The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The ChameleonBand

Part 2

She remembers their first date, just last night, and how could she forget going back to his place, the collar she let him put around her neck, and just how quickly it all turned kinky.

But she can’t remember his name, or even her own. In fact, she can’t remember anything of her life from before the moment they met.

Alone now in his flat, she finds that the collar has become part of her, and that she can’t help acting the role of his slave, even in his absence.

And if she closes her eyes, the dreams she lives through seem more real than her new reality.

DISCLAIMER

This story contains explicit sexual themes. If you are a minor, or if you are offended by writing about sex or non-consensual mind control, then this story is not for you. I suggest that you navigate somewhere less scary instead.

Blood and Gore Warning: There is a lot of blood! Hundreds of people die! It’s all part of the plot and the mind control, but only loosely connected with the sex. Nevertheless, Be Warned! If it all gets too much, skip over the sections in italics, which are only backstory.

It should be obvious, but this is a carefully constructed FANTASY. The characters in this story are not real. If you have trouble distinguishing fantasy from reality, then, again, this story is not for you. Go and look at some nice things instead.

And if none of that applies to you, then enjoy...

The door opened.

It was Master! She strained to perfect her pose, silently bursting with the need to serve Him. Her heart raced, and the sound of her breath rushing through her nostrils was deafening in the silence of the room.

Almost as an afterthought, she noticed that there was somebody else with him, but compared to the presence of her Master, he was nothing but a shadow in her mind: an inconsequentiality. All she desired was to serve her Master, to drink in his presence and to perfect his existence.

“Here she is, as promised,” Master said.

The other slowly, carefully closed the door. Hesitantly, he spoke.

Master laughed. “She’s fully conscious, aren’t you, pet?’

“Yes, Master,” she rasped between breaths. She longed to stare at him adoringly, but she didn’t dare take her eyes from the centre of the line where the front door met the floor.

He knelt beside her, and her heart burst at the thought that He should bring himself down to her level. “Have you missed me, pet?” His hand cupped her breast, fingers brushing her engorged nipple.

“Yes, Master!” she gasped, almost coming. A single tear of joy traced the line of her cheek.

The visitor was speaking again, bending to stare her in the eye, a hand reaching out to grope her free tit. The scent of his cologne flooded across her, laced with the bitter undertone of body odour. His hand was feverishly hot and clammy. Compared to the ecstasy of Master’s caress, his touch gave her no more pleasure than had her own pointless gropings.

Master’s fingers slipped heartbreakingly from her flesh as he rose and stepped back. “Of course you can sample her! Pet, blow him. Make it the best he’s ever had.’

She obeyed without hesitation, attacking the stranger’s belt and fly, then pulling down slacks and underwear in one motion. His cock sprung forth already half-erect, and the scent he had splashed over himself was overwhelmed by the stink of sweat and an undertone of urine. She ignored a wave of disgust as she cupped his damp balls in one hand, gripped his modest member in the other, and enveloped his fragrant glans in her mouth.

He spoke, perhaps to her, but his words meant nothing to her.

She massaged his testes, running her thumb back and forth between them so that they bounced around in their sack. With her other hand, she firmly gripped his stiffening shaft and slowly pumped him. Her lips and tongue explored every fold and crevice of his uncircumcised tip. At first, she concentrated on just cleaning him, sucking and licking. Then she began to echo the strokes of her hand, bobbing her head up and down while using her tongue and upper teeth to stimulate the places she knew were most sensitive.

He groaned and spoke again, and roughly grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing his cock deeper into her mouth.

“No hands, pet,” Master commanded, “clasp them behind your back.’

Her arms obeyed instantly, but she thought, how can I give him the best blowjob he’s ever had if I can’t use my hands? The stranger solved her problem for her by wrapping his hands around her head and taking control. Anticipating his next move, she opened the muscles of her larynx with a skill she didn’t know she had, and his cock smoothly slid down her throat. Her nose bounced against pubic hair, and the room filled with the gulping sounds of fellatio.

She was amazed at how easy this seemed! Even the stranger’s modest length should have made her dry retch at least, but her body rose to the occasion with perfect, new-found skill.

