The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She was dreaming about something. She couldn’t remember what.

“I can’t remember,” the spellthief whispered, and she became aware of the conversation happening around her. Happening with her.

The arcanist was chuckling behind her, close to her ear, filling her chest with warmth. “Did you not just tell me that you did remember?“

“It’s a dream.” She wriggled in his arms, but did not struggle. She was comfortable, and she still felt the blanketing of the dreams around her body. “Dreams are strange.”

“I must agree,” he said, voice low, “but I wouldn’t discount them, little thief, not in this place, not here, not now.” His hands squeezed her lightly, and she didn’t mind where they were touching. “Perhaps they merit some exploration.”

A smirk came to her lips. “You’re a botanist, arcanist, and now a fateseer too?” She shifted her body enough to see his face, but not enough to come away from his grasp.

“I know little of reading them, and some little more of influencing them.” His expression mirrored hers for a moment, then he continued. “Someone’s dreams, you might like to know, are a lovely way of getting in to the unguarded parts of the mind. Yet still, I know that dreams can be curious things, in the presence of magic, and you are in the presence of a great deal of magic.”

“Read that in your copy of Magic and the Human Mind, did you?“

“Picked it up, here and there. I don’t always keep track of just where I find things.” He gave her a wink. “I think somehow, though, I will be keeping track of where I found you.”

“In the hallway, just outside. Brandishing a vial or two of Almer’s Fire, if I’m not mistaken?” She giggled.

“The details are not always so necessary.” The arcanist’s hand took up a circular motion between her shoulder blades. “When I first built the tower, I was gifted some of the most wild dreams you could imagine. Soaring over the landscape, looking down upon my garden—I would love to learn to fly, wouldn’t you? It’s one of the great failings of magical scholarship that mere birds can accomplish from a few days’ life what we cannot seem to manage with centuries of study.

“I saw the garden flush with life, as it was, then; and something like as it is now; and what it might be in the future...” he sighed, sounding wistful for a past not yet passed.

“Moonflowers?” she asked.

“Hundreds,” he smiled at her, “that’s where I had the notion for them, you know. The process to make them even begin to glimmer has taken me years, and they still...”

“They still are beautiful,” she finished for him, delighting at the surprise and hint of blush on his face. “I’ve... never planted anything,” she chuckled, “always more accustomed to scorching and scouring than germinating and growing...”

“It is no great shame, little thief.” The arcanist pressed his mouth to her forehead, and she felt her insides twist delightfully. “It is not anything requiring a great deal of skill. It does require patience, which few, admittedly, have in this day, but I believe you might.” He paused, to laugh a moment. “Despite your short temper.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. “I can be patient when I want to be. You’re only now giving me reasons to.”

“True, true,” he said, “but I doubt that patience, now, could do much to help your... other shortness.” He laughed again, as his hand pressed atop her hair and her face contorted with a suppressed anger. “Relax,” he smiled down at her, and she thought it might have been magic that made her comply. The tension released from her face and arms, and she allowed herself to be pulled closer, her nose and lips pressing against his bared chest. She breathed deep of his scent.

“The dreams are beautiful, yes,” he started to caress her spine again, “but the occasional nightmare does creep up on me. I can’t imagine that those are of much use in determining the future.”

She let her gaze swing up, along his body, and onto his face. The smile was there, but it was more distant. “And what are they?” She regretted asking as soon as she heard his sigh.

“Unquenchable fires that melt the very stones. Floods that sink the tower itself, faster than the mind can comprehend. Monsters of legends rising from the swamps. My mind conjures horrors, on occasion, that lie far beyond the ability of mortals to wreak.” He shook his head. “It is, perhaps, why I avoid sleep.”

“Unquenchable fires, you say.” Her eyebrows were up with the corners of her mouth, hoping to draw his along as well. “Dear arcanist, you aren’t afraid of me for that, are you?”

He chuckled, but it was mirthless. “Dear thief, these are fires you couldn’t imagine. Flames made of the rocks themselves, which melt stones like early winter snow on a hot stove. You, little thief? In the face of that, even one as dangerous as you cannot terrify.”

“Oh, don’t be so hasty. I could do better than imagining it.” She shut her lips, but his silence and curious look urged her to fill the void. “Well, I mean that I’ve experienced such things.” More silence still. A raised eyebrow. “Heat powerful enough to kill at a distance? Venomous air coming all day long from a lake of vile and melting rock? Ever-roiling, ever-burning, neverending smoke?”

