The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Nehiah looked up at the sky, and frowned.

It was slate grey, and dark far too early in the afternoon. The wind had a chill in it which shouldn’t have been there.

No doubt about it, she thought. We’re in for one of those sudden northern storms. And here I thought it was summer. The tops of the trees rippled in the crossbreezes.

Still frowning, she turned to look at the wagon. A hundred feet behind her, it lurched along the dirt road. Ssalvar, the lizardman coach driver, spat out a curse in his sibilant tongue.

Inside the wagon, the slaves gripped the bars.

Nehiah watched as the wagon lurched up the trail. To either side, the forest stretched away, broken here and there by the giant stones that gave the Cairn Wastes its name. The trees and vines that covered everything else here avoided the great grey monoliths entirely. As did people—the hunting was reputed to be stellar, but only fools and adventurers entered the Cairn Wastes.

Fools, adventurers, and greedy slavers.

It was just her and Ssalvar, but the Sorceress’ tower was only a three day carriage ride from Anvardon, and Nehiah had driven this route almost a year now. Her instincts, prickling at the nape of her neck, told her to worry about ambushes—human or otherwise—but her mind told her she could relax.

The only thing to fear out here was the Sorceress herself, and Nehiah was here on her business. Further from the road, the creatures of the Wastes might be an issue. But not here.

Nehiah looked at the sky again, and a thick drop spattered onto her cheek. She sighed.

Now the road would turn to muck, and it might take days before they reached the tower. And the slaves might take sick. That would be a disaster. Nothing like delivering bad merchandise.

A second drop, and a third. Well, there was nothing for it. Nehiah looked to Ssalvar, motioning him to stop the wagon so that she could get back on. They’d ride it as far as they could, before the sucking mud stopped them. Perhaps the rain wouldn’t be heavy, but Nehiah had lived in the north too long to bend much hope that direction.

Ssalvar was staring at her. Puzzled, she looked back at him. Why wasn’t he pulling the wagon forward so she could get on? Then she realized he wasn’t staring at her, but rather... she turned around.

The Sorceress was standing behind her.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Uh,” Nehiah replied. Oh, that was clever. “Good afternoon, your Excellency.”

“For me?” she asked, gesturing at the wagon.

“Er, yes, indeed,” Nehiah replied.

“Good,” the Sorceress said. “I had observed that it was starting to rain, and thus have come down to escort you to my tower.”

“That is... very kind of you.”

The Sorceress smiled wanly. “Isn’t it,” she replied.

Then her eyes grew fey, the soft gold flickering and lighting into a glowing yellow, then swelling and burning until light was shining out of them and Nehiah could feel it on her face and then

her eyes were back to normal, flecked gold and not glowing at all.

“Come inside,” she said, turning from Nehiah and walking into the tower, suddenly behind her.

Nehiah looked up at the imposing grey bulk of it. It stretched in unornamented stone seven stories above the courtyard they were now standing in, made of stones as tall and broad as a man with joins you couldn’t slide a thread between.

She turned to find that the wagon behind her in the courtyard. Ssalvar was looking at her, his eyes glittering with reptilian discomfort.

“Everything’s fine,” Nehiah told him. “Chain the slaves, and bring them into the audience chamber. Through that door.” At least, it had been the other times she’d been here. But she’d arrived on her own feet then.

Ssalvar hissed an affirmative, and clambered down from the wagon. Nehiah looked around the courtyard, a grey circle of dusty cobblestone inside twelve-foot grey walls. The cloudy sky was just beginning to fulfill its wet promise, darkening the cobblestones. She balled up her courage, and strode into the tower.

Though the entrance was merely an open archway, the interior space was different entirely from the courtyard, as though one had stepped out of a painting. The air was warm and dry, and scented slightly of lemon. Warm illumination filled the room, showing the bright colors of the rugs and the tapestries on the walls.

The audience chamber, for such it was, filled the entire ground floor of the tower, twin travertine stairs curling up the rear wall to join at the top, and give access to the second floor, twenty feet above. Open archways, supported by alabaster caryatids, led into the ring wall on either side, and another arch opened back onto the courtyard, matching the one behind Nehiah.

Against the rear wall, between the stairs, below a tapestry on which a terribly real depiction of the Sorceress was forever frozen in the act of casting down the Red Mage of Y’lun, the genuine article lounged on a divan. She was the picture of relaxation, sipping at a long-stemmed glass and watching Nehiah cross the thickly carpeted floor towards her.

At either end of the divan, a travertine statue of a nude woman stood impassively, hand at their sides. Arrayed in a hemicircle in front of it were an assortment of carved wooden chairs and small tables.

At a gesture from the Sorceress, Nehiah approached.

“So, my dear Nehiah, what have you brought me this time?” she asked, as Nehiah rounded a porphyry-topped table bearing a bowl of onyx stones, and stopped in front of her.

“Three fine ones, your Excellence,” Nehiah replied. “Ssalvar should be bringing them in immediately.”

“Wonderful,” the Sorceress replied. She waved a hand. “Do sit down.”

Nehiah sat down gingerly. Although she had been coming here for almost a year, and the Sorceress had never been anything other than the soul of courtesy, the little tingle of fear in her presence never quite abandoned her.

The Sorceress sipped at her glass and watched Nehiah. She’d never shown a tendency towards small talk.

Nehiah looked at the tapestries—all scenes from the Sorceress’ life. When she was wealthy and powerful, Nehiah had no intention of decorating her walls with pictures of herself. But then, she wasn’t a wizard.

“Ah,” the Sorceress said, looking past her. Ssalvar must have been leading in the slaves. She extended the pale hand holding the delicate glass, and one of the statues at the edge of the divan reached out to take it.

Since the first time she had seen the living statues, they had unnerved Nehiah. They looked like identical statues of some ancient beauty—pure white stone, curving gracefully in all the right places. They could have been some Quirmian merchant’s decoration. Until they moved.

Nehiah wasn’t sure why the Sorceress bought slaves. There were a few humans around the compound—they lived in the outbuildings, as far as she could tell. A cook, a game keeper, some others. But for all of her domestic work, Nehiah had only ever seen the Sorceress use her statues. Such as the one now that carefully held the glass in its unyielding stone hands.

Of course, Nehiah had her guesses. Creatures willing to grant power in return for human sacrifice were legion. And the Sorceress had a very great deal of power.

But that sort of thing was not Nehiah’s business. She was just the dealer. And a fine one, as the Sorceress had come to appreciate. As Ssalvar walked past her, trailing the three women on a single chain, Nehiah stood.

“As you can see,” she began, “I have brought you as fine a set as always. All beauties, yet quite different from one another.”

“Indeed,” the Sorceress replied distractedly, looking at the three bound women.

All three were in loose cotton shifts. They were all gagged, a rubbery black sphere holding their mouths open and permitting only the most rudimentary gurgles.

But beyond that, they were very different specimens. The first on the chain was dark-haired and dark-skinned, from some much warmer clime than here. Her eyes were downcast, unwilling to look at her buyer.

Behind her was a northerner, sapphire blue eyes in a pale, freckled face, crowned with icy blonde hair. She stared at the Sorceress with open fear.

And the last... the last stared at her as well, but with anger instead of fear. Her red hair fell in loose waves to her back, and her dark brown eyes glittered as she met the Sorceress’ appraising gaze and returned it with venom.

The Sorceress stared at the red-headed one for a long moment, then laughed.

“Well done, Nehiah,” she said. “Three wonderful specimens.” She waved a hand at one of her statues, which turned and walked out of the room. “Let me just have a closer look,” she added, waving her hand at the other statue.

The white stone creature stepped forward, and with a delicate hand took hold of the first slave’s shift and tore it down the front. The slave whimpered as the statue then pulled the cloth from her.

“Curvy,” the Sorceress observed. “Nice.”

She motioned again.

The blonde attempted to back away, but Ssalvar yanked on her chain, and the collar at her neck pulled her forward. Unceremoniously, the statue tore and pulled her gown away.

The Sorceress smiled. “Also nice. I like freckles.” She looked into the face of the woman, whose eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’ve been in the sun more than you’re used to, haven’t you?”

Then she turned to the last one. As much as it was possible around the black ball in her mouth, the redhead sneered at her.

“Feisty,” she said, waving her statue forward. The shift tore off of the rigidly erect woman, who simply continued to stare at the Sorceress.

“Oh my,” the Sorceress said, upon seeing the woman’s body. “You keep in good shape. And is that a scar? I daresay you’re some sort of adventurer. Tell me about this one, Nehiah.”

“She came with a load from Yleen, your Excellency. A reputation for being unmanageable. Probably, as you say, an adventurer. Shanghaied and sold into slavery, I would venture within the year.”

“Wonderful,” the Sorceress breathed. “You do such an excellent job of bringing me the ones I want.”

“I, ah, thank you. I try.”

The Sorceress circled the redhead, who continued to glare defiantly at her.

“I daresay, were it not for the geas collar, she’d lunge at me,” the Sorceress observed. “How marvelous. So well muscled, too,” she said, fingers reaching to slide along the woman’s ass. The contact caused the redhead to spin around, and the Sorceress chuckled.

“Yes, very nice,” she said, taking a step back. “I shall take them all, of course.” She gestured, and the robe-rending statue took hold of the chain leash. Head turning from the statue to the Sorceress, and then to Nehiah, Ssalvar saw her nod slightly, and released the chain. The statue immediately took up the slack.

