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Kinktober 2019: Multifandom Shorts

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Jaune’s entire body ached—for two entirely different reasons—but he knew better than to make a sound without permission. This was the second part of the training routine that Pyrrha had gradually established for him, and its purpose was not so much to make him a better Huntsman (although, as she had pointed out, self-discipline, pain resistance, and so forth were all valuable skills in their line of work) as to make him better for her. And anything that was for Pyrrha, Jaune would do for as long as she wanted him to.

So it was that Jaune, blindfolded and with exhausted arms secured behind his back, knelt on equally exhausted legs, his head pressed against the cushion of a convenient bench. His lateral position left his cock, currently protesting as loudly as his body but by no means tired. He focused instead on scent and touch of soft leather: the bench against his face, and the collar around his neck, a deep red band fastened by a clasp in the pattern of his partner’s emblem, symbolic of the total control she held whenever he put it on.

The door opened and closed with the sharp sound of the latch, and Jaune’s cock twitched as the crisp, measured click of Pyrrha’s boots proceeded slowly toward him.

“Good, you’re ready.” Her voice was smooth but firm, her usual velvet glove filled out by the iron fist she had developed for times like these. “Weiss is being punished tonight, but I have arranged for Blake to join us momentarily. Shall we get you warmed up now, pet?”

He let out a hissing breath despite himself, and nodded as best he could in his position. “Yes, please, Goddess. As you wish, Goddess.”

Pyrrha chuckled above him, the sound of her amusement promising an interesting night. Jaune’s mind spared a momentary thought to be glad that his aura was already refreshing his body from the effects of their combat exercises before the flat of her hand landed hard against his ass.

“Ah!” He yelped at the sudden sting before he could control himself. “I, I mean, one, thank you, Goddess.”

“Very good,” Pyrrha’s smile could be heard in her voice, pleased and anticipatory. “You’ll need to pay for your mistakes, but you did acquit yourself well today. Twenty swats will be sufficient, I think.”

Jaune took a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden adrenaline—and ignore the further heightened beat of arousal—that rushed through him at her words. Twenty swats with her hand, ten on each cheek, wasn’t bad, would only leave him stinging a little for a few minutes, but by the same token it would mostly leave him wanting more. That Pyrrha wanted him keyed up like that, of course, only amplified the matter.

“Yes, Goddess. Thank you Goddess,” he managed through his suddenly heavier breathing. Her free hand came to rest on his back, above where his hands were bound, and he shivered again at the gentle intimacy. “Please—”

Her hand fell again, and he cut himself off, managing not to yelp this time before shakily counting again. They continued like that for the next couple minutes, the only sounds being Jaune’s exhalations and exclamations interspersed with the slap of Pyrrha’s hand against his rear.

“Are you ready, pet?” Pyrrha spoke suddenly in Jaune’s ear, and his whole body shivered despite himself.

“Wh—Yes. Yes, Goddess. What do you desire?” He hadn’t stopped counting, he was fairly sure, but even with the light sensation he had been able to almost lose himself in their exchange of power and acceptance.

“I said you would have to be punished, pet, and I meant it,” Pyrrha began, tracing a single finger lightly along his erection. It took all of Jaune’s training to remain silent and still, but he didn’t dare react while Pyrrha was speaking. “Candles have an important place in fall traditions—at least in Vale and Mistral, where we have a fall to speak of. In a way, we Hunters are like candles, shining out even in the darkest moments so that people can feel safe.” She paused her hand caressing the back of Jaune’s neck, almost as if he were a prized hound or stallion. “Do you trust me, Jaune?”

Jaune took a moment to gather his voice again. Wax itself wasn’t his favorite, but he loved beyond words the way Pyrrha could use it to take him outside of himself, to eliminate place and time and reduce him to his simplest, most perfect self, placing everything entirely in her control.

“Yes, Goddess. I trust you, always.”

“Good. Wait here.” Pyrrha’s hands brushed the back of his head, and the blindfold fell away, allowing Jaune to watch as she walked—slowly, hips swaying deliberately, heels clicking crisply with every step—toward the door. She opened the door, and for a moment Jaune’s heart leapt in worry… but she only bent at the waist, drawing his eyes to her perfect ass again, and when she stood it was with a leash in her hand, with a nearly naked Blake crawling after her at its end.

The sight of the submissive faunus drew Jaune’s gaze even away from Pyrrha, at least momentarily. Blake wore a collar identical to Jaune’s, plus a series of leather strips that outlined and highlighted her breasts, which hung so close to the ground that the silver chain clamped to each nipple brushed the floor as she crawled at their mistress’ heels.

“I’ve found that these activities produce… heightened results when participation is shared. Blake will take two lashes for every drop you receive. Get her to twenty, and you will be rewarded. If that’s too much, we will stop, and we will enjoy ourselves in other ways. Understood?”

“Yes, Goddess,” Jaune nodded. Blake rolled her shoulders back but remained silent.

“Good. Both of you, on all fours, side by side.”

The two scurried to obey, stealing sideways glances at each other—and at their various hanging body parts—as they assumed their positions. Then Pyrrha produced their blindfolds again, and despite being close enough to feel Blake’s body heat Jaune was once more on his own.

The crack of Pyrrha’s favorite whip against Blake’s ass, so close to his own yet so precisely that he felt nothing, made Jaune shiver as Blake dutifully suppressed a whimper. He tried to force himself to relax, knowing the first drop of wax would come soon—and then it hit, in the same instant as the whip and Blake repeated their familiar sounds, a sudden blossom of liquid heat that made him clench his teeth even as his entire body shook with the effort of maintaining his position.

Blake didn’t speak, either to thank Pyrrha or to count, and by the seventh time Jaune heard the whip land against her ass, picturing the braided leather and her firm, round cheeks, he had given up on keeping track. Pyrrha was in control, that was all that mattered: the wax burned on his back because she wanted it to, his cock ached for Blake’s ass and moans because Pyrrha wanted it to, he knelt in her playroom because Pyrrha wanted him to, he belonged because Pyrrha wanted him to—

“And that’s twenty, pet. Such a good girl, so strong for me, making such beautiful noises for me. Would you like to kiss my foot, pet?”

A pause.

“Thank you, Goddess.”

“Good girl. But Jaune did as I asked of him, so your reward will have to wait.”

Blake didn’t respond, but a moment later the blindfold lifted itself from Jaune’s face, and he found himself blinking into Pyrrha’s—well, not her eyes, quite, but it was still an entrancing sight. At least until she laughed to herself and pushed him back onto his heels, straightening herself in the process and tilting his head back until she could gaze down at him properly.

“I know you love my breasts, pet,” she smiled teasingly, “but I had another part of myself I thought you might like to adore tonight. Get up on the bench and spread your legs for me.” She nudged his knee with her high-heeled boot and he nodded, not trusting his voice but simply moving to obey.

His back stung as he laid himself across the seat, which was long enough for his head and torso to lie across but left his legs free. Pyrrha swung herself across him, not quite resting on his torso but leaning down so that his face was temporarily enveloped by her warm, soft chest as she shackled his hands into place. Then, making some signal to Blake that he couldn’t make out from his current position, she abruptly reversed her stance and lowered herself—specifically her firm, pale, perfectly round and unblemished ass—directly onto his face.

At the same time as his breathing suddenly became filtered through Pyrrha’s powerful legs and intimate scent and he began to lick almost without thinking, he felt Blake’s mouth envelop his cock, warm wet heat and the firm, supple touch of a practiced tongue—and then it vanished. He focused on Pyrrha’s scent, on worshiping her, and felt his cock twitch in the empty air.

“Good boy,” Pyrrha lifted herself off of his face for a moment, allowing him to breathe deeply and drink in her expression of affectionate, condescending amusement. “Keep going. I’ll let Blake know when you can come for me.”

He nearly came right there, he thought, but of course he didn’t because he was good for Pyrrha, always, that was what these sessions were all about. Blake’s tongue stroked his cock and he inhaled Pyrrha’s scent and licked her ass, sliding between focus on his goddess and the sensations Blake was evoking in his own body, then back to Pyrrha as Blake periodically held off.

At some point Pyrrha had changed positions, he realized, and he changed the movements of his tongue as her thighs clenched around his body. Blake didn’t stop, this time, but neither did he, letting the world collapse into the two single points of his tongue worshiping Pyrrha and the pleasure building in his cock, until finally Pyrrha let out a triumphant cry and he burst in Blake’s mouth, still reaching out with his tongue to pleasure their mistress as Pyrrha rode his face to completion.

Eventually Pyrrha dismounted and unchained him, and then he was kneeling upright, leaning against her as she held Blake in midair and vibrated her piercings until Blake came as well.

“I think we could all use a break after that, hm?” Pyrrha smiled down at her pets, and Jaune nodded happily as she picked up her Scroll. “Excellent. Weiss will bring us some water, and then there are a few more things I’d like to watch you two do to each other.”

Chapter Text

Lyna slipped easily through the brush, her new leathers bending with her body like a second skin as she circumnavigated the camp and squirreled up a large tree not far from Morrigan’s tent. Julian— Field-Commander Surana , she imagined Elissa correcting her, and took a moment to reflect appreciatively on the human noble’s chiseled yet admirably rounded figure—was sure to be there, enjoying the relative warmth of the lowland fall. Solona was also an option, of course, but Lyna had seen the human mage heading for Leliana’s tent, and she wanted a show tonight, not a blindfold. She also wanted to come, and with Solona or Elissa there was no guarantee that she would be allowed to, or have the energy to get herself off afterwards—if she weren’t simply kept overnight, helpless and frustrated, to serve her purpose again in the morning. No, her role was enjoyable, surprising as she would once have found it, but tonight would be hers, and what she wanted was to watch her Field Commander enjoying his favorite girl.