“You’re describing volcanism,” he remarked.

The spellthief nodded. “Been to...” Then, she hesitated.

Don’t say it.

“Mount Ishmir?” she said.

Nice.

“Seen it?” she added hastily. “Heard of it? Read about it?”

“Heard of it. In the Dolwatch, yes?” At her nod, he smiled. “I’ve heard it erupts in fire once in a generation or so, but the soil at its base is the most fertile in Damea.”

Her hand was rubbing up and down his spine, while his had gone still. “It hasn’t gone off since before I was born. It’s not awake now, and inside it... it’s dreaming,” she nodded absently, “it’s still burning down in the core, all that rock and churning and melting and unmelting again... and the heat of it, even through, layers and layers of stone that should’ve been cold...“

“Unimaginable,” he said. His eyes were lingering on her, though she was staring at the wall. “Even still, I’ve heard that some make their home inside of it.”

Breath caught in her throat. “S-some do.”

“I must visit sometime,” she heard the happiness in his voice, the warmth shared by his breath and body. “You seem familiar; would you offer a tour to a guest?”

“Oh, no.” She looked at him seriously. “No. No, they wouldn’t have me there. And they don’t like outsiders, either.”

He winked. “With the right application of the right effects at the right times, both of those matters could be remedied.”

“No, you don’t understand me, it’s—”

Knocking sounded on the door, a sharp voice carried through it. “Your meal as requested, sir?”

The spellthief let drift a long sigh, and her body sloughed out of his grip and into the bed at his side, while he stood, giving her a curious glance, and went to collect it. Around him, the notes, books, and writing implements began to pick themselves up and place themselves in neat piles. By the time he’d reached the door and opened it, all the literature’d been nicely stacked, well away from the dining table.

“A fine trick,” she smiled as he came back inside. She was sitting up, near the edge of the covers, keeping the mask tight to her face and voice. “How long did it take you to get that down?”

“Months, actually. The issue was control, more than direction. More than one ancient tome got thrown with some force against the wall.” He chuckled, and laid the tray on the table.

“All the more impressive.” She slipped off the bed and crossed the room to his side, putting her arm around to rub the skin near his ribs. She turned her brightest smile up at him, but he looked down with something like confusion.

“Something the matter, little thief?” His arm came around her body naturally, and he led her to sit in her place. “You’re being affectionate, rather than confrontational, and you seem... distant.”

“You’re as observational as ever,” she snorted, and bent to gather up plateware. “I’m just giving a different approach than anger a try. Do you mind it?”

The arcanist laughed. “Of course I don’t mind it. It’s only a touch disconcerting. Unexpected, you might say.” He took his seat across from her. “It does give me pause, I must admit. Makes me wonder.”

Both of them gathered up a helping of broccoli. “Wonder at what?” She kept her tone curious. Curious, not confrontational. Melodious, not manic. Play to the mystery, she thought. He adores mystery.

“If it’s a way to get me off my balance, so that knife can find its way to my ribs.” Another wink.

Playful, that’s good. “Do you feel unbalanced?” she smirked. “And would it be such a bad thing, a change in footing?“

“My one great failing; I’ve never been a good dancer.” He started slicing into his meal, and she followed suit.

“I’ve got the lightness, and the precision, but I’ve never bothered to learn any steps.”

“A shame,” he sighed with an exaggerated longing, “you would look incredible doing some of the Elurien mystic ritual dances, or the pas-de-paire of the Aeralak islands.” He gave a critical look, up and down her frame. “Even some of the more dull courtly dances of the Dameans would look rather lovely if you were to have done them.”

She chewed, gulped, and rolled her eyes. “I’d rather be gutted like a fish than dressed in all that finery. Corsets and garters and miles of fabric just to stumble around a packed room with half a semblance of rhythm.” Another bite. “And the music is just as bad.”

“So you’re familiar with the Damean court dances,” he said wryly, nodding appreciatively. “The Elurien rituals would be much more to your style, I imagine. You’re already properly dressed.“

Noisily, the spellthief laughed, and covered her mouth to swallow. “No. You’re serious?”

Mouth full, he nodded, then replied. “Elurien religious services are rather unique, and quite... interesting. I admit there were times when I found it somewhat difficult to concentrate on the meditations.”

