The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Morning

“In a few moments, Theta, I’m going to gently lift you out of of your trance. You’ve been under for a very long time, and it will be a long journey back up, but I’ll be with you for every part of it. I’m going to count from one to ten. With every number, you’re going to feel more of the wonderful deep potential energy of your trance convert into active energy. You will feel just a little bit more alert, a little more awake, and by the time that I count the last number, you will be fully conscious. You will emerge relaxed, refreshed, and content. You will remember all of the instructions that I’ve given you, and they’ll be tucked away in your subconscious, where you’ll be able to follow them easily and naturally, just like you’ve been doing. And you should know that I am happy with how well you’ve performed them…”

Her voice slows, takes on a tone of great import.

“…and, Theta, I especially want you to know that I am very proud of you.”

A brief pause.

“I’m going to start counting now. With One, you’re going to feel just a tiny bit of warmth and energy, as if you’ve slept in on a beautiful morning, and the sun is beginning to show through your window…“

Your eyelids flutter with every number as Cora slowly brings you up. It seems like an eternity, but there are no clocks, just her voice, and your time is ultimately at her command.

“… and with Ten, you are fully back, fully suffused with warm positive energy, refreshed from your time in trance. It’s a beautiful day in the city. Theta… how are you feeling?“

You open your eyes. You’re in a bed, soft white sheets, abundant pillows, dressed in comfortable two-piece python print pajamas. Your mistress sits in a chair by the bed, in a simple grey shift dress, those impossible emerald green reptile eyes open wide, eager to drink in every photon of you.

You’re certain you have a sleepy smile on your face.

“I feel very good, Mistress. It… feels like a lot happened. May I ask a question about the status of my task?”

She nods. “You may, Theta.”

“Did we get it done?”

Cora grins, unabashedly displaying row after row of fangs. She reaches for your hands and gives them an affectionate squeeze and doesn’t let go.

“We got it done!”

“H—” One of your instructions kicks in. You instantly rephrase your request in the proper format. “Mistress, may I ask a detailed question about the status of my task?“

“You may!” Still grinning.

“How?”

“Ah, now,” she says. ”That’s a story. How about I tell you over lunch? Are you hungry?“

There’s a slight whiff of in-progress cuisine in the air. Mealtimes are something different, special, just slightly outside the normal parameters of your relationship, and her questions don’t compel an answer as they normally would; she genuinely just wants to know if you’re hungry. You catch the scent of fresh bread, five-spice mix, cilantro.

“Bánh mì?”

Cora nods. “Yes!”

You lean in to hug her. “The answer is absolutely yes.”

As you nibble the end of your crispy catfish bánh mì, Cora asks if you’re ready for the story. You nod.

“You were physically, if not mentally, present when Elder Mara commanded that I report to her last week, so this part will be easy for you to remember. It’ll surface easily in your memory as I give you the codeword for what I want you to remember from that day. Theta, recall codeword Crimson.“

Codeword Crimson

Your physical presence was, of course, on your knees, eyes on your mistress.

“Thank you for coming. You didn’t have a choice, of course, but thank you anyway for not making me send a thrall to fetch you. I need you for something.”

“Yes, Elder Mara?”

“Child, you look nervous.” Mara peers over her half-rimmed glasses, slit-pupiled eyes blazing red. The elder serpent demon can see perfectly well without them; they’re a stylistic affectation lifted from humans over the centuries. Elders run from the eccentric to the positively unpredictable.

“Elder Mara?”

“It’s just you, me, and the thralls, Cora. You can dispense with the Elder bit, we’ve known each other too long for that.”

“Yes, Mara.”

“Mmmph. I hear a crafty Serpentine Domina at Pandemonium managed to literally dominate a paladin on stage. You don’t happen to know her, by any chance? That kind of work leaves quite an impression on the audience, and I could use such a confident and clever woman to be the spokesperson of our diplomatic overture to the Archivist.“

Cora pales. “Me?”

The elder sighs. “Yes, you! Unless you know another Cora Fulvius?”

“It’s just that, aren’t things a bit tense with the Infernals right now? I’m not even remotely a diplomat!”

“Oh, things are always tense with the Infernals, and you wouldn’t have to do any of the paperwork. I’ll second a few of mine to you for that. You’ll strut into the Archivist’s library with your entourage and your security detail, you’ll lay out our clan’s proposal for helping with his current pet project, you’ll make a few demands in return. Then our functionaries will work things out with their functionaries, and you’ll likely have to do nothing harder than enjoy some Infernal hospitality and put up with what passes for Infernal manners for a few days.”

“Mara, I’m sure I’m not who you want on this. It sounds out of my league.”

“We have to send someone impressive, Cora. I have reason to believe the Archivist will take you seriously, provided the proper forms are followed; he wasn’t in the audience for your little stunt, but it happens that one of his relatives was. Infernals set great store by protocol, and also by reputation, and your name has been bandied about in certain circles. Like it or not, you’re in that league now.“

“He’ll see right through me. He’s going to know as well as you do that I’m…”

“What? Just a humble researcher? You know, so I was I, once.”

“I was going to say: not good with people.” Cora meets Mara’s gaze steadily. Since neither of them have any biological need to blink, this goes on for nearly a minute, until the elder breaks the stare by circling her thumb and forefinger and flicking Cora’s nose.

“Ow!” Cora recoils, her nose smarting.

“Ah, that was satisfying.” Mara chuckles. “Elder’s privilege, child; you’re of the generation who’ve broadened our clan’s remit from simply providing skulking venomous assassins to the lords of Hell, and yet sometimes you young ones can be so serious.“

Mara leans forward in her elaborately carved and inlaid throne.

“Frankly, this is going to sting more than your nose, Cora, but you need to hear it…”

Mango Sticky Rice

“Mistress, may I ask what you needed to hear from Elder Mara?”

She sighs. “You may not. At least not right now. Ask me later.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Theta,” she says, “what have I told you about pouting?”

“’It’s unbecoming to a thrall of your station.’ Also, ‘Freeze like that, I need to see what this lipstick looks like on you anyway,’ and once, ‘Come here and I’ll wipe that pout right off your cute little face.’”

“And yet I never actually told you to stop.” Cora snorts. “My mistake, clearly. How about I distract you with some mango sticky rice?”

“Mistress!” You blush. “You must have been busy for hours! Please, this is too much. I should be cooking for you, Mistress.“

“My precious Theta. You have such a good memory. Do you recall last time I allowed you to cook for me?”

You shrink in your seat. Her disapproval is the mildest possible, but she’s right; it didn’t exactly go well. You and kitchens just don’t get along. “Yes, Mistress. I recall.”

“You were supposed to take the plastic wrap off the frozen pizza first…” she says, in a mock-cruel voice.

You shut your eyes. “Yes, Mistress, I recall!”

“And you do so much for me already. You’re such a good girl.”

The sudden praise is totally undeserved, you think. But the words have an effect on you that you can’t help. You feel small, soft, appreciated, cared for, generally melty.

“I could learn…” you protest, weakly.

“I like cooking. It makes me happy to see you so happy. Please know that.” She reaches across the table and takes your hand in hers. She squeezes it. You squeeze back. “I also made iced coffee.”

“Mistress!”

It pleases her to feed you a few spoonfuls of chilled mango over warm sticky rice, drenched in sweet coconut milk. You’re so lucky that she has claimed you. Others have, briefly; none so gently nor so completely.

In such a state, she barely has to prepare you to recall codeword Tangerine.

Codeword Tangerine

The stairway leading above the bar is blocked by a velvet rope and a sign which reads “PRIVATE EVENT”. The bored bouncer barely even looks at you as he says, “Read the sign, honey.”

You present the black and red lacquered invitation card, and the small book bound in snakeskin, place them on the counter in front of him, and curtsy deeply and precisely.

“I don’t know what that is,” he says without even looking at it. “Not on the list.”

Still holding the curtsy, as instructed, you say, “My mistress, Domina Fulvius of Clan Serpentine, humbly presents the compliments of her Clan, and the invitation extended to her by the Lord Archivist.”

“That’s nice. My boss owns the bar and he says not to let anyone upstairs who’s not on the list.”

Your instructions have run out and you’re unsure what to do. Falling back to a more general set of orders, you carefully back up, still bowing, still facing towards the bouncer, and then return to your mistress’s side, not daring to look at her.

“Mistress, this thrall was rebuffed by their gatekeeper,” you whisper, ashamed. “This thrall is not confident of the protocol for this occasion, and requests correction.”