It didn’t take long. Within moments she felt him tense, and his hands pulled her in roughly, then held her there, nose flattened against his hair. She used a swallowing action to massage his throbbing, twitching glans until she was rewarded with jet after jet of warm, salty fluid that she dutifully swallowed.

Sated, he released his grip on her. With a parting purse of her lips and tongue, she cleaned her saliva and his come from him as he pulled away, and she was finally able to fill her lungs with sweet air.

“Was she good?” In the corner of her eye, she could see Master sitting at the table in the kitchen-diner, lit by the glow of a laptop screen.

His guest spoke again, at length. She wished he would finish so that she could hear whether her Master was pleased with her.

“You see,” He said, “and imagine that devotion in everything she does. Now, if you’re ready, we need to talk business. Well done, Pet! Clean yourself up and make us a drink.’

A surge of purest joy at his words almost overwhelmed her, and a tear of gratitude escaped her eye as she leapt to her feet to obey him. She padded towards the bathroom and stopped at the closed door, wondering how to open the door with her hands clasped behind her back.

“Er, Master?” Her voice cracked from the alternative use of her throat.

“Oh, yes,” He laughed, “you can use your hands now.’

The mirror revealed a mess: hair like the remains of a bird’s nest, lipstick smeared around her mouth, foundation rubbed away around her nose and chin, mascara running from her eyes. She would have to start again.

She still glowed from his simple words of praise, and yet felt a tug of urgency to finish this job quickly so that she could serve the drinks. In the quiet moments, though, as she fixed herself, she found the time to think. She hadn’t choked at all, or even gagged! Just as amazingly, the stranger’s cock had utterly blocked her airway for the entirety of her service of him, and at the end, she had felt more than just a little faint as her blood lost its oxygen, but she had not panicked in the slightest. So where had she learned to give fellatio like a pro? When had she turned into a blowjob machine?

There was no more time. After a final inspection of her rapid handiwork, she returned to the living room to stand before her Master.

“... let’s recap,” He was saying. “Blonde. What sort of blonde? Ash, strawberry, platinum?’

The guest spoke.

Master typed. “Natural-looking yellow-blonde, thick and long, and no other body hair. Eyes? Eyebrows?’

Again the guest spoke.

“OK. Pale blue to go with the hair, and keep the eyebrows. Other facial features—nose, chin?” Master smiled at the visitor’s reply, and she basked in his pleasure. “It’s all in the price. No scars, and the procedure’s amazingly quick. So, give me a wish list.’

The room was silent for a long moment. The visitor may have been staring at her, but she couldn’t have cared less. Eventually, he broke the silence, and Master seemed to be repeating him. “More prominent cheekbones, smaller nose, shorter... Less chin, a slant to the eyes. Oh, a little oriental, you mean. Yes, that will go well with the blonde hair. Moving down, what about these?” He cupped her breast again, and a gasp escaped her at His touch. She stood, shivering in rapture as He weighed and massaged. “I have to say they seem just about perfect to me.’

If the guest answered, she didn’t notice. Her eyes closed and a little shiver of orgasm rolled through her just as He took away His hand.

“Mmm,” Master said, “You’re the customer, so double—’D’—cups, with big, prominent nipples and your choice of novelty areola. Pet. Drinks! Two beers, with glasses.’

Reeling in the afterglow, she staggered a little as she turned to obey, but she managed to gather her wits on the way to the kitchen. After a morning’s manic cleaning and tidying, she knew her way around the little alcove well enough to quickly retrieve iced bottles, opener, glasses and tray, and the simple tasks allowed her a moment to think. Master was listing features for a doll—a list which the visitor (her brain rebelled against even thinking about him) seemed to be specifying. They were discussing a purchase, and Master had talked about scars. So it wasn’t a doll; it was a human woman.

With a chill, she finally realised that they were talking about her!

“Wishlist time again,” Master was saying. “Speak to me of your desires!’

The command to bring drinks propelled her back to the table, tray in hands, but she desperately tried to keep the train of thought in her mind as she approached her Master’s presence. The stranger still spoke, and Master still typed while she poured their beers and placed them before them. He had been talking about changes to her features: a transformation-

“Go back to your mat, pet,” Master said, and all thoughts were swept aside by her eagerness to obey. “Resume your position and go to sleep.’

