalassa was given permission to speak. “Does it matter the reasons why this admitted slut wishes to be enslaved? She is a slut. Surely that is all that is necessary to be known.”

Lord Teuthes had remained on his feet. “The Lady Eria has the right to speak at this assembly,” he said. “Unlike you, she may say anything she wishes, regardless of your say in the matter.”

The woman-wizard sighed and brushed him off, as if already bored with the issue. She took her seat.

“Why do you wish to be enslaved, Lady Eria?” the senior lord who had asked the question previously asked it again.

“Because my husband was a son of a bitch who left my family in such massive debt that I have no choice to do what I must today. Senators, with your permission, I beg to be made a slave so that the money from my sale will help my House stay alive.” She looked the crowd straight-on, hands clenched at her sides. Perhaps it would be possible to salvage some small measure of dignity here today.

The first senior lord resumed his questioning. “You are willing to sign away your freedom at this assembly, Lady Eria?”

Eria took a deep breath. Her eyes closed briefly. “Yes, my lords.”

The senior lord instructed a prefect to bring a bill of enslavement. The document was produced. “Do you wish to read your bill of enslavement, Lady Eria?”

She shook her head wearily. “No, my lords. I understand what it says.”

“Will you sign your bill of enslavement, Lady Eria?”

“Yes, my lords.”

“You understand that once your signature is on the bill of enslavement, you will be a slave, Lady Eria?”

“Yes, my lords.”

“Present the Lady Eria with the bill of enslavement.” The document was brought in front of Eria. “You must kneel, Lady Eria. A woman always signs a bill of enslavement on her knees.” She complied.

A pen was put in her hand. A moment later it was done. Her signature was on the document.

Before signing it, she had been a free woman. Having signed it now, she was a legal property girl.

She was a slave. Lord Chros and a few others clapped. Eria turned her head to the floor, stone-faced. The hard part was over. She felt nothing now. Nothing. She just hoped Noalassa would work quickly and begin her transformation.

The bill of enslavement was given to the senior lords, who scanned it quickly. The one who been doing most of the questioning nodded. “It is done. Chain the slave.” The guards moved in on Eria.

Once more Noalassa stood. “I have a suggested change to the order of events,” she said. “If you will indulge me,” and she looked directly at Lord Teuthes as she spoke. She raised her hand. There was a commotion to the left. Eria turned her head in response to the noise. She screamed.

“No!” From another adjoining room, she saw her daughters marched in by senatorial guards.

They were naked, and they were in chains, crying. They were pushed forward by the men into the atrium. Eria shouted at the woman-wizard. “You promised to free my girls!” Many people in the assembly were on their feet now, some in shock, most in open appraisal of the new flesh brought in.

Chros was laughing, damn him.

“I lied,” Noalassa said to Eria, simply. She turned her gaze to the assembly. “Is there anyone here who has an objection to my change in the schedule? Good.” She didn’t wait for a response. “You can sit down, old man,” she told Lord Teuthes.

“No! No!” Eria put up a struggle for the first time. The two prefects proved no match for her; a couple of the senatorial guards had to step in and take hold of her arms. They carried chains, and they attached her to the side of the right platform. “Mother! Mommy!” Her girls were crying for her.

Eria pulled on her chains. She screamed. “Gag the slaves,” someone said. Eria was gagged.

After speaking to the senior lords for a minute, Noalassa held up the bill of enslavement which Eria had just signed. In her other hand, she held out the bill of enslavement she had shown Eria yesterday, the one signed by her late husband. “Order! Order!” one of the senior lords shouted to the chamber.

“Yesterday, this admitted slut,” Noalassa said, indicating Eria, “approached me with an offer, which I refused. I subsequently proposed, from the magnanimity of my heart, to free her daughters, the Ladies Dyno and Eida Scarphn, whom their cruel father had sold into slavery, the ownership of whom, by some coincidence, now happens to be mine.” She gave a wicked grin. “Now that the Lady Eria no longer exists, however, I feel no motivation to honor an agreement with a slut and soon-to-be fucktoy.”

You bitch! Eria thought. You monster! You bitch!

“Since you are already planning to hold an auction here today for the sale of the former Lady Eria Scarphn, may I take this opportunity to offer my own property for sale as well, for my own profit?”

Eria felt like she was going to vomit around her gag. She saw what Noalassa had done. She had used her (like the slave she now was). She had used her love and compassion for her children. If Noalassa had made her daughters into property girls anonymously, the price she would have received for them would have been that of any pair of slaves (a twin pair of slave girls, perhaps, mildly more expensive).

By transforming them here, though, at this public auction prompted by her sale in the Deinian Senate—an auction that would never have taken place without what she had just been swindled into doing—she would be able to realize a much greater price for their flesh. Not one noblewoman sold this day, but three! and all from the same disgraced family! And two-thirds of the profit going directly to her.