Cora grits her teeth, upper fangs showing briefly above her lower lip, not looking at you either. You bow your head in intensifying shame.

“’This thrall’ did her job perfectly,” she says. “Your education requires that I explain later.” She whispers in a lower, barely audible voice, “That gatekeeper, on the other hand, could learn some manners.”

Louder, to the retinue around her: “Security One and Two, to me.” Your mistress strides forward, two well-muscled Serpentine demon thralls in fitted suits flanking her slightly shorter form.

Her choice of formalwear for the invitation was a sharp black pantsuit, moss green blouse, and expensive-looking pointy-toed black silk flats. You assisted her in dressing not two hours ago, and while some of the subtleties of Cora’s fashion sense are totally lost on you, you are absolutely certain that the blouse sets off her gorgeous green eyes.

“Is there a problem?” she asks the bouncer.

“Depends on who’s asking. That yours?” He indicates you.

“She is mine, yes.“

“Sorry, lady. Wasn’t expecting, you know,” he makes a vague dismissive gesture with one hand, “cattle.”

“Mm.” Cora’s mouth narrows, but she doesn’t say anything immediately. “It’s ‘Domina’, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Not ‘Lady’.”

“Okay?” The bouncer doesn’t seem to recognize the term.

“Please remember that,” she says. “As my thrall mentioned, as the invitation no doubt reads, we are here at the invitation of the Lord Archivist. Do I need to wait for you to contact a superior and confirm this, or are you adequately informed about your master’s guests?”

The bouncer pauses, picks up the invitation. “Yeah, it does say ‘and retinue’, I guess. I’ll skip calling it upstairs, lady, just keep ’em in line. This for the boss?” He picks up the small book bound in snakeskin that you were instructed to present along with the invitation.

“It is a gift from Clan Serpentine intended for the library of the Lord Archivist, yes.”

“Yeah, you can take it up yourself,” he says, and tosses the book at Cora. Your heart skips a beat at this threat to your mistress. Time seems to slow, and you’re about to dive for it, but you’ll never make it…

Before your body can react, one of the security thralls steps in front of her and intercepts it neatly. He turns and hands it to you. You take it from him, outwardly composed, but your mind is still racing.

Then Cora says “All, follow me,” so you follow her, your threat reaction fading. Something very, very far inside you doesn’t think this is quite right, but it’s not supposed to be thinking anyway. Instructions are instructions. Security has their role. You have yours.

Upstairs is a lot bigger than downstairs. The top of the tiny spiral staircase expands into a large reception area, a forest of columns and furniture, and bookcases, everywhere, bookcases, in rich, dark wood. Your heels wobble slightly on the thick blood-red carpet.

There’s a curved desk near the top of the stairs. There’s a demon behind the desk. You came away from your brief exposure to the various Clans and metaspecies at Pandemonium with the correct impression that demons can look like nearly anything, but you can tell this one is definitely a demon, because of his spiraling, ram-like horns.

He rises from his chair behind the desk, flashing an extremely toothy smile.

“Domina Fulvius! Welcome to the Library. I hope your journey here was a pleasant one.”

“Pleasant enough, thank you,” your mistress says. “May I assume you are the Lord Archivist’s majordomo?”

“You may,” he says, flashing that grin again.

“And if I actually assumed that,” she asks, smiling, “how far off would I be?“

“Ah, now, I’d heard Serpentine still retained some respect for the way things are done, but the last delegation was so stodgy that I’d almost lost hope. You may correctly assume I am his majordomo, at least. I am called Isaac. Two security, these two?”

She nods.

“Excellent. It would please me to provide accommodations for you and your retinue, Domina; you’ve arrived well in time for a tour of the facilities and dinner before business. Allow me to direct you to your suite.”

You hear the grunts of bearer thralls somewhere behind you as they heft the delegation’s luggage again. As Cora follows Isaac through wide stone hallways hung with tapestries and lined with the same treacherously deep red carpet, you and her security follow Cora closely; the Serpentine lawyers and their secretaries trail out behind.

Day

“…and you should now remember everything that I sealed under codeword Tangerine.“

You nod and say, “Yes, Mistress. My memories under Tangerine end with us following the majordomo to our suite.”

“How are you feeling, Theta?”

“Like I should have caught that book,” you say, surprising yourself with how sharply it comes out. It feels like you’d just failed to catch it, even though this would have been a few days ago.

“It wasn’t your place, at the time. You didn’t have to. But please believe me,” she says, taking both of your hands in hers, her ophidian emerald eyes on yours, “if I’d known, if I’d realized…”

“Mistress?” you ask, not entirely sure what she means.

She bites her lower lip, a much more obvious tell on a snake demon with inch-long fangs. “Theta, I partitioned your memory for a reason. It’s going to get worse before it gets better; there are some events where I know, now, that I failed you.”

“You could never fail me, Mistress.”

“I could, and I did. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, and the fact that it worked out doesn’t make it right.”

“I am yours to do with as you please, Mistress.” This isn’t usual talk for Cora. At your current level of awareness, you’re capable of worry. And you’re worrying just a little.

“Do you need anything before we continue?” she asks, a check-in that she does occasionally.

“This thrall requests use of the bathroom,” you say, reverting to a more formal mode of referring to yourself. It reminds you of your place.

In the bathroom, once you’ve done what you came to do, you check yourself in the mirror. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you, no injuries, no scars. The large green tourmaline serpent’s eye pendant that she chooses to decorate you with is still there on its gold chain. Real tourmaline, now, but remembering its predecessor, you smile.

When you return to the kitchen, she asks you if you would like an iced coffee. The Vietnamese style, and the way Cora makes them, tantamount to coffee-flavored condensed milk. You love them.

Usually.

“This thrall would be better able to enter trance without the caffeine, Mistress.”

“Yes. Good point. Then we’ll continue. Theta, when we left off with Tangerine, we were on the way to our suite. Let your mind’s eye return its focus to the majordomo’s desk. You should be able to let your memory spool out from here, and I’m going to give you a codeword to let it go even further: recall codeword Marigold.“

Codeword Marigold

There’s a fair bit of foot traffic through the book-lined Library hallways. You lower your gaze as instructed to avoid accidentally meeting the eyes of any of your hosts and possibly causing offense, but you can still see monstrous forms: wings, horns, goat legs, the occasional flicker of burning eyes. Your calf muscles are burning: your mistress likes you in heels, but she’s taller than you, and keeping up is an effort. You dimly remember not having had much practice wearing them before she claimed you.

Suddenly, at an intersection, something bumps into you from the side, not gently. You’re sent sprawling onto the carpet. The security thralls wheel. You want to get up and shove back, but your mistress was very clear: do not offend.

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they were just rushing down the hallway not looking where they were going. Maybe this is bullsh—

The thought of defiance dissolves in the venom in your system, the fight going out of you before it starts, a chemical calm flooding you to reinforce your mistress’s verbal orders. From the floor, you watch and listen, passive, your world centered on your mistress, taking in only her and anyone near her. The one that knocked you over is a tall man in a vest, long red hair, crimson clawed fingers, a sour expression.

“This is the Serpentine delegation, isn’t it, Isaac? What the fuck?”

“Tove, you’ve knocked one of them over,” the majordomo observes.

“Never mind that. This is what they’ve sent us? Humans and paper-pushers? My team could have handled this matter just fine on our own without dragging another Clan into it.”

“Excuse me,” Cora says. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Isaac, would you care to present me to this… individual?“

Her face is calm, no gritting of teeth as when she spoke to the bouncer, but her voice is frosty, as if she has to let out her frustration somewhere, soon.

“It would be my pleasure,” Isaac says, turning to the long-haired man and bowing briefly. “Your Grace. I present to you Domina Cora Fulvius of Clan Serpentine, visiting us in the Library for a diplomatic matter at the Lord Archivist’s invitation.”

He turns back to Cora: “Domina, I present to you His Grace Matthias Tove, the Earl of Bloody Shadows, our 55th Master of Overdue Books.”

It’d sound funny. Except this morning, in the briefing, they told you that Overdue Books was the Library’s unofficial external security branch. Famously brutal. Famously brutal for demons.

You slowly shift into a less cramped position, not daring to leave the floor just yet, but your mistress did order you to be generally ready to serve her in all things, before she ordered you to be very cautious around Infernal nobility. If she calls for you, you want to be ready.

As if she will. What use would you be, anyway? The thought bubbles up, unbidden, and takes longer to dissolve than you are comfortable with.