“Hells,” she breathed, still chuckling while taking another bite, “I have to get out of this country sometime.“

“The pas-de-paire is done wearing scarcely little more,” he added. “Damea and Keldia are rather prudish in their style of dress, compared with much of the world. I imagine the cold winters may have done this to us.”

“Ugh.” She had to shudder, at the thought of some of the Keld finery she’d experienced, too. “Bet they wear less still in Doloc and Jir-Qan.”

“You might think, but not so.” He shook his head. “Up in the mountains and down in the desert, they cover up like you wouldn’t believe. The air is more frigid the higher you go, in any season, and in the dunes, the heat held in by clothing is nothing compared to the power of the sun. And you have the added bonus of not getting sand everywhere.”

“I’ll admit, I’m glad you didn’t decide to build this thing in a desert.” She grinned. “The sand would be everywhere by now.“

He shared a nod with her. “I visited an old, old magus in Jir-Qan, once. He lived in the middle of the sands, two days’ walk from anywhere useful. He had built himself a triangular structure—it’s where I got the initial idea for this tower, actually. Although, he claims that his is not just his focus and his laboratory, but also his tomb, if you can believe that. A bit morbid, if you ask me.“

“Weird,” she murmured around a piece of food and the silence of chewing. “So, you... came up with the design on your own, then? For the tower?”

“Mhmm, largely,” the arcanist said. “The concepts and such, those came from elsewhere. But the architecture and planning is my own.”

The spellthief crossed her legs and leaned a touch closer. “We always—I mean, I always thought that the crown leased the land, built the towers, put up the arcanists in each.“

“There are a few like that. There’s a standard design, of course. But I built this one.” He tapped on the floor with his foot. “Made sure the architectural design was sound, of course, by running it past an engineer in good standing, but on the whole, it’s mine.” He sighed a little. “My great work. I wonder if I’ll ever surpass it.”

She turned her head this way and that, around the space, before settling in his direction again. “Why towers? You all have one, or something like one—and why do you build them where they’re built?”

“Well, there’s the obvious phallic imagery,” he shrugged. “For me, of course, I had a very small space in which to build. Even this clearing took many days, purifying and fighting back the swamp. I also had the particular design in mind for arcane reasons. For the others, I assume that it’s easily defensible, or easy for them to hide in. We tend to be a rather solitary lot.”

“I’ve gathered that.” She leaned in and pushed her plate onto the table, then sat back with a thoughtful expression. “So the tower is... unique then, with its designs, among arcanists?” This was risky, she thought. Being so obvious in her probing for information could backfire—she wanted him distracted, not recoiling.

“Among Dameans?” He thought for a moment, seeming to be too lost in the line of inquisition to consider her motives. “I think so, probably. It does grant me rather more power and focus than most, but it limits where I can use it. There are others. The Jir-Qanni magus, for example, or, again, the Elurien mystics, who channel a great deal of power using their Grand Temple.”

She could learn and distract at the same time, at least. “Then if this talent of mine,” she gestured, as if about to summon a spell, “could work on another’s focus, I wouldn’t be tapping into anything nearly as strong as this?”

The arcanist set his plate aside. “It is a fairly secretive business, and your talent rather unique. I can really only speculate. But if you consider your own little amulet, and how much power it’s able to focus, compared to this tower, well,” he stifled a laugh, “size, it seems, does matter. The very foundations of this building were created to channel and direct mystic energies.”

Her eyes rolled, and she was readying some retort before an idea made itself known. “Is this your only focus? No, it couldn’t be—you go into town, what do you bring with you?” she asked.

His brows rose with a smile. “Digging for information, now?” Silverware onto the empty plate. “Need to know my strengths and weaknesses, to better strike at a later date?”

Shit. She forced out a laugh. “Of course not, you silly fool.” She wasn’t planning on any such thing, and if he thought that she was, he’d fasten his mouth shut tighter than anything. She inched her chair closer to him. “I need to know if this talent can work on some other focus. Something smaller, something that doesn’t give me a headache to even think about. Practical applications.“

He laughed. “A staff,” he spread his hands while he spoke, “carved from a branch of an old oak at the edge of my family’s old estate, a branch that was struck by lightning, on midnight of a full moon on a perfectly clear night.”

Her brows knit downward, “... I can’t tell if you’ve made that up or not,” she admitted.