Her daughters made slaves. Her House ruined. The disgrace to the family, recorded forever.

Bitch! Bitch! Monster! Bitch! It took the men and the chains to hold her down.

Lord Teuthes was also enraged. “You mock the Lady Eria when all she tried to do was save the reputation of her House from a wastrel,” he said loudly, boldly. “You mock us now when you misrepresent the shameful actions of this assembly from wanting to profit from her misfortune.”

Noalassa met his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she said. She turned to the senior lords. “Senators, am I under any legal obligation to keep a promise made to a woman who is now a slave?” They shook their heads.

“Lords,” Teuthes protested. “There must be something that can be done!”

Chros responded for them. “Lord Teuthes, surely you do not believe a promise made in jest is a contract, do you? And the Wizard Noalassa surely has every legal right to dispose of her property anyway she feels is appropriate. I, for one, am looking forward to bidding on the flesh of these two young morsels.” The old man was so perturbed that he took to his heels at that moment and left. He halted briefly at the entrance to the chamber, looked back once at Eria, sighed, and then left.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Eria’s struggles wound down, if only through dint of pure exhaustion. Unable to speak, she looked across the atrium at her precious daughters.

In chains, trying to hide their breasts and vaginas as best they could, they huddled together, white with fear. Eria heard the senior lords agree to Noalassa’s suggestion. She could sell her slaves here today.

Dyno was the first to be brought to the pole. Guards separated her from her sister and pulled her roughly into the magic circle, even as the woman-wizard resumed her position in the leftmost stage.

Her wrists were attached to the pole. The gag was removed. “Mommy! Eida!!” She wailed hopelessly. “Please don’t do this to me! I don’t want to be a slave! I don’t want to be a slave!”

Noalassa ignored her. She had picked up a leather-bound book, a huge thing with silver-inlaid runes on the sides; she had opened it and begun reading. Chros and his cronies were chuckling and enjoying themselves. They and others, especially the women who had stayed behind, were watching with rapt attention, switching back and forth between the wizard and her victim. Only the guards had the near humanity to look—a trifle anyway—uncomfortable. They made sure to stay well out of the circle area.

Eria had never seen a magical ceremony of enslavement before. They weren’t always conducted in secret—many wizards conducted them in public—but few she had heard were as high profile as this. My daughter! Eria thought, unable to look away.

The woman-wizard had propped the book up on the podium before her. She raised her hands and arched the fingers toward Dyno. She began to speak—nonsense syllables, they sounded like, like no language spoken among the islands—and the rings on Noalassa’s fingers incandescenced, glowing redly. The book itself started to glow, or perhaps the words inscribed therein. A similar illumination emanated from the sigils and symbols filling the borders of the circle surrounding the post, and Dyno.

She continued to scream, often incoherently, sometimes almost intelligibly. “Oh, please, no! Please, God. No! Please!” Then the light from the circle seemed to “arch” towards her, the radiance leaping from one location to the other; and, rather abruptly, Dyno stopped struggling. She stopped screaming.

Her entire posture changed. Before, she had been pulling on the chains about her wrists holding her to the post. Her body had been hanging by her arms, limply. Now, Eria’s daughter put her legs beneath her again and situated herself up straight. She spread her legs, suddenly as if unashamed.

She lifted her chest, as if proudly (her mother knew it wasn’t by her choice; she was being controlled).

The chains, which had hung taut, went slack as Dyno’s body came to attention, arms now held out to her sides at length, with even her fingers outstretched.

Her mouth opened. Her face lifted. Her eyes remained terrified.

The lights settled on her, then gradually faded, leaving only the circle symbols still aglow. Eria’s daughter remained in position, though.

Noalassa chanted.

The first magical change was the one that, in despairing half-suspicion, Eria had expected it would be. Her daughter’s breasts grew. They rose upward—at eighteen, they had already started to sag a bit—and outward, visibly stretching and filling in behind, at length ballooning into near perfectly round, sports-ball sized orbs. Simultaneous with this alteration, Dyno’s nipples grew complementarily sized and erect (permanently erect, Eria was given to understand), shifting color from the previously everyday brown they had been—like Eria’s own—to bright, clownish pink. The men celebrated.

Her figure shifted. Dyno’s waist narrowed as if constricted by an invisible corset. This result even more greatly emphasized the size and shape of her new tits (not breasts, not anymore: what she had now were too blatantly sexualized to be called anything other than “tits”). Seeing them, one would only be able to see their belonging to a sex object, a fucktoy, a woman-thing whose only purpose was to be used for sex. Dyno’s legs and hips developed improved contours and definition. Her thighs firmed, became smooth and ideal. Her arches rose, and her buttocks became tight and more heart-shaped. Above, her arms grew supple. Her back arched to support the added weight and dimensions in front.