“Ah, and this is for you,” the Sorceress observed.

Nehiah turned, and the second statue was at her elbow, holding a small chest. Nehiah looked at the featureless white stone of the statue’s eyes, and repressed a shiver. They might be made of stone, but they were as silent as though they were made of air.

“Go on,” the Sorceress said, returning to her divan, pivoting slowly, and sitting down. “Take it.”

Nehiah opened the chest. It was full of coin, gold coin. Licking her lips, she reached in and slid it around. Perhaps four hundred, she thought. Treble what I paid for them.

“I trust that is sufficient?”

“More than sufficient, your Excellency,” Nehiah replied. “Indeed, it is generous.”

The Sorceress laughed. “Take it,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty, as well as your discerning eye. Take it, and return with more toys for me.”

“Next month, as usual?” Nehiah asked.

“Yes, that should be fine,” she replied. “Two or three. I trust your judgment.”

Nehiah motioned for Ssalvar to take the chest. “Thank you, your Excellency,” she said. Next to her, Ssalvar grunted as he struggled to lift the chest from the effortless grip of the statue. “It is always a pleasure.”

“Yes, yes,” the Sorceress said, looking hungrily at her new slaves. “I know.”

Nehiah followed Ssalvar quickly to the archway they had come in, but there they stopped. Ssalvar put the chest down. Nehiah glanced back at the Sorceress.

“Oh,” the Sorceress said, looking up, “it’s still raining, isn’t it? Well, you are welcome to wait until it stops, and the road becomes more passable.” She waved a hand in the air.

A plain-looking woman in an attractive deep blue dress walked into the room. “Mistress?” she asked.

“Lureen, Nehiah and her friend will need to wait out the storm. Please see to their comfort in the guest quarters.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the woman replied.

“This is Lureen, my major domo,” the Sorceress said. “She will provide you with lodging and food until you wish to leave.”

“Thank you, your Excellency,” Nehiah replied. “Most generous.”

“Yes, yes,” the Sorceress replied. “Now go, all of you. I have things to do.”

The woman called Lureen gestured for Nehiah and Ssalvar to follow her, and she turned and left through one of the interior archways.

The two slavers hurried after the major domo as fast as Ssalvar could carry the chest.

Breccia spared a moment to cast a silent curse at the retreating backs of the two slavers. Soulless money-grubbing middlemen. After her escape, she’d return and pay them each with two feet of cold steel.

Then she turned her thoughts back to the present. The witch whose prisoner she now was was staring at the first girl in line, who was just standing there, looking at the floor. From what Breccia had been able to learn, the girl had been born a slave, so treatment like this was nothing unusual.

The blonde, on the other hand, was as new to this as Breccia. But where Breccia was focused on escape, the other woman seemed to just whimper and worry about what might happen to her. No damn use at all.

Breccia would still have to rescue her, of course.

Now the witch was back to looking at her. Get a good look, bitch, Breccia thought. Remember this face. It’s going to be the last one you see.

Then, with a jerk, the statue pulled on the chain, and started leading them away. After a month of the collar, Breccia knew better than to waste her energy fighting it. Her chance would come.

So she walked behind the other two, following the tug on the chain—and thence her neck—that led them out of the room and into a side corridor.

Curiously, the Sorceress didn’t follow. Breccia was expecting to be plunked down on a bed and ravished almost immediately, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards. Which was for the best, really. You just go on and let me out of your sight, bitch.

The statue turned and began to descend stairs. Breccia frowned, as first the dusky girl—Alanay, she’d carved in the wagon floor—hesitated and then turned to follow, and then the blonde. She whimpered, but the chain pulled at her throat and she followed downwards. Then the slack went out of the chain between them, and it was Breccia’s turn.

They descended several stories. The staircase was lit, but the corridors which branched off into the walls were not. Dimly, Breccia could hear clanging sounds in the distance below them.

Then the statue stepped off the staircase into a cross-corridor, which lit up with its first tread. The blonde squeaked, but Breccia was used to magic. Even the statue was nothing special.

It pulled the captives along the rough-hewn stone of the passage, turning left, then right, then left again. Now and again the sound of water reached them, and once they stepped across a small rivulet running along the floor.

If it’s trying to get me lost, Breccia thought, it’s going to have to try a lot harder.

But instead of more turning, the statue stopped at a door. It took hold of Alanay’s arm, unclipped her from the chain, and took her into the room. Breccia couldn’t see what happened, but from the gasp, she deduced that the gag had been removed.

The statue re-emerged, closed the door, and led the remaining two further along the corridor. Reaching another door, it opened the door, took hold of the blonde, unclipped her, and took her inside.

Cells, Breccia thought. Fantastic. She debated trying to escape past the golem when she was unhooked from the chain, but decided that it would almost certainly be futile, and she might get hurt. Which would make it harder to escape subsequently.

So she followed quietly as it took her to her cell, unclipped her, led her inside, removed the gag—and the collar!!—and then closed the door.

And then left.

Breccia stood in the center of the room, and worked her jaw. She’d had that gag in since morning, and one gag or another for almost a month. Since she bit that one goon’s ear off. The witch got taken when she bought me. Worst deal she ever made.

The door had a small, barred window in it. Breccia peered out as far as she was able in either direction—no sign of the statue, but then it could be just standing to the side. The damn things didn’t make any noise. She looked back around the cell.

It was a stone chamber, about ten feet by ten. Some straw on the floor, though not enough to cover anything, and a drain in the center. The only light came in through the window in the door.

Breccia forced herself to sit down. It had been, what, mid-afternoon when she’d been captured. She’d have to wait if she wanted to break out when the witch was asleep.

So she waited.

Ten hours later, the wall of the cell was decorated with tiny white marks, scratched with a pebble on every count of sixty.

Breccia stretched, went to the door, and looked out again. It looked the same. Same magical light, same empty hallway.

Well, now’s as good as later.

Reaching into her mouth, she found the string still tied to a rear molar.

Slowly, she pulled the steel wire up from her stomach.

Wire glistening in her hand, she knelt at the door. She’d already scoped out the lock—it shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, if it were magical, that would be a problem. It had certainly closed by itself, after the statue had left.

But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She gingerly felt around inside the lock with the wire.

Two minutes later, she was outside.

The corridor was empty. No statues, no people.

The blonde’s cell wasn’t far, and Breccia stole down the hallway towards it. Aside from distant, faint noises, there was no accompaniment to her heartbeat. Left, right, slope up, left.

There. Breccia crept across the hallway to the blonde’s cell door.

“Hissst!”

No response. The twit must be sleeping.

“Ssst! Hey!”

“What?” came a sleepy voice. “Who?”

“It’s Breccia—the redhead. I’m escaping,” she hissed.

She heard movement in the cell, and then the blonde was looking through the bars.

“How did you get out?”

“I picked the lock,” Breccia replied. “Now shush, and let me...”

There was no lock on the door. No lock, no handle, nothing.

“There’s no lock,” the blonde replied sadly.

“Well... shit.” Breccia closed her eyes. “Okay, she said, “I’ll be back. I have to find an axe or something.”

“Why?” the blonde said.

“Because.” Breccia replied. “I’ll fetch an axe or something, and be back.”

“Be careful—you know this is Ythedmael, right?”

“Er, no, I didn’t. Ythedmael?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not from these parts.”

“It’s the Cairn City. You saw the cairns on the way here. Those are the funeral monuments of the emperors of Ythedmael. But this... this is the city itself. The Sorceress built her tower right on top of it. Her golems dig for its treasure.” The blonde paused. “It’s terribly haunted.”

“Yeah, well, I’m more worried about the witch than I am about some long-gone emperors. Look, I can’t hang around. I’ll be back.”

“Good luck,” the blonde whispered.

Yeah, whatever. Crouching, Breccia turned around, and frowned. Which way to go? Back to the staircase—and probably the guards? Or into this haunted Yth-whatever? Naked in the dark wasn’t very appealing, but she’d had to trust in her luck before. Decisions, decisions.

Then she noticed it. A scent of fresh air.

Her lip curled in a half-smile as she headed towards it.

The liquid shimmered in the air in front of her, and in it Arcaia watched the red-headed adventuress leave the other girl’s cell. Headed right towards her destiny.

Arcaia inhaled, and shivered. She was in a tight dress, dark blue leather taut over her breasts and arms. A black corset clenched her waist, and below it the dress fanned off showily to either side of her bare slit.

She leaned back into her chair. The air in her private chamber was warm, moist. She ran a hand across her breasts, felt the nipples tense under the tight leather. She looked down at her nakedness, leather ruffles framing her shaven sex.

A hand moved down, but she paused.

No, she thought, not yet. Savor.

Her eyes returned to the images before her.

Breccia’s predatory smile grew by fractions. Yes, that was definitely fresh air coming from in front of her. Some strange jungle scent flavored the air.

She made no plans. If the opportunity presented itself, she’d equip herself and return for the other girls. If it didn’t, she was quite capable of making her way naked through the miles of forest between her and Anvardon. Once in the city, she could find friends, or friends of friends.

And then they’d return and take this place apart stone by fucking stone.

But that all depended on where this passage came out. The sorcerous illumination had stopped some ways back, and Breccia had been creeping carefully through total darkness for almost a half mile.

Then there was light ahead of her.

Once more able to see the floor, she increased her pace. The scents—and now sounds—of the forest inspired her.

Oh, you bitch, how I’m going to get you.