“Only some of it,” the arcanist chuckled, “I don’t know when the branch was struck, but it was, by the burns, clearly cut from the trunk by a bolt of lightning. Kept it as a walking stick for some years, and had it fashioned into a proper focus when I was ready for it.”

“What kind of gem does it have?” she asked curiously, then, “Wait, no, don’t tell me. Show me.”

He gave pause, looking at her critically, thinking. Then, with a nod, he closed his eyes, brought up his hand, and an ornately-carved oak staff, a little curved but expertly crafted, appeared beside him, sitting in his grip as though it had been there for hours; a small, light green stone was set so deeply in the wood as to be near invisible.

A small blue blur darted from under the bed to examine the new addition to the room, batting at it with a tiny paw, sniffing curiously. The arcanist gave the curious familiar a grin before she slipped down through the floor.

“Wow,” the spellthief gasped, stood, and took a step closer to it. Most staves were just a stick with a rock on top. This was a work of beauty, not one of those ostentatious things made by gaudy braggarts. Not that he isn’t, she muttered to in her mind, but she was far too distracted by the ornate focus to take her own reminder seriously. “Emerald?” she asked while leaning close to the little glittering gem, “No, no, too light... Peridot?“

“A thief would know her gemstones,” he chuckled. “It serves its purpose well.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and reached—then stopped herself. “May I?” Her hand outstretched, her gaze holding his.

He shook his head firmly. “Not here. Not in the tower. Your strength here is too volatile, the possibilities too...” A shrug. “Perhaps if we take another walk.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” she moaned, “would you just let me indulge my curiosity a few minutes? If it works, you’re here and you can stop something unexpected. And if it doesn’t, there’s no danger.”

“It’s late evening,” he corrected her, though she had no idea if it was true, “and you haven’t got the best of control. Giving you a separate source of power...” Another shake. “Not now.”

“It’s like you want me to die of boredom in here.” The spellthief stared him down with crossed arms, but when he held firm for long enough, she groaned and walked away to sit on the bed’s edge.

“We have both just enjoyed a fine meal, and I would like to digest before I return to my work,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “We shall return to our studies later, if you are still so eager.“

“Suit yourself, then,” she huffed and turned her head away. This wasn’t entirely part of the act—the possibility of using another focus in such a way was very enticing. If she could, it would make this entire endeavor worth it. If not, it would only be worth the books she’d have strapped to herself as she left. So while there was a certain desire to experiment, to learn and study and discover, there was a desire in parallel, working from below her conscious thought. Her eyes lingered, just a moment, on his half-bared body. Not long enough for her to notice, but perhaps for him, and certainly long enough to stir a few thoughts inside her mind.

Idly, then, she cupped her hands together, and moments later, flames started to spring up from her palms, licking up the fingers like water, flowing up and around while it filled the invisible basin she held.

“Little thief,” the arcanist sighed, “can you not wait ten minutes? A suitable break, a moment of patience?”

“And what would you have me do then?” She glanced over at him as she fell back on the bed, still holding her hands together, but now they were upside down above her face, casting light, casting shadows, working with an unseen and inverted gravity.

“Continue our conversation, perhaps?” His eyes were on her, steadily, watchfully. “Rest? Stretch?”

“We can converse just fine like this,” she said, while manipulating the upside-down pool of heat into different contortions, different shapes and sights in the space between eyes and digits.

“I would rather you burn as little as possible.”

“Nothing’s burning,” the spellthief said calmly, feeling some of the worry in his tone. “Relax, won’t you?”

“I would like to, but there is a young woman quite literally playing with fire not too far from me.”

She sat up and held both hands out toward him. He watched, and she watched, as she closed one into a fist, and the flames therein flew through the air to the well hovering above her still-open hand. “You could play too, if you like.” Her eyes found his, but they were otherwise occupied—watching her close one fist, and then the other, again, and again, making the flames bound back and forth, like two children tossing a ball over a small river. Except that the ball, here, was fire.

“I could also stop you in a flash,” he said, and yet, he hadn’t. He was still sitting. Still watching. Why?

His eyes found hers when she spoke. “You could,” she smiled, “but I don’t think you want to. Do you?”

A faint squinting in his stare, as a ball of flame darted between their matched lines of sight. “That I haven’t, I think, answers your question, doesn’t it?”

