The Office of Female Transitions
Leiselude knelt in her customary position at the side of her handler’s writing table. A cushion nestled beneath her knees, the only barrier separating her from the richly carpeted floor. Per her place, in law, custom, and personal disposition, she kept her face directed so as to gaze upon the lavish mosaic before her. While her legs were held primly together, as usual her hands were bound behind the small of her back, in shackles. It was not an altogether comfortable carriage. On the other hand, she could at least rest her ass on the back of her legs.
Long practice made the pose tolerable. That, and utter loving devotion to her handlers.
As was the custom for slaves in the Empire, Leiselude had been shorn almost entirely of hair. Her scalp was well-shaven and sleekly bare, as was the length of her luscious, pale body. Even her eyebrows had been removed. The only visible hair was her eyelashes. Among her duties and functions, Leiselude was a sex slave: it pleased the men of the North to slake their lusts upon naked, smooth-skinned females.
Yet though she was bald and nude, it would not be fair to say she went unadorned. Leiselude’s makeup had been expertly applied, by attendants, as it was every morning. Because of her current handler’s caste, her lips had been painted a bright, glistening gold. Her cheeks were similarly blushed in this artificial color, as were her eyes by an equally bright mascara.
There were other ornamentations of a more permanent variety. Set above Leiselude’s eyes was a tattooed ring of symbols, letters in a magical alphabet, circling her head in an unbroken band, front and back. These letters were about a half-inch high each, in pristine black ink. They stood in dramatic contrast to the rest of her white, unblemished flesh. A second tattooed band circled her chest across the heart, the letters rising there with the swell of her bosom. Smaller rings in turn, with smaller letters, surrounded each nipple, simultaneously emphasizing the ample perfection of her breasts while tempting their exploration to a man’s hands.
Finally, a ring of tattoos encircled Leiselude’s hips. The band in front was positioned so that the letters spelled out just above her bare cunt. They rose in back, however, to frame her impeccable buttocks.
Cunt. Heart. Brain.
First Ring. Second Ring. Third Ring.
Leiselude’s forehead bore a name, similarly tattooed in black yet in a plainer script for all to read and understand. A contrasting web of inky, latticed gold covered the whole top of her denuded scalp, like a mesh skullcap, surrounded in turn by another ring of inked magical symbols, in black. As a set, these embellishments would make it plain to anyone in the Empire, and to many outside it, that they adorned a piece of property. There were other, less obvious utilities to these decorations, but they did that first, and always: identify their bearer as a slave.
Seated behind the desk, to Leiselude’s left, she heard the rasp of her present handler reading through a series of documents. Without looking, she listened to him breathing. Though she kept her eyes in the correct direction, submissively down, through experience she knew these papers he held were stiff and powdery, as if starched. When he handled them, they did not fold. Rather like these documents, Leiselude’s current trainer was a thin, short man who possessed a strength and will his size and gaudy appearance might otherwise conceal. His flesh, his lips and cheeks especially, was dyed a golden bright shade of yellow, metallic in hue, giving him the appearance of a little statuette given life and movement.
When he blushed, there was a bluish, not at all pinkish, tint to his golden cheeks. Leiselude, too, blushed blue beneath the gold and white, and this was the natural color of her lips as well. Artificial coloring aside, her handler’s nose was by far the most prominent feature of his face, eclipsing all else. Many found this protuberance ugly or ungainly. Combined with his lack of height, he had often been made the butt of humor, before his elevation.
Leiselude loved this handler’s big nose. She loved his big cock. She loved everything about him.
His motions were deliberate, precise—she loved watching him, when she was afforded the privilege to watch him. When he read, he would peruse every line before him, slowly and with great care. Like many privileged of the Empire, his age was indeterminate. While the face appeared youthful, the mannerisms he displayed were not. He used spectacles, and in his dress and fussy ways—the way he held his hands high in the air when he moved, the steady pace of his every step, as if afraid of falling—he exhibited a scholarly, abstracted air. Depending on the light, if one did not know him, he could be seen as either student or sage. This erudition was reflected in the book-lined walls of his office, which combined the necessary austerity of his station with a learned man’s need for esoterica. The garments he wore were dark green and voluminous, with many hidden pockets and seams. Once, he grunted softly, under his breath, in response to some matter in the unbending pages before him; and Leiselude, eager to please, quick to respond, almost rose, drawing closer to her handler in ingrained habit. He noticed—he noticed everything—but said nothing, merely clicked his tongue at her in mild disapproval.
Feeling shame, for even that barely muttered reproof hurt her worshipful heart, Leiselude silently resolved to serve this handler better, to be ever the more pleasing slave to him. This was a vow she repeated several times a day.
In front of her handler’s desk were two heavy, wooden doors. Though placed close together along the same wall, they led to two entirely separate suites. It was not unusual for a woman—almost always women—to enter through the one and exit the other.
In fact, this was the overwhelming state of affairs.
At length, Leiselude heard this handler, the High Officer of Female Transitions, tap the papers in front of him together into a neat pile and place them in an envelope. Though she maintained her eyes on the carpet, the slave repositioned herself on her cushion, with her back a little straighter now. She heard him pull out another envelope from the organizer next to his hands, open it, and remove the stiff papers inside, readying them before him. He tapped the papers several times to make sure they were even.