They size each other up, Cora’s brilliant emerald irises reduced to thin rings around enormous pupils, the Earl’s claws and forearm ridges rippling subtly with his muscles. You hadn’t noticed that the sharp-looking material of his claws extended so far up before. You’ve had something sharp against your neck recently, a paladin’s blade, and you really don’t want to repeat the experience. The Earl doesn’t look like he’d pause, as the paladin did, to justify why he was going to kill you. He’d just kill you. He could kill your mistress. He could kill your mistress and you couldn’t stop it.

Cora slowly extends a hand. “Your Grace.” And to your shock, the Earl kneels, takes her small hand in his huge clawed one, and kisses it. “Domina.”

Behind you, you hear someone exhale a breath she’s been holding.

The Earl rises. “I beg you to forgive my boorishness,” he says to your mistress, voice greasy as anything. “My mind has been occupied with little but thoughts of the task before me, and I was not expecting the, ah, assistance of another Clan. But I was sadly unaware of exactly who the Archivist had requested, and now my heart lightens.”

“It’s true that our profile is not so high as some of the bright stars of Clan Infernal, but we do take pride in our specialties. May I ask,” she says, “how are you familiar with my work?”

“Oh, one hears things, here and there.”

“I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have regarding our more recently announced capabilities, in case that makes it easier. And of course I can offer additional, personal insight into the T series options.”

“Ah, T series?” He clearly has no idea what she’s talking about.

“A specialty venom,” she says.

“I’d be delighted. Perhaps later? Isaac, will you make sure the Domina is seated close enough for a chat at dinner? Formal briefings are always so, well, formal.”

“Yes, I will most certainly continue to do my job, Tove,” Isaac says, “and I suggest you get back to yours.”

“Until later, then, Domina,” the Earl says, and departs down the hallway he came from, long red hair swirling in his wake.

Your mistress stares daggers at his back until he’s out of sight. Only then does she say, “Theta, to me,” and even if it’s an afterthought, even if her mind is clearly somewhere other than you, you gratefully rise to follow behind her again.

Tidying Up

“Tove,” you say.

“Yes,” she says.

“A human thrall against an Earl serving under our host. You were right to leave this thrall on the floor.”

“No, Theta, I wasn’t,” she says. “I really, really wasn’t. Who was Tove to me but an obstacle? He’s not of the Clan, but more importantly, he’s not mine, and you are both of those things, and that puts you higher than any Earl. I took the easy way out.“

She wraps her arms around her shoulders, hugging herself.

You aren’t sure what to say to this, so you say nothing. You busy yourself tidying up the kitchen, clearing the lunch and dessert plates away, leaving only the coffee pot, the ice bucket, and two clean glasses with straws. When you’re finished, you stand behind your mistress’s chair, and embrace her.

“Mistress,” you whisper after a while, “sometimes this thrall makes mistakes. Sometimes this thrall still has feelings above her station.”

“You may explain yourself in plain language, Theta,” Cora says, quietly.

“Mistress, I wanted to get up. If I’d gotten up, I would have wanted to hit him back. If I’d hit him back, I would have gotten my ass kicked. Yes?”

“Well…”

“If it pains me to be the instrument of your will, it is because I am imperfect. If it pains you to have deferred to Tove, it is because Tove is an asshole. And if it pleases Mistress, I would very much like to do better next time we encounter him, if you would care to prepare me to assist you in the ‘hard way’.“

Cora reaches for one of your hands and squeezes it. “It would please me very much. In fact… you’re already prepared, and I would very much enjoy being around if you ever meet Tove again. Now let’s keep going, shall we?“

The next codeword is Chartreuse.

Codeword Chartreuse

In the center of the cavernous diplomatic suite’s large, high-ceilinged common room, you kneel by Cora’s feet; the big, impassive security thralls flank her; the independently cognizant members of the Serpentine delegation circle around Cora for a re-briefing. Your mistress is big on repetition when she’s concerned about getting something exactly correct.

“Okay, people. Let me repeat the instructions given to me by Elder Mara and given to you by me, this morning, back home. Some of you no doubt know them already, some of you do not; please pay attention in either case. One,” she ticks the number off on her finger, “assume we’re bugged. We have countermeasures, but cognitodemons, the main occupants of the Library, have an astonishing ability to know lost and hidden things, and we are in their house, as it were. Two, you will show our hosts respect at all times. Although our Clan chose to go a different route from Clan Infernal many generations ago, we are here today in the spirit of friendly cooperation and common goals with our Infernal cousins. Three, we do not have borrowing privileges, so do not attempt to check anything out: we’ve already been introduced to their Master of Overdue Books, and I truly don’t care to meet him in his official capacity.“

Is that a flash of disgust on her face? Probably. Then a smile, a broad, genuine, fanged smile.

“But, four, the Library is supposed to be incredible, so please, when you’re not working, take a tour or something. Read everything you can. This is not an opportunity extended to many.”

There’s some shrugging from the delegation at the last point. Perhaps the Serpentine demons attached to Cora for the duration expect to spend most of it working, or maybe they’re just not that excited by the prospect of a library. Generally, her enthusiasm doesn’t seem to be reflected in the audience. She sighs, and scans the crowd, tongue flicking, assessing the mood.

“Very well. Those of you I can force to enjoy this, I’m not worried about. Those of you who volunteered: thank you. Let’s get this done right so we can go home. Questions? Actually… hold onto your questions for just a minute.”

She turns to a pale, crimson-eyed woman in the front row. “Yelena, are you all right?” Now that your mistress has pointed it out, you’re sure she wasn’t quite that pale this morning.

“I’m not sure, Domina,” Yelena says. “Been a little nauseous since I got here.”

“Have you eaten or drank anything?”

“No, Domina, not since we arrived.”

“Dizziness? A feeling like everything’s just a little too big?”

“Ma’am? How did you know that?”

“You almost certainly have Basement sickness. I felt a transition when we came upstairs from that little bar, and I have a whole lecture for R&D newbies who will be dealing with these phenomena professionally, but I’ll skip it: the short version is that we’re a little bit under the mortal world, in the extra spaces between there and Home. There’s actually a lot of extra space, hyperbolically connected, and while I’m sure the Library has stabilizer pylons, it can be disorienting if you’re far from one and sensitive to that sort of thing. Fortunately, there’s a reasonably effective remedy; Yelena, do you know Radja’s Chrysanthemum?“

“The pleasure venom, ma’am!? I’m just a secretary!”

“Please answer the question, Yelena, or I’ll be forced to report to Elder Mara,” and Cora pauses, staring at the secretary, “that at least one member of my team had a very boring education.”

There’s some polite laughter, and Yelena smiles weakly. “Yes, Domina, I do know it.”

“About a third of the usual dose, I think, and you’ll be all right in half an hour. Try not to overdo it. And, all of you, remember that no properly trained Serpentine demon is just a secretary, just a lawyer, just anything. We’re here because no spell in these books can grant the Lord Archivist the subtle power of our fangs. All right? All right. Any questions?“

There are no questions.

“Fine, go unpack or whatever I’m keeping you from. Security, go secure something, or whatever Crotalus would tell you to do if he was here. Theta, with me.”

You’re alone with Cora in the suite’s enormous master bedroom, which features an antique roll-top writing desk in dark wood, a king-size bed surrounded by an ocean of carpet, and a nearly wall-to-wall window flanked by carved stone columns, opening onto an alien sky and sea below, dark and turbulent. Having unpacked her clothes into the armoire, your clothes into a drawer in the bathroom, and some preliminary paperwork into the desk, there’s nothing for you to do, so you kneel, hands clasped behind you.

Cora stands by the window, arms folded, gazing out at the untamed Basement region beyond, for a long time. But there doesn’t seem to be anything for her out there.

“Mara,” she mutters eventually, “did you really need me to hear that?”

Then she turns to you. “Remove and hang up my jacket.”

You rise and take the jacket as she shrugs out of it. Your hands brush briefly against her silk blouse, the bare skin of her arms. She shivers, the tiniest bit, and yet it’s not cold in here, even by the standards of a snake demon. You hang the jacket neatly in the armoire and return to your mistress’s side, anticipating another instruction.

“How long until this wretched reception dinner?” she asks you.

The entire delegation left their cell phones back at the Serpentine front company building that you departed from, not wishing to test mortal-built device encryption against cognitodemon infomagic. It’s just as well; this dress doesn’t have any room for pockets. Another one of the ways your mistress has chosen to decorate her property is with a delicate gold wristwatch, just like hers, with a band that resembles the fine diamond scales of a snake’s back. It’s mechanical, analog, and not all of the hands measure time, but from the ones that do:

“Two hours, six minutes, Mistress.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and tells you to remove her shoes. You kneel in front of her, between her legs, and carefully slip off each one of her pointy-toed flats. When you rise to put them away, she puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Hold on. I like seeing you like this. Just… let me enjoy it for a bit.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you say, and hold the position, still kneeling before her, head slightly bowed. Your face wears the same neutrally pleasant expression as it has most of your time in thrall to her. You can’t see her face, but she hisses very slightly in satisfaction, and from that time, you know your Mistress’s moods well enough to imagine her smile.