When she looked down at the once-reclusive witch’s tent, however, Morrigan herself was curiously absent. Instead, Kallian Tabris—her fellow elven rogue, but raised, like their half-human leader, in the shemlen world, her pale face unmarked by vallaslin—knelt with her legs spread, her hands bound behind her back, and not a stitch of clothing on her save the collar around her neck, which Lyna knew from experience was inscribed with runes that would make any form of disobedience to Julian impossible, whether it was refusal to carry out an order or her body’s effort to come without permission.

Slightly regretting her decision to put her pleasure under her own control, Lyna slipped a hand into her pants as Julian circled his favorite pet (being able to turn Lyna inside out didn’t count for much when Kallian was just as eager to kneel and obey anyone else in their band), trailing a wand of reeds across her pert, flawless breasts and the nape of her neck. With a sudden twitch, he brought the wand down across her chest, just above her nipples, and Lyna choked back a moan as Kallian visibly bit her lip to remain silent. With her free hand, she undid the clasps on her cuirass and took hold of her breast, flicking her thumb across her nipple and kneading the soft flesh. Another stroke landed across Kallian’s chest, and this time Lyna could not contain her moan.

A soft hand wrapped firmly around her throat, while another grasped her wrist and pulled her hand off her breast and behind her back.

“I wondered how long your resolve would last, my dear,” Morrigan’s rough-silk voice purred in her ear. “Keep your eyes on our Commander and his obedient pet like a good girl, and stay silent, and I will give you what you seek.”

Lyna managed a fractional nod as the witch’s grasp around her neck suddenly vanished, only to be replaced in an instant with the familiar touch of leather. Moments later, her hands had been bound behind her back, and Morrigan’s were on her breasts, kneading and pinching as Julian lashed Kallian again and again. Neither bound elf made a sound, but as Morrigan teased her relentlessly—her train of thought exploded as Morrigan let an electric spark leap from her fingers to Lyna’s nipples at the exact moment the lash struck Kallian’s breasts.

Please, Mistress , she wanted to beg, please, make me come, I’m yours, I’m your pet, please fuck me , but she could no more beg with words than she could so much as moan. Nor was there any relief for the heat between her legs, with her own hands bound and Morrigan’s determinedly erasing her mind through her heavy, oversensitized breasts. 

Then, as quickly as he’d begun, Julian cast aside the wand and tilted Kallian’s head back. Her pale breasts bore a slew of crisp red lines that Lyna ached to kiss, caress, and worship with gentle touches, even as her own would be shocked and pinched and whipped—another spark from Morrigan’s fingers made her spasm, would have undone her if her body had anything to say about it—until a wave of light washed over her from Julian’s hand. The marks vanished, and Kallian moaned silently but obviously. A few light tugs on her nipples visibly broke her down again, and after a moment’s silent pleading look Julian parted his robes and allowed her to take him in her mouth.

Morrigan’s hands left her breasts, and Lyna felt herself begin sucking greedily at a pair of fingers, while the witch’s other hand began teasing her below the waist. Her hips bucked ineffectually as Morrigan thrust and crooked her fingers with unfair dexterity—though, Lyna thought distantly, still seeking more as she fixed her gaze on Kallian’s golden hair bobbing in front of Julian’s bare, and these days artful, frame, Morrigan’s leash on her orgasm surely meant that more stimulation would only make her problems worse.

She didn’t care, it seemed, because that sounded very fucking good at the moment.

Below them, Julian stilled, tangling his hands in Kallian’s hair and screwing his eyes shut, his whole face taut with the effort of self-control. Then he pulled out, still half-hard (Lyna arched her back, finally winning a moment of more insistent touch, as the part of her that was still thinking made a note of gratitude concerning the effects of ancient elvhen phylacteries) and drew Kallian up to her feet. Creators, Lyna wanted to be down there with them, wanted to be shoved between those strong, slender legs to show how good she could be, to reward the Commander’s favored pet for being such a good girl herself, to be used like she was meant to be—another spark to her breasts yanked her back into the moment, eliciting another fruitless effort to moan and keen for the witch who held her powerless.

Kallian was bent at the waist, her ass pointing directly at Lyna’s perch. Julian raised his empty hand—the other held Kallian by her wheat-gold hair—and this time there was no electric spark but the flat impact of Morrigan’s hand on her breast as Julian brought his across Kallian’s rear. Julian caressed Kallian’s ass, and Morrigan mirrored the touch on Lyna’s breast, though her fingers pressed deeper and her nails grazed Lyna’s skin, drawing labored breaths just quiet enough to be heard.

Another slap fell across Kallian’s ass, and again Morrigan moved in time with her lover. This time she pinched a nipple as she withdrew, then landed two quick swats in perfect sync with Julian’s spanking of Kallian. Again, Julian spanked Kallian and Morrigan slapped Lyna’s breast. Caress matched by kneading scrape, spank and slap. Pinch of a nipple, twin slaps, synchronized squeeze of ass and breast. Despite the warm, stinging pleasure building in her chest, Lyna began to feel her own ass was being neglected, longed for Morrigan to flip her around and make her match Julian’s designs, but ensconced as they were she recognized such movement was impossible without taking her eyes off the couple below.

At last, Julian stepped away, leaving Kallian to stand, still bent at the waist, while he inspected the fruits of his labor (and Lyna ground herself against Morrigan’s hand, once again between her legs, with fresh fervor). This time, however, he did not erase the marks immediately, but struck the ground behind Kallian and raised it to form a rough bed or bench, onto which he twirled Kallian with apparent ease. He said something, and Kallian spread her legs as her hands flew to her breasts; parting his robes again, Julian stepped close to the elf and lifted her legs over his shoulders.

Kallian’s mouth fell open as Julian fucked her, her hands locked to her breasts and her abs rippling as she did what she could to thrust back against the mage. In the same moment, Morrigan’s fingers—the ones that weren’t groping her chest again, and it was a shame the witch only had two hands—finally, blessedly found her clit, and Lyna wondered briefly at a fragment of a thought that wondered why there wasn’t a Creator who had taught the ancient elves about being tied up and fucked into oblivion before her world once again collapsed into Kallian being fucked and herself being fucked watching Kallian.

Eventually, both Kallian and Julian tensed together, and Lyna writhed in Morrigan’s grip, trying to ride the witch’s fingers as hard as possible, but still she found the crest of pleasure the couple on the ground were clearly experiencing elusive. Before she could voice this complaint—and she realized abruptly that she was moaning and begging incoherently loud enough to wake the camp, if anyone had been sleeping—Julian looked up at her, directly at her, and Lyna realized more than a little belatedly that she had been set up all along.

Morrigan hefted her easily and dropped to the ground, leaving her facedown and topless as she pulled off Lyna’s pants before hauling her back up to her knees. Her knees slid apart before Lyna realized what her own body was doing, and then it occurred to her that Morrigan had yet to get off either, and since Morrigan had abstained for Lyna’s benefit she would probably be held to account for that. Then she noticed that Julian was holding the reed wand again, and remembered that although she’d been set up, the Commander’s response to being spied on was as enjoyable, and frustrating, as it was consistent.

So much for taking her own pleasure, she thought as she crawled forward. At least if she was good enough, she might, possibly, be allowed to come—or not, depending on how much of a punishment Julian decided she had earned tonight. Either way, she supposed, as the first lash from the wand whited out her thoughts again, it was good to belong again.

Chapter Text

The tentacle lair—and Karla still couldn’t believe it was an honest-to-heck tentacle lair, it sounded like something out of a bad comic book from before real superheroes existed—was simultaneously worse and… well, not better, but less bad than she had been expecting. It stank, by all means, and she didn’t want to think about the slime that was clinging to her thigh-high costume boots, but she wasn’t about to vomit, and it didn’t seem like the sort of place innocent living things came to be devoured by some misbegotten hellspawn.

“Ugh, what have you gotten us into, Nikki?” Jess, it seemed, did not share Karla’s optimism. The flame-haired psychokinetic was the most covered of the four; unlike Karla, or Dynamo, Karla’s girlfriend—who went by the mask name Firebird—wore a full-body suit with gloves, so she didn’t have to worry about getting tentacle slime on her thighs or hands. 

“What have I gotten us into?” Nicole, alias Meteor, sniped back. “Who never reads the briefings Echo sends us? It’s not my fault if some of you can’t tell your tits from your brains.” The flying flamethrower wore almost as much as Firebird, but her power-proof costume couldn’t protect her from the unsettling unpleasantness they had been slogging through for hours.

“That’s a little unfair, I think,” Elena, or Jayhawk, placated as her foot squelched. She at least wore long pants, but her sleeveless halter top offered comparatively little protection for her torso. In combat, she compensated with agility and her natural defensive barrier; in the lair, immunity to bullets did little to protect from the disgusting sensation of alien slime, as Dynamo could attest. “But I have to admit I’m somewhat concerned. This isn’t our usu—aah!”

There was a moment of stunned silence as Meteor, Firebird, and Dynamo stared at the spot in the floor that had suddenly swallowed their friend. 