He then rang the bell on the other side of his desk, the signal he was ready to begin.
The door on the left opened. A female figure, apparently nude, in shimmering all-black, glided serenely in. She was a rubber-slave, designatum class, and bore a number—“14517”—emblazoned in white across her forehead, in the same spot Leiselude bore her denotatum.
The woman, ebony body flickering with each step, hips rolling, the light from the gas lamps sparkling off her every polished curve, strolled sexily to the front of the desk. Her high heels appeared physically connected to her feet. Her sexy walk, an undulating glide that screamed for carnal plunder, was exclusively that of a sex slave that has been fucked often, wants to be fucked again, and, indeed, lives for fucking. No free woman could emulate it: it was as much training and aptitude as experience.
The rubber-slave stopped before Leiselude’s handler, lifting her boobs for examination. Had she not been moving previously, had Leiselude not been familiar with what a rubber-slave was, the slave, 14517, could easily have been mistaken for a life-size, manufactured doll.
Her glossy, unnatural appearance gave the impression, deceptively, of being wet.
She looked moist and synthetic, as if she had only been pressed from an industrial mold within the last few minutes: rubber poured in, allowed to cool, then snapped out. Rubber was imported from the Jungle Continent. The cured final product was a popular commodity among the Empire’s higher castes, both for its slick texture and its easy clean-up.
14517 appeared either to be coated in this glossy black substance or made completely thereof.
Her body possessed the same shapely outline as Leiselude: large breasts, narrow waist, long legs. But the shiny black composition made her look wholly like an automaton . . . which she was.
The face was mask-like, the same face as every other rubber-slave, the eyes simultaneously alive yet devoid of consciousness. Missing a nose, the noteworthy feature of this mass-produced face was its mouth. Through their shape and consistency, the rubber-slave’s lips suggested their almost sole purpose: to provide her handlers exquisite blowjobs.
“This slave is here to serve you, excellency,” 14517 said, in a throaty voice, deep yet unmistakably female. This husky tone was the same for every rubber-slave in the Empire, Leiselude knew. “How may this slave see to your pleasure?”
“It would please me if the slave would recount how it became a slave,” Leiselude’s handler said.
“This slave accepted bribes from members of the Bronze and Copper castes in exchange for swaying court decisions in their favor. This slave had influence then among the sheriffs of the Western Shires. For money, this slave allowed a group of landlords to purchase coastal estates without the necessary caste licenses, in exchange for a percentage of their rent-farming profits reaped from the Base Castes and the Dommodonan peasantry-in-exile.” There was no note of shame or remorse in these admissions. 14517’s recitation was rapid and guiltless because the offenses described were performed by the free woman she had once been, not the slave she now was. She was not the same person at all.
In fact, the rubber-slave, designated 14517, was no longer a person at all. To robot status had she been reduced.
“So,” Leiselude’s handler said, his voice clipped and nasal. “The slave was guilty of not one but two offenses. Does it understand?” He brushed a thoughtful finger against his gold-painted lips.
“Yes, excellency,” 14517 said. “That was made clear to this slave when the charges were read to it prior to its transformation. This slave’s first offense was the acceptance of graft. This slave’s second offense was undermining the primacy of the castes. This slave allowed Bronze and Copper caste members to achieve illicit power over a member of the Silver, this slave, thereby lessening the rightful authority of the Silver caste over Bronze and Copper. Accordingly, this slave was expelled from the Registry of Metals and made a slave.”
“By what means were these offenses brought to light?”
“This slave was accused by a fellow member of the Silver caste with knowledge of these offenses, who brought evidence to the sheriffs of the Southwestern Coast of this slave’s crimes in the form of papers, eyewitnesses, and bank records.”
“Does the slave know the identity of this witness?” the High Officer, Leiselude’s handpicked handler, her preferred handler of the moment, asked.
“This slave was never informed of the identity of the witness.”
“Did the slave’s attorneys not object to this apparent injustice?”
“Yes, excellency. Nevertheless, when the sheer abundance of evidence against this slave was brought forth, the sheriffs were unimpressed with the arguments submitted by this slave’s advocates. Moreover, because of the nature of this slave’s second offense, the undermining of the primacy of the castes, the sheriffs were of the opinion that a rapid and decisive example needed to be made of this slave, to discourage future offenders. Accordingly, this slave was convicted and sentenced to be transformed into a mere rubber-slave, without identity, as if it had been expelled from one of the low castes.”
Leiselude’s handler nodded. Apparently satisfied with 14517’s answers, he rang the bell a second time. The door to the left opened again. Two tall, snow-pale men stepped in. They were naked. Between them, their hands on her arms to steady and guide her, they escorted a pretty, deceptively young woman in a diaphanous shawl, bringing her, like the rubber-slave, to the front of the High Officer’s desk.
The men were slaves. Hairless, they were as mannishly muscled and handsome as Leiselude was soft and femininely curvaceous. Like her, their bodies bore rings at the groin, at the heart, and at the brain. Their foreheads, too, again like Leiselude, bore names, not numbers. Hence, they were unique slaves, not robots, like the rubber-slave. Status was important in the Empire, even among the owned.
