The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“To reduce a woman to slavery is a cruel thing.”

In the dim light of the nearly empty restaurant, Fabienne’s host could be heard but not well seen. His voice was slow and contemplative, male and melodious. Eyes closed, Fabienne might have listened to it for hours. When a waiter stepped in to adjust a lamp, part of her was disappointed.

The dining room’s illumination rose sufficiently to observe her host stroking the hair of the mewling slut at his knee, as if for rhetorical emphasis.

“Regardless of procedure, the magical transformation enacted, the results are invariably monstrous.” Shamelessly, the sex slave pressed her lips to her owner’s trousers. “All that a woman is,” he expounded, “all the grand potentialities of her life . . . all her likes, all her loves, her choices of career, her prospects . . . all these, and everything else, are callously narrowed to those particular functions she must perform with her mouth or pussy. It is a fate worse than death . . . isn’t that right, Camia?”

He referred the question to the prostrate slave girl.

“Yes, master,” she whispered, gazing up at him with an expression of raw, unadulterated lust.

Fabienne was familiar with the girl’s story. Several breast sizes ago, the woman Camia had been was married to a man named Brimius, a tinkerer. One night, the two of them got into an argument, and Camia hit her husband over the head with one of his heavy iron pans, laying him out dead on the spot. She was caught, convicted of murder, and sentenced to enslavement.

Specifically, she was given over to the men-wizards of the Hythcosnim Order, who, as was their wont, used the convicted free woman until she begged them for sexual transformation. And transformed she had been. With her extra-large and rounded breasts; her equally unnatural slender waist; her long, sculpted legs; her luscious, cock-sucking lips; and, in general, her ripe, over-the-top pulchritude, the resculpted Camia could be mistaken for nothing else in this world but a sex slave.

Fabienne had seen photographs. Camia bore little resemblance to the woman she had been. Her hair was bouncy and untamed and contributed to the show of barely held-in wildness, like that of an animal in heat. Quite obviously, she was in need of a man to fuck her senseless.

Despite Fabienne’s presence, she was naked. On one otherwise smooth thigh was a burnt brand, long healed to perfection, the juxtaposition of clean lines and placement against the slave girl’s soft flesh enhancing rather than detracting from her beauty.

The brand was the trademark “Chain” of the Hythcosnim. Camia was a chain-slave.

“I am serious,” the wizard went on. “Far worse than death is enslavement. When a free woman dies, there is, understandably, grief for her passing. Depending on local custom, there is a celebration for the life she led. In any case, while she was alive, she was a person, and, accordingly, worthy of respect.”

He gestured at Camia. “A slave, by contrast, is, at best, legally, nothing more than an animal.”

As if to offer proof to this statement, the slut purred like a ramanyx.

“At worst, too often, she is merely an object, to be discarded when she is no longer of value.” His hand brushed the other slave in the room, standing behind him silently.

Like Camia, this girl too was beautiful and brunette. Beyond that, resemblances ended. As a whole, this second slave was slimmer than Camia. Her bosom was less extravagantly voluptuous; her body was leaner and tighter. Rather than cascading down her shoulders, like Camia’s, her hair was upturned and styled. She possessed delicate, red-tinted lips and perfect make-up. Her owner eschewing her an unconcealed nakedness, the standing slave was clad in black satin shorts and matching corset with a deeply plunging décolletage, complemented by a long-sleeved, lace-edged feminine shirt. Her lace collar matched the corset, and a pair of high, dagger-heeled ankle boots showed off her lovely, unmarked legs, clad in stockings, white-ruffled garters, and suspenders. She wore the height of Eherean slavewear, clothing expressly designed to amuse and titillate men, to flaunt its wearer’s enslavement.

“Vitellia,” he said, “how many owners have you had?”

“Nine, master,” she responded. Her voice was light and cultured, with a hint of Deinian.

“And how long have you been a slave?”

“Five years, master.” Vitellia’s eyes were tranquil, her tone the definition of nonchalance. Her expression was distant: not quite the brain-dead blankness of a Nyccleth automaton, more like the unhurried indifference of a sleepwalker. She was a pool of still water.

The wizard addressed Fabienne. “You see? How easily they are used and discarded?”

“How did you become a slave?” Fabienne asked the girl. Camia yawned loudly.

“I was sold into slavery by my father,” Vitellia replied, perfectly calm. “He negotiated my price when I was a child. When I was of age, men employed by the Jhinnetnim Order came and took me.”

“Why did he sell you?”

“He wanted the money for my flesh, mistress.” She blinked once, slowly, as if to confirm her humanity.

“Were you . . . upset?” In context, the word seemed woefully inadequate.

“Yes, mistress. I was very upset. My younger sister was sent away a day before I was taken. I believe my father did not want her to know that he had the same fate in mind for her as well.”

Fabienne was not shocked by this revelation. It wasn’t an uncommon practice among the very poor of the coast and island-republics, to sell their children into slavery. Depending on the country, mothers and fathers alike held a right to do this to their children until they reached the age of nineteen-and-a-half, the universally held minimum age of enslavement. In De, fathers held rights to their daughters’ flesh until they married, regardless of age. Oftentimes, children were sold as infants. Many were the young people raised unsuspecting of their predetermined fates, until agents of enslavement came for them.

Some families had made it a cottage industry.

“Was your sister also sold as a slave?” Fabienne asked.

“I am a slave, mistress. I was not informed.”

“What happened after you were taken?”

“I was brought bound to the Woman-Wizard Socellia. She compelled me with her magic to gaze into her eyes. They glowed green. I became drowsy, and I fell asleep. When I awoke, I was a slave and content forevermore to be a slave.”

“What is it like?”

“Warm and submissive, mistress,” Vitellia told Fabienne. “Being a slave is warm and submissive.”

“Do you like being a slave?” The wizard, studying his guest, raised a hairy eyebrow.

“I am warm and submissive, mistress.” She blinked at Fabienne, then gazed once more into middle space, sleepily. Attentive, always; sleepy nonetheless.