“Was that a sinkhole, or did this place just… eat her?” Dynamo broke the uncomfortable pause. It was immediately followed by a longer, more uncomfortable pause, and she shifted in place, trying to ignore the sudden warmth between her legs. This place was worse than they’d thought, she realized, and clamped a hand to her thigh to keep from touching herself at the thought that they could all end up like Jayhawk, snagged by tentacles and carried off to an unknown doom. She could break through them, anyway, she told herself; they just had to get their teammate back and get out of here.

Firebird shook her head. “I can’t sense her anymore. It’s like this place is suppressing my powers, boxing us in.” 

Well, that was a good sign, Dynamo thought sarcastically, nothing bad ever happened when Firebird’s telepathy started glitching. Though at least this could be a sexy misadventure, her mind supplied as her eyes tracked the way the redhead’s thighs pressed together. Maybe she could be a hero, eat out their power hitter so she could face this with a clear head, either fight her way out after that or get dumped somewhere a few months later and hope there was still enough of her mind to be put back together.

She shook her head. This place was messing with her.

“Come on,” Meteor beckoned, “path is this way. We get to the lower levels we might find Jayhawk.” Unless she’s just being held in the walls or something, she didn’t need to say.

 

— — —

 

Some distance below, Jayhawk found herself tightly bound in a claustrophobic mass of tentacles. Her arms were pinned behind her back, her legs immovable, even her face was being caressed by a tentacle that wound firmly but safely around her neck. Worse than that was the slime that coated every inch of exposed skin, from her arms to her back and midriff to her now decidedly regrettable cleavage—in fact, as she focused on her breasts, she could feel more slime dripping down onto her stomach. More immediately concerning, however, was the fact that she suddenly needed to play with her tits, very, very badly.

That was weird, she was on a mission, this was a very bad situation, but none of that mattered for more than a fraction of a second as the tentacles obliged. Tips that felt no sharper than fingernails on her skin made short work of her top, and more tentacles wrapped around the second-best pair of breasts on her team and squeezed, the erotic sensation of the slime and the dominating pressure of the tentacles themselves almost too much for her already. She moaned aloud, and another cluster of tentacles immediately dove into her wide-open mouth. 

They tasted good. Better than good, in fact, like salted honey, but better than the taste was the way her arousal spiked even further as the slime coated the inside of her mouth. She closed her lips around them eagerly, mouth too full to suck properly but still doing the best she could, letting the tentacles dominate her mouth like an alien kiss—her thoughts shorted out as the tentacles around her chest contracted again, and her hips bucked against the mass of tentacles that held her lower body.

Whatever it was that controlled them got the message, and she writhed in pleasure as her pants and boots were swiftly cut to ribbons and dissolved, her entire body bathed in the intoxicating slime. She moaned again, the tentacles in her mouth adjusting so she didn’t choke, as another slid patiently between her ass cheeks and effortlessly into her hole. It wasn’t enough and it was more than she could take, and as the tentacles groped and fucked her, Elena gave in completely.

 

— — — 

 

Dynamo really, really needed to touch herself. It was wrong, she knew: something in this place was fucking with them, perhaps literally in Jayhawk’s case. She took another deep breath of the humid, fragrant air—When had it stopped smelling so off-putting? Perhaps they were getting close to something important—and pushed on, dragging sessile tentacles out of the way to let Meteor and Firebird through a narrow opening. 

This time, however, the tentacle in question came alive in her hands, binding them together, lifting them over her head, and slamming her against the wall. She grunted with the force of the impact, but it felt good, like when Jess used her powers at home. More tentacles snaked around her throat, under her breasts, around her waist and legs, depriving her of all leverage before slipping into her clothing. Her leotard was proof against bullets and fire, but the tentacles took it apart like it was candy paper, the slime she had been disgusted by hours ago igniting bonfires of arousal as the tentacles trailed across her stomach, encircled squeezing her breasts, and rubbed maddeningly against her thighs.

Pleasure shot through her body as the tentacles began pulsing around her breasts, and Karla opened her mouth to scream or moan. No sound emerged, though, as more tentacles descended to gag her and began thrusting in and out of her throat, and she was lost in bliss even before her bulletproof leotard split at the crotch like gossamer. Then two more tentacles rose up and began fucking her in earnest, and her mind went white with pleasure as she sank into the mass of the cave.

On the other side of the small chamber, Firebird finally blasted free of the tentacles that had similarly restrained and groped her, although her suit remained mostly intact, and she had not—yet, she thought, half fearful and half frustrated—been penetrated. More concerning in the moment, she thought, was the fact that the tentacles not only seemed able to block her psychic abilities, preventing her from sensing any trace of her kidnapped teammates, they had also ignored her psychokinetic blasts until Dynamo had been reduced to a naked, lust-crazed… thing, almost. 

Jess knew that look, had loved eliciting it from Karla in private as her mastery of energy allowed her to effortlessly overcome the blonde’s superhuman strength and tease her until she begged for whatever Jessica wanted. Now, however, the only thing she could think of was what it would be like for her to share Karla’s position, for Firebird to be taken apart and overwhelmed with pleasure the way Dynamo had been. Unlike Jayhawk, her girlfriend had been fucked first and taken second, so Firebird had witnessed the wiping of her mind firsthand.

Meteor, meanwhile, had crawled free of her own entangling tentacles, looking not quite as worse for wear as her remaining companion. 

“Shit,” she shook her head. “Well, only one way we can go from here. Ready to keep moving?”

 

— — —

 

They found Elena and Karla, or what was left of them, in a round chamber that appeared to constitute the bottom of the lair. The wall, ceiling, and floor were all still made of tentacles, so it probably could descend further if it wanted to, but there was nowhere else for them to go. Getting their friends out, however, was already looking difficult: both women, in addition to being thoroughly bound, were stark naked, slime-covered, and in the middle of having their minds fucked into oblivion by the tentacles.

Jess fell to her knees, pressing her hand desperately against her crotch. Meteor laughed, and Jess looked up to see her teammate regarding her with absolute contempt. Her mind was opaque, and despite the haze of arousal she had fallen into over the course of their descent, things finally began falling into place.

“You,” she gasped, “Why?”

A tentacle rose from the floor, and Meteor roughly grabbed Jess by the hair and guided her mouth to it. It tasted like salted honey, and she let herself relax into sucking it like an oversized cock as Meteor bragged about finding the lair months ago, falling to its temptations, offering herself as a master mind in exchange for its power. “And you dumb fucking sluts bought it hook, line, and sinker,” she laughed, rubbing herself on the tentacle in front of Jess’ face. 

“I’m unassailable in here,” she continued, as more tentacles emerged to bind Jess’s hands behind her back and finally begin cutting and dissolving her costume. Jess almost moaned as the first tentacle wound over her thighs, between her legs, and up her asshole, but she was blissed out enough not to react much, and it would have upset Meteor to interrupt her. “And if anyone tries to come after me for stealing their favorite super-sluts, I’ll give them far worse that what I—oh, fuck yes—what I gave you.”

That was good, the thinking part of Jess’s mind thought. Mistress’ will was correct, so it was correct to punish those who defied her—she almost hoped that would mean she got to be punished, too, but there was only so much room in her head while the tentacles were playing with her tits like that, and the rest of her thought was about whether Athena and Quasar and Doctor Heart could be tricked into thinking they stood a chance against Mistress, but Jess—or Karla or Elena—being involved in that would mean time when they weren’t being bound and fucked and made mindless and obedient with pleasure, and none of it was Jess’s decision anyways.

Then one more tentacle joined in fucking her, and like her friends, she stopped thinking anything at all.

Chapter Text

Bella had had a different name once, she knew, back when she had been a real person. Before her adventures took her out into the Fog Hills and the more distant nameless mountain where she had wandered with grasping hands into the caverns of her Mistress. None of that mattered now, though, except that it had led her to her current life, her real life, as one of Mistress’ familiars. Now, her only purpose was obedience, and the pleasure of obedience and the mindless obedience induced by pleasure meant that she was perfectly happy exactly wherever Mistress wanted her.

At the moment, being Mistress’ familiar meant kneeling on the floor in the center of an elaborate diagram, some of which she had drawn herself, her own hands penning herself within an invisible cage devised by Mistress’ will. As usual, she wore nothing that could be called clothing, only her collar and the ropes that criss-crossed her torso, winding just a little tightly around her breasts and between her legs, and bound her ankles and hands behind her back. Somewhat unusually—Mistress often liked to hear her moans, or had better uses for her mouth—she also wore a large ball gag, which filled her mouth and stretched her jaw almost to the point of discomfort. 

She whimpered, almost inaudibly through the gag, with the effort of holding still instead of trying to rut herself against the ropes between her legs. Her arousal had been building steadily for… a while, anyways; she no longer had a concept of discrete lengths of time. To take her mind off the heat in her crotch and the nameless ache in her heavy breasts, she focused on one of the candles, letting the dancing flame lull her into perfect emptiness, the place she always went when Mistress wanted to reshape or fine-tune horny, obedient sculpture of puppet strings that served her for a mind. Everything in this place was a way for Mistress to control her, after all, and nothing outside it needed to concern her, since for her there was nothing outside of Mistress’ will. 