Influenced by their First Rings, the male slaves’ almost perpetual erections were enormous, quivering with constant need. These organs of pleasure, for men or women, as the case may be, had been tattooed, as Leiselude’s tits had been tattooed. Leiselude licked her lips, staring at these sizable cocks. It was hard not to be distracted by them. Her own First Ring filled her with an unceasing desire to be fucked, too; and were it not for the Rings of Love and Obedience ringing her heart and brain, and the more mundane cuffs set around her wrists, it would have been impossible for her not to have thrown herself at their feet and beg to be raped hard, not that such pleading would have done her any good.
Male slaves were notoriously impotent with female slaves. It was part of the magic that bound them.
Leiselude returned her attention to where it should have been. She chastised herself for being so easily distracted.
The delivered woman remained where she had been positioned, a trifle unsteady. She was silent, her gaze unfocused, her body held ready for inspection. Her hands rested at her sides, half-open, delicately manicured. Her skin and lips, flushed, glistening with moisture, were, like Leiselude’s handler, dyed a shiny metallic shade. Unlike his own coloring, however, hers was a shiny, light gray: Silver caste.
With a practiced whip of their hands, the slaves pulled away the wrap. The woman stood revealed, then, more naked even than the four slaves in the room, for her body lacked rings, tattoos, or costumes of any sort. Leiselude’s handler gestured, holding his index finger up and twirling it at the ceiling.
The male slaves guided the Silver-caste woman, made her spin about. They looked upon her hungrily, cocks enthused.
By this time, Leiselude was as good an appraiser of female flesh as had been her many handlers.
The woman’s pirouette showed her curves off to best advantage. Her backside proved as ideally rondured as the front. Everything about her was tone, from the flawlessness of her tiny feet—each toenail painted silver—to her sleek thighs and the bare, silver-lipped crease between. Her hair was bright and bouncy, platinum-blonde, in the style of their beloved ruler. She was a beautiful woman, though obviously not—yet—as exquisitely fuckable as only a fully transformed female slave could be.
Her boobs were too small. That point aside, however, her beauty was still clearly magical. The woman was simply too absolutely flawless for her to be entirely a product of nature. Apart from her gleaming metallic face, there wasn’t a hint of individuality to her: no scars, no freckles, no marks on her skin whatsoever. Her skin was as soft as a baby’s, as if never having been exposed to the conditions of the world at all. She was not the first High Registry woman Leiselude had seen who had employed magic to make herself superbly beautiful; Leiselude suspected this woman would be far from her last. But it always left her to question their motives, knowing how well she did how much the men of the Empire enjoyed making slaves of superbly beautiful women.
Leiselude looked for some change in this Silver-caste woman’s expression, now that she was here; but there was none. Her lips—full and luscious, painted an even brighter tint of silver to match her nails, nipples, and cunt—were open, eager. Her gaze, however, was thoroughly empty. It possessed the queerly unfocused stare of a person wearing a control crown, which indeed she was, the only jewelry with which she had been ornamented. The metal circlet lay over her lovely forehead.
The crown, and the control, suited her, both the simple design and the obedience it lent highlighting the rest of her unnatural beauty. She was, Leiselude knew, seeing her, her handler, the male slaves, the rubber-slave; yet, at the same time, not seeing any of them, not seeing anything, really. She was lost in a dream world and would remain so until the thin silver crown was lifted from her brow.
Leiselude’s handler gave the male slaves the command to do exactly that.
The nude woman’s eyes immediately started fluttering. The strength visibly fled her legs. She would have fallen had the two male slaves not continued to hold her up. The expression on her face passed from drowsy tranquility to uneasy wakefulness to complete confusion within the span of but a few seconds. She tried to lift a hand, probably to touch her face, but the grip of the slaves prevented her; and it was only through this aborted attempt that she seemed to realize that she was being held by men.
Her head snapped back. Her eyes flashed, and she gave an inarticulate yell, followed by a unreservedly futile attempt to break free of her two captors.
“What is this!?” she yelled, when her voice came back to her. “Let me go! Let me go!” She sounded scared, angry, and disbelieving, all at once.
It was not an atypical reaction of women brought to this room.
“This is an adjudication of the High Office of Female Transitions,” Leiselude’s handler calmly told the woman. Aside from blinking, he had been unfazed by her violent gesticulations and yellings. “I am Chanihashar, High Officer for the Empress.”
“I demand to be released.” The woman continued to struggle until, either through exhaustion or perception that her struggles were useless, she stopped. “You have no right to hold me. Do you know who I am? Do you!?”
“I do. You are the Silver Eunsmulene,” Leiselude’s handler said, matter-of-factly. “You reside in the Fifteenth Shire of the Southwest. You have been brought to the capital to submit to this adjudication.”
The woman, Eunsmulene, looked down upon herself. “How dare you!” she screamed. “You have no right to do this! Release me!”
“I have every right,” Leiselude’s handler said. “Do you wish to hear the charges against you?”