“Oh, Theta. As pretty as you are with most of your will locked away, I need a little more of you tonight. At least for now. I need to be able to breeze into that dinner with you on my arm, and then I’ll know I’ve got one person at my side who isn’t watching me, judging me, and waiting for me to fuck up.”

She bends down to near your eye level, tilts your head back with a finger under your chin.

“Not a lot of time before dinner, though. And I want you in my bed first. This day has been a lot. Every time I think I have a moment to just watch and appreciate how good you look in that dress, someone gets in the way, and if I wasn’t here in a diplomatic capacity… let me put it this way, Theta, you’re about to get a lot of venom in you that should have ended up in the necks of other pests. My glands are aching.“

Your mistress pats a spot on the bed near her. “Sit.”

From even a fairly short distance, your mistress wouldn’t look all that intimidating to a naive observer. Cora wears her straight blonde hair in a blunt-cut bob. Her sleeveless moss green blouse shows off arms which are toned but not particularly muscled. Standing, she would be a little taller than you, maybe 5′9″ to your 5′7″.

But you’re up close. Something in her speech and her eyes remind you that you’re right next to a demonic predator, a member of a demon Clan that was created, or evolved, or whatever, to take on other demons and win. You’re only human. You could no more refuse her instruction than you could heft the armoire over your head. And she hasn’t even bitten you today.

So you sit, your body trembling with anticipation at an autonomous level. Your heart speeds up, your skin tingles. No doubt she’s noticed it, the response of prey to her predator nature. Perhaps she likes it. Why not? You do.

She brushes your long, dark hair back from your neck and shoulders, gathering it into one hand as the other one grips your shoulder gently. You know what she’s looking for: the bite marks always heal unnaturally quickly, but they’ll still be visible in two hours, a visible reminder of what she’s done to you for anyone familiar with Serpentine venoms, and it wouldn’t do to look as if she had to discipline you. You’ve packed several of the dresses she likes to see you in, and none of them cover much in the way of arms or shoulders, but there are other places.

“Yes, this will do nicely,” she murmurs, and then leans in to whisper an instruction gently into your ear: “Wear your hair down tonight.”

You feel her warm breath on your skin, and then she sinks her fangs into the back of your neck. You gasp with the sharp pain, then whimper slightly as it continues, deepens into an ache. It’s not excruciating, but you can feel the forceful flow of venom into the skin and muscle and minor veins of the back of your neck.

She usually nibbles when she bites, working her teeth a little deeper into you to better introduce the venom, but this time she just bites you again with the same powerful flow. And again. And again. You lose track of how many times. The pain fades as your vision starts to swim and distort. With this much in your system, it won’t be long before you drop.

“Ahhh, that feels good. I like this better, here with you,” she whispers. “Better than temporarily enthralling fools and meddlers. You’ve taken it all so beautifully. Tonight. Every night. I feel like nothing I’ve put into you is ever wasted.”

She lets go of your shoulder, sits beside you on the bed, holds your hands in hers as you begin to slide into hypnotic oblivion. Already she seems to shine and ripple in your vision, like the sun seen though shallow, clear water.

Though the sheer amount of venom makes your movements slow and dreamlike, and even makes it hard to recall your mistress’s standing instructions for you, there’s one that you very much like doing for her, and that you’re always supposed to do for her if you’re alone together when she envenomates you. So you reach down, crossing your arms over each other, grip the hem of your dress, and pull it over your head. You lay it neatly on the floor, then reach behind yourself, unhook your bra, and put it on top of your dress. Then you return to your seated position, clasp your hands behind yourself, and await your mistress’s instructions.

When they come, they don’t seem to be traveling through anything as mundane as air. Her lips are moving, and sound is coming out, but it’s as if your whole body is now tuned to receive them directly in your nerves and muscles, no longer requiring your brain and ears. She stares unblinking at your nakedness, carefully licks her lips clean of a few stray smears of venom, and says, ”[…].“

Suddenly you are kneeling before her again. Her pants and blouse have vanished, as have your dress. She’s completely naked, sitting on the edge of the bed. You’re wearing only your stockings and heels, and her necklace, that you never take off. You taste her, only her. You smell her all over you, and you can feel your own arousal in your nipples, between your legs, where your hair moves across your bare back. She brushes a strand back from your eyes, and says, ”[…].“

You lie beside her on the bed, bodies nesting against each other, the small spoon to her big spoon. The deft fingers of one of her hands work between your legs, pressing hard against you on either side of your clit; her other arm wraps around you below your breasts, her hand squeezing one rhythmically, not pinching your nipple but pinching behind it, a powerful sensation. Your body strains against hers. You feel as if you’ve been moments from orgasm for a very long time. She murmurs something in your ear that can only be ”[…].“

You kneel at one end of the bed, legs spread far apart, hands clasped behind you, back arched, displaying everything about you that only she is allowed to see, in an even lewder version of your normal pose of submission. She reclines below you, not touching you except with her hungry eyes, pupils wide and dark. Her legs are spread, her fingers pressing hard into herself. She closes her eyes, rocking her hips in a quick rhythm, and she gasps one word, over and over again, that you understand as your designation, “Theta…” And then she moans, ”[…]!“

You stand just outside the shower, totally naked, waiting for your mistress to emerge so that you can give her the fluffy bathrobe that you’re holding. Instead, she opens the smoked glass door, extends a hand, and beckons. You approach with the robe, and she bats it out of your hand, pulls you into a damp embrace, and kisses you energetically.

Later, as you’re blow-drying her hair, she murmurs, “Thank you, Theta.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

“No, I mean it, I really needed that. I can handle tonight now. I’m sure of it.”

Coffee

The memory of how her words and her venom played you like a finely tuned instrument for her own sexual satisfaction comes crashing in on you. Just the memories of it are enough to get your heart pounding again, paint a blush across your face and an echo of a fucked-out grin on your mouth.

She notices, smiling. “Ah. So that’s where I put the marker for Chartreuse.“

“I wish you could use me like that every night,” you say, and mean it absolutely. “I don’t suppose you could make me recall the gaps between the parts I actually remember?”

Cora shakes her head. “I wish I could. You were so far gone from yourself at times that I doubt you could form memories at all.”

“It’s just as well,” you speculate, “this thrall could find herself lost in blissful reveries too easily. In fact,” you ask, “May I have that coffee now? I, uh, I might need a minute before I’m ready for the next codeword.”

The familiar flavor and the sugar have your mind back in balance eventually, although you might still be wearing a bit of a goofy expression.

“I am ready when you are, Mistress. Or do you need a minute too?”

Cora looks at you guiltily over her own second glass of coffee. “Ah. You always make the stuff look so good. I’ll finish this as we go? Theta, recall codeword Viridian.“

Codeword Viridian

Later still, she asks you how much time is left before dinner.

“Seventeen minutes, Mistress.”

She laughs. She actually laughs. It’s not a common sound from your mistress, and you savor it.

“Seventeen minutes! Two hours didn’t seem like much two hours ago, and yet, now that I’ve had a chance to relax, seventeen minutes seems like enough time for the scenic route to where I need to take you before we go. Sit on the bed again with me. Look into my eyes.“

You do. Your mistress’s eyes are an emerald so intense it’s practically luminous, their reptilian pupils currently relaxed into soft ellipses. You vaguely remember, long ago, another life, being fairly uncomfortable with eye contact. Still true, really. But when it comes to your mistress, though, you can’t get enough. They’re just beautiful.

“I want you to be a good girl, and take me to the place we built together to store your consciousness.” Her voice gains a careful, reassuring cadence. “Remember. We were taking a walk through the woods, near where you grew up, where you were a little girl. What was there, Theta?”

“The abandoned utility shed,” you say, the green of her eyes blending into the green of a long-ago suburban forest. “This thrall could never get the door open, so she imagined that there was treasure inside. And then you gave me the key, Mistress. And now there is treasure inside.“

“That’s right, Theta. We’re going to visit the treasure, and when we return, I’ll have some more instructions for you. Now close your eyes.”

And now there is only the forest.