She dashed back to her spot before the door, where she knelt and spread her legs wide, her knees finding the worn patches in the carpet. She clasped her hands behind her head, arched her back and closed her eyes, and heard no more of their plans.

* * *

The train of camels followed the ancient track as it snaked through the barren scrubland. Yasamin hugged the cloth of her shawl around her, resigned to wait out the rising sun as it banished the chill of night, a task it seemed to perform with less vigour with every passing day as summer slowly turned to autumn. Today, it was Yasamin’s turn to walk, at least until midday, and it was a task to which she found herself uniquely ill-suited. The boots her father had bought her for the journey, at great expense, so he had kept telling her, chafed her in a new place every day. Still, at least the blisters seemed to be subsiding.

And the endless ache of placing one foot in front of the other, her eyes forced down for the necessity of navigating around crevices and the sharper stones, was only a little worse than the torture of riding on camelback. She watched the seasoned riders’ sinuous movements, compensating for the bizarre gait of their bad-tempered mounts, and wondered how many months of sores and aches they had endured before their bodies finally learned the knack. It was a knack that she, for one, had not yet mastered.

It had all seemed such an exciting, romantic plan a few weeks ago, as her father and uncle had planned out her life for her. She was to journey with her uncle to far Constantinople, there to be a scholar by the wise and highly esteemed alchemist Joachim Riess, from fabled Christendom. All she needed to do was journey there, and her glorious life of fame and fortune would unfold before her.

If her father was to be believed, this man was the last of the great mages, a near-immortal who could work miracles, who walked the golden streets of the legendary city like a god, who had once made the Bosporus run dry so that he could cross on horseback to meet with some fair maiden. She wasn’t so naïve as to believe all the stories her father had spun. Tales of a river a mile across had to be fantasy, anyway. And she had proof that this Riess was no god: she had seen the letters he had exchanged with her father over the years, and she had seen her own name mentioned. What deity would take an interest in her?

True, she knew that she had been born with intelligence and curiosity far beyond anyone she had yet met. Her father had pushed her into a scholarly world that, to her knowledge, no other female had glimpsed. But she was still just plain, short, skinny, childish Yasamin.

And yet, despite her misgivings, and her discomfort, here she was on the adventure of her short lifetime. Every painful step was one closer to the legendary city, and she strode the fabled spice route, redolent with stories of romance and danger.

And the danger was real! Only yesterday, a gang of bandits had descended on a section of the caravan further back along the train. Their attack had failed—indeed, their lives were now in the hands of Allah—but they had taken with them one of the guards defending that merchant’s goods. In consequence, the command had been passed up and down the train that the companies of each merchant were to keep close to their neighbours on the route, for before the attack, the hapless merchant had allowed a gap to open up between his leading and following co-travellers.

Fortunately for the agitated travellers, their course last night had led them to a vast caravanserai, one of many scattered along the spice route. Within its fortress walls, shelter, supplies, entertainment and (most importantly) security were all available at very competitive rates.

Despite the tension that the raid had left in its wake, the day had started much like any other. Merchants and local traders milled in seeming chaos, calling and bickering as they made last-minute deals amongst the guttural roars of the perpetually ill-tempered camels. Loads were hoisted onto their mounts, each spitting, stubborn beast seeming to carry a mountain on its back, complaining and bickering as their handlers forced them into rows, jockeying for position in the forming train. Finally, the train departed gang by gang, chasing their diminishing shadows across the desert.

They had enjoyed a night of relative security, treated to all the indulgences the caravanserai had to offer. Tonight, though, so the gossip went, would hold no such comfort. At the end of the day’s march, there would be nothing but the burnt-out ruins of a village, best avoided for the thieves, snakes and scorpions that were known to lurk there. After a long, hot day on the road, there would be an age of commotion as their drovers built their tent for them, then an interminable night amidst the unruly racket of restless camels and crew at their nightly games of tabula and dice.