“Would you care for a drink?” the wizard asked his guest, upon waiting a moment to see whether she would press her questioning. “Something to eat?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Fetch her a drink, Vitellia,” the wizard ordered anyway. He specified a vintage from Gleaming Su’um.

The Jhinnet silk-slave left the room regardless, having been given an order by her owner. “Excuse me,” he said. Casually, the man-wizard opened the front of his trousers.

At once the wild-haired slut at his feet pounced. She lathered her owner’s cock with her tongue. She started at the base, mouthing gentle, massaging kisses onto his balls before giving one long, slow lick to his pulsing shaft. She nibbled gently at the crown for a moment, changed position gracefully so as to kneel between his legs, then, expertly, pressed her lips wholly upon him.

To be completely accurate, she all but inhaled her master’s cock, sucking until nearly the entire length of him was secured within her mouth and throat.

Observing, Fabienne’s face felt so hot she felt like it might catch fire. She realized she was on the verge of fainting. When Vitellia returned, balancing a glass upon a tray, she took the proffered drink, quickly.

Across from her, she saw the naked slave touch herself between the legs. Her lips formed a seal; despite that, Fabienne could still hear the slut’s delighted squeals of pleasure. When the wizard came, deep inside her throat, the slut clutched at her owner’s hips, for balance. She drank as if from a spouting fountain. Ultimately, she could not take it all. At the end, such was the force of his ejaculation—he was a man-wizard, after all—that in spite of the slave’s skill her face and upper body were drenched. Vitellia had to go to her knees as well. Soon both girls’ tongues were at work cleaning.

Fabienne turned away. She touched her mouth and chest. Her lips felt hot and moist.

Warm and submissive, she thought, and tried to keep from fainting.

Eventually, pants once more secured, her host returned to the matter of his discourse, without mention of this interruption whatsoever, and certainly no embarrassment.

Warm and submissive, she thought, and tried to keep from shivering.

Eventually, her host returned to the matter of his discourse.

“While some slaves have a monetary value greater than others,” he started anew, “and some are greater skilled, capable of tasks beyond laying on their backs or falling to their knees, in every enslavement there is nonetheless a profound loss. Some slaves receive the favor of their owners. Some are cherished, even loved by them. It makes no difference. This loss is fundamental.

“Upon her enslavement, the enslaved woman is no longer a person. She is a slave. Whether animal or object, she is a thing owned. And, consequently, at a basic level, she is no longer worthy of serious consideration. It is a terrible crime what we enslavers steal from them.”

He paused again, perhaps in anticipation of a reply.

“Yes,” Fabienne said, when his silence and stare grew too excruciating. “I agree. Slaves are slaves. Their minds are charmed and ensorcelled. They no longer possess free will. They must obey.”

The wizard pet the slut in front of him, thoughtfully, meaningfully. He did not need to say aloud he meant a girl like Camia, whose every move proclaimed the moist sexual heats that had been stoked in her flesh. Fabienne understood her host’s suggestion perfectly.

Everything about Camia proclaimed a hunger for ravishment. Against her will, she had been turned into a lust-filled beast. She had no choice but to lust. She was lust.

She had been stripped of her dignity, reduced to a vitally living animal whose gaze could not help but remain focused on the crotch of any man who might enter the room. Vitellia, an iceberg in the comparison, had likewise been brought to the restaurant as message. Fabienne knew from their talk that the Jhinnet silk-girl would have been content to stand there for the rest of her life, if such were the orders given her. Her life was her orders. All she could do—all she wanted to do—was obey.

“Well, then,” the wizard said. “Now that that’s been said, and agreed upon, would you make clear your intentions again, please? I want there to be no misunderstandings.”

“Certainly,” the free woman said. “They are simple. I want to be made a slave.”

She hoped her voice carried conviction. Fabienne wanted to be clear and precise. Moreover, she tried to ensure that her posture and demeanor lacked any suggestion of doubt. She wanted to exude absolute self-assurance. She sat straight in her chair, in the middle of the room, her legs primly together and turned to a graceful angle. Her hands did not fumble or roam about in nervousness: they remained fixed upon her lap, one atop the other, poised. Her eyes met her host’s cleanly and straight-on.

It was important she seem sincere. She must not be taken for a madwoman.

“You are aware of the significance of your words?” The wizard expressed surprise neither in his voice nor in his manner. A part of Fabienne was gratified, though, to see that she had finally managed to gain Camia’s attention. The slave girl remained at the wizard’s feet; yet upon hearing Fabienne’s words she leaned against his leg, clutching it; and for the first time that afternoon she had turned her face toward her owner’s guest, appraising her as a person.

Conversely, Vitellia continued to seem half-asleep.

“I am,” Fabienne said.

“You are aware that such an admission, made before witnesses, can be used as evidence in a legal proceeding ending with your enslavement? That your words could be construed, in effect, as a declaration equivalent to the signing of a bill of enslavement?”

“I am,” Fabienne said. Actually, she thought the odds of that happening were low. Ehere-Demen was not the old and corrupt Republic of De, to the north, where every excuse to enslave a woman was exploited to fill that island’s rapacious appetite for sex slaves.

Which wasn’t to say her words were without risk. Even here, in her most tolerant of city-states, there were those who would take her statement as invitation . . . which, of course, it was.

“So,” her host said, in an effort to gain either clarity or greater legal verification, or both, “you have come here today with the intent of being made a slave.”

“That is correct.”

“More precisely, of being made a slave girl,” he said.

“Yes. I want to be a slave girl. A sex slave.”

The wizard nodded. “You are aware of what this would entail, are you not? That is to say, in being made a slave, you perforce would be subjected to a magical transformation that would certainly affect your mind and almost certainly affect your body. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Fabienne said. “I am not ignorant.”