“I want you to imagine walking through the woods, holding the key in your hand. You see the shed on its little concrete pad, corrugated metal roof covered in leaves, cinder-block sides stained with rust. Your key should slip easily into the lock on the front door of the shed. I want you to imagine turning the key, opening the door. Inside the shed, there is a spiral metal staircase, descending. Walk with me, Theta, down and around the spiral… once… twice… thrice… and we are in the basement. Look around, and tell me what you see.”

“There is a row of ten dark metal safes, Mistress, all alike. Two of them are open. This thrall can see orange light glittering from them.”

“Very good, Theta. That’s very good. Now, remember, each one of them is a part of your awareness. Each one of them can be unlocked as I ask you to, and right now, I’m going to ask you to unlock five more. So now, when I next say the number three, you will take your key and unlock the third safe in the row, and let that light shine out from the third safe. And you will be just a little more aware, a little more independent, when you come out of this trance. And you will still remember that these can be re-locked any time I ask you to. Your full potential consciousness is always safe down here, whether the safes are open or shut. So let’s start with three…“

Your eyes flutter a bit as you unlock the third safe for Mistress, and so on.

“…and now that you’ve locked the shed behind you, you may open your eyes when you’re ready.”

And sunlight through the forest blends back into her gorgeous green eyes.

“Thank you, Mistress,” you say. “I’m ready! What are your instructions?”

“Make polite conversation if someone else initiates. If anyone asks questions about your past, or your role with the delegation, refer them to me. Likewise if anyone asks about Serpentine business; really, that’s the same thing. Other than that… we will likely be among all kinds of demon. I would prefer you excuse yourself to the restroom rather than publicly panic, if it becomes too much. But only if absolutely necessary. End of instructions.”

She rises from the bed. You’ve dressed her in a little black dress, with a deep neckline balanced by three-quarter sleeves and a just-above-the-knee asymmetric hem. Various items of gold and green jewelry shine at her throat, on her wrists, in her ears, and a soft black shawl is around her neck. She’s conceded to image tonight and is wearing matte black pumps with a short kitten heel instead of her near-universal flats. Your mistress loves heels, but only on other people.

You, for example. You catch your own reflection in a full-length mirror by the door of the master bathroom and need to choke back a gasp. Even hair down and pinned back with a sort of hair brooch, as opposed to the updo you were planning with jeweled gold and amber chopsticks, you’re stunning. Your dress is long, metallic blue and split up the sides; your heeled sandals are a subtle gold, with winding straps that make your legs look delicate, and your makeup is perfect: Mistress has put you in trance before just to have you practice with eye makeup, especially the liquid liner that was your bane on the few occasions you bothered to wear any before she claimed you.

She asks, “Is there anything that you need me to know before we go, Theta?”

It’s a checkin. And your own beauty aside for a moment, there are thoughts swirling in your head: why am I here, Mistress; why not a demon, or some other thrall that would better demonstrate your power; what can I, a human, do that you truly need…

Those thoughts can wait, you decide. She doesn’t need to hear them right now. She doesn’t need to know that you feel useless outside this bedroom. You don’t want to distract her. But there is one thing that you can tell her right now in response to her checkin query that she can easily handle, and it’s a bit embarrassing, but there’s nothing for it.

“Mistress, please slow down a little in the hallways: I’ve been having trouble keeping up with you in some of these shoes, and I don’t want to stumble and seem ill-trained in front of our hosts.”

She grins. “Thank you for letting me know.”

You arrive early. Cora strides between two wide wooden doors, you following behind into an octagonal room. A huge octagonal room. Almost a silo. There are packed bookshelves on every wall, stretching five stories up, at least. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs from a ceiling you can only see if you look almost straight overhead. The floors, and you breathe a quiet sigh of relief at this, are mottled grey marble, and not the treacherous Library carpet.

For the impressive setting, the table is just a table, a large round one in polished dark wood, capable of seating a dozen or so diners, ringed in large, high-backed chairs in wine-red leather and more of the same dark wood.

Your security thralls join a discreet circle of what must be Library security around the perimeter of the room. You don’t see any other Serpentine delegation members, but you do see a placecard with “Dma. Fulvius” written on it in looping calligraphy, and step ahead of your mistress to pull out her chair so she can sit down. At the same time, Isaac materializes from around a corner and attempts to do the same thing, but upon seeing the determined expression on your face, he grins, backs off, hovering. Once your mistress is seated, the Archivist’s majordomo pulls out a chair for you.

This is the first time anyone’s treated you as having more status than furniture since you arrived at the Library, and you’re not sure what to make of it. You flash a glance at your mistress on your left. She gestures for you to be seated, so you sit. Your placecard says, “Theta, thr. Fulvius”. No mystery what that stands for. So everyone here knows what you are…

“May I take your drink orders, Domina, and Miss?” he asks.

“I’ll have a Bellini. She’ll have lapsang souchong.” There’s no question of availability. She assumes it will happen.

You sneak a glance to your right. The placecard there says “Asst. Lib. (Section E), Elspeth”, and the chair is, so far, empty.

Around the table, other diners are taking seats. There’s a slight hush when a party of three enters the dining room. The tall, powerfully built, bearded demon at the head of the party wears a waistcoat with room for his enormous wings, more like a pterosaur’s than a bat’s, short trousers cut to work around hairy goat legs, both pinstriped black, and somewhat incongruously, a pair of thick tortoiseshell glasses, and a wide smile. You suppose this can only be the Lord Archivist. He’s eight feet tall if he’s an inch, not even counting the wings. Not quite what you’d expect from the boss of a bunch of librarian demons, but his form at least doesn’t hurt you to look at.

On his left arm is a mostly human-appearing woman, blonde, wavy hair, small curly grey horns, in a sheath dress to match them. She looks as if she’d rather be doing something else, but here she is instead.

And on his right is Tove. The Earl of Bloody Shadows is wearing a deep maroon vest, tight, tight black trousers, and actual cowboy boots. His long red hair trails behind him. He glances in your mistress’s direction and grins what will be the first of many smug, greasy grins tonight, you don’t doubt. Classy. Not for the first time, you want to hit him. Not for the first time, you see his claws and armored, sharp-edged forearms.

As the other two take their seats, Tove unfortunately seeming to have made good on his plan of sitting next to your mistress on her other side, the Archivist walks over to Cora.

He booms, “Domina! So good to finally have the pleasure of meeting you in person. It pains me to have wasted much of the day already in preliminary negotiations, but so it goes.” He extends a huge hand.

Your mistress pushes her chair back and gracefully rises to her full height. As she shakes his hand, she says, “The pleasure is mine, Lord Archivist. Elder Mara sends thanks on behalf of Clan Serpentine for inviting us to your table tonight, as well as a token of her personal regard, which it would please me further to present after dinner. It’s my own hope as well that Serpentine will, in fact, be able to assist your Clan in your current endeavor.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. Serpentine’s traditional abilities are widely known, of course, but Elspeth spoke highly of your demonstration at Pandemonium. I may have some questions for you soon, some for the edification of the table, perhaps. But first, to the repast!” He returns to his chair and sits down; Isaac whispers something to him, and he nods.

Meanwhile, Tove has his own speech. “Ah, Domina, we meet again. I must say, you cut quite the elegant figure in evening wear. I’m truly privileged to be able to attend alongside you.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and says nothing, for the moment.

“I’d be happy to give you a tour of the facilities after dinner, of course. I couldn’t help but notice that the Serpentine delegation has no men in it, and mixed company’s always such a delight for conversation! I’m sure your little body slave there won’t be jealous if I borrow you. Oh, but you could command her not to be, of course. How silly of me…”

He continues for at least another minute, loudly enough that you have no trouble hearing him on your mistress’s other side, while you sip your tea and fume and repeat an inner mantra of Mistress knows what is best, it is not this thrall’s place to question Mistress, it is this thrall’s duty and purpose to serve Mistress in any way she sees fit…

Waiters are bringing out small golden dumplings on square black plates when you hear an excited whoop from far above you.

You look up. There’s a grey winged shadow above you and it seems like it should be gliding but it’s not it’s falling it’s falling fast —

With an absolute horror of a crunching noise, something that looks like a gargoyle statue smashes into the marble floor just shy of the chair next to you and shatters. Chips of stone smack into you and rain down on other guests. You shriek; you’re not the only one.

Then you realize that the stone chips haven’t hurt; although there’s dust everywhere, they’re even less dense than pumice, and a large piece in your lap is sublimating into nothing.