Then she saw the sky.

The passage entered a large room, with a domed ceiling twenty feet above her. Crumbled mosaics were dimly visible on it—but Breccia only had eyes for the opposite wall, where a large section had collapsed outward. Into the open air.

Her feet crunched softly on colorful fallen tiles as she crossed the floor.

A large—no, a tremendous—vine had grown into the room. Its bulk filled the bottom half of the opening, and its tendrils reached into the air of the room, as though it were searching for something. Huge yellow flowers hung heavily from many stalks.

Breccia stopped, and blinked. She felt a bit dizzy, but rubbing her eyes seemed to clear her head. There was a strange smell in the air, coming from the jungle outside.

She looked at the plant. It was vast, made of thousands of intertwined vines, and it should be child’s play to climb it to the opening. She stepped forward, and took hold of one of the thick vines.

She brushed a flower, and thick yellow pollen dusted her arm. She shook her head again. That smell—it was the plant. It must be blooming right now. The smell was heady. Breccia took a deep breath to clear her head, then realized that that was precisely the wrong thing to do. A wave of dizziness came over her.

She’d have to back off. She couldn’t climb like this. Catch her breath back in the room, and try some other way past. Breccia turned.

One of the flowers was facing her. It was huge, head-sized. Wait—it hadn’t been facing her a minute ago, had it?

It shivered, then blew a thick cloud of pollen right into her face.

Breccia coughed and dropped to the floor. Her face was coated in yellow dust, and she gasped for air and wiped at it.

So dizzy! What... what...

Breccia shivered, and glared at the vine. It was hard to focus. She felt so... placid, all of a sudden. Not angry.

It was so pretty.

Something inside it was moving.

Blurrily, Breccia watched as another flower slid into view from underneath the main tangle of vines. This one was bright, canary yellow, and waxy. Slick. Red dots and black lines made an intricate pattern on its surface.

It was showing her the flower.

How nice. Pretty.

Dimly, Breccia knew something was very wrong. But it was so hard to think, and the flower took all of her attention. It was so complex, the pattern. And it was so nice of the plant to show it to her.

It was so hard to think.

The flower was so pretty. And it was pulling at her. It wanted her. Wanted her to come look at it.

Breccia’s foot slid forward.

She couldn’t think at all. There was something, something, that she was doing? Wanted to do? Shouldn’t do? She just couldn’t remember.

But the flower pulled at her. She could understand that. It was easy to understand that. It was so pretty, and it wanted her.

She took another step forward.

Then another.

Arcaia was breathing faster, now. Yes, go to it, she thought. It wants you. Give yourself to it.

Let it eat your brain.

Her hand touched her bare slit, and the sensation ran through her. She was wet, as always by this time, and as she rubbed herself her skin tingled and her heart jumped.

Go to it, my haughty adventuress.

Soon you will be its thrall.

A final step, and she was looking directly at the big yellow flower. It was as large as her head, and waxy. Pretty patterns covered it.

There was not much in her mind, now. Her thinking had damped down with each shuffling step, and now she stood with empty mind, staring at the flower in front of her.

She didn’t even think about how pretty it was. She didn’t think at all.

There was movement around her. More vines, smaller ones, were closing in. Sliding down towards the stunned animal in their midst.

At their tapered tips were tiny white barbs.

One of them, the first, reached her head, and slid into her thick red hair. The white point touched her scalp.

She didn’t even shiver as it burrowed in.

Arcaia was panting, eyes fixed on the scene before her. One hand worked her crotch, fingers clutching and plunging inside herself, while the other pinched her nipples through the tight outfit she wore. She stared at the girl, her breath ragged, barely aware of her own frantic masturbation.

The vine pulled back, leaving a thin white root attached to the redhead’s skull. Other vines closed in, sent their roots burrowing, and pulled back in turn.

Her face had gone slack, her jaw slowly dropping open. She felt nothing as the thin white roots tunneled through her brain, branching and forking, feeding and burrowing, filling her skull.

Arcaia came, thrashing in her chair. Both hands were at her crotch, one thrusting four fingers into her sopping hole, the other pinching and pulling at her clit.

Her eyes never left the display hovering in front of her, the two dozen thin vines pointed at the thick red hair, thin white streamers taut and shivering between their green tips and the soft red adorning their victim’s skull.

She could almost see them pulsing as they fed.

They were eating her, but she never knew. Thought by thought, cell by cell, they devoured her mind, until nothing was left but a shriveled lump at the bottom of her skull.

The waxy flower trembled, then, and from the dark recess in the center a thin tendril emerged. The flower swung closer to the redhead’s face, as though to kiss her.

The tendril slithered up her nose.

It was taking her! Oh, wonderful! Too often, the vine fed until its victim slumped to the floor, dead. It required three slaves just to ensure that at least one would be found an acceptable host.

Arcaia kept stroking, and reached with her other hand to the tray one of her servitors held. Her fingers glistened all the way to the back of her hand as she fumbled for a toy. Finding one, she lowered it to her cunt and slid it in.

Her body, drenched with sweat and tingling all over, began to twitch again.

The yellow flower drew back, and from its center, the seed emerged.

It was small, perhaps the size of a peach pit. It traveled slowly up the tube, reaching the redhead’s unresisting nostril, and slid inside.

Arcaia cried out as she came again.

Everything was still.

The redhead, face smeared with yellow powder, stood braindead and docile in the plant’s embrace.

Then the plant trembled.

The tendril slid out of her nose, broke off the flower, and fell to the floor.

The thin vines twitched, then pulled away from the girl. The thin white roots broke off at their bases, dropping to lie on her head like so many white hairs.

The flower drew back, up into the plant’s secret heart, and the thin vines pulled up and were still.

The redhead stood mindlessly where they had left her.

Then her hand twitched.

Her jaw slowly drew shut.

Her head turned, slowly, swiveling to look back at the corridor she had entered through. Her eyes were glassy.

A foot lifted, then stepped forward. Then another.

Slowly, the thrall walked away from the plant, to the center of the room, where it stopped.

It stopped, and stood there.

Its empty eyes stared at nothing.

Arcaia licked her fingers. She took a last look at the new thrall, mindlessly guarding its parent, and shivered again.

Then she dismissed the image, and the hovering liquid turned silver and fell into the basin.

Fetch her, she thought at the servitor. Its smooth white limbs swung into motion as it went on its errand.

Arcaia stretched. She stood up, legs a touch uncertain, and walked around the chair. It was large, well cushioned, and the back was tilted just right. Just right to lean back and pleasure oneself.

So much for the proud one, she thought.

She looked at herself. The tight dress, split at the waist and frilled off to either side, was wonderful, and bound her flesh just right. But now she wanted to relax more.

With a wave, the corset undid itself, and drifted off to a basket. The dress trembled and slid up, over her head and off her arms.

And then she was nude, alabaster skin only just pinker than her white travertine servitors.

She considered a bath, but dismissed it. I’m comfortable, and my guest is well past caring about such things, she thought with a wicked smile. Besides, it suits me to greet her covered in my own rut.

Instead, she walked to the large bed, and crawled onto it.

A little expenditure of power and she could have the servitor instantly back with its burden, but Arcaia could wait.

And then they returned. The redhead was slung over the stone woman’s shoulder, limp, unresisting.

She directed her servitor to put the woman down standing before the bed, which it did, and then she had it step back to the side of the room.

The plant’s thralls always fought to remain by its side, but they were of course unable to resist the strength of her servitors. And once the thrall was far enough away from the main plant, it ceased resisting.

The redhead just stood there, now, eyes glassy and distant, hands loose at its sides.

“Well, well,” Arcaia said, rising. “Not so defiant now, are we?”

She came close to the thrall. A hand reached out to brush some yellow powder from its face.

“No, not defiant at all.” She mock-sighed. “You’re just a mindless slave, now.” A smile. “It suits you.”

Arcaia circled the redhead, who simply stood and stared ahead. She let her fingers slide along the thrall’s skin, run through its hair. One of the thin white roots caught her eye, and she lifted it and rubbed it between her fingertips.

“I always wonder if there’s a little you left in there,” she said, stopping behind the redhead. Boldly, she slid a hand over the thrall’s smooth ass, down between the cheeks, reaching up to cup her furred mound from behind. It didn’t react. She smiled. “I hope so. Just enough to do the bidding of that thing growing inside your head. Loving it, hating it, whatever. But obeying it.”

“Mmm. Furry,” she added, wiggling her fingers. “I’ll have to have you shaved.” She dropped to her knees. “Or maybe not. It’s been a while since I’ve had a redhead.”

On her knees behind the thrall, Arcaia pressed with one hand on its back. It resisted, gently, then allowed itself to be bent over.

“Mmm, yes, a redhead indeed,” she observed.

She was wet again, eager. How she loved to have these puppets, these almost-living girls who cared nothing for whatever degradation she might put them through. You could have your charms, your geases, your living dead. None of them were so exciting.

Arcaia had found what she really liked.

She leaned forward, and tasted the thrall’s pussy, lips and tongue tasting and feeling.

“Mmm, yes,” she said, her breath moving the curly red hair. “Mine, all mine.” She leaned back, and stood up. Her hand trailed along the thrall’s flesh again as she circled around the other side. A slight push, and it stood erect once more. Arcaia caught hold of its hand, and pulled it after her as she returned to the bed. A moment’s resistance, then it followed, docilely.