The woman’s head snapped back again. Finally, she gave some indication that she knew where she was. “Wait! What?” She blinked. She looked at Leiselude’s handler, to Leiselude herself, then to the rubber-slave standing near her. “This . . this is a mistake. There’s been some mistake.”
“No mistake has been made. You are Eunsmulene of the Silver caste. You were born thirty years ago. Accordingly, ten years ago your age was arrested and your subsequent perpetual youth maintained through periodic treatments by a wand-slave.”
The High Officer, Leiselude’s handler, lifted a hand to point out the obvious, the woman’s absolute beauty and splendor. She did not appear thirty. She appeared years younger, almost teenage, in fact, so brimming was she with youth and vigor. Her age had been frozen, in emulation of their adored ruler, through magic. The pursuit of immortality was an oftentimes obsessive practice among the Shining Castes. “During your last youth treatment, the wand used in this transformation scanned your mind. This slave reported that you were the secret witness in the bribery case brought forth against your fellow caste member, Remapriya, now reduced to the rubber-slave, 14517.”
The woman, Eunsmulene, tried to pull back from the male slaves holding her. She failed. She shook her head in disbelief. “This can’t . . you can’t do that!”
“It was done,” Leiselude’s handler said flatly.
“I . . I didn’t know . . . they never told me the slave-wizards read your mind when you have your youth restored.” She shook her head. “That’s . . that’s not fair. That can’t be allowed!”
“It is allowed. Granted, the fact that wand-slaves perform these telepathic scans during the rejuvenation process is not well known. But this is deliberate. Many secrets of the high castes are uncovered during these procedures, such as, for instance, your complicity in the bribery case made against your unwitting co-conspirator, your fellow Silver-caste member, Remapriya.”
Eunsmulene looked again at the rubber-slave. “This . . this is Remapriya?”
“No,” Leiselude’s handler said. “This is rubber-slave 14517, that was formerly the Silver Remapriya.”
Eunsmulene closed her eyes for a minute, making an effort to collect herself.
“I . . I don’t understand any of this. Why have I been brought here? Why are you holding me prisoner?” Her lips trembled. “Please, give me some clothes. Please.”
She tried to cover herself and failed, still held firmly by men.
“You are not permitted clothing anymore,” Leiselude’s handler said. “After it was determined that you were the secret witness against Remapriya, one of the Southwest sheriffs began an investigation. In this investigation, it was determined that you too had received bribes from the same lower castes, as had Remapriya. It was also determined that, in an effort to forestall accusations made against you, you turned evidence against Remapriya. Evidently, you were aware of her crimes, though she was not aware of yours. You were therefore able to cover-up your crimes with hers.”
“How dare you, you squeaky little freak!? How dare you accuse me. You can’t say this to me! I demand to see my caste leader!” It always surprised Leiselude how so many of the women who came through her handler’s office felt they were invulnerable.
They generally learned differently.
“I can do this to you,” Leiselude’s handler told Eunsmulene. “I am the High Officer of Female Transitions. My appointment comes from the Platinum Empress herself.”
“I demand a trial!”
“You are not permitted a trial. An adjudication has been made. You are guilty of the same crimes of which Remapriya was guilty. Like her, you accepted bribes. Like her, you challenged the order and leadership of the castes. Adding insults to these injuries against the Empire, you skirted the responsibility for your crimes by hypocritically casting their sole blame onto an unwitting co-conspirator, and a fellow caste member at that, thereby letting her take whole responsibility, and consequently the most severe punishment.”
Leiselude’s handler shook his head.
“The Empress is not pleased. She feels this situation is inequitable. It is the responsibility of the Office of Female Transitions to make such necessary changes among women of the High Registry that the Empress feels is warranted. Therefore, you are to be enslaved.”
“No! No!” Eunsmulene struggled even more fiercely in the arms of the male slaves. Throughout this conversation, 14517 had stood silently, eyes down, completely unmoving. She had been and continued to be wholly indifferent to the person responsible for her downfall.
Leiselude, while still on her knees, positioned herself within reach of her handler. Without getting up, the High Officer Chanihashar placed his right hand on top of Leiselude’s bare head, in the spot marked by the golden lattice on her scalp. A warm, wet heat passed through the slave’s cunt, the characteristic reaction of her embonded body whenever a handler deigned to touch her. His fingers squeezed the top of her head, not painfully, but firmly, possessively.
She was his wand-slave.
“You are now to be bound by the First Ring,” her handler said to Eunsmulene. “The Ring of Lust.”
From memory, this short, long-nosed man, whom Leiselude adored and obeyed with every fiber of her being, recited a binding spell of enslavement. Barely were the words out of his mouth than Leiselude herself repeated them, word for word, in exactly the same cadence, in exactly the same intonation.
Around the golden circle on her head, the arcane letters of the tattoo, the transfer circle, glowed, the symbols charging from the energy she drew upon but which he directed, for she was his wand-slave, his familiar. This handler was sexy, powerful, commanding; but like all the others whom she had served, he had no psychic ability. None whatsoever.
He had the knowledge—he was an extremely learned man, this handler, so much so he had the confidence of the Empress herself—but not the actual ability to wield the magic of Ramanananan.