Eria watched the beloved daughter she knew disappear. The creature—the purely sexual object—Dyno became her mother continued to recognize throughout this (and after) the transformation; but it was her daughter’s shape (and, at length, her face as well) as seen through a distorted mirror. Eria glanced over at Eida. She understood her other daughter’s terror, and at the same time her fascination: at once beloved sister, lifetime companion, and near-mirror image, increasingly no longer the same. And cursed with the knowledge that the same transformation awaited her, and the same appearance, and function.

And adding to the pain? Their mutual “confession.” Under Noalassa’s influence, Eida had claimed, as Eria herself had done, to be a slave in her heart. Noalassa’s sadism: she had picked Dyno as the first to be transformed into a property girl, knowing how guilty Eida would feel, her sister made into the very thing she feared most, yet which she (and their own mother) secretly desired to be. Eria more than understood this pain: she felt this guilt twicefold, as she would have to watch both her girls transformed.

Dyno’s transformation was systemic. As her breasts ballooned, her midriff shrank. As her ankles lifted, so did her ass constrict. Between her legs, her daughter’s dewy pink lips enlarged, grew plumper and textured. At the same time, their shape became regular, more slit-like and artificial: where once her daughter’s vagina had been a potential cradle of life, it became a mere portal for pleasure, its only function to serve as an opening for men to stick their cocks into and fuck. A similar transformation occurred in regard to her daughter’s mouth. Her lips grew big, puffy, and, ultimately, rounder, assuming a semi-permanent O-shape which—in her future life as a property girl, Eria dourly predicted—whenever she wasn’t speaking they would revert back. Both sets of lips, upper and lower, turned lustrous pink, as if coated with freshly applied make-up. The effect: her daughter had less a mouth now, more like a second vagina. As these changes occurred, overall Dyno’s skin progressively turned smoother. Wrinkles disappeared, what few an eighteen-year old had. Her freckles disappeared. The light from the magic circle grew more intense for a minute, and during this minute the light shown upon Dyno. The radiance seemed to work from the inside out, though, highlighting the changes as they occurred. Her pores shrank, eventually disappearing altogether. A sheen, like a thin coating of baby oil, manifested, further blurring the lines between the natural and the artificial: as Noalassa’s spell continued, Eria’s daughter looked less like a creature born than one crafted in a workshop.

The light faded again. Dyno’s hair was no longer quite brunette. Along with increased volume, length, and shape, the texture again no longer seemed entirely natural. The color certainly wasn’t: it was still brown but became such a light, colorful shade that it practically glowed with its own radiance.

Noalassa’s face showed strain, yet remained strong. She continued to chant, though the physical transformation seemed all but complete. Throughout this metamorphosis, from human daughter to living fucktoy, Dyno’s eyes had until the end showed the terror she was experiencing. Yet along with that terror, Eria could see, had been pleasure: an unwilling pleasure, perhaps, but too readily apparent to not be seen. Her gasping, her moaning, her whimpering, the way her body had lifted, the way her thighs clenched over and over, in futile need: Dyno seemed a woman being fondled and manipulated by an invisible lover, kept on the edge of orgasm and ridden into a state of ecstasy. And toward the end this war between unwilling pleasure and terror was clearly, demonstratively won by the former.

Noalassa’s voice rose into a crescendo of grave and magical syllables, potent with unknown meaning; and as her voice lifted Dyno’s body quivered all over at last; it came, she came! her breasts rose and fell, her newly fashioned vagina lubricated visibly, nipples (already erect) became even more prominent somehow, mouth (O-shaped, thick, cock-sucking lips, lips made to cherish cock, and God alone knew what changes had occurred inside, her tongue, now a sexual tool, her throat, incapable of gagging no matter what was inserted inside) opening, and she cried out, not in terror, not in pain, not in fear, but in sheer orgasmic release, crying out in a high-pitched feminine scream, a scream of pleasure, of total submission to the will of another! And in the afterglow of this titanic release, as she subsided, breathing returning to normal, her manner now utterly calm, the girl Eria had known as her daughter was gone.

The eyes that fluttered open after that final orgasmic release were those of a property girl. Not her Dyno’s.

Noalassa ended. The magic circle’s glow faded. The woman-wizard stepped back from her podium, sweat on her brow, yet still undaunted. “Release her,” she ordered the guards, and they did so.

The newly minted slave girl lowered her arms and looked around the atrium. Her eyes briefly touched on her sister and her mother. They lingered longer on the two guards and their cocks. And then she seemed to pass out of whatever fugue state she had been in. She stepped lightly away from the pole, turned to the left-side platform, and went to her knees and spread her thighs, lowering her head.

“I am yours, mistress,” she said, her voice soft and breathy, as a slave’s. “How may I serve your pleasure?”

Dyno, Eria thought. My poor Dyno. Tears fell indiscriminately down her face. Eida, too, continued to weep. Noalassa lifted a finger, only a finger: the new slave girl came gracefully to her feet, showing a grace that Eria’s precious daughter had never shown as a free woman.