She felt something else in his voice, something different. Her tongue swept across her lips. “It does,” she nodded, and she noticed that the flames had formed into a single pillar, rotating slowly, warming her body. It was a comfortable, pleasant light, something she would’ve expected from a fireplace on a cold night. She became aware of his eyes on it, too. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s nice,” he nodded. A shiver went through her spine. Something was familiar, tingling in the back of her mind, in the lines of power moving through the room, through the tower, through them both connected to it. It was almost addictive, a sort of urging, pressing her deeper into something she didn’t fully understand. The spellthief couldn’t quite tell if he understood, either. He’d scarcely said a word, and only now were his eyes starting to move back up to hers, taking their sweet time over her shoulders and neck.

Her fingers twitched, the fire grew and shifted, and his eyes were back down. “You’re waiting for something,” she said. Not a question.

“I’m waiting for something,” he agreed.

This was strange. But the more she tried to stop, step back, consider and re-approach, the more that strange, numb feeling and that heat in her cheeks and that flutter in her gut pushed her forward still. “Y-you have been, I think, for some time,” she said quickly, tripping over the words in her head, “you have a fire of your own, don’t you?“

To her surprise, the arcanist stood up, but his eyes were still fixed and focused on the column spinning in her hands. He leaned on his staff. “In many senses.”

If she could have seen herself, and if he could have seen her face, either of them might have noticed the gleam and the shimmer and the surge of power in her eyes. “A specific one,” she breathed, “the kind of flame that I share, too.” She wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. They just put themselves together and slid around her lips like a smooth, thick balm. “You feel it, yes?”

Neither of them noticed, until it had happened, that he had come halfway across the room and answered her question. Neither of them quite remembered what the word off his lips was, but the way they hung open in half a smile was clear enough. The spellthief became aware that she was standing, too, holding an outstretched hand into the empty space between them. The fire was roiling, rising toward the ceiling like a waterfall in reverse. Myriad colors and shades and shadows of ember danced over his expression, and danced inside her eyes. “You want it, yes?” she was asking.

The arcanist was nodding. “And you?” He mumbled. “Do you?”

She stepped closer. The fire was responding for her, the fire was thinking for her. With a crackle, it surged down into her palm, lit with reds and oranges. Not dangerous, both of them could feel that as surely as the heat it kept putting off. Her hand, the fire within, reached upward, gently, ever so gently touching the side of his face, filling him with not just more warmth, but heat. Filling his body. Filling his thoughts.

“You feel this?” she whispered, her flickering gaze and touch holding him fixed.

He was nodding again, speaking quietly. “You will not back down, this time.” It was not a question, nor an order. It was a realization, a revelation to both. A statement that didn’t even need to be said. For it was already known.

“Neither will you,” she said, softly, her face and body flushing. “You’re about to take me, throw me onto that bed, and fuck me.” She stopped the shudder in her body from reaching her lips, kept her hand and voice somewhat steady. “Aren’t you?”

His staff, his clothes were gone. Both vanished.

His hands were on her shoulders. The fire, she wasn’t aware of it any more; she felt it all around, within, without, in him, in her, in the air. He pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss; she felt his hardness, the warmth of it pressing against her belly. A kiss that ended with a rough, but not unkind, shove back to the bed. She was surprised, gasping as she fell, banishing any outward flames away with a roll of her neck. Her eyes watched his, while the racing thoughts turned to a constant noise, which only became drowned out by the cries of need all over her body. Her legs began to spread.

Stalking, almost like a predator, he placed himself at the foot of the bed, kissing her calves, her knees, her thighs... she saw his eyes move over her naked body from between her legs, before leaning to take a slow, gentle lick along her labia. A moan, one of hers, and one of his in reply, shudders from the rush of arousal after so very long without it. One hand braced, the other found his hair, and pulled firmly, but not unkindly, dragging his face into her wetness and scent and taste. He took the invitation gladly. Her center was pierced lightly by his tongue, testing, experimenting, looking for what she adored the most.

Moving his tongue this way, her grip tightened, moving it that way, she cried with pleasure, pulling him even closer still. Her eyes were open, panting, breathing hard and staring down her body, unsure if she was seeing reality of just another fantasy. It could have been either. Either would have been good. Very good.

And the disappointment of his lips pulling away was stifled as they found their way up her belly, climbing closer and closer, a familiar flame in his eyes, his hands touching and exploring her sides as he closed in; she shuddered, both hands steadying herself, stomach and chest rising and falling on each hot breath. A hand found his cheek, caressing it, before it gave in to her own needs and she felt for her nipple—he lurched forward, kissing her deeply, filling her body with magic in the motion, paralyzing magic, holding her long enough for him to align himself and, with an impassioned grunt, push inside, sigh, and turn his head upward.