She pushed it down onto the bed, on its back. It fell backwards, hands falling loosely to its side.

“Now,” Arcaia said, “let me have a good taste.” She got to her knees again, and buried her face in its crotch, licking gently, then slithering her tongue up inside.

A moment later, chin wet, she leaned back and smiled. The thrall’s empty eyes stared at the ceiling. “Not good enough, eh?” Arcaia said teasingly. “Well, I know one thing that will get your interest.”

Climbing up the bed, Arcaia snuggled up to the redhead. Her body was warm, and as Arcaia listened to her chest, a sluggish heartbeat thumped.

Smiling, Arcaia slid upward, to stare into the redhead’s mindless eyes.

“Poor girl. I never even caught your name. Not that it matters, any more. You have just a short life ahead of you, my pet. And one that won’t require much thought at all.”

Gingerly, she kissed the redhead’s soft lips, traces of yellow powder smearing her own pale face. Her tongue explored the thrall’s mouth, tasting, rolling the thrall’s tongue around.

The thrall’s tongue twitched, then came alive. Slowly, it began to taste her back, rolling around her tongue and probing into her mouth.

“Ah,” she said, pulling up, “I thought that might pique your interest.” She grinned. I have something you might like better.”

Arcaia circled until she was upside-down, and the thrall’s red-furred mound was again before her.

“See anything you like?” she asked, wiggling her own glistening pussy above the thrall’s face. She waited.

The thrall licked her, and she moaned.

The thrall licked again, and she pressed her slit into its face.

“It may, ohh, just be the water you’re after,” she said, undulating her hips as the thrall’s tongue licked and probed at her snatch. “But it’s nice that you can, urrr, get interested in something.“

Arcaia rode the thrall’s face a moment, then lowered her own to the redhead’s snatch and extended her tongue.

Arcaia liked to come with her face buried in pussy.

The redhead stood, glassy-eyed and still, at the foot of the bed.

Arcaia leaned up onto her elbows, looked at it, and smiled. “Was that nice?” she asked. “I certainly thought so. Mmm. You should keep me happy for days.”

A servitor entered, with a bowl of water, which it placed on the bed at Arcaia’s feet.

“And once you’re gone, I still have two more girls to introduce to your mother. Mmm. That freckled one should be quite a treat. And the southerner is quite nice, too. But I think you’re my prize.”

The thrall’s head slowly angled downward, its glassy eyes reflecting the bowl of water. Then it got onto its knees, put its face into the bowl, and drank.

“Yes, love, drink up,” Arcaia said. “You have to feed that seed growing in your brain, you know. Your mother didn’t leave much in your head for it to eat, and it has a lot of growing to do if it’s going to hatch big and strong.”

Arcaia sighed. The seed in the thrall’s head would hatch in a month, no matter what. She’d starved them, fed them, used her magic. A month, and her new pet would find a quiet corner to die.

Until then, its roots would grow into the thrall’s body, taking the nutrients it needed. The only external requirement it had was water.

Which Arcaia would give it. One way or another.

“And speaking of, you didn’t save me any, did you?” she asked, crawling forward across the bed. The redhead had finished drinking, and leaned back up. “Of course not.”

Another servitor brought a second bowl, placing it next to the first. Arcaia leaned in and drank from it, sucking up the water just as the thrall had. A moment later, the thrall’s head pressed in next to hers.

Arcaia saved the last mouthful. When the bowl was empty, she rolled over and opened her mouth. The thrall obediently pushed its lips between hers, and drank the mouthful of water. Its tongue chased the moisture around the inside of her mouth.

Then, sated, it stood back up.

Arcaia sighed. “Ah, we shall have some fun, you and I,” she said. She rubbed a smear of yellow pollen from her face, and smiled.

The room, deep in the hill beneath the tower, was hot and dry. Arcaia was sweating as she followed one of her servitors along ancient cobblestones. Behind her, on a long leash, followed her pet.

The redhead was not sweating. As the days had gone by, her new nature had become increasingly apparent; skin tightening around hardening muscles, cheeks sinking, ribs growing painfully visible. Most of all, her skin had taken on a yellow cast, her tightening flesh turning the color of autumn leaves.

The servitor led Arcaia along the ancient street, fronted by collapsed buildings, most of whose rooms remained filled with rubble. Carefully chosen columns of rock supported the hill overhead.

This servitor, and a host of others like it, had excavated this area in accordance with the Sorceress’ wishes. For some months now, they had tunneled into the buried city beneath her tower. The wealth they uncovered, which was considerable, went into her coffers; the dark things they awoke they slew or were destroyed by, in which case the Sorceress descended and destroyed them herself.

But when they needed a decision, they stopped, and she felt their confusion. Such as she had today, bringing her down from her tower and her play with her dwindling toy, to see what it was they needed.

The excavated street ended in a large square. Under the vaulted rubble above, four dozen white statues stood waiting. An older statue, of a winged man holding a sword, lay in the center of the street, broken ages ago. Arcaia wiped her brow.

“Ah,” she said. “An intersection.”

There were no maps of Ythedmael. The streets her servitors uncovered had been forgotten ages ago, and each corner was a discovery.

She looked around. What she could see of the buildings around the square told her little. The large, mostly intact one behind her on the right had been dug out, and a number of valuable items that once lay there now adorned her treasure vault. The servitors knew to dig out any buildings of more than average appearance.

She looked at the fallen monument. The sword was broken in three pieces; the arm, in four.

It had once faced west.

That way, she directed, and four dozen stone hands went to work.

Something touched Arcaia’s shoulder, and she started.

It was the thrall, licking her.

“Thirsty?” she asked, turning. The thrall continued lapping at her sweat, tongue sliding across her upper chest. She ran a hand through its hair.

“I’m afraid, my pet, that the time has come to replace you.” She smiled. “Luckily, I have two excellent candidates.”

Mir’i sat in her cell, despondent. It had been almost three weeks since she had been locked up down here. Three weeks since Breccia had left her. Three weeks since she’d seen anyone at all.

Those horrible statues brought her food, twice a day. Other than that, nothing. Not even a rat. She worried that the Sorceress had forgotten about her. Then she worried that she hadn’t.

The door clicked open. Mir’i looked up, expecting one of those statues.

Nothing happened.

After a while, she got up, and walked to the door. It was just barely open, just a crack.

She touched it, and nothing happened.

She pulled it open.

There was no one there.

“B-breccia?” she asked.

No one answered.

She stepped out. Was this a trick?

And if it was, what choice did she have?

Looking down the corridor, she had no idea which way she had been brought here. Both directions looked the same.

She felt a whisper of air cross her face.

Fearful, she walked towards it.

Arcaia sat in her chair, legs spread, hands kneading her breasts. Between her legs, the redhead knelt, lapping at her.

The scrying pool danced in the air before her. In it, the blonde girl tentatively walked down the corridor towards the vine. Arcaia sent the tiniest of breezes blowing when she appeared to have lost her way, and kept the path lighted the whole way. No adventuress, this one. If it was too hard, she’d probably just stop.

Reaching out to the tray a servitor held beside her, she plucked the sponge from the dish of water, and squeezed it gently over her pussy. The water splashed down onto her sex, recapturing the dwindling attention of the thrall.

The blonde was getting close to her destiny. Arcaia wouldn’t need the sponge much longer to keep her pet’s interest.

Mir’i gasped. Was that daylight?

She hastened her pace, almost running towards the room ahead of her.

Sure enough, one wall of the room had collapsed outwards, revealing blue sky.

She grinned, uncontrollably. The last time Mir’i had seen the sky, it had been grey and raining. Now it was powder blue, with little fluffy clouds, welcoming her back. For the first time, it seemed unlikely that the Sorceress would recapture her.

Little tiles skittered across the floor as she ran to the wall under the hole. A huge vine of some sort was growing in through it, and Mir’i seized hold of a long creeper and considered how best to climb out.

The vine shifted, and she let go of it, suddenly frightened. Was there something in here? She was too eager—there could be snakes, or worse, living in this room. In the twisted tangles of the vine. She stared into it, trying to spot anything alive.

To her surprise, Mir’i realized that one of the big yellow flowers was moving. It was slowly twisting on its stalk, turning its powdery yellow face towards her. She stepped back but nonetheless got a whiff of its scent, then, and shook her head to clear the momentary rush.

She took another step back. Something was wrong with this plant, something bad. Plants shouldn’t move. She’d look for another way out.

Turning around, she found another big yellow flower right at eye level.

It blasted her with pollen.

Arcaia’s knuckles whitened around the back of the redhead’s skull, the thick hair twined around and between her fingers.

The thrall’s tongue was thrusting deep into her, questing for the wetness that Arcaia was now helplessly providing, her eyes locked as the blonde girl staggered around the room, willpower fading.

The thrall’s nose bumped her clit, and Arcaia moaned. In front of her, she watched the yellow flower descend, and the blonde’s eyes widening as she stared at it in brain-blunted fascination.

Then the blonde took her first steps towards the flower, and Arcaia came.

It was so pretty. She couldn’t... couldn’t... what?

It pulled at her, and she could think of no reason not to go.

Arcaia watched as the vine came down, watched the first feather-light tap that left the first thread burrowing rapidly into the skull under that pretty blonde hair. A second vine touched, and a third, and then her head was surrounded by them, sliding in to touch and then pulling back, each leaving a white root attached and sliding quickly into its new home.