“It’s fine,” a female voice announces from the pile of smoking stone fragments at ground zero, “don’t worry about the mess, it’ll go away on its own. So much for that text on applications of stone forms, though; I’m going to re-file it under fiction. Am I late? I feel like I’m late.”

The figure that extracts herself from the pile has her copper-red hair in a long braid. She’s wearing a strapless cocktail dress of dark green lace, dark stockings, electric blue running shoes, and a pair of glasses that look almost exactly like the Archivist’s, propped up in her hair.

“I’m Elspeth, by the way. Assistant Librarian, Section E.”

“Elspeth,” Tove growls, “Be. Seated.”

“Oh, fuck all the way off, Tove, I’m not technically an overdue book,” Elspeth says, matter-of-factly.

She curtsies in the direction of the Archivist. “Boss.” He nods fractionally.

Then Cora. “Domina Fulvius! I’m so glad I was able to attend your talk at Pandemonium!”

And then, oddly, you. “Hi! I thought you were her but then you weren’t! Bringing down a paladin with a kiss? So. Badass.”

She takes her seat next to you, then looks at Cora again. “Can I talk to her? Is she on, or whatever?”

“You may,” your mistress tells her.

Elspeth has wings, if nowhere as big as the ones on the winged shadow, a stubby tail that barely clears her dress, and her eyes are a glowing red with no pupils, like a pair of coals. When she puts her glasses back on, her eyes appear human-normal, a burnished gold or a very light brown, but it’s hard to forget what’s behind the glass. Until she starts talking. And doesn’t stop.

It’s after dinner, after dessert, after after-dinner drinks. You are exhausted, and prepared to hazard a guess that nothing useful has happened yet, but that nothing bad has happened either.

Cora has you present Elder Mara’s little book bound in snakeskin to the Archivist. He seems even larger up close, although he takes the book from your hands gently enough, and returns your deep bow with one of his own. The book vanishes between his outstretched hands, in a twist of space.

After that, it doesn’t seem like she really needs you for anything.

Meanwhile, Elspeth has been talking your ears off about her job in Section E, which apparently stores books that must be maintained in environments hostile to most demons. You’ve gathered that she has quite a lot of experience in the demonic equivalent of biophysics, generally because cognitodemons naturally absorb information from things around them, specifically because she’s still trying to piece together how she herself hatched from a book in Section E, which is not quite usual for Library staff.

“Wanna come meet the ‘folks’?” She gestures to the stacks. “Can’t take you into E, you’d die, but at least A and B…?”

You ask your mistress if you can take Elspeth’s tour. It looks like she and the Archivist are finally getting down to business anyway, and you’d just take up space. Cora extracts a promise from Elspeth that she’ll bring you back to the diplomatic suite afterwards, and then you’re off.

The sheer size of the Library stacks are oppressive, especially when they dim the lights at night. The hush, too. You gathered that there’s some sort of trick that uses the Basement’s odd topology to bleed sound off in directions that don’t exist back where you came from.

Not that Elspeth’s not pushing it. If this was a human library, you’d have been shushed to oblivion hours ago. The breadth of her knowledge is astonishing, and she has her own theories on everything.

As you walk the stacks together, in between tales of semi-sentient letters of fire, and glyphs made from standing waves on whirlpools of charmed mercury, Elspeth’s been grilling you on the subjective experience of being a Serpentine thrall, a topic that you can say little on that doesn’t seem intensely private:

“Mistress has been good for me. It sounds trite. Maybe it is. Maybe all thralls say this. Maybe I’m just brain-melted on her venom, just like you saw on stage, forever. But from what I think I remember, I wasn’t happy. And with her? I am. She is my purpose, she is my focus, she is my will.”

She looks at you, curious, peeking over her glasses with those glowing red eyes.

“You’re not fully… on… right now, are you?”

“No. And I don’t want to have to be. Thinking too much was always the problem.”

“Are all mortals like that?”

That might have been an interesting question for fully-on Theta. She would ponder the question, ponder the intent of the asker, and then agonize about how to fully and absolutely correctly answer.

Right-now Theta shakes her head. “No.”

Afternoon

Your eyes flutter open as you return to consciousness again. It’s now a beautiful afternoon in the city, instead of a beautiful morning.

“I could go on, Mistress,” you say. “She certainly did.”

Your mistress says, “I should have seen what they were doing, keeping the both of you busy,” and then raises a hand in response to your objections before you can fully voice them, “No, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know the kind of deals that my people make. You couldn’t have seen this coming.”

She sighs.

“This is going to be a long one, Theta. You’re going to have questions. And it’s not the end of the story, not yet. Close your eyes. Remember lying next to me on that Library bed… recall codeword Azure.“

Codeword Azure

You lie at your sleeping mistress’s side: in any state from tranced out from fully conscious, you know instinctively that this is where she needs you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Despite the eerie auroral glow of the Basement night sky over the phosphorescent glimmers in the churning dark seas below, you eventually fall into an uneasy sleep. Your restless mind replays the last thing you can remember clearly before you met your mistress in person:

You’re in a Vietnamese cafe on Market Street, a plate of spring rolls and sweet potato fries in front of you, iced coffees on either side.

Across the table is your ex-girlfriend Chloe. Maybe just “friend” would be more appropriate at this point. It wasn’t a bad breakup: she couldn’t give you what you needed from the relationship, you didn’t think you could find it elsewhere and still have room for Chloe. You’ve both processed the hell out of this, separately and together; it’s been months; you’re cool.

It feels like every queer trans woman in the tech industry ends up dating every other queer trans woman in the tech industry eventually. Chloe “Throughput” Chen has already been there, done that, hooked up with a few of the cissies for good measure, and taken notes. She’s been trying to set you up with somebody almost since you broke up, and honestly, you could use the help.

“Babe,” she says, leaning backwards and sideways in her chair, “I think I know who you need.”

“Oh God. Did you talk to Elyse already?”

“I didn’t have to. You have like no poker face whatsoever. Not even over pure text. It’s amazing.”

“It was so awkward! She’s like this badass motorcycle witch queen on every level, except she’s afraid to tell me what to do in bed, let alone outside of it.”

“Elyse? No. Seriously? No!” Chloe is mock-scandalized, her hazel eyes sparkling under carefully shaped brows as she soaks up the vicarious sexual awkwardness. “I can’t imagine that woman afraid of anything on this earth. Seriously?”

“Seriously. At least with us, I could tell you were trying. You got me to drop a few times. You were, just, you know,” you mumble off.

“Bad at it.” Chloe says. “You can say it. I was there, remember?”

“…yeah. But you’d just run out of ideas, and then I’d kinda float back up? With her, it was like, maybe a better way to put it is, after the first time, she wasn’t afraid of telling me what to do, she was afraid that I’d do it. Whatever it was. She said it was too much responsibility.“

“Fuck. I am legitimately sorry to hear that,” Chloe says. “Well, I’m even more sure I have the girl for you, then, because I was definitely not the girl for her. Which is sad, because I’m the girl for everybody. But.”

Chloe sits up, tenting her fingers.

“The deal with this one is, she’s not Elyse intense, she’s actually kinda relaxing to be around, but there’s never a question of who’s in charge. She read me in like two dates: ‘Chloe, you have a lot of good qualities, but I’m looking for someone steadier and more submissive.’ And that was it.”

“What’s her name?”

In your memory, the answer to that question changed your life. In your dream, someone taps you on the shoulder. You turn. There’s a blonde in a tight grey turtleneck sweater and a charcoal pencil skirt behind you. A blonde with curly grey horns. The grey spade-shaped tip of a long, outstretched tail hovers at shoulder level behind her.

This isn’t how it went.

“Hi. This seems like a good place for me to cut in. I was curious as to how someone like you ended up a walking doll, but I can guess where it goes from here. Ever wonder what would have happened if she’d said a different name? Or did your controller take that capacity from you too?”

She smiles, confident, grey eyes half-closed behind long lashes.

“Doesn’t matter. The instant you fell asleep in this place, I knew I had to introduce myself. Or better yet, I’ll have your friend do it. She’s cute, by the way. It’s a shame you two didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll fix that someday.”

The intruder walks around the table to an unreacting Chloe, bends down, whispers something in her ear, then strokes the side of her neck briefly. Chloe shudders briefly, her face going slack with a moment of pleasure. The intruder takes a few sweet potato fries off the plate and vanishes in a complex, twisting puff of smoke.

Chloe says, “Her name’s Antara.”

Fast forward.

You’re eating lunch downtown in the middle of the work day with some girl you met through a mutual friend, and it turns out you two have a surprising amount of chemistry. You bend in for a kiss for dessert. She’s absolutely into it. Her stocking-clad toes finds their way up your skirt, to a rather private spot, to let you know exactly how into it she is.