 

— — —

 

Alyra struggled against her bonds, to no avail. Even simple hemp she could never have ripped apart with her own hands, and the shining ropes that held her now were clearly far more powerful. Her hands were bound above her head, giving her just enough room to steady herself but too little to truly stand; her feet, too, were bound together and held to the floor by a metal loop. And finally, even if she were close enough to the surface to call for help, and even if there were anyone to hear, her mouth was filled with an enormous gag that made volume and articulation both impossible. But as strict as her predicament was, worse was the fact that part of her—ruthlessly suppressed, for now, but she could feel it pressing on her mind, gaining strength as stress and fear and fucking arousal chipped away at her resolve—that wanted this, that was already to do or bear or be anything for the goddess, no, the demon , she corrected herself, in front of her.

The succubus had pale reddish-pink skin and golden hair, ruby lips and purple eyes flecked with gold that seemed like portals to another realm—she pulled herself back again, feeling with shame the damp gathering in the crotch of her trousers. Aquiline features, the condescending smile of someone who knew she had won and was simply prepared to enjoy the process of victory; long, pointed ears, silver horns that gave the light they reflected an enchanting shimmer; a broad silver necklace with a burning red gem, beneath which lay a bare upper chest and two perfect breasts barely contained in a silver mockery of armor. 

“You would love to kiss them, wouldn’t you?” the demon purred, tracing her bustier with a knowing, seductive smirk. Alyra bucked in her restraints involuntarily; a moan from her left yanked her attention away from her conqueror, and she saw Jayle, also gagged and already naked, his admirable cock rock-hard, bound at the balls by silver thread. 

“Or perhaps you’d like to see me break him?” the demon laughed, suddenly at his side, pressing her breasts against his sculpted chest and stroking a single fingernail up the underside of his shaft. He moaned again, pitifully, but she placed her other hand around his neck and he stilled, even as she continued to stroke him. Soon enough, more strangled noises began to filter through the gag, and she removed her hand, gently tracing his jaw before slapping his face.

“You’d have burst long ago if I let you, boy,” she laughed, “but I have no use for men who come. You, on the other hand,” she turned to Alyra, pressing one hand against the stain at her crotch while the other traced her side from jaw to neck to breast, pausing to play with her through the thin leather before returning to press lightly against her throat while the lower hand delved inside her pants and her eyes locked with Alyra’s, “We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.”

Mute, helpless, and desperately riding the succubus’ fingers as she fell into the infinite depths of her gaze, the only possible thing Alyra could do was agree.

 

— — —

 

A drop of saliva fell from the corner of her mouth to her breast, and she moaned at the contact. Bella loved her breasts: they were far too big and sensitive to belong to an adventurer, and they were so very good at making her thoughts blank and fuzzy, whether from someone playing with her or punishing her or just her walking or crawling around to perform tasks for Mistress, the simple sensation of her breasts swaying and touching one another enough to prove what good, obedient pet she was for Mistress.

That wasn’t to say they couldn’t be inconvenient. Right now, for instance, her breasts were making her less blank and fuzzy like she was supposed to be and more horny and desperate, which also helped make her fuzzy but made it harder to keep still like she was supposed to, especially when the same rope tied around her breasts was also wound tightly through her crotch, almost begging to be rubbed against. But Bella was a good girl, and knew that she was the one who did the begging, not the bonds Mistress put her in to wait quietly for the ritual to be prepared. Maybe after the ritual Mistress would bring out the cock again and have him break her. Bella loved being broken for Mistress, and she always felt particularly remade after Mistress used the cock to break her.

“Good girl,” Mistress’ voice washed over her, not quite orgasmically but a wave of incomparable pleasure nonetheless. Bella moaned loudly into her gag to show her appreciation: she was a good girl, and being aroused—being controlled—by Mistress’ voice was part of that. “The candle brings my light into your mind, burns away your thoughts, taking your will up in smoke, leaving your perfect and empty for me.”

The words didn’t make complete sense—what was Bella’s will supposed to be?—but her thoughts were vanishing, eaten up by Mistress’ will like tiny moths in an open flame, and Bella could simply relax and let the cadence of Mistress’ words wash away her mind and control her. 

“But the candle is only a reminder, empty girl, and when you look up at me you behold your truth directly,” Mistress continued, and Bella let her gaze rise up to view her Mistress, from her leather and silver boots to her perfect thighs to the silver and leather bottoms that hinted, from a certain angle, at a skirt but hugged her body closely, just covering her perfect ass and the meeting of her thighs, silver and leather and Bella’s own gag standing between her mouth and Mistress’ center. She realized she had stopped raising her eyes and relaxed again into Mistress’ will, completely focused and perfectly unaware of whatever else Mistress was doing in the performance of the ritual.

 

— — —

 

Leo (Or was it Jay-something? Bella couldn’t remember—Ayla. Alyra. Alyra couldn’t remember her own name, she was a good girl like that, or becoming one) was gone. Mistress—the demon—had finished with him the other night, taken him up the ass with her tail while Bella—Alyra, while Alyra screamed from behind her gag, not at the sight of her ex-partner being reduced to a mindless fucktoy but at the relentless pleasure between her legs and in her breasts, unbearably intense but never enough to make her come. Mistress had taken Leo up the ass and fucked him until he begged to be broken, until Mistress finally took Alyra down from the wall and let him spill himself—without coming, simply a physical release of what had built up over weeks, or however long it had been, of teasing and fucking and training of all sorts—over her breasts and face.

Her tits were bigger than they had been, she was sure, though when she tried to think about it too much she simply made herself horny and fuzzy and wanted to play with her breasts, though obviously being bound prevented her from doing so. After milking Leo, Mistress had taken out Alyra’s gag and fed her his mess, and she had lapped it up with eager devotion, thoughts becoming milkier and fuzzier with every lick of her tongue against Mistress’ perfect fingers. Leo had finally been allowed to worship Mistress, then, cock still hard but his mind a pile of loose slivers already being sifted through and rearranged by Mistress’ will.

Thinking about that made Bella long for his cock more than she had in a long time, maybe ever. After all, when she’d wanted to fuck before, he had always been eager to oblige, or at least it had probably been that way; even thinking about before their capture felt strange, like a dream that was neither bad nor good but simply made no sense on waking. It was silly, after all, to think that she could be an adventurer when she had tits like these, so heavy and horny that just thinking about them made it so she could barely think at all.

And she needed to be fucked so badly, too, that a creeping vine could have snatched her up in the foothills, which sounded nice even if the concept of foothills didn’t make much sense anymore, or ever, and anyways a plant like that could only do one thing to her and even a silly, empty, soft, obedient mind like hers might get bored eventually and try to make her escape to something better. Something like Mistress, Bella realized, who could do so many things to her, and withhold so many things that she could never keep up and would never have to think again, things like fucking her and slapping her and doing anything but letting her sit there and break herself, because there was still a little part of her insisting she was Alyra, not Bella, and the longer she waited like this the better it would be when Mistress finally took hold of her heavy, desperate tits and gave herself a cock and fucked Bella’s mind away completely. 

 

— — —

 

Bella had no idea how long she’d been kneeling and staring at Mistress, but she could feel herself dripping onto the center of the circle, and every drop of arousal that fell to the floor seemed to return to her body twofold or fivefold or tenfold until she felt her mind empty of everything but the pleasures that overwhelmed it: the drool leaking from both corners of her mouth, around the large, arousingly uncomfortable gag and onto her her slick, sensitive breasts; the way the ropes pulled at her arms and breasts and between her legs; the way everything about her melted away as she gazed helplessly at Mistress’ body.

Then her gag was gone and Mistress was almost on top of her, and Bella licked eagerly while Mistress pressed her face between her legs, and the whole world became nothing but the heat between her own legs and her tongue between her Mistress’. Warmth crept up her legs and pooled in her stomach, blazed like mana in her breasts, suffused her whole body as her awareness disintegrated, and the last thing she understood was Mistress’ high, triumphant cry.

She woke up still bound and gagged, her breasts desperate and her legs slick, but that was how she was supposed to be. Mistress gave her a sharp, short tug by the hair as she knelt behind her, perfect breasts pressed against Bella’s back, and began to toy with Bella’s own. 

“Such a good girl,” Mistress purred in Bella’s ear, and Bella bit down on the gag so that her moans wouldn’t interrupt Mistress telling her what to be. “So empty and obedient for me, such a good pet. And now that I’m ready, let’s put that soft, obedient mind to use, shall we? There’s a new village by the foot of this mountain, and a band of adventurers with a paladin passing through…”

Chapter Text

By the time Shepard and Liara arrived, Ashley was already almost on the edge and felt like she had been there for a while. Well, Shepard had never really left, just stepped outside to bring Liara up; he had been the one to put Ash in this position, after all, kneeling in the middle of his Citadel apartment, naked but for her restraints and the toys he’d left her with. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, her ankles shackled, and her nipples clamped; an adjustable tech gag covered her mouth, in contrast to the simple leather collar around her neck. Finally, and the cause of her frustration—which, Shepard noted, was causing her to do beautiful things with the muscles in her stomach and arms—was a vibrator held firmly between her legs, humming irregularly as it kept her distracted without giving her any hope of relief.

Ashley’s eyes locked onto Liara as the couple walked into the room, both nonchalantly sweeping their eyes over her bound and naked body. The asari wore a long, white dress, cut from pieces that highlighted her curves with their seams, conservative by asari standards, at least until she undid the clasp behind her neck and dropped the entire thing to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her decidedly less conservative heels.