* * *

As ever, these nights in the tent, sleep eluded her. And tonight was worse than ever, because she had discovered a secret! Her mind skittered from thought to thought: her family and their final springtime together, the humdrum of the journey, her fantasies of Constantinople and Joachim Riess, and other fantasies involving boys she had met at home, of some of the more dashing drovers and guards of the caravan, of that one particular young guard who always seemed to take an interest in her welfare...

No. That train of thought would lead nowhere good, lying here separated from her father and servants by mere drapes of fabric. She smiled, imagining herself in the noisy throes of masturbation, and that guard rushing in, thinking her under attack, and-

No!

Deliberately, she steered her thoughts along safer routes. She had spent her afternoon riding on camelback alongside her uncle. Long, shy, awkward silences had been punctuated by short spells of actual conversation, a skill with which she had little acquaintance, and she had learned just a little more of his adventurous life. He had been everywhere! As far east as China, south to Egypt and its ruins, North into the wilderness, where rain fell as a solid, ghostly silent and white. And—many, many times—to Constantinople.

His trade was in jewellery—“trinkets”, he called them, though she suspected some of those “trinkets” could buy her father’s house, or her.

To the infant Yasamin, her father’s older brother had been a figure of mystery and excitement, more talked about than seen because his journeys took him away much more than he was home. The day of his return could never be predicted—or even the month, so random were the routes his trade carried him, and yet she remembered days of searching the horizon for his returning caravan. When he finally did arrive, he always had a present for her, some beautiful, fascinating trinket whose history she remembered listening to in wide-eyed fascination.

As she grew into young womanhood, the trinkets became more valuable, their stories more detailed. Now she realised that her uncle had been subtly teaching her—not only of his trade, but also of history and geography, and a little of politics, too.

And just that evening, her uncle had granted her a rare privilege. After their simple meal of rice and camel’s milk, he had shown her into the tent he wryly called his “strong-room”, where he kept the iron-bound cases that contained his wares. Then, in dancing candlelight, their tent surrounded by the sounds and scents of the camp, the murmurs and shuffles of his trusted guards circling them unseen just beyond the fabric walls, their proximity somehow reassuring rather than threatening, he had unlocked the two chests.

Inside were wonders beyond her imagining, and though he had forbidden her to touch, her eyes feasted. Gold, in ingots, in glittering wire and in sheets thinner than paper. Jewels of every colour, from tiny beads to huge rocks that seemed to catch and play with the flickering candlelight. And, most astonishing of all, the manufactured jewellery, all in one great armoured chest, in more shapes and sizes than she could have imagined existed.

And as he had completed his show and locked the chests, his hand had opened the leather pouch he always carried at his side, but somehow the key had missed the pocket, and she had watched the tiny silver thing spinning in the ring of candle lights as it fell and silently bounced beneath one of the boxes.

He had lost his key, and he didn’t even know it! In truth, she was the only one in all the world who knew where that key was! And since the moment she had watched it falling and bouncing off into its hiding place, she had known just what she was going to do.

What harm could come from her plan? The guards accepted her as equal to her uncle and would let her by without question, and she would only try on a few. Anyway, he had been mean to forbid her touch.

Silently, alert for changes to the peaceful snores around her, she slipped from her bed-roll, then her chamber. The attentive guard turned instantly she emerged, but merely nodded to her, letting her pass without question, as did the ring of guards surrounding the “strong-room”.

A few candles still burned, the dim glow letting the guards watch through the tent walls for intruders, and the glow would be bright enough to allow her game. Kneeling, she reached beneath the chest where she had seen the key disappear, but felt nothing but pebbles. Her heart raced. Had someone else found the key? A not-to-loyal guard? Had her uncle discovered his loss and returned to retrieve it? Had she imagined it all?

No. Yasamin’s scrabbling fingers felt cold metal at last, and she fished her prize from the corner it had found. Then, with a shaking hand, she fitted the key in the lock of the finest of the chests and worked the mechanism. The casket was as much a presentation case as a strong-box, and the interior she beheld as she opened the lid was rich red rosewood that glowed with a deep patina in the warm light. Interlocking swirls of gold and pale wood inlays decorated the fronts of dozens of drawers, and the lowest row held the object of her quest, the finest of the treasures he had shown her.