She breaks the kiss and asks, “Do you want to come home with me?”

It’s hardly a fair question. She’s making it really difficult to think.

“I w— want… yes… please…”

You’re supposed to be back at work soon, but that doesn’t matter any more.

“Yes please, what?”

“Yes… please… I want to come…”

“Heh.”

“Lemme finish!” you try to protest.

“Heh.”

“I want to come home with you!” you blurt out.

Your head is swimming. Your panties are damp, and that rarely happens. You weren’t expecting this on a first date. She strokes you through your panties with the top of her foot once more, firmly, and the sensation is so much that your vision briefly contracts to just her, across the table: grey eyes, blonde waves, wicked smile.

“Okay.”

She teases you in the back of the car, a constant stream of sly little strokes and deniable touches, the entire ride home. Her home, an almost hotel-like expanse of white walls, monochromatic abstract prints, minimalist furniture in dark wood, and deep, soft white carpet.

Antara pushes you down into the carpet and straddles you, grasping your wrists and pinning them to the floor above your head, hovering above you with her mouth just out of reach of yours. Every place her skin touches your skin is electric. You’ve gone nonverbal, and you know you must look like you’re in heat: every moan, every pant, every wriggle, wordlessly begging her to take you, because you can’t think enough to speak.

She gazes down at you possessively.

“I’m pretty sure I could shatter your world with a touch, just now. And believe me, I want to. Oh, I want to. But there’s something we have to take care of first.”

She releases your wrists briefly, sits up, crosses her arms and pulls off her sweater, then her bra, revealing breasts perfectly proportioned on her hourglass frame. She hikes up her skirt. And then she changes. With a brief shake of her head, her nature is revealed: you can see curly grey horns, a thin, arcing tail with a spade tip, and then, immense leathery wings erupt from her shoulders and block out the light from the ceiling fixtures.

You’re shadowed by her infernal glory, held down as much by the shock of her true nature as by her slight weight. Your blood runs cold, the adrenaline rapidly blending with arousal into something new and terrifying and absolutely overwhelming.

“Ah, much better!” she says to the air, and then bends down, pinning your wrists again, locking her gaze with yours. “Let’s make a deal, shall we? I, Antara, of the line of the First Temptress, and of the Morningstar, in service to the Lord Archivist of the Library, offer you the duty of thralldom to myself first and to the Library second, in exchange for the relief of thralldom and the removal of your will, and also such pleasures as you are experiencing now, on a regular and recurring basis.“

She bends even closer to you. You can feel her warm breath on your neck. She whispers in your ear, “This is the part where you say ‘yes’.”

“Do you consent to the contract and bargain as I have described, you who are named,” and then her lips move, but nothing comes out. She tries again. Still nothing.

“Not that you’re going anywhere, but hold on.”

She moves on top of you, leaning down to one side, coming back with your purse. She dumps its contents, finds your wallet, flips it open with one thumb, holds the transparent flap with your driver’s license alongside your face.

“That’s you, all right. Not a bad photo. That’s the name my people looked up for you. Mortal records, Library records, it’s here in your own memories. So,” Antara growls, “Why. Can’t. I. Say. It. Tell me!”

Raptured by lust and fear, on your back in a demon’s den, under an angry succubus, and having left words behind a while ago, your answer doesn’t come quickly, but when it does, it comes first as laughter. You crack up, and so does your state of rapture. The situation is just so absurd. Doesn’t she know?

“Ahaha…” you finally start catching your breath, “…haha… seriously? I must be dreaming — but you must be too, if you think someone like me has or even needs a name.“

And you push her off of you onto the carpet, wings, tail, and all, into a briefly tangled heap. She snarls. You stand up, head clearing.

“That’s just words on plastic. This thrall’s name is hers, as this thrall is hers, and it’s not yours or mine to speak. This thrall’s designation is Theta.”

And that sounds right. Those words were spoken. Not here, but somewhere. Somewhere in the waking world. Where your mistress is waiting for you. The room fills with light.

“And she’s waking up now.”

You blink your eyes open in the waking world. In reality, or at least whatever passes for reality in the Basement, it’s still dark, but the glow of sea and sky provide enough light through the suite’s huge bedroom window to see that your mistress is asleep next to you, hair fanned across her pillow in apparently untroubled repose.

You, on the other hand, are soaked in sweat and still twitchy with the comedown from your nightmare. You quietly slip out of bed, into the suite bathroom. You relieve yourself, towel off a bit, change your pajamas for a fresh pair from your luggage.

When you come back, she’s awake, a familiar silhouette even in this unearthly place, waiting for you, pupils wide in darkness.

“Theta.” It’s as much a question as a statement.

“Y— yes, mistress!”

She pats the bed next to herself. You sit immediately.

“Bad dreams?” she asks.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Me too.”

Then she hugs you fiercely to herself, whispering “Ssssssshh… no more dreams now,” and you sob with relief that she’s still here, that you’re still hers.

Eventually, you’ve cried all that you can, you’ve gone to the bathroom for a box of tissues and come back and used half of it already.

You need to let your mistress know about your dream. You tell her about what Antara tried to tempt you with, promises of pleasure and perversion beyond what you’ve ever experienced.

“But it all felt hollow, even before I realized I was dreaming, because some part of me could tell there was no care behind it. No… no feeling. I would have been just a thing for her to play with, and any enjoyment I got out of it would be only a means to control me. It was nothing like the way you treat me, Mistress. Nothing.”

You sniffle again.

“I had to wake up. I couldn’t be in a world where I’d never met you.”

She strokes your hair in silence for a time, and you relax, slowly, fractionally, but you can’t let go of her yet. “Me too,” she’d said, about her dreams.

“Mistress?”

“Yes, Theta?”

“What was your dream?”

“It was a dream of guilt,” she says. “I’d done something, failed my task, over, and over, and over. But it started while I was awake…”

She tells you how they’d retired to the Archivist’s working office, a surprisingly small room nestled on a high floor of the Library, among stacks and stacks of heavy glass tablets. The Lord Archivist himself had been there, and Tove, and lawyers from both clans. The Infernals laid out the real details of the matter at hand.

In your mistress’s best assessment, it was, indeed, something where Serpentine venom and assassins would hugely improve the chances of success. They got down to contract details. But as Cora saw it, and as her retinue of lawyers reluctantly agreed, Serpentine was getting lowballed, hard.

Your terms are unacceptable, she’d said. Thanks, but we’re walking.

That was when Tove had shooed out the lawyers.

That was when the Archivist himself made her an offer.

They couldn’t help but notice, he explained unctuously, that Cora’s current personal thrall was a human. The Library could do better if she helped make this deal happen. She would be provided with a new thrall. A cognitodemon. They had a list, in fact, and she could pick anyone that took her fancy. All above board, no vengeful families, no unfinished business; these were wards of the Library, and the Lord Archivist could do what he liked with them. No duds, either. In fact, she’d already seen one in action.

The top of the list was nigh-indestructible, already blooded in minor combats, a capable librarian and a blooming research sorceress in her own right, and familiar with the fundamentals required to understand enthrallment techniques. It’s true that she has some discipline problems, the Archivist had said, but of course, those won’t be problems for you. Not once you’ve taken her.

The top of the list was Elspeth.

There was just one further minor detail. One of the reasons they’d sought Serpentine support was that part of the plan involved the enthrallment of humans, so obviously, the Library would need one for study, for verification of claims.

Your current personal thrall will do nicely, Tove had said. Since she’s already here.

So that’s it, then. You’d already been torn apart from your mistress once tonight, and then you woke up, and now it’s happening again. But you have to do whatever is in Mistress’s best interest. You understand. You tell her as much.

This is your purpose.

“Of course, Mistress. The trade makes perfect sense. Elspeth would be quite the asset to you, and the cost to the Clan seems reasonable…”

This is what you get for daring to hope.

As you hear your own words, as the ruin of your entire world sinks in, you begin to fall apart.

“Mistress. I… I’ll miss you so much,” you choke out, collapsing against her side as you realize you have no more tears left.

Cora grabs your hand and says, “Theta. I turned the offer down.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress?”

“I turned the offer down. You’re staying with me.”

“But… but why? I’m just a human, I can’t fight, I can’t use magic, can’t do… whatever she could do for you.”