“As my way of saying thanks,” Noalassa said, not to Dyno but to the senior lords across from her, “you may be the first to use her.” The new property girl padded across the stage to the right platform.

Eria all but gagged around her gag.

Her daughter had passed out of her line of sight, but she could still hear her. “How may I serve your pleasure, masters? Oh, thank you, master.” Licking sounds. “Hmm, you have a delicious cock, master. May I provide you a blowjob? You would be the first man to use my virgin throat.”

Then unspeakable sounds of sucking and male satisfaction, mere feet away from Eria. In the meantime, a screaming Eida was pulled rudely into position onto the pole.

Eria had not the will anymore to struggle. Her heart was breaking. After a brief respite to get a drink of water, Noalassa once more took her place at the podium, with her book, and began chanting.

I want to die, Eria thought. As she watched, what she could bear to watch, the same sequence of events played out with her younger daughter. It proved even worse the second time around: she knew what to expect. Eida struggled and screamed at the first hint of unearthly illumination. Then, once more, all struggles and helpless yelling ceased as an invisible control established itself, as the magical forces the woman-wizard was unleashing again were turned onto Eida’s body, flowing through her as they had flowed earlier upon her sister. Eida assumed the same position as Dyno had before. Her legs spread, revealing her naked sex to Lord Chros and the others, who watched the ceremony with hypnotized fascination, seeing the items of use they would soon be bidding on being made right in front of them.

“Hmmm,” she heard. “Your cum is so scrumptious, master. Thank you.” Dyno’s voice was composed, serene, tranquil. She heard one of the senior lords tell the new slut to turn around. Soon, more wet, pressing sounds came from behind the podium. “Oooh, master, your cock is so big. Please, fuck your slave.” Dyno gasped and moaned with pleasure as she was ravished. Meanwhile, Eida’s breasts began the same rapid expansion her sister’s had underwent. Her skin took on the same internal glow as every hint of the person she had been—the human being she had been—was erased. When she had been a little girl, Eida had fallen off a fence in the backyards of their estate. She had scratched her leg badly, and more than ten years later she had retained remnants of the scar just below her left knee. Under Noalassa’s influence, that scar disappeared at last. All birthmarks disappeared. All hair below her neck seemed to fry and sizzle away, leaving her daughter’s skin preternaturally smooth and unblemished. The effect this had on her mound could not be underestimated: Eida’s wet, pink pussy lips became even more prominent, even more carnalized in appearance; wet, rapacious, and eminently fuckable. Seeing it, if she had been a man, Eria knew she too would have wanted to fuck that pussy.

Her daughter’s sex became a constant advertisement for the function she was to perform for the rest of her long, long life. Possibly an immortal life: not all female slaves in De and the surrounding islands were, technically speaking, “property girls” (the term was applied to all, yet, strictly speaking, it should only have referred to the creations of the Nycclethnim Order), perhaps only one in seven of female slaves (most others were tattooed with the Mark of Daox, a magical sigil created by the rulers of the Isle of Daox, which affected the mind and will but not the body); the true property girls were more expensive because they lasted longer; their transformation into sexual objects insulated them from the ravages of age. Eria had heard stories of Deinian women, afraid of becoming old, who had volunteered to be enslaved by the Nycclethnim, for that motive alone. Eria could understand—in her secret and shameful slave heart—the attraction: an endless life of beauty, of giving and receiving pleasure, always.

And to achieve this the only thing the woman had to give up—forever—was her freedom.

For some, perhaps even Eria, at one time, this eternal youth would be worth the price. But not for her children: never, never had she wanted her children to become sexualized toys, forever . . . passed down from owner to owner over generations, fucked and will-less, all their individual hopes and dreams lost. Not for her daughters, her daughters!

“Oh, masters, your cocks feel so good inside me,” she heard her precious Dyno say.

Her daughter was apparently servicing both senior lords at once, the two of them crudely taking turns between her mouth and her pussy. How could they do that when her mother was so close? What kind of minds could conceive of such a torture?

“Your slave loves the taste of cock, master,” her daughter managed to say, in the brief time before her mouth was filled with cock again. Then the only sounds Eria heard were those of her daughter enthusiastically slurping, sucking, and whimpering.

Dyno: there had been a boy she had liked, a scion of House Haistos, whom Eria had approved. Good looks, a fine family, wealthy estate. Best of all, he had been kind to Dyno, and he had courted her with full aplomb, showering her with gifts and flowers and Deinian fruits, after first having made his respects to herself and Eunor. Now, the only thing he would be able to get from her daughter was sex.

He would never marry a property girl. At best, now, he could only purchase her and use her as a toy.

And Eida . . . there had been no boyfriend, no prospective courtier. Dyno had been the outgoing one; Eida had preferred to stay at home and read. She wrote poetry.