Even if he had, he still wouldn’t have been able to work a spell himself upon Eunsmulene.
The reason why was that he was male . . . very, very male. Leiselude worshipped her handlers’ always potent maleness. She lived for when they fucked her. Yet because they were men, no magic they could even have potentially cast on their own would ever have affected a woman. Magic worked by certain principles on Ramanananan, and the most basic principle was this: man-wizardry only worked on men, woman-wizardry only worked on women.
And that is why her handlers kept Leiselude at their side, and for which she was grateful: for her magic would work on women.
She repeated the words he spoke, precisely. Almost as soon as they were out of his mouth, they were in hers. The two of them were in perfect syncopation. Through the pressure he exerted with his hand, through the pauses in the breaths he took, through memorization and the long practices they had undertaken, her handler Chanihashar had refined her into the ideal instrument of his will, his principle spell device, his very own slave-wizard, his magic wand in carrying out the duties of his exalted position.
When he gripped her head, her handler’s words became her words; and her words invoked the magic.
They actually appeared, in fact, these words, charged by her psychic sensorium, by the tattoos on her scalp, her equivalent of a spellbook, in the air: fiery glowing syllables of force that emerged from Leiselude’s lips, like a pipe smoker blowing smoke rings.
The glowing words floated in the air, emerging from the slave-wizard’s mouth. They rose, as if suspended by invisible wires. Then they drew together into intricate lines of script and snaked their way toward Eunsmulene’s crotch, landing on her skin even as she struggled to avoid them, even as her eyes tried to disbelieve what they were seeing.
Where the burning script touched her skin, they blazed.
There was no pain, in this tattooing process; but there was permanence, as the words her handler spoke, and which Leiselude repeated, literally wrote themselves onto Eunsmulene’s flesh. A Ring of Lust formed about Eunsmulene’s hips, all but identical to the band about Leiselude’s.
Barely had the burning letters faded than the inscribed woman began to moan in need.
Her cunt, magically enslaved now, grew wet and engorged. Her nipples, too, hardened. She went flush. “No, please,” Eunsmulene groaned, a low moan, yet of monumental desire and appetite. All of a sudden she started to squirm, heatedly, like the slut she now was. She tried to plunge her hands onto herself, to touch herself, but she was kept from easily doing so by the men still holding her. “Hells, I need . . I need . . . oh, please, fuck me. Fuck me, please.”
She wept in frustration. The indignation and terror, in addition to the arrogance, had disappeared, their place taken by the emotions of a woman in a greater heat than any she had ever before known.
“I need a man,” Eunsmulene moaned. In desperation she turned to the slaves holding her, but as she pressed her body onto theirs, their erections wilted. Eunsmulene tried to go to her knees to suck them, yet they wouldn’t let her. She pounded on their chests in frustration. “His cock. Hells, I need to suck a cock. Please!” She let out an inarticulate scream, squeezing her legs together wildly.
Leiselude’s handler nodded to the male slaves.
They released her. Eunsmulene began masturbating furiously, falling onto herself with a wild cry. Her knees gave out on her. She dropped to the floor, hips rocking, legs switching back-and-forth.
First one hand, then the other plunged into her cunt, working frantically to achieve orgasm. Her legs spread wantonly, careless of whomever might be watching. Her eyes went blind with lust. She tried to fondle her breasts, yet it was clearly hard for the enraptured woman to draw her hands away long enough to do so. She tried to touch herself all over.
Her efforts, though strenuous, were, alas, utterly in vain.
Though their lust was overwhelming, slaves of the Empire climaxed only when fucked by their owners, or those designated by their owners, and only then on direct command. It was, again, part of the magic that bound them. A terrible, magical desire had been stirred in Eunsmulene’s flesh. It was a desire which could now only be satisfied through more magic.
“You are now to be bound by the Second Ring,” Leiselude’s handler said. Eunsmulene was oblivious. “The Ring of Love.”
The words spoken, first by her handler, then by Leiselude herself, then given a fiery third life as they floated between her and Eunsmulene, objectively sounded little different, or likewise read, either while suspended in the air, like little motes of flame sparked from a bonfire, or as they spelled themselves—literally, “spelled” themselves—onto Eunsmulene’s chest, from the words spoken and transcribed before. A layman would be hard pressed to tell the difference. The letters formed a newly blackened band over and across Eunsmulene’s breasts and back. To the non-expert, to the non-wizard, the symbols of this tattooed ring would be little distinguished from the one below, above Eunsmulene’s cunt. But they were. As they copied themselves onto her, as she was marked, the madly masturbating woman barely seemed to notice.
Yet, as the ring of tattoos completed itself, and the arcane letters flared once in unison before growing still and black, in permanent ink, Eunsmulene’s behavior again changed.
With a maudlin whimper, she pulled her hands from herself.
That she was still in a dire heat was apparent. Her breath remained heavy. Her nipples were still rigid with excitement. She dripped. But her eyes, while still full of desire, were also now filled with pain.
“For . . forgive me, excellency,” she pleaded to Leiselude’s handler. “I . . I beg your forgiveness.”