She was building again, but held herself back, waiting for the yellow flower to open and the thin tube to approach the brain-husked girl’s nose with the gift of slavery.

But it didn’t happen. With a soft sigh, the girl slowly dropped to her knees. From there, slowly, held up by the thin white wires dug into her skull, she slowly fell forward, breasts swinging out until they touched the ground, and were flattened beneath her torso. And she lay still.

Drat, Arcaia thought. I hate it when that happens.

The redhead, finding nothing more, stopped licking.

Arcaia leaned back into the reclining chair. Her breathing slowed as she waited for the end.

A few moments later, the blonde’s body was lifted upright, the roots in its head picking it up off the ground, and was pulled up into the main body of the plant, head first.

Pulled by the vines, her head, eyes still staring blankly, was pulled into a dark orifice formed by the vines. Her torso followed, Arcaia feeling a touch of regret as the pale blonde pubic thatch slid into the plant’s mouth. Her long, naked legs slowly disappeared after. She stopped a moment, only her feet showing, then was pulled in further, completely out of sight.

Arcaia sighed. One hand still entwined in the redhead’s hair, she lifted its head until its fixed, glazed, yellowing eyes were staring at her.

“Well,” she said, “we’ve got one more. Let’s open the cage for our southern girl, shall we?”

Arcaia smiled, and rose from the bed.

“At least you came through for me.”

The dark-haired woman, now mindless thrall, stood at attention in Arcaia’s bedroom. Her breasts hung heavily in front of her, and her hips made smooth curves to either side of her dark pubis. She was much more voluptuous than either Arcaia or the redhead, who stood nearby, staring equally at nothing.

Arcaia cupped the dark-haired thrall’s breasts, feeling their weight, running her fingertips across the smooth areolas. So much fun to play with dolls.

She ran a hand through the smooth, straight dark hair, noting the contrast of the thin white roots dangling among it. They would dry out and fall off in a few days.

With her other hand, she rubbed off some of the yellow pollen still coating the thrall’s face. So far from the plant, it had little effect on her. She brought the powdered hand to her nose, smelled the seductive fragrance of the creeper. Just a touch of delicious dizziness.

She slid a hand down and cupped the thrall’s ass.

“Now if only you’d obey my commands, you’d be perfect,” she said. “Short-lived, but perfect.” Arcaia looked at the redhead. Its skin was yellow and leathery, now, still soft to the touch, but shrunken and tight on the stiff muscles.

Arcaia walked around behind the redhead, and lifted its hair. The back of its neck was a corded trunk, the roots of the almost-ripe seed in its head reaching down into the host body for nourishment. A few more days, and it would wander off in a random direction to lie down for a last time, and the plant would sprout from its open mouth.

But Arcaia had a new toy, now. She’d enjoyed the redhead, but this dark-haired slave should easily last until Nehiah brought her more pretty girls.

She kissed the redhead, tongue sliding between dry lips, and felt its tongue stir in response. The she patted it on its head, and turned away.

Time to taste her new toy.

The weather was fine, and Nehiah rode ahead of the wagon, on the rarely used road leading towards the Sorceress’ tower.

Rode on her fine new horse. Having the boldness—or foolishness—to deal with the Sorceress was certainly profitable for a formerly second-rate slaver like herself. Every month she returned, she was paid more handsomely.

Of course Nehiah knew the gold came from Ythedmael. The coins bore the stamp of the Last Emperor, Narthalex the Mad—and for an emperor of the Final Era to earn the title “the Mad” took some serious doing—but gold was gold. Almost a year now, and none of it had been cursed or anything. Just very, very spendable.

And each month the Sorceress was more generous than the last. Of course, each month Nehiah could afford to bring her ever more valuable slave girls—and did—but even so, her profit kept increasing.

The round walls of the tower came into view through the thick foliage. The whole structure was akin to a goal from the game of hoops, with the circular wall like a hoop fallen around the stake that was the tower itself. The outbuildings for the Sorceress’ human servants lined the inner wall.

There was no gate, just a break in the wall, smooth on either side as though a piece had been evenly removed. Nehiah reined her horse in, and waited for Ssalvar to catch up with the wagon.

Birds chirped in the forest. Farther off, something gave a roaring howl. None of the other roads through the Cairn Wastes would be safe for just the two of them.

But this one was. Nehiah watched the captives in the back, clutching at the bars, as the wagon rolled past her.

She had something special for the Sorceress this time.

No one had come to meet them, but that was not unprecedented. With the slaves collared and on their chain behind Ssalvar, Nehiah led the way into the tower.

It had been awkward, simply entering the Sorceress’ dwelling, until Nehiah realized that she knew exactly who they were. There was no need to be announced.

So she walked into the reception hall, and the Sorceress was there, lounging on her divan. At either side of the divan were two of her statues. And...

And one of the slaves Nehiah had sold her last time. Nehiah tried not to let her surprise show. This was the first time she’d ever seen one again.

The slave didn’t look good. Her skin was jaundiced, though with her dark coloring it was hard to tell how badly, and she looked starved. Her ribs stuck out beneath her slack but still impressive breasts. Her eyes were glazed over, staring blankly, and Nehiah realized she must be heavily drugged.

“Ah, my dear Nehiah,” the Sorceress said, and Nehiah put the slave from her mind. “A pleasure to see you. What have you brought me this time?”

“See for yourself, your Excellency,” she replied, walking toward the divan with Ssalvar bringing the slaves behind. “Three beauties—and a surprise.”

“Oh, a surprise,” the Sorceress breathed. “How nice. Let me see them.”

Ssalvar halted them in front of her. The first was obviously a warrior, tall and strong, with cropped hair that marked her as a Halo’i from the western lands.

“Oh, an amazon,” the Sorceress said, rising. “How wonderful.”

The second and third in line were similar to each other, feather-brown hair surrounding leonine features—large, pouting mouths under small noses. The gags in their mouths only served to emphasize their full lips. The first was older, mature, while the second was slim, her breasts apple-sized and her sex just barely dusted with light brown hair.

“No...” the Sorceress said, looking from one to another. “Are they?”

“Yes,” Nehiah said. “Mother and daughter.” She swallowed—it had seemed a good idea at the time. “I didn’t know if it would please you, your Excellency, but...” careful... “... it seemed like something you might be interested in. They are both quite beautiful. If you don’t like them, of course, I shall fetch others—”

“Don’t you dare,” the Sorceress replied. She pressed her palms together. “How marvelous. Nehiah, you have outdone yourself. I shall enjoy these two immensely.”

Nehiah felt the relief wash over her, and tried to remain impassive.

“Once again, you have brought me some wonderful toys. There is your chest of gold—and here, have this in consideration of this most excellent surprise.”

The Sorceress stepped near her, and unclasped a golden bracelet. It glinted with emeralds.

As she handed it to Nehiah, smiling, Nehiah was surprised to see a yellow tint in the eyes of the Sorceress, as well.

She must be dabbling in whatever drugs she is feeding her slaves, Nehiah realized.

Well, no business of mine.

“Many thanks, your Excellency. Again, your generosity is unparalleled.”

“Isn’t it, though,” the Sorceress said, her attention already back on her new acquisitions. “You may go.”

Nehiah bowed deeply, and backed towards the door. Ssalvar had the chain taken from him by one of the statues, made a clumsy attempt at a bow of his own, and walked straight out.

“Until next month, your Excellency?”

“See you then,” the Sorceress replied, not turning around from her examination of the youngest of her new slaves. The girl looked terrified.

Nehiah pocketed the bracelet, and left.

The new slaves had been led away, and put in their cells. None of them, not even the amazon, had the wherewithal to free herself, so it was up to Arcaia which one she should lead to the creeper first.

Such a choice.

A mother and daughter! How wonderfully wicked. How should she play with them?

The mother first. Let the plant have her, turn her, eat her mind and enslave her.

Then let her daughter arrive.

Would the mother even remember her? Or would she be so far gone that, like all of the plant’s slaves, she would lure her own daughter into its clutches, recognizing only another potential thrall?

Would she somehow try to warn her? To resist the bidding of the seed in her shrunken mind?

Or would she remember her, but lure her in anyways?

Arcaia shivered in delight.

Perhaps she should have the daughter be enslaved first. A mother might risk more, for her daughter.

But no. A daughter would trust her mother more. Mom first.

What a delicious problem.

Of course, there was the chance that the plant would just eat them. That would be disappointing. The second one was less important, but if the mother was simply consumed, she wouldn’t be able to perform the act of glorious betrayal that was already stirring Arcaia’s lust.

Well, there’s nothing for it, she decided.

“Come, pet,” she called to the yellowed thrall standing by her divan, “we’re going to the scrying room. I’m eager to get started on your replacement.”

Of course it didn’t respond to her call. But when she tugged on its golden chain, it didn’t move either.

Arcaia looked at it, surprised. There was no resistance, no impetus in them. This far from the plant, they were totally submissive and pliable. Without will. So how was it resisting? She tugged again, harder, and it took a step towards her, then stopped.

How odd...

Oh!

The thrall’s eyelids were flickering. They had receded to the point where they were unable to totally cover her eyes even when closed, but now they were blinking rapidly, twitching, and with each blink they closed a little less.

And beneath them, the thrall’s eyes were slowly rolling up into its head.

How marvelous.

“Is it that time, my pet?” Arcaia asked. “Time for you to find your corner?”

It was. With a final shudder, the thrall’s irises disappeared up into its skull. The eyelids stopped, leaving yellowed spheres staring sightlessly into the room.