“I did not mean to suggest that you were,” the wizard said. “Still, I must make clear to myself certain matters. I am incapable of reading your mind, owing to your gender.” On Ramanananan, a man-wizard’s magic could not affect the female of the species, and vice-versa. “I am cruel but not a monster. I dislike accidental victimization. You could already be the subject of an ensorcellment. It is not unheard of for members of the Nycclethnim Order, for their wicked amusement, to place charms on women. They impel them to visit less-than-reputable taverns near waterfronts, say, at night, alone, and without identification, to act then in a salacious manner before less-than-scrupulous men and arouse their appetites, and thereby invite the attentions of professional kidnappers. Such women are abducted and on a boat to De before morning, typically.”

“I understand,” Fabienne said. “So far as I know, I am not under any magical compulsion.”

“That is a question I would like resolved. There are others.” The wizard smiled. “If you were under such a charm, it would not necessarily sway my decision, you understand. If I wanted you as my slave, I would take you, and none could stop me.” Fabienne’s fingers scrunched together. “But I do not like being directed, of having my eye guided by another’s manipulations. It is one thing to see a hanging fruit and to pick it. It is quite another to have that fruit dangled before one on the end of a string.”

Fabienne laughed softly, finding the metaphor amusing; and she was gratified when the wizard joined her. “Ask me what you like,” she said. “Subject me to any examination, mundane or magical. I am at your disposal . . . wholly at your disposal, sir.” She wet her lips enticingly.

“We shall see.” Completely at ease, the wizard propped a leg comfortably over the arm of his chair. Like the slut Camia, he went barefoot. His attire was loose fitting and white, his shirt brazenly open-chested. A noted man-wizard of the Hythcosnim Order, it was her host’s practice to frequent the restaurant of Nannus Alpa every Bronzeday from noon until sunset. It was the way he conducted his business. Years ago, Fabienne had learned, the restaurateur had approached the wizard with a problem—some matter having to do with ruffians robbing his customers—and the Hythcos had resolved the man’s complaint, swiftly and decisively. Since then, the restaurateur had been in the wizard’s debt.

Alpa ran the best, most frequented restaurant in the whole of the City-State and Grand Bureaucracy of Ehere-Demen; yet every Bronzeday he all but closed his eatery and appeared grateful for the privilege.

It was good to be friends with a wizard. There had already been a line of people waiting to see him when Fabienne arrived that morning. One elderly woman had asked the wizard to speak with her nephew about a debt he owed her. Her host had taken a fold of pledges from his pocket and gently placed the money in her hands, saying he would collect the rest of the amount for her and hoped this would tide her over in the meantime. An earnest young man said he could not get the job he needed to support his family. His wife was pregnant, and he was desperate. The Hythcos had assured him that by that time next week he would have the position he desired. Another man had a broken arm. The wizard touched it, spoke some words, and healed him, right before Fabienne’s eyes. Men, women, directly or indirectly, the wizard gave them his help or offered them his friendship. And all they had to do was acknowledge that they were in the wizard’s debt.

Fabienne had followed him for weeks. The wizard paid for nothing. Groceries were hand-delivered to his manse, fresh fish, vegetables, often by the appreciative shop-owners themselves. Men of higher social standing sent messengers with bulging envelopes. It was good to be friends with a wizard. Their homes and businesses went unburgled, their customers went unharassed.

“For the purposes of this discussion,” Fabienne’s host said, “I shall assume you are in your right mind, neither mad nor under the influence of mind control.” While not muscular, the lines of the wizard’s body were smooth and pleasant. While his hair was uncut, unkempt, even, his features beneath this shaggy mane were sharp and intelligent.

“You say you wish to become a slave. I shall take you at your word. The obvious question is why. You appear neither unintelligent, nor uneducated. You must appreciate that your request is unusual. Most women avoid enslavement if they can. Are you in trouble with the law?”

“No.”

“You have no ill-conceived notion of escaping some suit or debt by having yourself transformed into a slave?” Slaves could not own property, for they were property.

“Mine would be a poorly thought-out and permanent insolvency if I had,” Fabienne replied. “No.”

“Do you seek enslavement, then, as self-punishment? Do you feel you have wronged someone, and this is your means to balance the scales?”

“So far as I am aware,” Fabienne said, “I have no enemies. While my life has not been perfect, there is no one I feel I have wronged to such an extent I would surrender my freedom to redeem myself.”

“Are you depressed?”

Fabienne laughed. “You think my wanting to be a slave to be a form of suicide? That I wish to extinguish myself? No. Quite the contrary. I want to live, yet as a slave.”

“I see,” the wizard said. He looked at the ceiling a moment, in thought. “As the intelligent, educated woman you appear to be, one not under the influence of an ensorcellment, you must be aware that there are other, less strenuous avenues available to you, if this wish of yours is genuine. Approaching a wizard is unnecessary. The simplest, in all likelihood, if the least certain, is for you to put yourself at risk, like any of the women I mentioned earlier who visit the dockside taverns at night. Take money and spend some there. Make sure people see you spending it. You could be abducted and sold to Daoxechent enslavers within a day.”

He paused. “Yet the fact you have not done this, and that you are clearly a forthright person with perception, leads me to think this is an approach you would not consider. Or am I mistaken?”

“No,” Fabienne said. “Aside from the illegality, which is of no small import, a kidnapping is just too risky. My abductors could be caught. I could be accidentally set free. In any case, I would not want to be so ridiculed for my apparent stupidity.”

“I understand,” Fabienne’s host said. “I sympathize. May I suggest, then, the Palace of Public Bureaucracy? This is not only a safer approach but discreet as well. In the Palace there is an office set aside for this purpose. You need but go there and speak with the clerk, whom I am sure will be helpful and respectful. He is performing a public service, after all. He will take certain information, then call upon the magistrate. In front of this person, and the clerk, and a third impartial witness, you have but to sign the slave document they give you . . . on your knees, of course, for that is how it is done. As soon as your signature is on the document, you would be a slave.”

“I am aware of this office, certainly,” Fabienne said with equanimity. “I have, in fact, visited it. There are reasons I cannot surrender myself there.”

The wizard’s face showed polite interest.