Even in the flickering flames, the confections of gold and jewels dazzled her. She started with the rings, trying them one by one until she wore one on every finger. A dozen bracelets jingled faintly against each other as she placed each one around her wrists and ankles. Silently laughing with glee, she marvelled at the intricate workmanship behind a thing for which she had no name that cascaded down her arm from a band above her elbow, flowing down to circle a wrist before encircling her fingers in chains and nets of gold wire. She turned her arms in the light, marvelling at its play against the yellow metal and the bright jewels, at the sheer weight of the gold she wore.

She imagined herself as one of those beautiful courtesans, dressed in finery, dazzling the travellers gathered around the fire, attracting the eyes of one in particular…

No. Miserably, she looked down at her boyish body, thin and flat-chested. Jewels couldn’t change that! She dismissed her fantasy and returned to her exploration.

Easily the most beautiful piece she found was a necklace, a net made of tiny interlocking golden wires that would form a tight band around the throat, then rest in loops and delicate chains around the shoulders and upper chest. Turning it in her hands, she marvelled at the way it flowed across her fingers, almost like fine silk, and at the working of the glittering gems that were woven seemingly at random into the net like a field of stars. Some part seemed to be missing, though, because she could see no way to clasp it behind the neck, and when she raised it to try it on, the two parts seemed inches too short ever to meet. She held it there, once again enjoying the silky, almost oily feel of it against her skin and the mastery of its craftsmanship, hugging the modest contours of her body, dropping into her cleavage to suspend a glowing red ruby there. Somehow, the band seemed to have stretched, perhaps in the warmth of her skin, because now she found that the square ends just barely touched.

A frisson passed through her, and suddenly the night seemed too cold, raising goose-bumps over her entire body and drawing her nipples into painful erection. She shivered, and a familiar sensation engulfed her, centring on her breasts and between her legs. Her viscera tightened abruptly, and she bit down on a cry, and if she hadn’t already been kneeling, she might have fallen.

A timeless moment passed.

Yasamin shivered again and hugged herself. She had just climaxed, with no warning, no stimulation, nothing! What had just happened? She looked around in a panic, but saw that the tent was just the same: the candles still burned, the quiet sounds of the guards and the camp surrounding the tent continued, the jewel chest still lay open before her, its contents adorning her body-

The necklace! Her fingers shot to her throat. Yes, it was still there! But she had held it in place with both hands, and now it was firmly attached. Puzzled, she felt around her neck. The fine net of the band was complete and continuous, with no irregularities at all to signify a catch to allow her to remove it.

Frantically she searched again, her hands scrabbling over the netting for a way to release it. There was nothing.

With shaking hands, she explored thoroughly. The net had settled to follow the contours of her skin perfectly, moving sinuously as she flexed her muscles. She could raise the threads that caressed her chest and shoulders, but she couldn’t even push her little finger between the collar piece and her throat.

Her game had soured. Slowly and carefully, she took off the other items she had adorned herself with and returned them to their velvet nests until only the neckless remained. She slipped her dark night-robe over her tunic and, fearfully should they challenge her and make her reveal her thievery, rushed past the guards and back to the tent where her sleeping compartment waited.

* * *

“Pet! Wake up, and follow me.’

At the sound of Master’s command, she was instantly fully awake, though Yasamin’s thoughts and life were still more vividly real than her own incomplete memories. She found herself in the same kneeling position as when she had been told to sleep, and struggled to make stiff muscles obey his command. But he was already disappearing into the bedroom, and in a panic to obey him, she rushed past open laptop and strewn papers to catch up with Him.

“On the bed,” He barked. He was stripping in a rush, throwing shirt and shoes aside in His hurry, and her ever-present arousal intensified as she realised He was about to fuck her, and hard. “All fours, head facing the wall.’

She had held the pose for seconds only before He climbed on the bed behind her, and she had time to take a deep breath before His hands gripped her hips and—

His Cock thrust deep inside her, driving a scream from her as she was overcome by an instant, shattering climax.

“Shut up!’