Then it started walking, shuffling forward.

It walked right past Arcaia, and she reached out a hand to squeeze a still-heavy breast. It didn’t react at all, slowly lumbering forward.

She released the chain, and followed it out into the courtyard.

Nehiah was still there, talking with her lizardman—Servant? Partner? Whatever. It saw the shuffling thrall, and fell silent. Nehiah also turned to watch, and her eyebrows rose in surprise.

The thrall kept walking. It crossed the courtyard, passing the opening in the wall, and walked into the wall on the opposite side.

Arcaia followed, enthralled. She had never actually been around while one of her pets died.

Stopped by the wall, the thrall slowly turned left. It walked along the curve of the wall, shoulder brushing, until it encountered a stack of boxes, which it also walked into. They were full, heavy, and didn’t give.

For a moment, the thrall turned into the corner, and continued walking, face and chest pressed into the wall, legs spastically pushing.

Then it turned, revealing its blank glistening yellows to Arcaia, and slowly slid to the ground.

For a moment, it was still. It looked as though the woman, although jaundiced and shrunken with hunger, was just sitting in the corner. Perhaps trying to catch her breath. The thick roots running round her spine were hidden in her hair. Only her eyes betrayed her true nature.

Then her mouth opened. A bud pushed out, looking a little like a tongue. It slowly slid forward.

When it had emerged past her jaw, it unfurled, revealing a brilliant yellow flower.

Arcaia was wet between the legs.

But she had witnesses, so her hands didn’t fly to her snatch as they longed to do. Instead, she turned to the slavers.

Oh, shit, Nehiah thought. I really hope we’re allowed to see that.

The Sorceress was flushed. She’s getting off on this, Nehiah realized with a start.

Oh, we’re doomed.

She walked towards them, white gown brushing the dirt of the courtyard. Nehiah stood motionless.

“Well?” she asked.

“Y-your Excellency?” Nehiah replied.

“What did you think?”

“I- it- I do not know how to reply, your Excellency,” Nehiah stammered. “I mean, it was interesting, I guess, but more importantly it was none of my business.”

“That’s what I do with them, you know,” she said. “There is a very pretty yellow flower that hypnotizes them, and plants a seed in their heads. A few months later,” she gestured absently behind her, “it hatches.”

“Ah,” Nehiah replied, nodding fearfully.

“You don’t object?” the Sorceress asked.

“Why should I?” Nehiah replied. “I’m a slaver. I merely sell them. What you do with your slaves is your business.”

“Good,” she said, stepping closer. This close, Nehiah could see the hint of yellow in the Sorceress’ own eyes, and the tawny tint to her pale skin. The Sorceress ran a smooth hand against Nehiah’s cheek, and Nehiah repressed a shiver.

“Good,” she repeated.

“Now go.”

The slavers left immediately. Arcaia smiled.

Unnerved, yes, but they’ll be back. They love the color of my gold.

She walked back to the body of the thrall. The waxy yellow flower covered its chin and gaping mouth like a veil, the sightless orbs of its eyes looking out over it. They seemed to look right through Arcaia. She brushed the dark hair, then ran a finger along the surface of the flower.

So pretty.

But fangless. Without the other flowers, the pollinators, it couldn’t lure new thralls to it. Nor Could it feed on them without the vines. And it would be some weeks before it even started to grow them.

A servitor arrived in response to her summons. She had it pick up the thrall’s body, and follow her back to the tower. In the embrace of the servitor, the thrall’s arms and legs hung limply, but the torso and head stayed erect, stiffened by the thick roots growing throughout.

She led it down into the caverns, through passages no other eyes had seen for centuries. The distance to her destination was not great.

The hall of the mother plant was not the only one that was exposed to the sky. There were others, most small, but some grand, and the grandest of such was the one the Sorceress now entered, trailed by the statue and the fallen thrall.

This had been a meeting chamber, a vaulted space for hundreds. The ribbed arches of the ceiling still stood, dripping vines, but the vaults had long ago collapsed onto the tiled floor. The frescoes on the walls, pictures of knights and heroes long passed, were faded and water-streaked.

Arcaia stopped at the entrance, and let the servitor pass.

The hall was full of plants.

And the bodies the sprang from.

The redhead was closest. It was still fleshed, still human in appearance, though vines had emerged from the shriveled hands and legs as though to replace the useless limbs. They had started to sprout leaves.

The yellow flower hung in the air, its thick stalk emerging almost a foot from the redhead’s distended mouth. Its eyes, somehow preserved, were shining yellow orbs staring at the ceiling.

Beneath it, roots ran out of the body and into the cracked floor of the hall.

The servitor put the body of the dark-haired thrall on the ground near the redhead. It sat there, flower emerging between its parted lips like a last, pretty, word.

Beyond them, more than a dozen more sat in various stages of growth. The farthest, the girl with the deep blue eyes who was the first to escape and the first to stumble into the mother plant, was now only bones at the base of a healthy vine, the main flower already almost hidden by vines. Six other yellow flowers hung innocently around it.

You’d like me to come down there, wouldn’t you? Arcaia thought at it, absent-mindedly running a hand through her hair. She smiled as she surveyed the room full of plants, all growing steadily towards the light above. All waiting for an incautious visitor.

Mmm. Speaking of.

Caren kept a lid on her panic. The woman had made such a deal about buying both her and Sha’il, she knew that they wouldn’t hurt her.

At least, she could tell herself that.

But she’d fought to be put in the same cell with her daughter, and the statue-thing had almost broken her arm.

She looked at the bruised impression of a hand on her forearm. This woman was a powerful sorceress, to have such minions.

Oh please, let her just be kinky. Don’t let her be a sadist.

The cell door opened.

Reflexively, Caren clutched at her nakedness. The statue had torn their clothes from them when it placed them in their cells.

“Hello?” she asked.

The white marble form of one of the statue women stepped into the room.

“You are to follow me,” a voice said. The lips of the statue never moved.

“Can I have some clothes?” she asked it.

“Follow me, or your daughter shall be hurt.”

Helplessly, Caren stood up. The statue walked back out of the room, and Caren followed.

It led her through long halls, hewn from a soft rock. Sometimes, there were doors. None of them had windows in them, and Sha’il’s cell had a window in the door.

Then there was daylight ahead.

She followed the statue into a large room, with a domed ceiling covered in an ancient mosaic. Tiles from the mosaic littered the floor around her.

On the other side of the room, the wall had fallen outward into the jungle. Caren saw a flock of birds erupt from a treetop and vanish upwards.

“You are to collect pollen from that vine,” the voice on the statue said. The statue’s feminine white arm pointed.

There was a huge vine growing into the room. It had dozens of large yellow flowers.

“In what?” Caren asked.

“Just do it,” the statue’s voice replied. If it hadn’t been coming from a golem, Caren would have thought the voice sounded petulant.

Well, she thought. More afraid of the statue—and its owner—than of some large plant, she hastened over to the tremendous creeper.

Close to it, she could smell the perfume of the plant. It was heady, and for a moment she almost felt dizzy. It was blooming, sure enough.

Lots of the large yellow flowers were close enough to the ground to collect pollen from. She picked a near one, and with a glance back at the statue, reached out to touch the petals.

It blasted pollen in her face.

Coughing, she stepped back. What the hells? What sort of stupid joke....?

Her head swam. She took another step backwards, wiping her face, and almost fell.

Then she realized.

Oh. It’s a drug.

Now that she understood, Caren was a lot less worried. The woman just wanted to drug her, take advantage of her and her daughter. That meant she wasn’t going to torture them. You didn’t drug slaves you wanted to hear scream. Caren felt herself relax.

She wondered what would happen next. The drug was really overtaking her—it was getting harder and harder to think, about anything. She felt numbed, stunned, blunted. The flower. It had... something. She couldn’t remember...

Remember...

...the flower...

She wanted to...

...go to it...

Her chin swiveled up. There was a new flower emerging, a bigger, shinier flower. It grew in Caren’s mind, larger, and prettier, and pushed out all other thoughts.

Slack-jawed, she went to it.

Arcaia was thrusting, impaling herself on a smooth ebony rod, well waxed and rippled down its length. Her eyes were fixed to the image.

The mother walked forward, lost in the lure of the flower. She was really very pretty, soft brown hair bobbed just below her head, showing a generous stretch of neck.

Her breasts were nice, too—overlarge for a handful, but not voluptuous like the last thrall. The areolas were large and textured, and Arcaia made a squeaking noise as she anticipated suckling on them.

Then the woman was at the flower, lost in it, and the thin vines were descending.

The first one touched, and the woman shivered. Seeing her twitch like a flybit horse as the first of the roots slid into her brain sent Arcaia into her first orgasm.

The vines descended as Arcaia worked herself up again, tapping the woman’s skull and pulling back, the long thin threads unspooling into her head.

Arcaia waited, keeping herself just on the edge, for the decision.

Then the flower opened, and the tube slid out, and Arcaia exhaled blissfully.

When the thin bulge that marked the seed passed into the new thrall’s nostril, she came again.

Sha’il hugged herself. When their master had died of the flux, she’d actually felt relief.

How stupid. His wife didn’t want them. And so Caren and Sha’il wound up on the auction block.

And now they belonged to this creepy enchantress. And they’d been separated, and Sha’il had been stripped and thrown in this cell.

Was the enchantress doing something to her mother? What?

The door opened.