No more poems now. Eida’s every future thought would be of serving her owner. No grandchildren from either daughter: the fuckings they would receive—the multiple fuckings they would receive—would forever be sterile. True property girls could not bear children. Their openings had only one purpose to serve, and that had nothing to do with family. Eida had shyly shown her mother some of her poems.

They had been of a romantic nature. No more romance: only fucking now, only fucking.

Eria tried to meet Eida’s gaze. She tried to communicate with her daughter for the last time, or failing that, she tried to lend her strength to endure the transformation she was undergoing. She had no idea if Eida saw her, though. As her body changed around her (Eria looked only at her daughter’s eyes, only her eyes), it quickly became clear that she was fighting for her identity. The pupils were wide, staring at the audience which in turn was watching her. An expression that could have been mistaken for intense agony played out in her gaze. Eida’s moans and whimpers weren’t those of pain, however; they sounded more like the moans and whimpers her twin was producing as she was used behind the podium, the same kind of pleasurable utterances Dyno had made when it had been her turn on the pole. She squirmed. Her eyes fluttered madly. Her face would lift, and her mouth would open (turning wetly pink and round), and Eida would make another tiny sound of unwanted ecstasy. And then she would grit her teeth and try to endure another wave of sensation. As Eria watched, these momentary bursts of strength got fewer and fewer. Eida was succumbing to the pleasure. She was succumbing to the transformation. Her daughter’s face glowed with heat, with passion, with magic. Her breath started to come in staccato bursts. Her whimperings got higher and higher pitched. Her head tilted further and further back. Mouth opened wide, tongue brushing her lips, eyes closed, on the edge of climax, on the edge; and then Eida’s eyes opened completely wide, mouth too, and she screamed in absolute, crushing pleasure; and the light inside her seemed to explode out through her mouth and eyes, as if she were on fire inside, a fire burning away all inside that was human. Her whole body shuddered, the quiver passing through her new expansive tits, her shapely figure, the legs that were now smooth and perfect, too, framing a sex that was an open invitation to rape. Her back arched in ecstatic release, and the power of that orgasm rocked her daughter from head to toe. Eria tried to concentrate on Eida’s eyes, only her eyes (it was hard). They closed once more, the lids fluttering. A last dream of freedom? A prayer? Or merely mindless pleasure? Probably the latter: after a few seconds the flickering stopped; Eida’s breath assumed a slow, sedate pacing; and her face overall—a more beautiful face now, paler but with enough hints of color in the cheeks, and of course her bright, wet pink lips; but, overall, a more beautiful face; the transformation wrought had made an average girl, even Eida had admitted she and Dyno had been average girls, into startling attractiveness, utter gorgeousness—assumed a calm demeanor.

Eida opened her eyes. They showed now only the gaze of a true property girl: relaxed, yet hungry; responsive, but no hint of real presence; obedient, and frankly speculative about being used. Goodbye, darling, goodbye, Eria thought. I love you!

Noalassa slumped at the podium. Evidently the magic she was employing was strenuous in some fashion. She was sweating, as if having run a great distance. But still her voice was clear when she gave the order to release the new slave girl. Tired, she might have been; but by no means vulnerable.

Like her sister before her, Eida stepped lightly away from the pole, giving the paradoxical impression of a fledgling colt with utter precision of movement. She appeared newborn yet at the same time as a new invention just unveiled from the workshop. Natural and artificial, all at once. She looked around the stage, smiled briefly when she beheld her sister being raped, and touched her own massive breasts, clearly enjoying the now greater weight and purpose they displayed. Her hand drifted then down to her sex, and she openly fingered herself on stage. With her other hand, she tweaked her erect nipple.

This unconscious display lasted only a few seconds. Then, as if a hand had gently taken hold of her face and turned it, the new slave girl’s attention passed to the person responsible for her creation. Her hand left her pussy. She stopped playing with her breasts. She crossed the stage and went down to her knees. She spread her thighs and placed her hands gently atop them. She pushed her tits forward.

“I am yours, mistress,” she said to the woman-wizard. “How may I serve your pleasure?” Once again, the men in the audience cheered. The women in the audience—there were still quite a few, and Eria could only speculate as to the desires running through their hearts—remained mostly silent.

When the senior lords were finished with Dyno, the twins were put on stage together, side-by-side, which once again elicited applause and not a few crude comments.

When they had been free women, human teenagers, the Ladies Dyno and Eida Scarphn, they had looked somewhat alike, yet one could tell them apart. They had not been identical twins. Now, they had become so, finally. If Eria had not kept track of which was which, and were not the paw marks of the senior lords not all over Dyno’s nude form, were not their cum still on her face, she would have been hard pressed to tell them apart. They had the same blank expressions—the same beautiful, made-up faces, reshaped into prettiness—the same massive racks, the same beautiful and hourglass figures.