Her voice shut off as if he had flicked a switch, but the orgasm went on and on. Through the overwhelming intensity of it, she was dimly aware of Him pummeling her, of obeying His orders to roll onto her back, grip her own ankles and spread herself wide for Him. She knew peaks of ecstasy—orgasm over orgasm—as He mauled her tits, grabbing and pulling at them as He thrust harder and harder. And most of all, when He came.

The room reverberated to the sound of their exhausted panting. He staggered to His feet, and she heard Him stumble against some piece of furniture and then out of the bedroom. She was frozen in place, her hands still holding her ankles, her muscles straining to pull herself open ever wider. She was limber—she vaguely remembered hours and hours spent sculpting this body in the gym and miles and miles of pounding the road—but she was no gymnast. The process of lying on her back and attempting to make her toes touch the bed to either side of her head was a searing agony that she was powerless to stop.

An age passed, and the aftershocks of her climax faded, her racing heart slowed, her breathing steadied, but still she pulled. And the physical pain was only part of it. He had left her! At first, she wept with the knowledge that He was somewhere close by, but ignoring her, but the immediacy of the emotion slowly waned, leaving only a great, sorrowful Master-shaped void.

Soon, the physical stress claimed the forefront of her thoughts, as cramps in her thighs added to the burn of tendons in her knees. Her shoulders and arms burned, too, holding herself there. And then her brain betrayed her, because she realised that a different grip could force her legs back further. First her left hand, then her right shifted on her ankles, and she found a way to push. Her tendons and the joints of her hips screamed their pain, and then twinned cramps in her thighs piled on the agony.

And He was back! The pain and sorrow washed away in a sea of love and lust.

“Stand up,” He commanded, and she could finally let go of her ankles. But her tortured limbs refused to obey her as eagerly. “Aw,” He mock-sympathised, “is my pet a little stiff?”

She forced her cramped muscles to raise her from the bed, and caught sight of His lovely cock, thick and hard, bouncing hypnotically with His every movement and heartbeat, bigger and prouder than she had ever seen it. She was overwhelmed by a flood of lust for Him that almost washed away the pain as she staggered to her feet.

Ordered to stand up, she found her hands naturally clamping together behind her, her chest thrusting out for Him, her eyes cast down. Like that, she couldn’t avoid staring at that cock, dancing before her. She wanted Him so much, but she couldn’t move, or even make a sound: His plaything, frozen, waiting. He brushed fingers against her collar, then ran His fingernail down between her breasts, and she imagined a searing course of fire burning along her flesh as He drew His line down over her navel, across her pubis, into her dripping sex. His touch was electric, like a live wire, and she closed her eyes and shivered a little orgasm as He slipped a finger into her dripping sex.

He chuckled, “you want it, don’t you?’

More than anything, Master, she thought, mutely, as another tiny climax assaulted her.

“Well, I’m done with this hole! Lean over the bed and spread your legs.’

He was eager. Even as her hands sank into the mattress, He pressed hard against her, and she felt a thrill of dismay: He couldn’t be ready! There had been no time for Him to apply lube! But she found herself instinctively relaxing her sphincter, and in He slid, with glorious, impossible ease, as if her arse was as slick with juices as her cunt. He was in no mood to be gentle, and she shuddered with the force of His onslaught and the renewed continuous climax.

“I swear!” Words exploded from him with each stroke. “Your! New! Master! Is! The richest! Sickest! Creepiest! Bastard! I! Have ever! Done! Business! With!” And with that last verbal ejaculation, he came.

When she had finished cleaning Him (her juices strangely sweet on her tongue), and He had collapsed into bed and began to snore, her overwhelming need to please and obey Him waned enough to allow her own thoughts into her head. Last night He had ordered her onto the mat at the foot of his bed, then to sleep. Tonight He hadn’t bothered, and she still lay beside him, attendant on Him. She was still acutely aware of His presence, His every sleeping breath, ready to serve Him should he awake, but the urgency seemed to have gone. Finally, she was able to think.

He was turning her into a sex doll. Already, when Master commanded, she obeyed without question or hesitation, and there were the physical changes too: she could perform deep throat like a pro, without gagging and seemingly without much need for air, and she seemed to be permanently turned on and wet, her nipples distractingly erect. But, strangest of all, her arsehole had turned slick with sweet-scented juices.