One of those statues walked in.

“Come with me,” a voice said from its direction.

“Where’s my mother?” Sha’il demanded.

“She is waiting for you,” it said. “Come.”

Frowning, Sha’il got up, and followed the statue out into the hallway. It started off immediately in the direction opposite of which they had come.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“To your mother,” the voice said.

“But where?”

It didn’t reply.

Frustrated and worried, Sha’il followed it. They walked for several minutes, turning at intersections, passing doors.

Sha’il felt fresh air from up ahead, laced with some sort of heavy perfume.

“Where are we- oh!”

It was a large room, lit by the sun. And in the center of it, naked like she was, was her mother.

“Mother!” Sha’il said, and ran towards her.

All the possible outcomes danced through Arcaia’s mind.

The dildo glistened on the floor in front of the chair. She had reverted to her fingers, plucking at her clit and running them around inside herself.

The mother-thrall just stood there, at attention, face covered in yellow powder, breasts dusted with it. Fine white roots dangling from her head amongst her short brown hair.

Her daughter approached her.

“Mother!” she said again.

Her mother did not respond. She was staring at the wall ahead of her. There was some kind of yellow dust on her face.

“Mother!” Sha’il demanded, stopping an arm’s length from her. “Snap out of it.”

And she did.

Her head turned, to face Sha’il. Her eyes remained locked in place, staring blankly forward, and as her gaze fell upon Sha’il, Sha’il’s own eyes widened.

Gods, what have they done to her?

“Mother? Are you okay? Please speak to me.”

Then, quickly, Caren’s arms came up from her sides, and she grabbed Sha’il.

“Mother!”

Her mother had her, and was picking her up. She struggled, but not violently—she didn’t want to hurt either of them.

“Mother! Put me down!”

Her face was next to Caren’s, and she smelled the perfume stronger than ever. It was that yellow dust on her mother’s face. Sha’il stared in dismay at the glazed eyes that seemed locked into staring straight ahead.

Her mother was carrying her, now, into the room. Towards the light. Sha’il looked up, and saw that they were approaching a large plant. Some sort of huge vine, with bright yellow flowers.

She was carried right under it.

Okay, time to stop this.

Sha’il kicked in earnest now, thrashing in her mother’s grip. But her mother didn’t seem to even notice the blows. She didn’t even wince as Sha’il kicked her.

There was movement above them.

Worried, Sha’il looked up. One of the big yellow flowers was moving, lowering itself towards her.

“No,” she said.

It blasted her in the face with a cloud of yellow dust.

Arcaia came. It was everything she’d hoped for.

Sha’il’s thrashing grew weaker. When it stopped, her body slowly relaxing and bending forward over her mother’s shoulder, her mother put her down.

Sha’il just stood there, staring at nothing.

Until the flower emerged. Her head slowly swiveled to look at it. Her pupils were huge.

Sha’il took a step towards it.

Then another.

When she was face to face with it, inches from the pattern that so enthralled her stunned mind, the vines descended.

Arcaia’s hips bucked as she plunged her fingers into herself.

The mother-thrall was just standing there, watching with empty eyes as its daughter’s mind was eaten.

What was it thinking? Was it thinking? Was it pleased? Pleased to have served its new master so well?

Arcaia certainly hoped so.

The white roots burrowed through Sha’il’s mind, sending all that she was up into the plant, feeding it with the contents of her skull.

The mother-thrall watched, mindlessly. The seed at the core of its being had not begun to awaken, and the thrall would remain for some time just another extension of the mother plant.

After a while, the feeding was finished.

With a soft sigh, Sha’il went weak at the knees.

Her weight pulled the vines down with her as she slowly dropped to the floor. Soon, her naked body was stretched full length on the dirty floor.

Instead of detaching, the roots thickened, hardened. And then, just as methodically, they began to lift her body from the floor, up into the plant, where it could be consumed.

Well. A little disappointment to flavor the pleasure.

Arcaia looked at her pussy. Gods, am I sore, she thought ruefully. And tired.

She looked back into the scrying pool. The mother thrall had returned to its place in the center of the chamber, hands at its sides, at attention. Its eyes stared blankly at the wall opposite. Yellow dust blanketed its face, coated its hair, and decorated its breasts.

Arcaia looked at its breasts, and a faint tingle of lust awakened.

She instructed one servitor to bring the thrall to the bedchamber.

And a second to bring her a healing potion.

It had been more difficult, this month.

Nehiah really would rather have not known what the Sorceress was doing with her slaves. It made it tougher to select them, knowing that they were purchased to be used like mice for a snake.

It wasn’t that she cared about them. They were slaves. But it was a shame to destroy valuable—very valuable—property like that. Slaves should serve one for a lifetime, not a month.

On the other hand, if the Sorceress kept killing them, she’d have to keep buying them, and that would make Nehiah quite rich.

The wagon rolled into the courtyard. In the back, the three new slaves clutched at the bars and worried about their new owner.

If they only knew.

Nehiah dismounted, and watched as Ssalvar climbed down off the wagon. She nodded at him, and he went around to chain the slaves while she headed into the reception hall.

It was empty.

Nehiah paused.

There was no one in the room. No Sorceress, no statues, no one.

Had something happened?

She cleared her throat.

“Hello?”

She took a few steps in. The rugs, the tapestries, the staircases, the divan, the chairs, the tables with little statues—it all looked the same.

But no Sorceress.

There was a noise behind her, and she turned to find Ssalvar, with the slaves in tow, looking at her with a startled expression.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Someone else cleared their throat. Nehiah turned quickly.

It was the major domo.

“You are Nehiah the slaver, as I recall,” the woman said.

“I am,” Nehiah replied. “Where is her Excellency?”

“My Mistress is indisposed. You are to leave the slaves in my care. I have your payment.”

There was a statue at the woman’s elbow—Lureen, that was her name—which she motioned forward. Ssalvar handed over the chain to it.

As the slaves were taken away across the room, a second statue entered, carrying the usual small chest. Ssalvar took it with a grunt.

“Er, thank you,” Nehiah said. “Convey my regards, and my gratitude, to her Excellency.”

“I shall,” the woman replied. She didn’t seem inclined to further conversation.

Ssalvar had already left the room. Nehiah followed him.

The woman ahead of her stumbled, and Timea quickly closed ranks to support her. She mumbled thanks through the ball gag before the chain pulled her roughly onward.

The animated statue had led them down below the tower, and now pulled them along underground corridors. Timea had long ago lost track of where they were, or how to get back.

Her jaw hurt from the gag.

Then they were in a large room, with a big hole in the opposite wall. Timea could see jungle beyond it. The floor was covered in little chips of stone.

The statue stopped, and let go of the chain. It returned to the archway they had entered the room through, turned around, and stood there facing them. It had no eyeballs, just blank white stone, so Timea couldn’t tell if it was watching them. Best to assume it was.

With feeling of disbelief, she watched the woman at the front of the chain realize she wasn’t being held, and snatch at the chain. Frantically, she slid it out of her collar, then through the hoops on her wrist cuffs. Quickly, she started to wrestle with her gag.

The woman in front of Timea seemed shocked into immobility, so Timea yanked hard on the chain and sent it whirring through the woman’s collar and cuffs. A moment later, she had it through her own, and the chain fell in coils around the weight at the end.

The statue hadn’t moved.

The first woman had worked her gag out; it now hung on her collarbone like a necklace. She helped the second woman fight with hers, while Timea managed to pry her own gag out alone.

Succeeding, the other two looked at Timea.

“We can get out up there,” she said, pointing at the hole in the wall.

“What if it’s a trap?” the second woman said. She pulled at her straight black hair.

“You have an alternative?” the front woman asked. She looked Polaian, fine-boned and tall. Her brown hair was cropped short.

The black-haired woman looked fearfully at the statue.

Timea didn’t bother to roll her eyes. Some people were just naturally cowardly. “Let’s go,” she told the Polaian.

The two of them walked quickly to the vines that filled that side of the room, questing through the air in search of sunlight. Timea took hold of one, and tested it for her weight. The other woman grabbed another.

Timea put a foot against some of the heaped rubble under the vine, and started to climb.

Back in the main part of the room, the black-haired girl squeaked.

“What the?” the other woman said. There was movement, and Timea turned just in time to see a large yellow flower blast the woman straight in the face with a cloud of pollen. She fell backwards, coughing.

Timea looked at the flower just ahead of her, and let go of the vine.

The other woman had rolled on the floor, and was standing up, apparently unhurt. Her face was covered in yellow dust.

“Are you okay?” Timea asked.

“I think so. I feel... strange...”

Timea approached her. She could see the brunette’s pupils dilating. The smell of the pollen was dizzying.

“You’ve been drugged,” Timea said.

“I,” she managed weakly. “...feel so strange...” Her head weaved on her neck.

Then, slowly, it steadied. Her huge pupils locked onto something behind Timea. She turned around.

The vine was moving again—another flower, larger, waxy, was emerging from somewhere inside a thick tangle of vines. Timea looked at it, then back at the brunette. She seemed hypnotized.

She took a step towards it.

“Hey,” Timea said, taking hold of her shoulder. “Snap out of it.”

The brunette took another step. And another.

Timea sighed. She pulled at the woman’s arm, but whatever attraction the flower had, it was irresistible. And Timea was smaller than her. She found her feet slipping on the tiles covering the floor as the brunette pulled forward.

Right.