They stood on the front of the stage for a long minute while the Scarphn creditors openly appraised their transformed flesh. At Noalassa’s command, they then knelt and showed the crowd their open slits.

“How may we serve your pleasure, masters?” they spoke, in perfect unison. The vocal harmony was a nice touch. The woman-wizard was an expert salesperson. Were not the main event still to come, the bidding would have started at once.

“If you will indulge me a moment or two,” Noalassa said, stepping down from the podium. “I need to refresh myself. And these sluts should clean themselves up a little, too.” As this was going on, the guards finally came for Eria. She did not fight them. She was unhooked and dragged to the pole her daughters had each in turn been hung from. Her hands were lifted, and her wrists were placed in the same manacles that had held them. She slumped at the base of the pole.

There was an unreal quality to her predicament, arms stretched high above her head, the physical pain of which did nothing to abate. It wasn’t that Eria denied the reality of what was happening to her and her family. That was all too real. It was that the consequences, the effects thereof, were so large, so monumental and devastating, that the mind had difficulty fully absorbing it. There was only so much pain one could accept. Pushed beyond that limit, Eria’s nerves were numb. Her daughters had been remolded into animate, ivory-white fucktoys. She could hardly feel the manacles cutting into her wrists.

A shadow loomed over Eria. Expressionlessly, she looked up. It was Lord Chros.

“You could have been my wife,” he said to her. “Now, you’re going to be my slavetoy.” He looked determined. “I don’t care what I have to spend. I am going to own you. Tonight, you’ll be sucking my cock like the little slut I always knew you were.”

The gag was gone. “And you had to make me a slave to do it,” she told him, surprised by her own rejoinder. There was something left alive inside her after all. “You’re a poor excuse for a man.”

He took it in stride. “Ah, but soon you’ll be the ideal woman. Craving cock, serving on her knees and on her back, like every woman should.”

“Careful you should say that in front of the wizard,” she told him, and she had the satisfaction, momentary though it was, of seeing Chros look over his shoulder in fright.

A few minutes later Noalassa returned, her scarlet hair now loosed from its intricacies and cascading about her shoulders; her slinky dress worn less like silk, more like something black sprayed onto her body. She looked refreshed. At her command, Eria’s daughters took up positions to either side of the magic circle, standing straight with their arms at their sides, like statues. Again, pure showmanship.

Eria did not shout or beg, as her daughters had. Her only emotional reaction at this point was a convulsive swallowing, which felt like a lead ball going down her throat.

Noalassa began reading from her magic book. She raised her hands again, directing them at Eria. The weird light emanated from her rings and bracelets, the book in front of her, and at second remove the runes and sigils of the circle. Eria’s breath quickened. I’m going to be made a slave girl, she thought.

Whether what she felt in heart was fear or anticipation, or both, she could not tell.

The words rang in the fallen noblewoman’s ears. The light danced upon her flesh, slowly fading, as if her flesh drank in the radiance. I don’t want to be a slave, she thought. At the end, she had changed her mind. She opened her mouth to shout something, some last bit of defiance, directed toward Noalassa, maybe, or Chros. Too late, though. With startling swiftness, a muscular surge filled her limbs. She had known what to expect, having seen it twice: it still came as a surprise when it happened.

Eria felt her body taken away from her, felt herself once more become the puppet guided by another’s will. She knew she would never get control of her body back. She would leave the pole a slave girl.

Strength filled her body. The strength was not her own.

Eria came to her feet, spreading her legs and presenting her sex to Chros and the others. Her chains went slack: she lifted her shoulders and stretched her arms out. She lifted her breasts. Noalassa spoke steadily, sustaining the occult cadence of her chant. The words beat against Eria’s skin, like droplets of hot rain; and the heat sank into her flesh, warming her body, a wet heat. “Ohhh,” Eria gasped (she could do this on her own, at least), as that heat and wetness quickly burrowed its way to her pussy.

Unlike the power that had manifested upon her yesterday, at the wizard’s mansion, with this control of her body came much responsiveness, of a particularly erogenous nature. A sensual dampness spread throughout Eria’s vagina, an appetite for sex that Eria was familiar with—she was no virgin, obviously—but which she had never, ever felt so keenly. Her thighs twitched uncontrollably—mind: not as under the control of another (Eria could not budge her limbs from the position they had taken), but as a movement she herself could still make, yet only frenziedly on account of the sensation’s raw strength.

She could move, in other words, she found, but only in small ways, and only in regard to the wanton, stimulating desires beginning to course through her. “Ah,” she panted, note rising sharply at the end.

“Oh. Ohhhh!” Eria’s mouth opened in an involuntary exclamation of lust.

Her nipples grew erect. Blood rushed beneath her skin. Her hips quivered in wanting. Her ass felt full and inviting. Yesterday, the outside control over her body had been neutral. Passionless. A sensation of force and will, of another mind more powerful than her own making her do that which it wanted.