“You’re lucky, you know,” the archaeologist-turned-spymaster began, giving Ashley’s nipple clamps a biotic tug. “Or maybe not. It depends how you look at it, I suppose. If we were doing this my way, you’d be fifth or sixth orgasm by now, trying and failing to think... well, at all, really. But Shepard thinks you have some sort of personality worth preserving,” Ash bit her lip behind the tech gag, trying not to betray the effect of Liara’s casual degradation on her, “so, instead, you get to suffer and obey until Shepard decides you’ve learned how to share like a good girl. How does that sound, pet?”

Ashley clenched her thighs as she mumbled incoherently behind her gag, trying to get a little more friction out of the vibrator to address the results of Liara’s speech. The asari responded by biotically forcing her legs further apart, and Ash moaned at the mix of physical and mental stimuli. 

“I suppose I could wear a strapon and take you up the ass,” Liara began circling Ashley as she mused, her biotic touch trailing over the marine’s skin and occasionally tugging on her nipple clamps.  “I’m sure Shepard would appreciate the show, watching these tits swing back and forth while you make all your lovely noises for me. But you’d probably come from that, wouldn’t you,” she added rhetorically, stepping close suddenly to deliver a stinging slap to Ashley’s breast. Ashley whimpered as her legs pressed involuntarily against the biotic field keeping them apart.

Shepard, she noticed, was sitting on the couch now, cock in hand and fully erect. “It looks like she’s getting pretty worked up, Liara,” he called. “Why don’t you come over here and show her what sharing nicely gets you?”

Liara tangled her fingers in Ashley’s hair. “Of course, Shepard,” she responded obediently. Then she leaned close to Ash, yanking her closer by the hair, and Ash half-stifled a yelp; the rest of it was swallowed up by her gag as Liara whispered, “Watch closely, slut. I’m going to show you exactly why you need to learn your place with me if you want to taste that cock again.”

Then, shoving Ashley back on her heels, she turned and sauntered toward Shepard, all swaying hips and clicking heels until she dropped to her knees in front of him. Shepard stood up and let Liara take him in her mouth, stroking her crest as her tongue stroked the bottom of his cock. 

“Oh, god, fuck , Liara,” he groaned, holding her firmly by the crest as her ministrations and Ashley’s muffled complaints threatened to take him over the edge. He was no more acting than he was holding back, and the prospect of being reduced to a voyeur, allowed neither to serve nor to come, did as much for Ashley’s desperation as it did her arousal. 

Just as she thought, thrusting her hips downward as much as she could, that she might at least get to come, Shepard raised on hand in her direction. His omni-tool flared orange, and the vibrator stopped cold. She pitched forward and moaned in disappointment, and this time the sound carried perfectly. Shepard gave a last, guttural cry, and when Ash looked up again he was once again reclined on the couch while Liara stood up, her face and chest completely clean. Ashley moaned again, focusing past the abandoned throbbing between her legs as Liara sauntered back in her direction, a leash trailing from her hand.

The click as Liara attached the leash to Ashley’s collar coincided with the release of her bonds, and she fell forward onto her hands and knees. She followed silently as Liara led her in front of Shepard’s couch; Shepard himself watched with a smile and toyed absently with his half-hard cock. 

“On your back, pet,” Liara commanded, and Ashley obeyed immediately. Her gag came off with a click as the bottom of Liara’s foot came into view, and she licked without having to be told. She would be a good girl, she knew; Liara had proven without a doubt that she had the strength to mold Ash into whatever she wanted, and the interest to assure her that she was in no risk of being forgotten—but being relegated to the corner, bound and denied, while Shepard and Liara fucked in front of her was not how she wanted to spend the coming months or years, and she was determined to prove her worth, whatever was demanded of her.

Then Liara’s azure descended toward her face, and Ashley knew this was her one chance. Arms pinned by Liara’s legs, she licked eagerly and devotedly, praying to God and Athame that Liara’s azure had the same ins and outs as her own. By the asari’s satisfied noises from atop her, she hoped that she was doing well—and then Liara began to return the favor. 

Surprised, she moaned into Liara’s folds, bucking her hips involuntarily as she tried to regain her focus. In return, she felt the tingle of a biotic stasis field envelop her from the neck down—Shepard’s, it felt like, not Liara’s—and let out a choked whimper as she redoubled her efforts to please the asari.

Keeping up with a telepathic alien in a contest of mutual pleasure, however, was not a proposition that worked out well over time, and Ashley could feel her self-awareness fading out even beyond what the physical sensations were doing to her. Liara’s tongue probed her clit relentlessly, every lick sending electric jolts through her immobilized body, and as she strained to maintain her performance Ash found it harder and harder to think of herself as anything but what she was in the moment: obedient, submissive, a helpless, mindfucked toy for Shepard and Liara.

That thought alone nearly sent her over the edge, but something held her there for an instant, a thunderous presence that dominated her psyche as Liara’s voice echoed in her head: “ Embrace eternity .”

The dam broke, and infinite pleasure cascaded through her body as she felt herself swept into oblivion, consumed in Liara’s will.

Chapter Text

Hanging from the ceiling was not how Lictor had hoped to end up on this mission, although it honestly wasn’t that much worse than he usually tended to fare against Midnight. This time, however, he was not only bound hand and foot and deprived of his superhuman strength and speed—not that speed would have helped him when he couldn’t move—he was also naked from neck to toe, only a few square inches of fabric distinguishing him from Ernest Longworth. Not entirely, but the few things that adorned his body below his mask did not so much preserve shreds of dignity as make certain he had none: a leather collar, from the feel probably part of what was suppressing his powers; nipple clamps, connected by a chain; a thick thread wound just tight enough around his cock and balls that he was half-hard despite the situation.

 If this was any indication of Midnight’s intentions toward him, whatever had caused the shift, he was well and truly fucked. Figuratively, even more so than probably literally. He wriggled ineffectually in his bonds, just enough of his super-strength trickling through to prevent his arms from falling apart with the weight of his body on his wrists, and hoped Callista would forgive him. She would, of course; Lina was just as devoted as Ernest to the ideal of the hero, and both knew that the depravities of a supervillain could never be held against their victims. That didn’t make accepting what was to come, or his already half-hard cock, any easier.

A door opened and closed behind him, and sharp footsteps echoes across the room, followed by the jolting touch of a cold hand between his shoulder blades. His cock jumped as sharpened nails trailed down his back, hard enough to leave passing lines in their wake—he knew from more pleasant experiences. 

“Hard now, pet,” Midnight’s voice purred in his ear, and his cock obeyed immediately. “Good boy.” 

He cursed her mentally, but either his own unsteadiness or her unyielding control prevented him from speaking. At last, trailing her nails across his ass and drawing an uneven exhalation, Midnight circled around in front of him. Where he wore nothing but his mask, she wore her familiar dark boots and pants, a grey tank top, and no mask at all; her arms, as usual, were bare, and he could see that her tattoos extended across her upper chest and neck. Her short, black hair framed an angular, aristocratic face that bore an amused, condescending smile, and although she was slightly below him—he was slightly taller, and suspended above the floor—he felt very, very small before her gaze.

“So quiet already?” she asked, putting on a disappointed tone. “Usually men like you are so… vigorous at this stage, full of mighty oaths I get to make you trample on. I hope you aren’t ready to surrender just yet?” She cupped his balls and squeezed gently; when he didn’t respond he tightened her grip, just shy of painfully, and he bucked and gasped.

“Answer, pet!”

“No! Not yet!” The protest leapt from his mouth without being thought, and he continued desperately, “I won’t give in to you, no!”

Her other hand touched his throat and he stopped instantly.

“That didn’t sound very mighty, pet,” she purred, trailing a single finger along his cock. “After all, all I would have to do to make you break an oath like that is take this,” she circled around behind him, and something cold and hard pressed against his ass, “and put it here, and tell you to beg me to let you taste it.”

The shaft slid in, and a moan rose up from his chest despite himself.

“Beg me, pet.”

“Please, Mi—dn—no,” he managed to control himself, or at least his voice, even though all he really wanted in the moment was for Midnight to take complete control, to beg and do exactly as she told him. There was no escape, and all resistance brought was disgust and frustration.

“Good boy,” she purred again, scraping those cold, sharp nails across his chest as she hugged him to her, so that he could feel her breasts against his back and her erection between his ass cheeks. His cock twitched as she pinched his balls, and he wondered how it would feel when she took him, or if he would still have a self when she finally did. “That means we get to do this the fun way,” she slapped his chest, hard, then stepped back and delivered a stinging blow to his ass, before catching him as he swung and speaking softly into his ear, “where I punish you, and then I break you, and then you thank me properly.”

She pulled the dildo out of his ass with a soft pop, and he whimpered at the sudden emptiness. Then her heels clicked across the floor behind him, the door opened and closed, and he was alone, with nothing to do but hang by his wrists and think about the ache in his cock and what it would be like to suck hers. He’d wondered about it before; given the focus of her powers, Midnight had a penchant for teasing her opponents and even sometimes fucking with them, but he’d never heard of her going as far as she had made clear she planned to do with him. He wondered if he felt proud to be the one she’d chosen.

The first indication he had that Midnight had returned was the stinging bite of a flogger across his ass. He yelled in pain, faintly realizing that, surrounded by her sexual control and intent, he’d forgotten about her ability to move undetected, and then she lashed him again and again, and he stopped worrying about the how of her power and focused on the burn in his ass.