The magic shattered as soon as the motion was complete, and the spellthief moaned from the burst of pleasure as it all fell back into her senses. One arm wrapped behind his neck, the other stuck to her chest, eyes staring into his, urging, needing, begging him for more. “Say it, little thief,” he gasped, while moving slowly, achingly slowly, a twisted smile on his lips. “Speak. What do you want?”

A groan wound free out of her lips. “You know what I want,” she gritted her teeth, trying to bring him deeper with the motion of her hips. But he pushed... in... slowly... leaned down to suck at a nipple for a moment, before finding her eyes again.

“Speak,” he said, pulling back and making her eyes widen, her lips take a labored breath in.

“Fuck me,” she rasped, and there was no further hesitation. The arcanist worked his legs, hips, thrusting, retreating, aiming for those places within that had caused her such pleasure before, hitting them perfectly with each push and pull, a bolt of pleasure through her, up her spine, into her extremities, into each nerve with a heavy, stunning blow to her mind. She was staring, trembling, quivering and moaning, touching and feeling beneath him while he loomed above.

Then his hands were planting down, putting her arms back on the bed, over her head. Faster, now. Energy crackling in his hands, behind his eyes, a spell he was holding back—the sight of it made her tremble harder, shaking between the thrusts, shuddered breaths between the cries he forced out of her. She stared, captivated by the light in his eyes, almost daring to ask, but another thrust stopped that thought, too; she knew, anyway, that he wouldn’t resist, couldn’t resist, not now, not like this. And the light surrounded her, caressed her almost gently given the energetic physicality of it and the way it contained her thoughts and invaded her mind.

“Mine,” it whispered at her, simply. “You are mine.”

And she couldn’t resist it. She didn’t even think to. The energy of it flowed into and through her being, settling over her mind, shimmering from beneath her eyes as another thrust made them shut tight, moaning, breathing incomprehensible approvals, assurances, begged entreaties.

Hands touched. Mouth descended upon her, within her, the mechanism of the spell thrusting deeper into her.

No resistance, the voice in her mind told her. “No reluctance. Mine.”

And she knew, she felt her mind unfolding for it, opening as it penetrated deeper and deeper. Eyes fluttering open with another pleasured groan, brighter with the energy, body on fire with excitement, life, warmth and heat—

Another thrust. Another tendril of power. Another word in her mind. “Obey.” Another thrust. Another tendril. Another word. “Submit.” Thrust. Power. Word. “Give.” The thoughts resounding, over and over above the din of her voice, reverberating through the emptiness of her thoughts. Deep, primal words. Filling her mind, filling her body, forcing their way beneath thought.

“Serve.” “Kneel.” “Open.” “Tell.”

The power within becoming synonymous to the pleasure she felt, the pleasure changing her, warping her. She could tell, too, either from the sound, or from the feeling, or from the barely contained excitement in the words, that the casting excited him. The need in his body growing, the force in his motion strengthening, the biting on her shoulder growing more and more urgent. Every word dragging her closer, every thrust threatening to shove her over the edge. The sound from her lips a constant, the sounds in her mind a constant, only punctuated with inhalations, exhalations, words and expressions of physical desire and need.

And as though spoken from a faraway place, she knew, she understood, that an orgasm would cement the spell, make her his, absolutely, completely. The oncoming moment seemed utterly inevitable, especially as she could tell that her owne—that he neared his own moment of the inevitable. But the quiet and distant part of her mind was too far away to act, and even if it were closer, it would have been drowned out by the words and the feeling and the power and the tendrils in each thrust. Rising, boiling, building to its breaking point, hitting the spot over and over and over until it was all a haze; words in her head, words on her lips, echoing, pounding, louder than the groan from his lips, the pumping between her legs, rising, the order louder than anything, “Climax...” “Climax...” “Climax...”

And she could not resist it, she would never want to. She erupted in pleasure, spilling out of her core in wave after wave, cries turning to whimpers as she shook, with each tremor washing out the receding tide of her mind and thoughts. Being held close, held by arms, held in warmth and emptiness and nothing by Him. By her owner. By her Master. It goes, and goes, and goes... her jaw hung slack, eyes half-lidded, the glow behind them washing out warmth, and heat, and fire, and the intensity of pleasure, and purpose, and resistance. Replacing them all. Lying limply, lost in feeling, devoid of thought.