“I trust you can confirm, sir,” Fabienne said, “that unless claimed personally by a wizard most Demenian women enslaved, legally or otherwise, are given over to the Lords of Daox.”

“You have issue with the Daoxechents?”

“They are indiscriminate,” Fabienne said. “They are pirates on the high seas. Not content with convicted criminals, they are notorious fences for kidnappers. If I walked into one of their buildings in Port of De, unescorted, unprotected, I would most assuredly leave only in the cargo hold of a ship, bound for the Isle of Daox.”

“Is this not your stated desire?” the wizard asked. “There are worse slaveries, I assure you. The Nycclethnim would make of you a brain-dead puppet. In the east, a control collar might be fitted about your pretty neck. Either way, you would become an automaton, little better than a machine.”

“I am so aware,” Fabienne said.

“For that matter,” the wizard said, warming to the subject, “in even the best enslavement there is work and degradation which you, being a free woman, cannot yet comprehend. You could be made a silk-pony and pull carts for the rest of your life.” He leaned forward. “And consider this: many masters are heartless with their slaves. To even kill one is not a serious crime in most countries.”

“The worse fate, for me, would be to not be a slave,” Fabienne declared. “To have to retain my cold freedom when all I want is the warmth and softness of sexual enslavement.”

“You are bold,” her host said, shaking his head, perhaps in admiration of that boldness. “Either that, or very much in a wizard’s thrall.”

Fabienne sighed.

“I have spoken with many Daoxechent slave girls,” she said. “While invariably they are happy with the cocks that they suck, in the numerous fuckings they receive, invariably there is nothing left of the women they once were.”

“Ah, I see,” her host said. “I understand. If you are given to the Pecthentnim, the women-wizards of the Lords of Daox, and their Mark fit upon your shoulder, you would lose all memory of the person you are now.” Famously, Daoxechent slaves were amnesiacs.

“Yes,” Fabienne said. “I have no desire to arrange for some other girl’s enslavement. It is my slavery I wish to enjoy. Regardless of my final disposition, it is I who want to leave here in bondage. It is I who want to be made the slave.”

“I see,” the wizard said. “I see.” He mused. “There is a rumor of a Daoxechent girl in the City of De, owned by a wizard there, who has somehow retained her memory and sense of self. However, in general I concede your complaint. You would no longer be you.”

He leaned forward. “Yet much the same could be said of any enslavement. Regardless of who ultimately takes you, the slave transformation is a transformation. Recollection aside, you would no longer be the person you are now. I speak not merely in a legal sense but in the practical. Your vaunted intelligence could be affected. You could be made an idiot incapable of adding even the smallest of numbers together. Many men enjoy owning brainless strumpets. I do myself on occasion. To make them squeal helplessly is an amusement.”

“That would be a waste, I think,” Fabienne said. “But if so, so be it. When I am a slave, my only desire will be to please my master. All that I am will be within the will of my master.”

“You could be made to love him, regardless of your desires in such a matter. Or be in continual lust for him . . . often, both.” Camia, below the wizard, nodded, agreeing, panting.

“I should hope to love my master, whomsoever he will be,” Fabienne said. “That is my fondest wish. I want to have no choice but to love a man, who will then be everything in the world for me. I want to love him. I want to lust after him, as a slave lusts after her master.”

“Is there some particular man to whom you wish to belong?” the wizard asked sharply. “It is not unheard of in a woman to be so deeply in love with another, yet seeing no alternative way they could be together, differences in class being the most common and glaring of obstacles, that she surrenders her freedom in order to be with him.”

“That sounds delightfully romantic,” Fabienne said, laughing. “They give themselves to their loved one as a gift.” She girlishly lifted her hand, as if to say, Ah well. “Alas, there is no one in my life like that. While I have had multiple affairs with men, none have been to such a heartbreaking extent.”

For the moment, anyway, she thought. I would give myself to you in a heartbeat.

Camia put her face to her master’s feet and kissed them. Her hands shamelessly stroked her pussy.

“Perhaps you think it must be a man who will come to own you,” her host said, interrupting her reverie. “You could become a woman’s sex slave and spend the rest of your life licking pussies instead of sucking cocks.”

He indicated the silk-slave, Vitellia, who remained the veritable statue. “Her last owner was a woman.”

For the first time, Fabienne’s composure changed.

“I understand that is a possibility. If at all possible, I would prefer to be a man’s sex slave. Respectfully, I would like to come to some accommodation that might ensure that. I have some property, which will soon be quite useless to me.”

She took another deep breath. “But if that is not possible . . . so be it, as you said. Regardless of my final disposition, I want to leave here in bondage. I want to be made a slave.”

The wizard grunted, a short, sharp noise from his nose, in amusement.

“I am compelled to ask you directly, the other common motives put aside. Why do you want to become a slave?”

“Because I am slut,” Fabienne said. “A natural slut.”

Another sound of amusement—surprise—was heard from the wizard.

“Truly, you are bold. Do you mean to say you are so ashamed of your sluttishness, so ashamed of your physical desires, that you think you deserve to be made a slave?”

“No,” Fabienne said, shaking her head. “Far from it. I am proud of my sluttishness. In becoming a slave, I seek only to fulfill the absolute potential of my sluttishness.” She lifted her chin. “I suck cock. I am an excellent and enthusiastic cocksucker.” Fabienne saw that her words had finally impressed the wizard—in a way, this was an even more provocative declaration than the ones she had made before.

Naturally, slaves were expected to spend significant amounts of time on their knees. Hence, for a free woman to go down on a man, of her own accord, invariably drew a comparison between her and a slave. The presumption was that only sluts sucked cocks, and should a man’s lover prove to be a hidden slut, then it might be best for that sluttishness to be displayed publicly, for her long-term happiness and his short-term profit.

It was not unheard of, even in broadminded, liberal Ehere-Demen, for a man whose free lover had gone down on him, and shown either a certain expertise or enthusiasm, or both, with her mouth and tongue, to seize said lover, bind her, and bring her to a wizard-enslaver.