“Good boy,” she whispered in his ear again, and he hated how responsive he’d become to that phrase, hated it even as it made him happier than he had ever been to know Midnight was happy with him. One hand found his cock again, the other resting on his stomach to keep him still, and he whimpered, almost crying from the overload of sensation, as she scraped her nails lightly along the underside of his cock. “Such a good boy,” she repeated, stroking him with her fingertips, her other hand moved to rest lightly on his throat, “such a good boy for me, so ready to break and break for me, ready to become my good, obedient pet.”

He shivered, his cock harder than ever, his body wanting to buck and writhe at her words but unable to move a muscle save for the twitches of his stupid, slavish cock. “That’s a good boy, ready to break, ready to serve,” her fingers continued up and down his cock, full of liquid head despite the cold of her touch, “so ready to break for me. Beg me, pet,” she ordered, “beg me to finish breaking you like a good boy.”

“Please, Goddess,” he babbled before he realized what he was saying, “please, I’ll be good, I can break for you like a good boy, just break me, please.” He wondered vaguely whether she might, if he begged well enough, stuff his ass again, maybe even let him down so he could kneel before her properly, even let him suck her cock. “Please, Goddess—”

Another feather-light touch on his throat silenced him, and her hands moved to his ass, scraping firmly across the reddened, sensitive flesh, leaving lines of stinging want behind. 

“Silence,” she ordered, and his mouth stayed firmly closed as another blow from the flogger lashed across his ass like fire, then another, and another. He wanted to moan, to cry, to beg—although for what he hadn’t been told, and all he could think of was the sting of the lash and the ache in his cock—but he had been told to be silent, so silent he stayed until, at last, the whipping stopped.

“Such a good boy,” Midnight’s silken voice returned to his ears, as soft as her hands and so much colder as she stroked his cock with one and caressed his burning ass with the other. Again, his body wanted to buck into her touch, to come across her hand, but her power held him frozen, able only to feel and obey.

“In fact,” he could feel her smile across his ear, and for the first time since she’d ordered him to become hard a part of him felt fear, “you’ve been such a good boy for me, I went and got a present for you.” 

Something about the word present jolted him out of his half-entranced state, thinking again of Callista and their bond, strong enough to endure the machinations of any villain. No, Midnight could fuck him, she could break him (the sooner the better, the already-broken part of him thought), but as long as he had his own free will he would never join her, they would never give each other presents.

Midnight clicked her fingers, and something in whatever held his bonds, high above, shifted. She placed a single cold, sharp-nailed hand on his shoulder and turned him, slowly, to see her so-called gift.

It was Callista.

He should have known, perhaps, from the way his thoughts had been allowed to fly to her moments before, but all he could think was how beautiful she was, and how obviously broken. She knelt on the floor just as he had wished to minutes ago, collared and naked from the waist down, covered only by her gold and purple costume mask, through which she gazed up at them—at Midnight—with an expression of adoring, mindless joy.

Midnight’s hand left his cock, and Callista crawled forward to replace the cold fingers with her own mouth. She had gone down on him before, just as he had for her, both loving and devoted to the other’s pleasure. But as her lips wrapped around him and her warm tongue began to run across his shaft, he knew that his pleasure was not the point here: Midnight could have made him come a dozen times, could have—he arched his back into her touch and moaned aloud, her previous order relaxed.

“That’s it, moan for me,” she growled, one hand holding his mouth open while she picked up a ball-gag from somewhere and filled him with it. “Moan for me like a good boy while your little girlfriend sucks your cock and my command, while the pleasure makes it harder and harder to think, isn’t that right, good boy?”

It was, he realized dimly, although now that she’d said it the part of him that was still capable of realization felt very, very small and weak and fuzzy, and realizing that made the pleasure and the fuzziness grow even more. 

The dildo was back in his ass, as well, and his moans grew to a cacophony as the goddess called Midnight and her nameless, mindless pet controlled his pleasure, sucking and fucking him without hope of release, and the knowledge that he was helplessly having his mind fucked away only made the pleasure grow and grow until all he could think was how glorious it felt belonging to Midnight and being completely and utterly powerless like a good boy.

In truth, he wasn’t even thinking that so much as knowing something like it, a simplified form of the truth that had nothing to do with abstract concepts or vocabulary, only pleasure and obedience and need.

At last, Callista moved back, his aching cock, shiny with her saliva, waving in front of her like the mast of a foundered ship. It wasn’t quite Lictor’s cock to her—she no longer quite remembered who Lictor was—but the obedient girl knew that she had just helped enslave someone who had once been important to her, and that was almost as good a feeling as knowing she’d done whatever Goddess demanded.

Midnight gestured above them, and whatever held Lictor’s bonds gave out rope until he stood firmly on his feet. The rope fell away and he fell to his knees without needing to be told, needing, indeed, nothing but Goddess’ triumphant, condescending smile and the mind-blanking ache in his cock.

The tent of her own erection was clearly visible now that he was facing her, and what was more at eye level with it, and he swallowed in anticipation as she undid her pants. Her cock was pale and long and hard, and what was left of his mind shut down as his eyes fixed on it, his own cock throbbing in response. Midnight’s hands took him by the hair as her power pinned his arms behind his back, and with hesitation overridden by her control, he took her in his mouth.

His lips and tongue acted without his direction, worshiping Midnight exactly as she desired. She was perfection, salt sweat and musky warmth and absolute control. His own cock twitched in sympathetic arousal as he licked and sucked, his head bobbing up and down as Midnight fucked him, every thrust into his mouth taking him deeper and deeper into grateful, mindless submission. 

He licked and nodded and sucked, deepening his obedience as he relaxed into Midnight’s control, every nerve and muscle in his body at her command as he expressed his mindless thanks for making him hers, until at last she stilled, locking him in place like a marble statue of submission as her cock pulsed in his mouth and she came down his throat. He swallowed the way he had sucked, reflexively and devotedly, the bitter salt another expression of divine favor. Then, obediently, he licked her clean, feeling the ache of his own cock as it continually washed away whatever thoughts might have tried to form in his empty, adoring mind.

The last thing he saw with some semblance of consciousness was the satisfied smile of his owner as she tucked herself away. Then she reached down and tapped him lightly on the forehead, and his mind turned off completely, waiting until Midnight desired it again.

Chapter Text

Isabela’s grin—that particular grin—was always bad news. Or good news, if your view of things was sufficiently chaotic. Garrett Hawke had adapted, could never have won Isabela’s interest if he hadn’t (much less survived Kirkwall, but he didn’t think about that these days, simply kept his head down, followed Isabela’s orders, and hoped the rest of his friends were alright). Even so, he could never quite be sure which side of the line his lover’s plan would fall on; all he knew was that he was in for something interesting.

She had blinked innocently in response to his questioning look and leaned against him nonchalantly, looking out past the harbor mouth as the sun set behind them. 

“I’ve got something special for you,” she murmured, reaching up to wrap her arms behind his neck as he held her. “I want you in my cabin by change of watch, ready and waiting.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” he smiled against her hair, savoring the smell of her as he wondered what she had planned. Then she pushed herself forward and he let go, dropping his gaze submissively as she turned to look him over. In Kirkwall he had been a renowned warrior, a leader often ignored but always turned to in the end; on the Siren’s Call , at last, he was simply Isabela’s. Her finger trailed along his chin, and then she planted a lightning kiss on the corner of his jaw and was gone without a word.

But she had told him what to do, so here he was, kneeling on the floor of her cabin—he slept there, too, but it was her cabin and her bed, just like he was hers—waiting for him just the way she liked him: naked but for his collar, hands behind his back and eyes down, looking at the floor just short of where her boots would land when she stepped inside the cabin. 

The sun had almost finished setting by the time Isabela retired, leaving the room in amber shadow. The door creaked and shut decisively, and Hawke listened intently as Isabela stripped off her sash, corset, accessories, and tunic. 

“Eyes up here, pet.” He obeyed, and his half-hard cock stiffened at the familiar sight: Isabela, bare from neck to thigh, standing over him with a coil of rope held loosely in one hand and a blindfold in the other. As always, he drank in the sight of her while she let him, her satisfied, catlike smile punctuated by the stud in her lip; the swell of her breasts, capped by dark nipples with their own gold piercings; the flat expanse of her stomach, well-toned by a life of sailing and adventure despite her drinking; the close-trimmed hair pointing down between her legs.

There was something about this position, Hawke thought, that never failed to get him into exactly the state Isabela liked him in, which was to say hard, horny, and delightfully responsive. When Isabela strode forward, Hawke’s cock twitching at the movement of her breasts, and pulled him between her legs by his hair, his mind simply turned off as he began licking. It didn’t take much thought to eat out the pirate queen, after all, so Hawke didn’t think at all, just obediently stroking her clit with his tongue and breathing as deeply as he could to saturate his mind with her scent. 

Isabela groaned and rocked her hips, thrusting herself against Hawke’s face as he pleasured her, and Hawke moaned against her in turn. His hands yearned to stroke himself as he worshipped her, but Isabela hadn’t given permission for that, so they stayed as if spellbound to his back. There was something unusual about this time, he noticed through his haze, though it surely was unimportant compared to Isabela’s taste and smell and moans of approval from above. 

“Oh, yes, Hawke!” she cried, pressing herself against him and clenching her legs hard enough that it became hard to breathe, the only air he could draw in thick with her scent, sending him deeper and deeper into hazy, focused submission as his cock throbbed and he licked harder and deeper, as if he were searching with his mouth for something hidden inside Isabela that would unlock her perfect pleasure and his total subjection to her will.