As he took a breath, the magical rush began to fade. The arcanist looked down to his side, smiling as the last aftershocks pushed through her mind and body, making her writhe wonderfully while caught in his... in his spell.

In my spell.

A spell, a combination of them that he’d sworn off, the moment he’d found and conceived of them, never to be used. It was too unconscionable, too dangerous, too destructive. She was bound. Completely. Even now, he could feel the outcroppings of his energy spreading, working, rewriting within her mind. Altering it irrevoc—well, not irrevocably, but not easily released.

But at this moment, his word was iron-bound law. She could be anything he needed, anything he wanted. She would be. She would know how to be nothing else. Already, he knew, deeply in his own mind, that she thought herself his, and his alone. Her talents were at his absolute disposal.

Surely that’s worth at least considering. Compromising my ethics for an advantage such as her, well... Not to mention, that body, that athleticism at my personal disposal, any time I want. She’s a catch. She’s a prize. She’s... The arcanist felt a sigh leave his numbed body.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, unable to put his eyes on her limp form. His fingers strove to soothe the aching in his temples.

Not just of body. Of mind. But isn’t this beauty, too? His hand strayed, desiring to make the familiar, smooth, gentle stroke along her thigh, but there would have been no point in it. She would have clarity. Simplicity. Beauty in thought. It would remove every worry, take away every moment of trepidation. It could wipe away her will. Make her my personal agent. Make her my loyal love-slave. It... it is, I suppose, even now eliminating every trace of the Keld-refugee-turned-Damean-rebel. He frowned. That should have been an exciting thought. He was certain it would have been, a week ago.

“But she would be so... so much better.” He adjusted his position, looking her up and down as the expected blankness settled in, knowing what was roiling inside behind that cipher of an expression. He could feel the magic working, focusing her devotion, suppressing her resistance, chaining her thoughts. “You’ll be a blindly-obedient servant, you’ll live your entire life to please me. You’ll be happy. You wouldn’t know how to be anything else...” He whispered, his hand trembling above her hair as though she might still be able to sense it. As though her eyes might just wink open, and deliver him a playful glare.

No more of that, if I let this happen. He shook his head. If I do this. But... she would still suffer, then. She would still have pain. Sorrow. All those troubling secrets she’d gone to lengths to keep hidden. He could take all of that away. Wouldn’t that be better? I could make her anything. I could make her anyone. A peasant. A dancer. A princess. A puppet. A toy for me, living the most beautiful and wonderful life imaginable in every waking moment, and every sleeping one too... wouldn’t that be better?

Again, the arcanist turned away, for he couldn’t stand the mask of emptiness she wore. Enjoying such a thing seemed far away now. Every moment was an agonizing reality of choice. But then—

I could do nothing.

“I could do nothing,” he repeated aloud. There was no rush to reverse the spell. I could try out having an absolute slave for a while, and if I didn’t like it, I could simply release her later. I could do nothing at all. Absentmindedly, his fingers found their way to a magical little furball that had found its way beneath his palm.

“I could just do nothing,” he said to Missy. “She’ll be mine until I change my mind.” The cat just purred. Seemingly unaware, uncaring. Her ears were being scratched. That was all she needed.

“It’s a small thing,” he added, rubbing the familiar’s chin. “She would be happy. Ecstatic, in fact. Every command I give would be pure bliss, to her.” The only reply was a small meow and a stretch, the pressing of a cheek into his fingers. “And you would be well cared for too, Missy,” he continued, rubbing her jowl, “you’d have all the pettings and treats that you...”

The arcanist looked at the cat. The cat looked at him.

“Want,” he finished.

A cat could have wants. A cat could have desires. Even something as simple as strokes across her back, scratches behind the ears, rubs beneath her chin. An absolute slave... would have one desire. Whatever I say that desire is. There could be nothing unexpected. No surprises. If there were, they would be manufactured. I could tell her to think for herself, to play a fun trick on me, perhaps, but... she could only think as far as the bounds I allow her. Having to control his own fun seemed like quite the bore. But she, she was fun. Interesting. Challenging. Curious. A rebel, a vagrant, a criminal. Always a surprise hiding behind her next words, always more mystery lying in wait. Like a Kharis manuscript. Or a Pilantor original. Or the great stained glass portraits in Addhiron’s cathedral. An artwork. A thing of beauty.