The risk, admittedly, would be slight. In repressive, traditionalist De, on the other hand, a woman proven to be a cocksucker could be enslaved on that witness testimony alone, even a wealthy noblewoman, as a certain well-publicized trial had recently proven. Fabienne had thought of such captures while kneeling beside her bed in a locked bedroom, a phallus of the type sold in slave shops in her mouth, eyes closed and practicing her technique.

Caught in such a position, a woman’s enslavement could well-nigh be inevitable. Even walking into the slave shop and purchasing her tool in the first place could have drawn the wrong kind (or right kind) of attention. If it was known that said free woman owned a female slave, that was one such thing; if not, well, such a purchase invited . . . speculation. Fabienne had sought such speculations about herself deliberately, lingering long in the store and fantasizing about using the various sold implements. Or having them used on her.

“Your memories could be unreliable,” the wizard reminded her. “If you are under the effect of a charm, any recollections you have cannot be trusted.”

“I am a slut,” Fabienne said unequivocally. “I deserve to be enslaved.”

“You may well be a slut,” the wizard admitted. “But you are not, as yet, a total slut.”

Abruptly, he grabbed hold of Camia’s hair and pulled her up to make the comparison. The slave girl moaned in delight and heat.

“This is a total slut. Truly, would being reduced to such a low and disgusting creature meet with your approval?” He seized another handful of hair and pulled Camia’s head back. She opened her mouth to accept the man-wizard’s kiss.

Fabienne’s jealous need was so great she felt like she might catch fire.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. Her body was aflame. Her stomach was churning.

The room dimmed, and Fabienne realized she was on the verge of fainting again. She put her head down and took deep breaths.

Noting Fabienne’s reaction, the man-wizard released the naked chain-slave, who had collapsed in the throes of an orgasm . . . from merely a kiss.

“I take it you have no objection to the more physical aspects, then, if any, of a slave transformation . . . the enlargement of your breasts, for instance, to the proportions usually demanded of a sex slave.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Fabienne said, a flush bringing color to her face, vivacity to every word. “I want to have very large tits, as large as my head, even, like hers. I want to feel their enormous weight on my chest. I want to have full, cocksucking lips. I want a slave’s body that will get my master’s cock hard. I want him to enjoy fucking me.”

“You speak of but one master,” her host said. “Surely you understand most slaves pass through a multitude of hands.”

“I would expect to have many masters, in time,” Fabienne said. She closed her eyes. “I have a dream of standing naked on an auction block. In this dream, I am a slave girl. I have been one for many years. My body has been heated by the attentions of innumerable men, so many men that I have long since lost count. My hair is long, longer than this,” and without opening her eyes Fabienne gestured toward the coiled hair atop her head, styled in one of the extravagant, egg-shaped styles of the women of Ehere-Demen and Demen proper, “and free and flowing down my back. I have large breasts. They are throbbing with a need to be touched by a man, or men, or as many men as my master will permit.

“My pussy is wet. I am in a profound and dire sexual need. An appetite has been stoked in my flesh. The touch of a wizard’s magic has enflamed my body, and that flame has, for many years, been fueled by the many usages to which I have been put, each man’s contribution increasing my heat for the next. Standing on that auction block, I am in desperate need for a cock. The men gathered before me, looking at my naked body, have heated me, but my master, too, knowing that I would be sold today, and wanting to get a better price for my flesh, has previously denied me a thorough fucking, for days, even, knowing that I would be more appealing in my desperate yet unfulfilled sexual need. I am nothing more than a commodity to him. My flesh represents no more than a handful of coins in his mind. So, I writhe in my need. And as I am writhing the bidding starts. The sale is short—I am just one slave among many to be sold that day, nothing special—and when the pledges change hands I know, once again, that I will have a new master to please, a man whose tastes I must learn, and learn quickly, to avoid the touch of the girl-whip, partially, to avoid that even greater torment, the denial of a good, thorough fucking, but mostly because I already love my new master. I have never met him. I have not as yet even been on my knees before him, my mouth upon him, let alone have I felt his cock in my perpetually smoldering pussy. But already I love him, because he is a man, and he is my master.”

Camia was moaning. Fabienne opened her eyes. The free woman met the wizard’s gaze.

“I imagine that after my transformation I will be nothing but a common slave, fit only for the brothel or the street corner. It will be years before I am ready for anything grander, to become the fucktoy of a common owner, let alone an owner of taste and money or even nobility. And if that should never occur, again, so be it.

“I want to be made a slave. Can you arrange this, sir? I can endure freedom no longer.”

For a long moment the wizard-enslaver was silent.

He sat with his elbow upon the chair, index finger pressed thoughtfully against his lips. He stared at Fabienne, who felt the pressure of his gaze with heat in her pussy and breasts.

After a minute, he turned and spoke to Vitellia. He whispered something. Then, at his obvious command, the slave girl left the dining room.

“You frustrate me,” the wizard told Fabienne. “You assure me that you are a slut . . . and I agree, you are very much a slut, and well-deserving of slavery . . . yet the more you convince me of your sluttishness, the more I am convinced you must be psychically enthralled, for no woman free of ensorcellment would speak so candidly of her desires.”

“You underestimate my gender,” Fabienne protested. “Any woman would, if true men would but care to listen. I am disappointed. You said my possible ensorcellment would make no difference to you.”

“If I wanted you as a slave,” her host clarified. “It is that which frustrates me. I find you extremely attractive.” Fabienne hissed in visceral pleasure. “You are precisely the type of girl I would enjoy fucking the most, even within the cold and limited boundaries of your present freedom . . . your small tits, your inadequately trained pussy, your no doubt enthusiastic yet amateurish skill at cocksucking.”

“But I’m a good cocksucker. I told you that!”

“You may well suck cock. But you will never be able to suck cock like a slave until you are a slave. There is training involved. However many men you have gone down on, however much time you have spent practicing with a phallus, you have not had a trainer providing motivation with a girl-whip. Moreover, your mouth and tongue have not been magically augmented for the purpose. Your sense of taste has not been altered to find every drop of cum a savory pleasure. Most of all, you have not had the passion instilled in you sufficiently to give a man a truly good cocksucking.”