Isabela came with a triumphant cry, and Hawke lapped desperately at her fluids, every taste of his love, his goddess, his queen a benediction and a seal on her control. Then she released him, moving back to sit on her bed, her satisfied, anticipatory smile invisible to Hawke’s well-trained gaze. Still kneeling, and perfectly focused on Isabela’s intent, he licked adoringly at the bottom of her tall, salt- and oil-stained boot, missing Isabela’s touch but grateful beyond words to be used. 

“Touch yourself for me, pet,” Isabela ordered, and Hawke obeyed, still devoting himself to her boot as he stroked his cock with one hand, squeezing his balls with the other. 

“Good boy,” Isabela cooed, and between being allowed to touch himself and the pleasure evoked by her praise, he hardly noticed as she put down one foot and raised her other boot to his face. He did notice, however, when she dropped her second leg and raised the first again, this time completely bare. 

“Breathe deep for me, pet.”

Hawke was even happier to obey that command, the odor of Isabela’s sweat and worn leather filling his nose and shutting down whatever thinking parts of his mind still lingered in half-consciousness. He did not quite remember, since remembering would have required thinking and awareness of something outside of Isabela’s scent and his submission, but in a half-mindless way he understood again that this was both usual and not, that kneeling before Isabela and breathing in the scents of her body always made him hard and hazy and deeply obedient and receptive to her control, and yet that he was deeper now than he had ever gone, that the power her body held over him was far greater than usual, and that he was to sink at last in her control so that even when he awoke he would be hers forever.

At her command, he began to lick again, identifying at last the subtle addition of the potion she’d acquired as he effaced himself at her feet. His cock felt impossibly hard, now, his arousal multiplied by the same agent that was erasing his mind as well as by the depth of his submission itself, yet the same factors held his orgasm in check as he dragged his tongue carefully across Isabela’s soles and delved attentively between her toes, worshiping and obeying and submitting until his arousal involved no desire to come but was only another part of the all-encompassing thrall in which she held him, body and mind.

Then her foot vanished, and her lips on his drew him from his trance to gaze adoringly—always adoringly, but now without hesitation or fear of what she planned—into her lively brown eyes, impossibly close as her tongue parted his lips and dominated his mouth. He moaned reflexively as she took his hands from his cock and, pushing him onto his back on the floor, pinned them above his head, grinding herself, warm and wet, against him. She laughed and, leaving one hand to control his two, reached between her legs, throwing her head back theatrically before placing her glistening fingers in his mouth.

His lips closed automatically around Isabela’s hand and he sucked obediently as she continued to roll her hips against him, dropping him effortlessly back into mindless obedience as he surrendered the demands of his body to the bliss of her control. Then she leaned down, placing a kiss on his forehead that let her breast fall down and press against his chest; when he opened his eyes again she met them—he had always been good at looking past her chest, especially in search of her truly hypnotic attributes—she took hold of his cock, angling him just so, and in one swift movement sank herself onto him completely.

She rode him deliberately, playing with her breasts as she rose and fell slowly, taking care to fuck herself perfectly with his perfectly obedient cock, and the totality of his submission redoubled her pleasure. Hawke was always attentive, devoted to her pleasure, exactly as hard or as soft in his movements as she wanted, but this was something else, something more, and she came again with an explosive cry, Hawke still hard and mindless beneath her.

Her surprise had done its work, but there was still far more to enjoy before the night was through.

Chapter Text

Special Agent Gerald Stone, of the Special Adaptive Bureau for Espionage and Reconnaissance, had stopped thinking. He could hardly have done otherwise, after all, when the goddess in front of him had told him not to think. She had told him to do a number of things, in fact, and for the most part he’d obeyed, getting better and better at obeying as he went on. He was on his knees, and had stripped off his clothes, surrendered his equipment, and forgotten who he was and why he was here, although she’d allowed him to remember that now, at least as much as he could without thinking.

Stone had been an accomplished agent, strong and quick on his feet and a crack shot with any weapon he had ever needed to use. He was classically handsome, short dark hair and a strong jaw and cold blue eyes, and had fought and beaten and number of threats, from unsanctioned wizards to slavering monsters literally from the pits of hell—a half dozen hells at least, by his estimate.

Alrayal’ymoris looked down at the former agent with cold disdain. She had been enjoying a rare month to herself when the human strike team had assaulted her lair, butchering and sacrificing their way through her golems to reach her. She watched through their chalcedony eyes as a short, well-endowed redhead was caught in a suspension field, her mind blasted into obedient nothingness, forcing her companions to leave her behind as she crawled to the base of the statue that had ensnared her and facefucked herself into permanent submission. Two others scouted the wrong corridor and discovered Alraya’s pet wood nymph; bound up in innumerable vines, one worshipped her ass while the other dangled in the air, triple-penetrated and fucked into glassy-eyed devotion. So they went, in ones and twos and once three at a time, until almost two dozen agent had offered themselves to Alraya as her mindless playthings.

At last, the sole remaining agent, Jason Stone—she would have to think of another name for it, Alraya mused—had kicked down the unlocked door to her inner sanctum and dropped to his knees like a stone, cock hard and mind as empty as a sieve. Alraya wore only sheer stockings and an embroidered corset, shaped to hold her breasts together and yet parted down to her sternum. Her mocking smile appeared to Agent Stone as an expression of welcome, the glint of her eyes beyond his perception even as she sapped his will, directing his gaze down, lingering a moment at most on her cleavage before dropping all the way down to her feet.

“That’s it, slave,” she sneeringly praised the mindless thrall before her, his erection clearly visible through his pants. She spared a moment’s genuine approval for his physique; her last cock had worn out some time before, but it looked as though this one might have a use or two after all. “No more thinking, just turn that handsome brain off all the way for me. Focus on my feet,” she crossed her legs back and forth, letting the motion and the sound of sliding silk flow across his mind like an eraser, “let my perfect legs crush you, let my feet wipe away every single thought in your tiny, pathetic fucking head as you take off your clothes for me like a good little fucktoy.”

He obeyed without thinking, as he had been told, and Alraya nodded in satisfaction; S.A.B.E.R. were mostly good at destructive things, but they did know how to build a fun toy. And, she noted, his cock was just as big as it had appeared; she had certainly seen better, but at the very least it would make him easy to break the rest of the way. 

Alraya lifted a foot and pointed her toes at him. He obeyed the unspoken command immediately, crawling toward her on his hands and knees until he was close enough to kiss her. For what had been Agent Stone, the experience was almost orgasmic, the bobbing weight of his hard cock forgotten as he pressed his lips to her arch and sole with just enough of his mind intact to be grateful for the opportunity to subject himself to his goddess. Alraya licked her lips at his pleasure, switching feet after a moment and pushing his head so that he turned to lie on his back, allowing her to use his face as a footrest.

“I suppose you did at least have the decency to bring me a new stable of toys,” she began, pressing down with her foot so that he gagged around it, “and you may consider that your saving grace. My reputation for cruelty is well-earned, and the fact that you and your friends make delightful little fuckdolls is the only reason you are being fucked into slavery rather than flayed alive for interrupting my downtime. But I must admit I’m still angry, and I will not be denied my revenge.”

She stood up abruptly, forming a collar around his neck and a leash to lead him by with a moment’s thought, and he scrambled to keep up, still crawling, as she stalked into an adjacent room. She shackled him, spread-eagled, to a frame in the middle of the room—it would have been trivial to hold him in place with her mind, but wood and leather and metal added a certain feeling to things like this—and wound a thin rope around his balls and the base of his cock, tightening it until he let out a little noise of pain. With one last tug, and a gratifying, slightly louder mewl from her pet, she brought the rest of the rope up and tied it to a link in his collar.

“You are going to scream for me,” Alraya whispered into his ear, stroking a single finger deliberately up his cock, overflowing the organ with pleasure. He made no sound, kept quiet by her will, though the sub-linguistic part of his brain, to which abstractions and language and power had never had real meaning, was metaphorically screaming for release. She laughed at the thought, then turned toward a fancifully intimidating rack of long, sharp implements, swaying her hips for the benefit of his frustration.

The visibly flaming whip she picked up was, of course, magical, and would inflict no serious damage tonight, but was still a flaming whip and would certainly hurt like one. Alraya licked her lips as a twist of her imagination adjusted the chains to bring  her pet to his knees, and she tilted his head back by the chin. 

“In a moment, you are going to beg me to whip you with this,” she informed him, allowing his mind to form enough of a coherent entity to comprehend her words. “When I grant your wish, I will grant it to my heart’s content, and if we’re both lucky this pathetic fucking little mind of yours will have shattered into infinitesimal pieces again by the time I get bored. From the pain, slave,” she clarified, forcing another spike of pleasure through his body. His body wanted to moan, to cry out, to do something, but the seal of her power around his throat choked off any noise and amplified the painful ache between his legs.

“As for why you’re about to beg me for that,” she pressed one foot against his cock, savoring the added rush of sensation from the pressure and the thin silk of her stockings, “that is when I will stop pleasuring this.”

Her foot slid up and down slowly, almost gently, like the touch of an ethereal lover. At last, sounds began to filter through his mouth, first pitiful moans at the overwhelming pleasure, then gasps and broken cries, and at last he writhed in his chains and began babbling, “Please, Goddess, please! I can’t—fuck, please, Goddess, I need to—fu—Goddess, please, please, Goddess, ple–ease, Goddess, break me, whip me, please, anything, too much, please!”