This was supposed to be a diversion. Something unexpected, but not unwanted, to shake into the routine. A bit of fun between sessions of work, something to ponder over a meal. A warm body to hold late in the night. But it’s more now, isn’t it? Or at least, it was.

Spending days researching, learning, coming closer than ever before to the edge of something monumental. Spending mornings sleeping, holding someone close. Spending meals not just eating, or pondering, but laughing. Playing. Learning. Spending nights healing. Hoping. Cursing his lack of practice. Spending seconds listening for heartbeats. Cleaning blood from wounds.

All of that, for... this.

“She was never supposed to win the game,” the arcanist informed the familiar. “She was foolish if she thought she could. It was rigged from the beginning. It wouldn’t have even taken a word to convince her that I was correct.” The cat purred. “She changed the rules, though. She very nearly escaped. And she would have won, if I just hadn’t... no, she’ll be happier,” he told himself, “I can do nothing. I can wait. She won’t even know what time is, much less be bothered by its passing. Yes.” He nodded, as if the action would affirm the emotion he did not feel. Maybe Missy sensed this, maybe she didn’t, but she stretched out, and crawled into his lap.

She’ll have no needs, wants, or need for wants. I’ll care for every whim she might once have had. And the cat, too, would be cared for. Only a cat would want physical touch so strongly. So strongly as to draw on their owner’s power, to make themselves manifest, to fulfill their wants.

But Missy’s owner had no mind, now, nor a source of power to be found through it.

So how can I possibly be petting her?

Unless.

His hand found the cat’s head, humming, charged with energy. Tracing the source of her power. It was no surprise to find it leading to his tower, that made some sense, but... that source traveled through her. The one at his side. The spellthief. The spellthief, to the cat, to the tower, to him.

It was Missy. It was the damned cat that made the link. Missy made the connection between her and the tower, so that she could hunt rats in the pantry, play with the guards and, yes, so that the arcanist could be scratching behind her ears. He traced the path twice, thrice, he lost count of how many times he followed it. It was the only conclusion. And what a conclusion it was.

“Little thief, I...” His face lit into a grin, and he turned to the spellthief. And words left him. Nothing was looking back, or cocking an eyebrow, or smirking his way. Just a lolling head and neck attached to a beautifully limp body, breathing steadily, utterly possessed by a spell.

By my spell.

She would want to know. There was no question in that. I ought to tell her. From one curious mind to another. But there was little way to do that now. In order for her to know anything at all, aside from commands and the five senses of her body, he would have to break the enchantment running through her.

Which could be just as dangerous as putting it in, in the first place. He hadn’t done either before. But he knew the mind could only take so much stress, so many routs and crashing tides before it began to fragment. To shatter. He did not want her to shatter. A broken slave is no use, and a broken... thief, is even less so, he decided.

The cat leapt off of him, bounding off to chase something into somewhere, and he put his hand over the girl’s forehead, scanning the mind below. The tendrils dug deep. They were never meant to erase, though. Only to partition. To lock away identity, memory, thought, emotion, and independence. To let him parcel them out as he desired. It sounded especially foolish now, and even moreso looking at the mess he’d made. The spell wasn’t finished. It could still be undone. He was certainly skilled enough for it.

But it would leave her more fragile than ever; to execute another monumental change, safely, would be impossible. And even smaller changes than that—shifting the memories of an evening, changing a name, reframing a devotion... these would widen the faults left by the partitions.

Her self could unravel if he, or anyone, pushed too strongly.

Which, he sighed, means going back. And with no more do-overs. To leave her with the memory of the previous hour would invite disaster. She would ask questions, and each question would be another dangerous fracture. She would have to be spun back, back to before the spell, back to before... before the kiss. And to wipe away such pleasure, such deep feeling and memories, again, would be impossible to do with good conscience. There could not be another night of passion made forgotten for his benefit. It would take effort, conscience and committal, and already the fear of acting without his comfortable, reassuring net filled him with dread.

But he was already committed. She had to know, he had decided. And, besides, he was not one to deprive the world of such art, however temporarily. His hands, and his magic, reached shakily out to stall the corrupting tendrils of enchantment, and he slowly wound them backward, as his will steadied.

It would take time. And it would take healing.

But he was certain that it would be worth it.