Without getting up, she bent forward. On her hands and knees, she shyly approached the desk. “I . . I . . ,” she started to say, and then choked back a sob. She touched herself once more, intimately.
She gazed upon Leiselude’s handler with eyes that could see only him.
“You’re so, you’re so beautiful,” the ensorcelled woman whispered in awe. “I mean, handsome. You’re so handsome, and I’m . . .” She shuddered. “I’m nothing! I’m, I’m nothing without you . . . without men!” Another shudder, as though barriers were crumbling inside her. “I love you.”
She clutched at her breasts. She offered them to the High Officer whom she had previously insulted.
“Please, please take me. I love you. I’m yours. I need to be yours.” She groaned in lust, in adoration. “I need your cock inside me. Please!” She wept.
Just as the First Ring filled a woman’s cunt with magical lust, so the Second Ring filled her heart (at least metaphorically) with love. It was the kind of all-consuming love that changed priorities. Ordinary love inspired ordinary self-sacrifice, a yearning to bring happiness and pleasure to someone else. It was selflessness. A slave’s Ring of Love brought about a total disregard for self. It made the possessor know herself to be less than another. It put the happiness and pleasure of others above her and above all other concerns in life. Probably for the first time in her life, Eunsmulene wanted to serve another.
Combined with the heat derived from her First Ring, above all else, she would want to serve sexually.
She was nearly already a slave. But there was more to come. Usually, enslavements like this were conducted publicly. Sometimes they were even performed collectively. It was an honor for the ex-Silver caste to be inducted this way, privately, by Leiselude’s handler. The shame of it was that Eunsmulene probably didn’t even appreciate this privilege.
“Stand,” the High Officer told the ex-caste. Reluctantly, Eunsmulene did. She was still weeping. Her hands were at her crotch. She had started fingering herself again. “You are now to be bound by the Third Ring,” Leiselude’s handler told her. “The Ring of Obedience.”
Leiselude repeated the spell given her. She spoke the words practically before they were half-uttered. Partially, this was because the spell was rote: while there was some variation depending on the individual (height, weight, sexual predilection), the fundamental formula was the same, long since memorized by herself and her handlers. What variation was required, and there were often subtle, on occasion gross, differences in word, tone, syllable, and pronunciation in every casting, was supplied by their thorough knowledge and experience. Had Chanihashar had even an iota of psychic ability, this current handler would have made a powerful wizard. The point was, they could both well enough look upon Eunsmulene and see precisely what needed to be done to make the enchantment. However, equally certain, much of what they did could not be accounted through repetition. Leiselude and her handlers had a rapport. More precisely, through discipline and training, her handlers had shaped her mind and innate magical ability into a reflection of their needs, and consequently she could anticipate those needs almost before they knew what they were themselves.
Leiselude had long since lost the capacity to cast a spell alone. She wasn’t certain she had ever possessed such an ability, it had been so long, and her training so intensive. Now, even had she the capacity, she wouldn’t have wanted it.
She was sometimes called a “slave-wizard,” but “wand-slave” was the more accurate descriptor: she was but a magical instrument for another’s will, and that is what she most wanted to be . . . not that she had any choice in the matter. She was an empty vessel into which her handlers, all of them, over the years, had each poured their intellects. Certainly, there had been a loss of ego; but she was a slave, and that was only to have been expected.
She bore a Ring of Love herself, after all.
The final enslaving spell, cast so in unison it sounded at times as if spoken with only one voice, by only one multi-gendered person, the fiery letters given life by magic, emerged once more from Leiselude’s lips—as proficient in providing her users impeccable blowjobs as impeccable spells—and settled onto Eunsmulene’s brow.
Aside from shivering a little, the woman didn’t move, didn’t try to avoid the spell spilling down upon her.
She wanted to be pleasing.
Once fallen upon her, the letters formed a headband about Eunsmulene’s temple. They glowed going on, and for a minute afterwards their glow migrated to the Second and Third Rings Eunsmulene already sported. As if under the heat of this collective radiance—head, chest, hips—the woman’s hair began to melt away, dissolving into nothingness.
Eunsmulene’s eyes also glowed. A fundamental change was occurring inside her head. The war of emotions on her face gradually came to an end. The lips trembling from frustrated desire, the tears flowing from regretted conceit, the eyes shining as much from thwarted ambition as mind-dominating magic: they smoothed out, grew calm, cast aside their cares, and a whole new demeanor asserted itself.
At length, the radiance, in the tattoos, behind her eyes, dimmed. Her hair shrank from the bottom upward, succumbing to the last bit of magical light, and ultimately vanishing, leaving the new female slave as bald and smooth as Leiselude and the two male slaves were.
Her hands drew away from her cunt and assumed a relaxed position at her sides. Her breathing settled.
Her face took on a composed air. The new slave—no longer the Silver-caste member Eunsmulene, but just another female slave—spoke.
“This slave is here to serve you, excellency. How may this slave see to your pleasure?”
The voice was relaxed, tranquil, at peace with herself, yet brimming with sexual arousal.
It was the voice of female slavery.