So much of the conversation between Master and the visitor—her new master, he had shouted as he pounded her—had slipped through her mind. In truth, she was finding it harder and harder to remember Master’s guest at all—but she did remember a few of the items on that “wishlist’. Bigger boobs—much bigger!—blonde hair, blue eyes, a completely different face. She would be unrecognisable!

She needed to escape. Now!

She lay next to her sleeping Master, attendant upon Him in case He woke. If she had been in chains, she would have had no less chance of escaping. But, gradually, she relaxed, realising that He wasn’t about to wake soon, and she drifted into her world of dreams.

* * *

For Yasamin, a dream-filled sleep was an impossible ambition. For once, she welcomed the sounds of the waking camp, the distraction of packing and stowing her bedroll and blankets.

After weeks of travel, she had fallen into the daily routine of making ready to travel, and the actions were automatic—and fast. She, her uncle and their crew of drovers and guards prepared for the day’s journey in seeming moments, and she was once again free to contemplate her problem—and in just how much trouble she was.

The necklace seemed weightless around her throat, its touch as light as spider silk. The stone nestled comfortably between her meagre breasts as though it had been there always—indeed, she now discovered that the jewel and its accompanying filigree of delicate chains were now stuck to her skin as though part of her. Like row upon row of insect bites, though, the tracery of golden patterns on her skin demanded constant attention, and rewarded her touch with little shivers of pleasure. And yet she was afraid. How was the thing burning into her, and what was it?

She needed to tell her uncle. Not later, when he had the chance to discover for himself what she had done, and when the thing had made itself more a part of her, but now!

He rode behind her, silhouetted in the blaze of sunrise, his shadowed face seeming to glower at her. She licked dry lips and slowed her camel, letting him draw up beside her. The uneven gait of her mount made her bounce and jostle idiotically, and she thought that her heart might race so fast that it would drown out her voice. She opened her mouth and stammered, “uh, uncle, er...’

“What is it, Yasamin?” In contrast to her awkward riding style, he seemed to manage his camel with ease, his gaze scanning the horizon as he gently guided the ill-tempered creature. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment as she thought of all of the other times she had done precisely this, to complain about what now seemed to be stupid little woes: the heat, the cold, her lack of sleep. The list went on and on, and always he had met her with this indulgent, infuriating, gentle smile and told her to bear with it, that it would be over soon enough, or that she would get used to it.

Not this time, she thought, and again she felt overcome with fear. Her shaking hand felt in her pocket and emerged with the key, holding it out for her uncle to see.

His calm eyes glanced at the tiny thing, and she watched them widen in recognition, then his mouth formed a horrified ‘o’ as his mind went through the possible implications.

“You dropped it,” she blurted out in a rush, “you dropped it as you were putting it away, and I know I should have said, but I wasn’t sure if I’d seen right, and then I went back later and... And...”

“And what, Yasamin?” He stared open-mouthed at her hand and then into her eyes. “What have you done.”

“I couldn’t resist it.” She blinked and felt the tears run down her cheeks. “It was so frustrating watching you pick out those beautiful things and not let me even touch them, so I went back. I went back. And I...” The shock in his eyes had lessened, and she saw perhaps hope there, and still no anger. “I tried them on.”

“What did you try on, Yasamin?”

“Well, everything, more or less.” The tears still threatened, but she took a deep, steady breath and pressed on.” And I took them all off, and I put them all back just as I’d found them. Except...”

“Except what, child?”

She couldn’t control the shake in her hand as she folded back her cloak to reveal the silvery lace against her skin.

His expression turned from worry to pure horror. “Oh, my child, my child! What have you done?”

And now the tears came unchecked. “It... It was so beautiful that I left it ’till last, and it fit perfectly, but now I can’t take it off. Please, uncle, help me!”

“That isn’t how it works,” he whispered, “there is no ‘taking it off.’ It comes off when it wishes—when it has finished its work. Truly you do not know what you have done!”

Her heart thudded in her chest. She remembered the climax she had felt as the necklace had locked itself around her throat, how the latticework made her feel when she touched it—and how it had welded itself to her flesh. What was it she had put around her throat? What had she begun?