Timea let go, and circled in front of the entranced brunette. Planting her feet, she snatched at the woman’s waist, bracing against her, head down, shoulders forward.

The woman tried to move forward, but now Timea was planted. And in her hypnotized state, the Polaian didn’t seem able to think of anything but mindlessly trying to push forward.

Timea could hold her here. For a while.

“Hey,” she called out to the other woman. “Can I get some help here?”

There was no reply. Timea sighed. Some people were born to be slaves.

“I mean it,” she said. “I can’t hold her forever. And I don’t want that flower to get ahold of her.”

“Look out!” the other woman cried.

Timea looked up.

A flower had crept out towards her, and as she turned it filled her face full of pollen.

“Shit!” Timea said, coughing yellow dust.

She thought fast. I’ll be a zombie in a minute. What can I...?

Releasing the brunette with a pang of regret, Timea ran towards the other woman. Behind her, the Polaian resumed her slow walk towards the flower.

The black-haired girl squeaked as Timea ran at her. But Timea wasn’t thinking of her. Instead, she grabbed the chain, and shoved it roughly through her collar.

Already she could feel her mind slowing, her thoughts becoming cloudy.

She looked around. What was she...?

Please, just one more second of thought.

The statue.

She threw the chain around the statue. It didn’t move, the chain clattering around its feet in a wide loop.

Timea pulled, grabbed the other end, and began tying it off.

Gods, I hope this holds...

Her hands began to slow.

...holds... what? What am I... why...?

The knotted chain fell from her limp hands.

Irija pressed against the wall. The strong woman dropped the chain, her face starting to go slack, just as the tall woman’s did.

The tall woman was now in the center of the vines, facing the big yellow flower. It was hard for Irija to see her against the glare of the sun, but she was just standing there, staring into the flower.

The strong woman turned around, slowly.

Then she started walking towards the flower.

After a few steps, the chain stretched tight, and the strong woman stopped. Irija could see the muscles of her legs straining to go forward, but the knot in the chain held, and the other end was looped around the statue.

She’s clever, Irija thought.

There was movement around the tall woman now. Vines were reaching down to her, touching her head. Irija squinted, trying to make out what was happening.

A loud scrape distracted her. Looking back over, her heart fell.

The statue had lifted one foot.

Eagerly, the strong woman walked forward, until the chain caught again.

The statue replaced the foot, and lifted the other.

The chain fell slack, and the strong woman resumed her walk towards the flower.

Irija fought back the tears. She was going to be alone again. There was no escape. The vine guarded the hole, and the statue guarded the door.

The strong woman joined the tall woman in front of the flower.

Soon, vines were touching her head, too.

A little while later, the flower moved. From where Irija sat, it seemed to kiss the tall woman. Then it kissed the strong woman. After that, it slowly pulled back into the plant.

It didn’t eat them?

The two women remained standing there, as the vines pulled away. They just stared at the place the flower had been.

Then they turned around. Their faces were blank, covered in yellow powder. Their eyes were fixed and glazed over.

They started walking towards Irija.

Their arms came up.

The sky was slate grey, and the wind had a chill in it. Nehiah shivered in her leather coat.

Ssalvar sat on his own horse next to her.

“Hrrain,” he said.

Nehiah nodded. She looked back at the wagon. Raduel, the driver, looked up at her. She gestured him onward.

The rain only began to fall as they were reaching the tower. Raduel looked around him, eyes wide. He’d heard plenty about the Sorceress.

Yes, it’s impressive, Nehiah thought. She looked up at the tower. I hope she’s home this time.

While Ssalvar chained the slaves, Nehiah entered the audience chamber.

Her breath caught.

The room was wholly different. The furniture, the tapestries—all gone. The rear stairs were covered in vines, as though years of growth had taken place since last month. The huge mass of creepers was covered with large yellow flowers.

More startling, the ceiling was missing, all the way to the top of the tower a hundred feet above. The building was now little more than a massive chimney, rear wall covered in the reaching fingers of the huge vine perched on the stairs. Nehiah stared up at it.

A raindrop hit her cheek.

“Welcome,” a voice said.

Nehiah’s attention returned to the room.

She was there.

Seated on the divan—the only remaining piece of furniture—the Sorceress smiled at her as though nothing had changed.

Nehiah couldn’t repress a small gasp. The Sorceress was... yellow. Her skin was the color of dried leaves.

And she was naked. Her nipples were dark and taut on her chest.

She rose from the divan.

“Nehiah,” she said, smiling. “So marvelous to see you.”

“Y-y-your Excellency,” Nehiah managed.

“Do you like my redecoration?” she asked, sauntering forward. Her hips pivoted seductively, and Nehiah suppressed the urge to look at the smooth cleft between her legs.

“It’s... it’s interesting,” she managed.

The Sorceress laughed lightly. “Such a gift you have. So hard to shock.”

She drew near, and Nehiah felt rising apprehension. Close up, the Sorceress’ skin was even more eerie, with veins of brighter yellow visible beneath the smooth yellow skin. Her eyes were flecked golden irises surrounded by canary yellow ‘whites’, an inversion of shading that made them appear to be glowing.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Nehiah,” she breathed. She was close enough to touch, now. Nehiah couldn’t stop staring at her eyes. “I wanted to share this with you.”

“S-share?” Nehiah managed.

Behind her, she could hear Ssalvar’s gasp as he entered with the slaves.

“Ah, you’ve brought me more pretty, pretty girls,” the Sorceress said, looking past her. “So wonderful.”

Her unnatural eyes returned to Nehiah. “You remember what I do with pretty, pretty girls, right Nehiah? I turn them into plants. Into beautiful flowering plants.” She stretched a long, smooth, yellow arm out behind her, gesturing at the stairs. “Like those.”

“But I never told you why I did it, did I, Nehiah?” A hand touched Nehiah’s shoulder, and she managed not to shiver.

The hand slowly circled her shoulder, down onto her back, as the Sorceress walked around her.

“I was fucking them,” she whispered beside Nehiah’s ear.

The hand, and its owner, moved to her other shoulder.

“I suppose that shouldn’t come as a surprise,” the Sorceress said, reverting to her breathy conversational tone. “After all, that’s what most people do with beautiful chattel.”

Her circle had led her around in front of Nehiah again, who couldn’t help but stare at her slick yellow skin. Her nipples, just visible at the bottom of Nehiah’s view, were a dark yellow, almost brown.

Nehiah forced her attention to the Sorceress’ mad eyes.

“But I had a special kink,” she was saying. “I had discovered this plant, this wonderful, evil plant. Just like that one. That’s one of its daughters.”

She looked over her shoulder at the huge vine the way a woman looks at a new lover. When she looked back at Nehiah, her eyes glittered.

“I fed them to it. I fed them to it, and it ate their minds. Then, when they were wholly its slaves, I had them brought to me, and I fucked them. I licked the pollen off their faces and fucked their mindless shells.”

Oh Gods, Nehiah thought, how am I getting out of this?

“I love fucking mindless shells.”

The Sorceress turned around, facing the vine. Nehiah didn’t dare to move.

“You were so wonderful, bringing me fresh pretties to feed it. To the plant, and to my lusts.” Her head tilted. “But...” she said with a sigh. “I won’t need your services any more, Nehiah. I’ve decided to become more... proactive in my acquisitions.”

Nehiah licked her lips. She could hear one of the chained slaves whine softly behind her.

“Well,” the Sorceress said, “that’s not quite true. I haven’t decided anything.”

She turned around again.

“I no longer make decisions.”

In her raised hands, cupped in front of her, was a pile of yellow dust. Nehiah just started to recoil when the Sorceress blew it into her face.

It enveloped her as she turned to run. Coughing, she took one step and pitched forward, her ankle caught on something. As she rolled to her side, reaching out to pull it off, she heard Ssalvar cry out. Blinking through the dust, she grabbed at the thing around her ankle.

It was a vine.

Before she could touch it, it curled tighter around her leg.

She was getting dizzy. Frantic, but slipping, she looked up at the Sorceress.

The Sorceress smiled at her.

“You see, Nehiah,” she said, “I thought I was taking the plant’s slaves from it. But I was wrong. It was only too happy to send them to me.”

Her smile faded, and her head tilted gently to one side.

“I was being pollinated.”

Nehiah felt her mind fading. Hopelessly, she pulled at the vine around her leg.

“It took a long while,” the Sorceress said, her face expressionless. “A long while for the small doses of pollen to build up in my mind. But I eagerly took them, and sent for more. It was really just a matter of time before it overwhelmed my free will.”

Her eyes lost focus, stared softly at a point above Nehiah’s head.

“Now I belong to the plant.”

It registered, but Nehiah couldn’t put any real meaning to it. She stared at the yellow woman.

She was so beautiful.

Thought came back into the Sorceress’ eyes.

“And it has an agenda, Nehiah. As enslaved as I am, obedient as any zombie, I am much, much more.”

Her eyes glittered, with such purpose one could not tell it from madness.

“I am its future. I am its tool. I will bring it a never ending parade of slaves, and it will spawn in them all. Until the entire world is covered with its children, and every mind in the world has borne its fruit.”

It meant nothing. Nehiah stared at the yellow eyes, and didn’t think.

Then there was a hand under her chin, leading her to rise. The thing around her ankle slid away.

“Look,” a voice told her, and her chin was turned gently to the side. “Look how beautiful.”

It was beautiful. Yellow and waxy, with designs on it that promised such secrets...

She went to it.