Leiselude’s handler dismissed the male slaves, who left the way they came in. Once again, he twirled his finger toward the ceiling. The new slave slowly rotated, showing off the completeness of the three rings girding her embonded body. Without hair, without even eyebrows, the new slave looked radically different from the free woman she had been but minutes ago. Her skin was paler than it had been previously, for the magical fires that had burned on her tattoos had also bleached away her cosmetics.
Her skin, no longer silver—Silver—was but now the snow pale, slightly bluish natural tint of the North, without caste. The slave stopped in her original position. Leiselude’s handler once more put his hand to her head. There was yet more work to be done to perfect this former Silver for her future station in life.
No longer would Eunsmulene be enjoying the fine luxuries of a country home. No longer would she recline on a couch as slaves brought her and her guests food and drink or offered themselves for their sexual pleasure. Soon enough, she would be the slave who brought free people food and drink; she would be the one offering the delights of her embonded body and the service of her lips and cunt.
The world had lost another spoiled member of the Shining Castes. Yet it had gained a newly enslaved fucktoy. Few could deny that this was a more than equitable exchange.
Leiselude’s handler recited a spell. Leiselude repeated it. The words emanated from her lips as two glowing rings of fire, made of burning letters. These smaller circles thereby descended onto the female slave’s breasts, the glow surrounding her nipples, marking her, further identifying her as property.
Under the effect of this latest magic, the former Eunsmulene’s boobs began to grow.
The slave’s blue-white flesh rippled. The merely large, hand-sized breasts once possessed by the free woman named Eunsmulene swelled as if air were being pumped into them. Surrounded by the still-fiery tattoos, the nipples grew dark and permanently engorged, permanently in invitation. Already lovely breasts transformed into huge, round, sportsball-sized tits, the slave’s back arching to support their cumbersome new weight. There were other effects as well. The slave’s backside grew tighter. Her waist shrank. The tendons of her ankles transformed: in order to support herself the new slave had to go to her toes, in anticipation of the slutty high heels she would have to wear for the rest of her life.
By the time the slave’s nipples ceased blazing, and a pair of neat tattooed circles had formed to neatly surround them, the body of the former Silver Eunsmulene resembled a living doll’s more than it did the normally proportioned female figure she had possessed previously.
Missing only a name or a number atop her forehead, she looked very much, at this point, like the wand-slave Leiselude. Only previously close friends would recognize the former high caste in this freshly-minted, erotically-charged creature.
However, if Leiselude had guessed right, even this slight resemblance would soon disappear.
Her handler spoke to the rubber-slave, still unmoved—either physically or emotionally—from before. “14517,” he said. “Stand next to the slave.”
“Yes, excellency,” she said. And the rubber-slave took a position by her former accuser.
Leiselude lowered her head in anticipation. Sure enough, her handler touched her transfer circle again.
He mouthed the words of the next spell. She repeated them, only a beat behind. Magic surged through Leiselude’s cuffed body. Power vibrated along her nerve endings. Invisible forces were bent, through her, to the will of this handler.
He certainly could not see these forces, but she could, at least; and that was enough.
No fiery words stemmed from the wand-slave’s mouth this time. Nonetheless, telekinesis was directed onto the black, shining form of the rubber-slave. Slowly at first, then in a rapid and molten dissolution, the black rubber melted off her body. As the shimmering material drained away, the pallid top of a woman’s head emerged from the mask-like visage, which, white numbers, mouth, and all, soon too dissolved, leaving a beautiful female face and head behind. The rubber liquefied too from the huge, bouncy breasts, slid down the slave’s narrow waist, drew away from every delectable curve and hip, eventually trickling down the slave’s legs to form a pool of oily blackness at her feet.
By the time the wand-slave had finished performing this spell, an ordinary, naked female slave, all but identical to the other, hairless ordinary slave, also ringed by tattoos, also name or numberless, stood in heels in the midst of this oil patch.
Leiselude took deep breaths. She wasn’t tired, as such. She was, however, in a great wet heat, fueled by her enchantments. She needed fucking. But this conversion ritual was not yet complete, and all was in the will of her handlers. She would not fail this one, any of them.
“The slaves will switch places,” Leiselude’s handler commanded the former Remapriya and Eunsmulene.
“Yes, excellency,” the former rubber-slave said. She stepped out of her heels, leaving them in the midst of the tar-like material. Gracefully, she skipped over the pool and onto the carpet.
“Yes, excellency,” the recent Silver-caste member said. She stepped over the pool of black rubber and into the waiting heels. They then both took the same stances as before, in reverse. All was ready.
Leiselude took a deep breath, summoning up her strength, the way an athlete will draw upon the reserves of energy that only training and intensive conditioning can build. She was, herself, a well-trained wand, a magical thoroughbred, of a kind. Her diet was the best. She was raped regularly.
Her handler gripped the top of her head.
Energy drawn from the planet below swelled through Leiselude’s body. She directed it toward the former Eunsmulene. The liquid black rubber bubbled. It swirled around the slave’s feet, like two mini-whirlpools. Tendrils of ooze crept up the stilettos and onto her feet and ankles, fusing all in glistening ebony. The liquid rubber bathed her legs in smooth sable, elegantly merging the heels with the limbs themselves, making inky sculptures of them, marvels of midnight perfection. The rubber slunk over the slave’s hips and up her mid-section, enveloping her now enormous breasts and sliding down each arm, coating them in shimmering flawlessness. And then the liquid worked up to the slave’s head and face.