Camia was nodding solemnly. She was still panting.

“It is easy to understand. You have gone down on men. This may well be true, assuming your memories are truly your own. Yet however many men you may have serviced, none were your master, and that is the crucial thing. There is a difference between the tongue of a free woman and the tongue of a slave whose existence is dedicated to that purpose, and it cannot be faked.

“Let me tell you a story. It is even a true story.

“This happened years ago. A female assassin was hired to kill the Grand Bureaucrat of Durajh. She hit upon the scheme of masquerading as a strumpet to get close to him, so she could sink the knife in. She thought it would be easy to pretend to be a slave. Accordingly, she arranged for her own physical transformation. The assassin was given the body of a strumpet. She retained her intelligence and self-control, or as much self-control as possible given the profound sexual needs of her new form. I suspect she employed some drug or charm to keep her on task. In any event, as a mere sex slave, she got very close to this Bureaucrat. She knelt before him. She proceeded to suck his cock as best she could.”

The wizard grunted with amusement. “As soon as her mouth closed upon him, the Bureaucrat knew she was an imposter. She was arrested on the spot.

“You see, while she had all the physical attributes, she had none of the mental. Naturally, after she was caught, this oversight was corrected, and as a true slave she was placed back into the role she had only feigned before. However much you may rank your skills at pleasing a man, they are lacking and must remain so until you are properly enslaved.”

Her host tilted his head. “Still, I could derive a certain pleasure in using you, even now, limited as you are, if what you say is true.”

“I would like that very much,” Fabienne said earnestly. “I want you to use me. I want to be pleasing to you, in as much as my poor, free flesh can give one such as you pleasure.”

“My pleasure would be derived from the process of your enslavement,” the wizard said, “and the promise of what one day you could become . . . not, as I indicated, from your flesh in itself, as it is currently bound.” He mused. “It is a curious thing. Whilst free, you are limited to the mind and body to which you were born. Though you are permitted some small latitude in these, of self-expression, in essence you are enslaved but to the one possible existence. Yet in being enslaved, the changes that can be wrought to your body and mind are boundless, and under the direction of your enslaver almost any option becomes a possibility. It is an oft-remarked paradox among wizards.”

He stroked the slut Camia, who purred, visibly shuddering at his strokes.

“I am, as you know, a member of the Hythcosnim Order. Were I to use you, as you wish to be used, you would be enthralled by my prowess. I do not boast. I speak only the truth. Few females can resist the ecstasies I can induce in them. I once made a Nyccleth woman-wizard beg for chains. Camia here,” and he squeezed, eliciting another delighted squeal, “was quite resistant at first, so my brother-wizards tell me. Do you recall?”

“Yes, master,” Camia sighed, arching into his grip. “Did not want to be slave.”

“The pleasure in cock-taming a woman is more aesthetic than actual,” the man-wizard declared. “The gratification comes from the mindfulness of one’s potency and skill, and pride thereof, yet also from the realization on the part of the female that she must be now, and forever more, a slave. For once I or any of my brother-wizards bring a woman to a chain-orgasm, she must needs live for it happening again, and as many times as possible. It is, I dare say, a transcendent moment, that transition from free woman to cock-addicted slut.”

His eyes drifted in fond remembrance.

“It happens in a moment. You can see the change in her face, and in her flesh, and in her breathing. She cannot go back. Nothing in her old life can compete with the ecstasy she has experienced, or, as is more often, as in the case of Camia, here, forced to experience. She will do anything for another chain-orgasm.” The wizard returned his gaze to Fabienne, waving his hand in casual dismissal. “The rest is almost anticlimactic. Her longing is so great, she begs for the physical and mental transformation.”

“That is a climax I long to experience,” Fabienne said.

“I was not present to see Camia beg for enslavement. It was one of my brother-wizards who turned the trick. She is now long surrendered. Yet the changes wrought to her by our sister-order more than compensates for any lost novelty.” He turned his attention to the struggling Fabienne. “My frustration is this: if you are indeed ensorcelled by another, my work in making you a slave is already half-complete. My aesthetic pleasure in taking your surrender would be diminished if it were not wholly your own.

“And without that, my interest in you is slight.”

He stood, the slut Camia instantly moving aside for him.

“I need to think,” he said. “Stay here, if you like. A servant will see to your needs.”

Fabienne opened her mouth to say something, but he put a finger to his lips. “You are, at present, and may so remain, a free woman. I say this plainly: your body holds little interest to me. It is your mind rather that I find engaging. But if that mind is compromised, our business here today is done.”

He performed a half-bow, then turned and left, leaving both Camia and Fabienne moaning.

As soon as her owner was out of the room, Camia approached. The way in which a slave girl spoke or presented herself to a free woman varied according to type. A Pecthentnim slave, self-aware but lacking recollection of her past, typically fell to her knees. She wanted to placate. A Jhinnetnim silk-girl, like Vitellia, cast into a perpetual trance, stayed on her feet unless ordered to her knees. She wanted to serve. A Nycclethnim living robot stared at a woman, unable to relate unless commanded to have sex. She wanted nothing.

Camia came up to Fabienne, body swaying lusciously, padding like a forest animal. After a moment, the naked chain-girl impertinently stroked Fabienne’s face, startling the free woman, considering her, as one female might another.

“Are free woman,” Camia said. “Want to be slave.” She paused and gazed upon Fabienne with heavy-lidded contempt. “Are a fool.”

Fabienne blinked in disbelief. She was so shocked she didn’t know what to say. She felt a flash of righteous anger (How dare this . . this animal speak to her like that!), then confusion, because, after all, what was her purpose there at all but to become as Camia was? Then, even more befuddlement, mixed with pain: You disapprove? she thought. But . . but . . slave girls are supposed to be happy being slaves! That’s what I want, the joy of serving a master, like you have!