What had hold her now was not cold willpower. This was all hot passion and lust, aching and longing, an appetite that held her prisoner and at the same time deposited in her captive form a craving—nay, an absolute need—for relief. It came to noblewoman that she was being fucked on stage, that the woman-wizard’s power, in the way it preyed on her, did so in the same manner of a rapist, by manipulating her body, forcing her senses and responses to betray her, driving her involuntarily toward a cataclysmic climax. “Mhhhaaa!” she exclaimed, whimpering and moaning, whole body shuddering, on the edge.

The power pushed its way into her, fucking her, making her squirm. No, Eria thought. No. She tried to resist the pleasure coming, instinctively, not entirely consciously, knowing that with that orgasm the person she was, the person she had always been, would vanish, and only the slave girl would remain.

But it was so hard! With each passing moment the aching hunger in her flesh grew. She felt Noalassa’s magic touch her nerves, take hold of them, stretch them, mold her, molding her body. A delicious weight settled onto Eria’s breasts. She gasped, the sensation at once unbelievably powerful and good . . . it felt so good, the way her breasts grew, feeling the way her nipples hardened, the way they became like metal spikes, burning rocks. Heat caressed her skin. Another moan of pleasure, as if a lover (a Master) were stroking her breasts, cupping them in his hands, kissing them, fondling her nipples, and the flesh beneath his (her) hands grew warmer and softer under his (her) manipulations.

Eria felt her flesh change all over. She felt her skin tighten, as if silk were being drawn over every inch of her, and contracted. Enormous pressure manifested around her waist, yet not at all painfully: no, this sensation felt scrumptious, fantastic, like falling into a warm bath. Eria pursed her lips, feeling them change as well, growing plumper; and as she licked her lips, the new taste of herself she found enticing, magnificent. She squirmed, body heaving with unrelieved passion, every change in her flesh bringing her more and more to the brink. She wanted to yield to the sensations. She had to. “No, please,” she begged. “I don’t . . I don’t . . ah, ah ah ahhh!” It certainly felt like she was being fucked: the power of Noalassa’s words pulsed between her legs, teasing her, enflaming her. Her body was giving way to the stimulation, building to the climax. The loss of control made it better. Hunger consumed her, hunger for flesh, hunger for sex, her need building. Accordingly, looking across with half-lidded eyes, Eria began to see the men in the audience in front of her in a new way. It was unavoidable. Despite her contempt, her hatred and her disdain for them, what became clear to her, body squirming, moaning, needful, the obviously apparent thing she now noted—the important thing—was that they were men! and her desire for their cocks had become simply overpowering. They had cocks! Penises. Rods. Manly poles.

Organs they could stick inside her and fuck her with, the way she needed to be fucked . . . oh, she needed to be fucked. She needed to be fucked so badly even Chros now looked appealing.

It was hard to sustain one’s contempt for a person when all one wanted was for him to fuck her. As she gazed upon Chros and the others, Eria found her hatred for them . . well, dislike . . well, no, more like a mild case of disrespect . . . dissipating in the burning intensity of her needs. If she could have touched herself, she would have. The men were becoming more attractive by the second. Noalassa, too . . . when one only stopped to think about it, the wizard was a very attractive woman. The lift of her breasts . . . a deep and pervasive desire . . . her lips, so beautiful, so kissable . . . an overwhelming physical craving in her empty, cock-deprived crotch, extending throughout her body, including her metal-hard nipples, aching to be pinched and fondled . . . Chros, with his cock . . . a blazing longing for cock that, through its sheer presence redefined what need was, that made ordinary physical yearnings for food, or water, or human company, or even sex, as well as one could recall having a need for sex prior to this moment on stage, seem inconsequential and meaningless . . . Noalassa’s pussy, oh, to lap it with her tongue, to bring her Mistress pleasure . . . a monstrous passion for carnal use—a craving for serious, hardcore fucking!—that would require the cocks of thousands of men to, perhaps, take the edge off . . . her Mistress’ breasts, so beautiful, she wanted to touch them, massage them, massage her, fuck her, bring her pleasure . . . a roaring fire burned inside Eria, and she had to yield to it, she had to.

“No,” some remnant of resistance spoke up, and she hated it. She wanted to climax. She wanted the pleasure. But more than that, she wanted to give pleasure, she wanted to bring men pleasure, even Chros, or any man she was given to, for the realization had struck Eria, as she was writhing under that invisible tongue, that as she was less than nothing compared to her beloved Mistress, she was less than any of them, too. She was less than anybody. She was only a slut, like her daughters were sluts.

Slaves! the three of them, and therefore meaningless, their lives prior to being enslaved meaningless.