“Because she wouldn’t want to stay up late with me to watch movies. Because she wouldn’t enjoy my cooking like you do. Because, Theta, I can see that you care about me, and that’s not just because of my venom in your veins. Because resisting the call of a succubus in your own dreams, being so thoroughly mine that she couldn’t even use your former name? That’s something special.“

You’ve never seen your mistress cry. You can barely imagine it. But here, in the otherworld dark, you can hear her voice break, you can feel the tear rolling down her cheek.

“I know why you said you’d rather I have someone useful. Why you suggested I take the trade. And I can tell you that she wouldn’t have said that in your place, unless I directly ordered her to speak those words. You’re more than a thrall to me, Theta. You’re so much more. Nobody they could give me would make me as powerful as I am with you by my side.”

Cora pulls you close, lets you bury her head in her chest, nestled just below her chin. “I’d rather have no thralls at all, ever again. I’m not giving you up, Theta.” A pause, a quiet breath to steady nerves. “It’s funny. Here in the fortress of a rival clan, surrounded by a hundred enemies, I finally feel safe… because I’m with you, Theta. I love you.”

You freeze against her, trying to answer the unanswerable. This is more than you had ever dared hope for, thrall or free, human lover or demon. And yet you have to say something!

Finally, you say, “I am utterly yours, mistress. Every cell of my body is yours to command. But even without your control.”

You choke up, another flood of tears coming at the thought.

“Even without it? With the care I’ve felt from you, every day, I’d still want to be at your side, Mistress. I love you too.”

Cora takes both of your hands in hers and looks at the ceiling.

“You hear that, Archivist? Your spies listening? Well, just in case, I’m going to say it again. Theta is mine. I love her. And if you ever try to get between us again, we will make your fate a legend to frighten children, together.“

You hold each other tightly for a while, each of you perhaps hoping to physically assure themselves that the other one is still there. Eventually, your mistress nips the side of your neck, gently, so gently, the tiniest dose of venom, and says, “Sleep now, my love. We’ll both need it.”

You drift off to sleep, together. No dreams, this time.

Evening

You drift back up from the depths of your recall trance. It’s evening now, the city lights beginning to flare in orange and amber outside Cora’s apartment’s window.

As you watch them flick on, it begins to hit you.

Minutes later, you’re still trembling, your body reeling with emotional aftershock. You’re sitting together on the couch, your head in her lap. She’s brushing her fingers through your long, dark hair.

“I need to say it again,” you say. “I love you, Mistress.”

And those incredible emerald eyes gaze down into you. “As many times as you need, my love. My Theta. I love you, too.”

You don’t think you can ever hear that enough. You could be here with her, feeling her fingers run through your hair, slowly relaxing, forever, forever content.

Eventually, you remember that you asked something, hours ago.

“Mistress,” you say, half in a trance again already, “you said we got it done. How? What happened, in the end?”

She smiles as she tells you, “Recall codeword Violet.“

Codeword Violet

Isaac knocks at the door of the diplomatic suite the next morning. It’s as if nothing has happened. Cora is invited to the same cavernous dining room, and you follow at her heels. Aside from Isaac and a waiter, nobody else is there. You’re served tea, fresh fruit, Belgian waffles.

The Archivist appears once again, with Tove, and the blonde. Antara. Ironically, you know her name now, but yours is still not hers to know, and it never will be. She glares at you from across the table, but says nothing. Tove doesn’t look to be in a particularly good mood himself; despite the pastries that he shovels into his mouth, he looks as if he’s slowly chewing a lemon.

The Archivist, on the other hand, seems pleased. “A revised contract, Domina,” he says to Cora, sliding a slim folio across the table to your mistress. “I suspect you’ll be pleased. Run it by your people, of course, but consider the issues we ran into last night resolved.”

Cora says nothing, for a moment that stretches, and then she nods. “Thank you, Lord Archivist.”

Under the table, she squeezes your hand.

Once everything is signed and sorted, your lawyers satisfied, their lawyers satisfied, there’s some equipment in bulky crates to be transferred, and some Infernal personnel that will be accompanying you out of the Library for cross-training. There’s not much for you to do, as you’ve already packed your mistress’s personal luggage, so you kneel quietly at Cora’s feet as you both watch things being moved into a Library freight elevator to be hoisted out of the Basement. It’s already a comfortable role for both of you.

Unfortunately, the equipment is Tove’s. The personnel are Tove’s. And although the Archivist is already there, although he isn’t needed at all, Tove himself pops up again to “supervise”. You can’t seem to shake His Grace, the Earl of Bloody Shadows, 55th Master of Overdue Books.

He grumbles, “Domina, I must once again warn you that I am doing this under protest. If you’d stick to the original plan, you know, it’d be much more elegant.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cora tells him calmly. “I’ll take it from here.”

His veil slips. “You little serpent shit. You’ll take it, indeed. You’ll take my plan, and you’ll fucking blow it.“

Tove grabs your mistress’s shoulder with one of his massive clawed hands.

“But don’t worry, I’ll be there to watch your sneaky fanged ass burn and fail, and then I’ll carry on as if you’d never walked in here, you worthless bitch.“

At that shouted insult, something snaps inside you. So much for comfort.

You rise from your kneeling position at your mistress’s feet, your will breaking through the venom and the orders but only because you love your Mistress so much that you can’t breathe another breath until this piece of shit demon noble pays for what he’s said and done your rage and your loyalty and your love and your will and your submission come together burning they feel physical it’s as if you can hold them in your palm wrapped around your fingers manifest you blink and there it is a broad blade of feelings and kinked space and twisted light hard to look at but when you leap at Tove to tear his filthy hand off of your Mistress to put him down — there is an immense tearing noise, and a harsh crack — it seems to be real enough.

Tove’s clawed and armored hand lies, severed, on the floor, some distance from your stunned mistress, arcs of dark purple blood everywhere. Tove screams, but still manages to bring up his other arm. That’s fine. Your next move will end him entirely.

But the Archivist bellows, “ENOUGH!” as he leaps and backhands the Earl of Bloody Shadows into a wall, and Cora’s gaze flicks to you, and she says four words, four words that take all of your will away like turning off a light, “Theta, remember your place.“

The blade disappears in a spasm of nothingness, and your consciousness with it.

Night

It’s dark outside, or as dark as the city ever gets, anyway.

“That trigger,” your mistress says, “was never meant to be used casually. It is not gentle, and it leaves the thrall worse off than blank. Blanks can be brought up again easily. You, on the other hand, took some work. The operation’s on hold for a bit, or the parts that need me, anyway; I’ve had you in a deep trance almost since then, and have been putting your memories back in the right order for a day and a half.”

“Theta,” she asks, worried despite herself, “given all that… how are you feeling?”

“This thrall is a little tired,” you say, but with a wicked smile on your face, “and yet she’s very, very glad that she stayed up for the ending. There’s just one thing she’d still like to hear, Mistress: what was it that you needed to hear from Elder Mara?”

She sighs. “She told me that it seemed that I was so shy that I couldn’t have a real conversation with anyone I hadn’t enthralled. She insinuated that this was why the T series domination venoms work so well. Now that I’ve had some time to consider her motives, it seems like she was trying to goad me into doing what she needed done. I’m not sure I can say that she’s wrong. It may be true. Maybe I can’t have a real conversation with someone unless I’ve dominated them.”

“Mistress… given all that, how are you feeling?“

She leans over to kiss you, tenderly, on the lips. “I’ve decided that I don’t care.”

Epilogue

In the Archivist’s working office, among stacks and stacks of thick glass tablets, each one the “archive” and final resting place of a once-living being’s memories, the Lord Archivist reclines in an enormous leather swivel chair, wings scraping the ceiling. There are two others in the office with him.

“Isaac?”

“He’ll live,” the smaller, ram-horned demon says. “Given what we have on his talents and his bloodline, I might wager that he’ll be growing that hand back for years.”

“Antara.”

“I don’t know how she fucking did it,” the succubus hisses, tail twitching with anger. “Only human. But I swear this, she won’t be able to do it twice.”

“Antara, focus. The dossier.”

“Yes, Archivist, I got the fucking dossier from Tenebrae’s own files! It’ll tell you the same thing!”

She tosses a thick leather folio onto the desk.

“Good. Leave me, both of you.”

Antara storms off, and then Isaac closes the door gently behind himself, leaving the Archivist alone, or alone as he can be, in this quiet tomb of those that have drawn the Library’s most focused interests.

The small snakeskin book is there. He lifts the cover again to see the note that he has already read, two words in the handwriting of Elder Mara of Clan Serpentine. It says, “BE NICE”.

The folio’s cover is embossed with the words “PROJECT CROWNBREAKER”. He opens it, and begins to read.