“Don’t you like being a slave?” Fabienne asked Camia.

“Yes, love it,” the slut said, with savage relish. “Hate it, too. Never wanted this.” Using her hands, Camia lifted her amazing boobs to Fabienne, wincing in involuntary delight as she did.

“Hythcos wizards pass Camia around. Am toy to them. Wizard sixth owner in four years.”

“I . . I’m sorry,” Fabienne said. “But you look . . you looked so happy when he touched you.”

“Was happy,” Camia said. Even while standing, the way she held herself made it seem as if she were boiling inside. Her skin was flush. Her knees seemed on the edge of kneeling. Her every motion was a sinuous and seductive roll. “Am happy.”

She touched her forehead. “Changed Camia, here.” She looked suddenly confused. “Remember past. Camia not stupid like strumpet. Just . . .”

She drifted off. “Like fucking. Being fucked. Too much.”

She closed her eyes and hissed, clutching herself. Her warmth heated and excited Fabienne. “Want be fucked now. Want be fucked always.”

She grit her teeth and opened her eyes, her expression upon Fabienne savage.

“Should run now,” she told the free woman. “Go before master come back. Camia like being slave. But Camia wrong. Camia fucked.”

She turned from Fabienne and resumed her place at the wizard’s table, falling to her hands and knees. By the time she curled up again comfortably, Fabienne half-expected her to lick the back of her hands.

Fabienne took out a handkerchief and brushed her eyes.

Camia’s crude effort to warn her off had been sweet. But it had not had the effect the sex slave had desired, most likely. If anything, Camia’s broken-worded counsel had only further enthused Fabienne’s desire to become a slave, like her, or perhaps even like the silent and elegantly coutured Vitellia. All you think about is being fucked, the needy free woman thought, looking at Camia. Everything in your life is so simple, so beautiful. You have a master to serve. It was the thought of all the sex she would receive that made her want to switch places with the slutty little slave.

Perhaps it was a terrible thing to admit, but Fabienne enjoyed being fucked.

In many ways, it was as simple as that. She enjoyed being fucked so much, more than one of her lovers had called her little better than a slave. One had threatened to bind her and sell her, even going so far as to putting the rope around her wrists. But he had lost his courage and merely stopped seeing her. ‘If I want to use a slave,’ he had told her, ‘I’ll buy a slave.’ She hadn’t been a good enough fuck for him, she realized now. The wizard had been right: she could not compete with the pleasures offered by actual sex slaves. It was this truth that had brought her here today, to this restaurant. Of course, Fabienne knew there were other options for girls like her. There were other means at her disposal for becoming a slave and gaining a master for whom she could lust without shame. There was machinery, both legal and extralegal, available. The easiest would be for her to do as the wizard had suggested: visit some disreputable dive in a part of the city at night where the constables travel only in teams and offer herself to kidnappers like a graceful roomb to a hungry beast. ‘Such women are abducted and on a boat to De before morning,’ he had said. Certainly, too, she could skip the middlemen and always arrange to travel to De herself, find some prefect, and offer him her flesh directly. The northern island-republic had laws that made self-enslavement easy, especially for non-nobles. Arranging her self-enslavement while staying in Ehere-Demen would only be slightly more difficult. The lack of open slave markets in the Fivefold Bureaucracies meant that every exchange of slaves was a private transaction. Still, there were brokers in touch with the wizard orders to whom she could avail herself.

Fabienne knew she could do this. She had fantasized about it many times.

So why hadn’t she? Because those methods were too impersonal.

She wanted to be enslaved not because she was a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time, or a woman willing to offer herself to some official, but because her enslaver had seen her, talked to her, perhaps even had fucked her, and recognized something . . . something in her personally . . . that was worth the enslaving.

She wanted that accreditation. She wanted the personal recognition that she was a female worth something . . . a woman worthy enough for a man to buy.

For a long time she could tell no one. From her teenage years on, seeing the desire in men’s eyes whenever they gazed upon a slave in public, or when they spoke of slaves among themselves, and Fabienne could hear the masculine lust in their voices, she had dreamt to be the inspiration for such feelings herself.

She wanted to be lusted after like a slave. Prior to accepting this truth about herself, in her romances with men, Fabienne had always felt inferior to the sex slave. The men would court her, yet inside she knew they were dreaming of slaves.

Whenever they made love to her, she knew it was a fucktoy to whom she was being compared.

They were meaningless sluts. Yet the feelings they aroused were so much more powerful than what she, as a mere free woman, could inspire. It was a hard thing: lonely nights, feelings of desolation, feelings of worthlessness, the cold knowledge that however close she got to a man would never be enough to fully eclipse the raw lusty dreams he had of fucking a slave.

Those were her reasons for accepting the wizard’s invitation.

She hoped he would accept her.

Behind a cleverly constructed facade that separated Nannus’ private dining room from a service hallway, the Man-Wizard Eudleius, of the male Hythcosnim Order, watched his guest take her seat after a brief yet interesting confrontation with Camia. He had half-expected her to flee.

Would he have gone after her, had she chosen flight? He wasn’t sure.

Beside him, Eudleius’ wife, the Woman-Wizard Socellia, of the Hythcosnim’s female counterpart, the Jhinnetnim, also surreptitiously observed upon the chamber and its occupant.

Vitellia, returned after five years and nine owners to her original wizard-enslaver, stood placidly nearby.

Not for the first time, Eudleius admired the svelte form of his spouse. Clad in a thin but elegant Eherean dress, stylish, not slavish, she yet appeared not altogether dissimilar from the enslaved Vitellia; and once again the man-wizard wished he could truly make this woman his own, burn a Chain into Socellia’s thigh, and proclaim his total ownership over her. He wondered if she held similar fantasies about him.

“Well?” he asked. “Is she under the influence of an ensorcellment or not?”

His wife spoke but chose not to turn from the one-sided view of Eudleius’ guest.

“And if her mind has been so compromised, you intend to spurn her, as you claimed you would?”