Only in slavery had they gained purpose at last. They had spent so long—her daughters had had to wait until they were eighteen to be enslaved, poor dears, poor sluts; and she? she had had to wait decades!? Why had she never realized that she, and they, belonged in chains? Why had she never sold her daughters into slavery herself? Inconceivable that she, a slave, could be so selfish, so thoughtless to deny them the birthright of their existence. They were slaves, born slaves, and needed to be used by men, by women, by whomever ended up owning them. But at least now they were where they were supposed to be.

The slave recalled that she had insulted Lord Chros. Overwhelming guilt filled her. She had displeased a man! She hadn’t allowed a man to use her the way she was supposed to be used. A terrible, damning shame consumed the slave. She wished she could go back and let him fuck her. She wished he would take her now and fuck her. She wanted all men to fuck her. She wanted to fuck forever.

The slave recalled, too, that she had spoken ill—thought ill—of her Mistress. If pain she had felt in denying Lord Chros her flesh, sheer agony sprang from the memory of this displeasure she had brought her Mistress! Only the Mistress could make her good again!

Heat! blossomed inside the slave in reaction to the thought of pleasing her creator.

The Strength! of the slave’s need erased everything other than her necessity to be of service to her . . . to be fucked by the Mistress . . . to be used . . . to be handled and played with, for she was nothing but a common slut, a property girl, a slave girl, a SLAVE!!! and she desperately craved to be slave-used!

The raw intensity of this last thought surged through Eria, this final acceptance that she was a slave; and so she climaxed hard. Unbelievably hard. The world spun. A great red light went off behind Eria’s eyes.

It was a noiseless detonation, a devastating explosion of silence. Crushing, overwhelming pleasure swept through her. For long, long minutes Eria had been stroked and pleasured, molded and remade, driven higher onto the summit of obedience and waiting ecstasy, each stroke, each word spoken by Noalassa forcing her to climb higher, her emotions rising and rising, the promise of delivery coming and coming; and then, finally, she had reached the top, and, driven on by her needs, fell, no! jumped off the side of the mountain, falling into the abyss, falling into obedience, flying into submission; and Eria’s body shook, her eyelids fluttered madly, passion rocked through her slave’s body, and it was so good, it was so good, it was everything, it was obedience, and love, and need, and everything slave! She came hard.

And in the midst of this coming, the very midst, all the squirming, writhing, and arousal going on inside Eria’s mind suddenly came to a halt.

They came to a halt because they were abruptly and utterly demolished by that brilliant light shining inside her, that tremendous burst of energy that ripped through her, triggered by her orgasm. Eria lost all sensation of her body. She lost all sensation of her mind.

The only thing she saw . . . perceived . . . experienced . . . was that dazzling radiance.

She had no body. She had no mind.

She lost all sensation of self. She had no she. There was only light . . . the red light . . . nothing but the light . . . . Endlessly, timelessly, only the light.

At length, Eria’s head tilted forward, returned from the rocking orgasm she had experienced. The pleasure had passed through Eria like an ocean swell; and as it washed out many things were carried with it. A sense of self. A sense of independence. Willpower. Resistance. Guilt. Shame.

Even opinion. Eria heard the command given to release her wrists. She felt men’s hands on her flesh, and her flesh warmed in response to their touch; but there was no thought behind this sexual yearning.

She opened her eyes.

Everything was the same, and yet nothing. The seats in front of her were filled with men. The senior lords were seated off to the side. Her daughters were standing at attention, to her left and to her right. The woman-wizard Noalassa, who was her Mistress for the time being, was looking down upon her.

Eria remembered these people. She knew whom they were; she understood their significance. She remembered how she had felt coming into this chamber. She remembered the pain she had felt.

Now, she no longer felt pain. She felt nothing but sexual warmth and obedience.

The men were staring at her and clapping. Eria recalled the reasons why. They would want to use her sexually. If that was what her Mistress wanted, Eria would do so. She was hot to do so. If they commanded, she would go down on her knees and suck their cocks, or she would lie on her back and allow them to fuck her pussy, or she would perform any other sexual service they wanted her to do.

At the same time, if they did not want to fuck her, that would be all right, too. She existed solely for pleasure and service. She had no needs beyond her owner’s needs.

Eria looked around the stage, not wondering, not thinking, merely experiencing. She looked upon her daughters. She recognized the twin slaves as her daughters; beyond that, though, they meant nothing to her, save that, like her, they were slaves, and so they would be obedient and pleasing, too. She knew they would serve well.

Eria had been standing on stage, cupping her huge breasts, touching herself intimately, warming herself for pleasure; and these were the fragments of her previous existence still draining out of her. Then she recognized the presence of her Mistress in her mind, and that recognition eclipsed everything else.

Memories faded. The room all but disappeared. There was only thing the property girl saw, only one thing that was important. Eria turned to the woman-wizard and gracefully went down to her knees.

She spoke—literally—the only words in her head.

“I am yours, mistress. How may I serve your pleasure?”

. . . to be continued (2 of 3)