Minutes later, the spell was complete. Her handler patted her gently on the side of the face, and that made it all worth it. She had pleased her handler! Her cunt vibrated in heat and excitement.
Because of her, she preened, once again a slickly attractive rubber-slave stood in the room. Even the number of her designatum, “14517,” had been reinstituted. There was no trace in the black, shiny figure of the former high caste brought into the room earlier.
She had pleased her handler!
“The slave is now 14517,” the High Officer told the refurbished former Eunsmulene. “It will take the place of the former 14517 in the brothel to which it was previously assigned in the Fifteenth Shire.”
After her enslavement, Remapriya had been made to serve low castes in the very community she had once helped administer. A suitably ironic gesture.
Eunsmulene would take her place.
“Yes, excellency,” 14517—the new 14517—said. “This slave is pleased to serve.” The voice was the same as every other rubber-slave. The exchange would likely go unnoticed. Rubber-slaves served mostly on their backs or on their knees—the same statement could be made of other female slaves, but in the case of rubber-slaves it was even truer—and any slight diminishment in 14517’s skills would pass undetected by the less-discerning Base Castes or casteless. And in any event it would not take the new slave long to learn the basics, which is all that would be required of her.
“The slave will never reveal that a switch has been made. No one is to know that it had once been the Silver Eunsmulene. Does it understand?”
“Yes, excellency. This slave understands. It is pleased to serve.”
“The slave will leave,” Leiselude’s handler told her, and he directed the rubber-slave to the door to the right. In the meantime, the recently rubber-clad former Remapriya waited patiently for her disposition. She would not be freed, of course. She was still guilty of the crimes she had committed. This transition had not been instituted for her benefit—she was a slave.
A balance had been put right, that was all, on the command of the Empress.
The High Officer, Leiselude’s handler, stood for the first time during this transition. So short that even when he crouched, there was little significant difference in height, he bent, hands high, down next to Leiselude. Putting his mouth to her ear, he darted his tongue at her for just an instant. Meanwhile, his hands clasped his familiar’s breasts and squeezed. He reached down between her legs, which she had already parted, turning towards him, and put his fingers inside her, stroking her, bringing her almost to climax, so keen and responsive an instrument he had trained her to be.
“My Excellency,” she whispered, turning her lips to him and delicately kissing his cheek.
“The slave will be fucked soon,” he whispered back.
This was all that was necessary. Blood racing, heart primed, magic summoned in the invigorating slave-heat he had generated in her, Leiselude stretched out her psychic sensorium again. Her handler stood and put his hand on the back of her head. She felt her own bodily wetness there.
His words, then Leiselude’s words, spun out, assumed a fiery heat, and floated across the desk to the waiting slave, where they settled onto her forehead, below the Third Ring. A name—a denotatum—was painlessly burned onto her: “Remapriya.”
She was now a named slave. She was now Remapriya. Not the high-caste, Silver Remapriya. But a mere slave so designated, for the sake of convenience, “Remapriya.” In the Empire, there was a significant difference.
Leiselude’s handler returned to his seat behind the desk (it had an extra cushion for height). “The slave will be taken to auction,” he informed the now denotated slave. “There she will be sold.”
“Yes, excellency,” Remapriya said. “This slave is pleased to serve.”
“The slave is dismissed.” And with his chin he indicated to the right.
On the other side of that door, Remapriya would be met by attendants, mostly other slaves, mostly male slaves, and brought to the appropriate parties with the appropriate paperwork. Handwritten copies of the High Officer’s settlement of the matter would be filed in the Empress’ archives.
Two more women had passed through the Office of Female Transitions, leaving much changed from the way in which they had entered. The Matter of Remapriya and Eunsmulene had been resolved.
Rubber-slave 14517, formerly Eunsmulene of the Silver Caste, would be packaged in a crate and mailed to the Fifteenth Shire. There, she would take her place in the same bed and alcove her predecessor had occupied, rarely, if ever, to leave again until she was replaced with a fresher fucktoy. Her days and nights would be spent pleasing the men, and the occasional woman, who paid their lead or iron, copper or bronze coin, an animate sexdoll for their amusement. At the same time, Remapriya, formerly Remapriya also late of the Silver Caste, would be sold off an auction block somewhere there in Gleaming Su’um itself, likely for a higher sum, likely to be paid in bronze or even brass—conceivably even in silver, though that would be a rare and terribly ironic gesture—and end up serving a private owner. As a domestic plaything, she might then give pleasure singly or as part of a stable. Either way, she would make a delightful toy, a far better use of her talents than as a coin-hungry accepter of bribes.
Monumental changes for them. Just another morning’s work for Leiselude and her handler.
Leiselude resumed her place beside her handler’s desk, on her cushion. Chanihashar, meanwhile, pulled out another envelope and read through its stiff contents.
Presently enough, he tapped the bell on his desk.
Back to work.