Ah, Eudleius thought, smiling. She wants to engage. “That is what I said.”

“I do not believe you,” Socellia said. “You like this woman. I like this woman. She possesses an admirable candor. I am tempted to take her away from you.”

“You could try,” Eudleius said. He turned toward his guest. “It would be embarrassing when you failed.” Eudleius liked his wife—he did not love her, she had only been assigned to him to further complement the alliance between their wizardly orders—but he enjoyed their bantering and discussion . . . and the sex, too, of course. He might actually love her if he owned her.

Socellia closed the panel between the two rooms.

“You summoned me to probe her mind and see if she was under the influence of another’s magic, to see if her memories had been altered. Yet I think you lose no matter what I say. If I call the woman in there a slut who will find happiness only with a slave’s fire burning between her thighs, will that assuage your conscience when you take her? You would be a mighty hypocrite, my husband.

“What if instead I said she is a hapless victim of the Nyccleth woman-wizard Menupao, who has instilled these shameful desires in her merely to play upon your well-known appetites and predilections?

“If you reject her on those grounds, you will have been made a fool. Yet if you take her, you would be even more so a fool, for having been so easily manipulated.”

Socellia strolled past and gently stroked the side of the wizard’s neck, causing a tingle down to his ribs. Innocently, her eyes danced over everything in the room save him.

“Your only commendable choice would be to turn her over to me.”

Eudleius reopened the viewing panel. Part of what Socellia had said was true: the woman on the other side of the partition did seem as if she had been prepared for him. She possessed wit. She held taste. He liked her sense of humor, her amiability, her drive. These were aspects of character he would like preserved in her enslavement, elements which could be lost or even deliberately discarded in the hands of other, less discriminating enslavers.

Camia could still swing a mean frying pan when sufficiently provoked.

Eudleius liked slaves with fire in them. And this one was already a slut: if what she had said was true, she held amazing sexual potential. Enslaving her would be an absolute pleasure.

He even liked her looks, despite what he had said. Hers was still but an unrefined prettiness, lacking either the generational breeding of nobility or the influence of a woman-wizard. Yet her flesh would shape well, he was certain, under the magical influence of his wife. Just viewing her made his cock twitch.

She was perfect. Had he have come to known her under almost any other circumstance, he would have grabbed her at once and made her his own. And that was exactly what concerned him.

Eudleius didn’t trust such a combination to coincidence. It was too pat. “If I should take her regardless of her wishes,” he said, stalling for time to think, “or yours, or anyone else’s, neither a fool nor a hypocrite would I be. Merely an enslaver.”

He took his wife’s hand into his own and gently kissed it.

She’s one of yours, he decided, meeting Socellia’s gaze. You ensorcelled her mind, prepared her for me in accord with my tastes, which are so well known to you, as yours are to mine.

Why? Eudleius could only guess.

The girl Fabienne could be a gift. She could be a warning. She could be any number of symbolic messages from his wife or her wizardly order. The real question was whether he should accept this gift. The wizard rubbed his thumb over his wife’s soft hand. Eudleius was certain—reasonably certain, anyway—that neither Socellia nor the Jhinnetnim meant him any harm. Would the acceptance of a gift he neither completely understood nor could wholly appreciate in all its no doubt intricate feminine nuances hinder his masculine enjoyment of it, whether intended as insult or not?

Inside his head, he shrugged. Certainly not. He was too much of a man-wizard—too much of a man!—to be concerned with such petty, frivolous things.

Eudleius decided.

“So, my darling wife,” he said, without missing a beat, “the girl will be mine . . . not because she wishes it, or another wishes it”—I know what you did, his stare informed Socellia, and furthermore I know you know I know what you did, you clever little ramanyx—“but because I wish it.”

He released her hand. “Do you wish to dispute my claim, Socellia?”

The woman-wizard stood a moment, face unbiased. “Who am I to dispute a manly prerogative, husband?” she stated at length. “The girl’s mind is untampered. She is a natural slut. I wish you every enjoyment of her flesh.” She lifted her hands in a graceful, dismissive gesture and stepped back.

Eudleius did not believe his wife for an instant. “Darling,” he said, kissing her chastely upon the lips.

He closed the viewing panel defiantly.

With a final half-bow to his wife, the man-wizard took his leave. A few minutes later there was the sound of an ecstatic cry from the next room, followed shortly thereafter by a series of other equally feminine exhalations, from two different throats.

Socellia smiled. Of course Camia would join in on the fun.

Socellia chose not to take in the sight of the threesome. She spoke to Vitellia. “You will join them if he calls upon you. In the meantime, fetch Nannus and have him prepare a coach. I am going home.”

“Yes, mistress,” the silk-slave said. “At once, mistress.” The woman-wizard watched the pretty toy glide off.

When alone, she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of her husband breaking in his new slave . . . rather loudly and boorishly to her discriminating sense. But then he was a man, and men were by nature loud and boorish. They couldn’t help it. And she couldn’t say she didn’t like it herself.

Though barred by gender in her ability to read her husband’s mind, Socellia nonetheless knew what the man-wizard had been thinking. No trick, husband, she thought, a half-smile lighting her features. Save the one you have played upon yourself in the absence of a trick. The girl is exactly what she said she is, and she is exactly what I said she is. Just a slut, needing only the refinement of magic to achieve perfection.

With difficulty, she restrained laughter, listening to the sounds of her man-wizard husband’s conquest. Well, perhaps a little noise now and then wasn’t quite so bad.

How little he understood. How little men understood.

Eudleius believed she had tampered with the girl’s mind, as threat, message, and gift all-in-one, and Socellia would continue to let him think that . . . for a little paranoia was a good thing, in both marriage and wizardly partnerships. In short order, she could expect an expensive, reciprocating gift, for doing really nothing. A victory for her with no discernible defeat for him—the only truly perfect conquest.

And the girl? Why, for her, being conquered was her conquest. For once, everyone was happy.

“Natural slut, indeed,” Socellia whispered, and laughed.

As if there could be any other kind.