Her hand struck his face, hot and flat and lightning fast, as she dropped her foot to the ground. She said nothing, straddling his face and moaning as he worshipped her more personally than she had planned to let him; the pain and pleasure of his overwhelming, bottlenecked arousal was simply too satisfying to let herself go unrewarded for her troubles. At the same time, she had made a promise, the only sort of promise she ever worried about keeping to her slaves: to follow pleasure with pain, and by that means crumple his mind like human waste-paper and throw it into her hearth. 

Humans were delightfully fragile creatures, always so eager to fall apart in her hands. Alraya clenched her thighs around his head and rode out her orgasm, leaving his face sticky and glassy-eyed. A good start to breaking him again, but nothing he wouldn’t grow accustomed to in time, if she wanted him to.

She did not want that. He screamed as Alraya brought the lash down across his ass, a bold red mark across firm muscles; perhaps she would turn him into a statue when she bored of him and take him again in a few centuries. Or say she would, she supposed: that promising young chevalier was still in a cavern somewhere, probably covered in gargoyle dust. It hardly mattered, anyways. The toy in front of her screamed again, his cock twitching futilely as she lashed him again and again. 

His ass, she decided, was nicely painted for the moment, so she switched targets, drawing a line across his upper back, then another in the opposite direction. His chest, too, required attention, and she paused in whipping him to deliver a devastating kick to his crotch while she was at it. Ballbusting had never fascinated her the way whips had, however: the pain was too much at once, like sunlight instead of hearthfire, and lingered in a sad, dull ache instead of the creative, delicious stings and burns she could inflict with her favored instruments. 

Even then, of course, a single mortal couldn’t hold up forever, and after a few more lashes across his backside she noticed his feelings and reactions fading into biological autonomy. Tossing the whip aside, she raised him up to his feet again and stroked his cock with one full, chilled hand.

“Good boy,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear, as a burst of precum dribbled out and she left him to ache, though there was little of him left to comprehend either her praise or his condition. Finally, with another twist of thought, she altered her own body to suit her next intention, and adjusted his restraints to bend him forward at the waist. His mind was fully broken, true, but she would have further satisfaction before she put this toy away.

Chapter Text

Her name was Evelyn Trevelyan, though for most of her life she’d gone either by Evie or Enchanter Trevelyan, and among the Inquisition most insisted on addressing her as Herald. In the months since the breach, however, her favorite name had come to be the one bestowed on her by the man in front of her, Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar, who—in private—simply called her “Pet.”

Their bond, unlikely as it was, had begun in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when an ex-Circle mage with few connections among the ranking rebels and a fire-throwing vashoth hired guard had stumbled out of a hole in the air. As they fought—including literally—to prove their innocence, they came to realize that whatever had marked them had not only given them shared powers over the rifts, but created an unstable link between their minds. Where Kaaras had worried (and she had, too, at first), Evelyn had seen an opportunity: since her teenage years, she told him, she had been fascinated by magics that influenced the mind—not out of a desire to control others, but that another mage might dominate her.

Kaaras had agreed to her plan, and Evelyn opened her mind to him, surrendering her deepest secrets and power over her most basic desires. Fortunately, he had found the experience as stimulating as she did, and so her duties had grown from “The Herald of Andraste Most People At Least Didn’t Want to Flee From On Sight” to include “Obedient Pet of the Herald Who Actually Runs Things.” They had parted only once after that, when he traveled to Therinfal Redoubt while she met and battled Magister Alexius; even when Haven fell, they had gone to face Corypheus side by side.

 

Now, though, they had breathing room, and both were intent on making use of it. Evelyn adjusted her mask as she ascended the stairs to the Inquisitor’s quarters—the same mask she had worn the the Winter Palace, playing the reassuring human mage of noble birth against the unavoidable fact that Kaaras’ height and horns rendered him an object of at least initial fear and suspicion. As her thoughts began to flicker, she started to realize why she had donned her Orlesian getup this evening, but by the time she reached the Inquisitor’s door, she had forgotten everything she had thought about on the way to it.

“Inquisitor!” Comtesse Evangeline du Treyard mounted the stairs from Inquisitor Adaar’s door with the brisk formality of a woman completely assured of her authority. “Inquisitor, I demand to speak with you! Your soldiers have been—”

“Greetings, Comtesse,” Adaar interrupted, rising from his bed; he wore pants and boots, but had cast off his surcoat and shirt, and the comtesse felt her cheeks warm behind her mask as her eyes lingered involuntarily on his physique. “Though I do not believe this is where the Inquisition’s visitors were instructed to await me.” Truly, it was unfair for the northern heretics to have such… advantages, Evangeline thought, before wrenching her focus back to the matter at hand.

“It is awaiting your pleasure, Lord Inquisitor, that has brought me here,” she snapped, trying and failing not to fall back a step as he loomed over her. “Val Chevin will not—”

“Not continue obstructing the Inquisition’s efforts to restore order, I am glad to hear it,” Adaar interrupted her, the finger beneath her chin all the more controlling for the dextrous lightness of his touch. Warmth and want blossomed between her legs, and she swallowed heavily; the Inquisitor favored her with an amused, untroubled smile.

“Was there something else, serah?”

The address—as though she were some merchant or peasant, not a leading member of one of the most prominent families in a major Orlesian city—should have enraged her. Instead, it nearly sapped the strength from her knees, perhaps because she knew, though she hated to admit it, that this was the most powerful man in Thedas. He was her superior, even above the Emperor, and, perhaps, she would not mind if he were to express that superiority more… personally.

“I—messere, I cannot—” 

“Kneel.”

He interrupted her again, and she sank to her knees gratefully; the Inquisitor was in control, which meant that everything would be alright. She could no longer remember what had so urgently needed discussion that she had barged into his private quarters, nor how or why she had not been cut to pieces by his guards along the way. It didn’t matter: she was here now, kneeling and horny and obedient, and eager at the sight of the tent in his trousers, exactly level with her face. 

“Good girl,” he murmured affectionately, and the comtesse wondered for a moment at how close he seemed to think they were before her mind let the incongruity go and let herself drift in her submission. He clipped a leash to her collar—where that had come from, and when, and how she had not noticed all fluttered through her mind before vanishing like smoke—and she gasped as his magic began to touch her, moments of overwhelming pleasure ghosting across her skin, between her legs, across her breasts, as if her spirit had a body and he was pleasuring it directly, despite her layers of formal clothing.

She stayed kneeling, arms limp at her sides, as he made short work of her surcoat, tunic, and breastband, her vapid immobility adding with each brush of his hand and each article of clothing to the wonderful sense of his control. 

“I’m told Orlesians enjoy a certain decadence,” he mused, and she gasped as he fastened intricate metal clamps around her nipples. “These are dwarven-made, I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” 

Then she was pushed, or rearranged, so that she was leaning forward on her hands, legs up in the air as Adaar yanked off her boots and pulled down her the rest of her clothes. His hand dug into the flesh of her ass as he bared it, scraping across her before delivering a heavy, flat-fingered slap, and she moaned aloud. 

That pleased him, it seemed, as he repeated the motion with the other side of her ass, and she clenched her thighs together at the impact of his hand. His hand came down again, suddenly, before she could relax her muscles, four quick blows that left her aching and moaning with pain and desire, one minor and the other seemingly all her mind had room for.

“Good girl,” he repeated, pulling her across his lap as he caressed her back and shoulders, “such a good girl, empty and pliable and ready to obey.” He pushed something slick and bulbous into her ass, filling her and blanking out whatever words she tried to think about it, and she moaned again. Filled and fucked, fucked and empty, ready to obey, she half-thought, and the needy pleasure pulsed between her legs.

He brought his hand down again, and this time the reflexive clenching of her legs reminded her of the plug up her ass, causing her to squirm more as her body sought some friction against his legs. That got her spanked again, and then again and again until the erstwhile comtesse was reduced to incoherent begging and desperate, pleading moans, her copper hair held tightly in the Inquisitor’s giant hand. 

“What do you say to that, comtesse?” He chuckled, sliding his other hand across her ass and between her legs.

She tried to beg for release, to offer her family’s wealth, her city’s loyal support, her own devoted service, but as soon as she opened her mouth he had filled it with a leather bit, and then she was back on her knees as he fitted her with a slew of leather straps and buckles, forming a harness around her breasts that he fastened to her collar and cuffing her hands behind her back. He slapped her breasts, hard, and she bit down on the gag even as her throat resonated with a deep moan. 

“Oh, you look perfect like that,” he groaned, stepping back and stroking himself—Maker, his cock was as big as the rest of him, Evangeline shivered—with one hand as he shucked his pants with the other. “Every one of my people ought to keep a human pet, tied up just like you are now. The qun would conquer the south in days if it recognized that this is where you belong, wouldn’t it, pet?”

Almost automatically, the comtesse found herself nodding. This was exactly where she belonged, aroused and obedient and kneeling at the feet of this powerful heretic. She belonged to him by nature, was a good, obedient pet like all humans should be, existed to serve and please him—although she did hope he would fuck her soon, the need to be claimed and broken and properly trained hovering at the edge of her mind and guiding her into deeper and deeper fantasies of submission.

As if reading her mind, he finished undressing and lifted her with his magic, a tingling sensation enveloping her entire body, scattering her mind and amplifying her arousal. He positioned her with her torso face-down on his bed, her nipple clamps pressed between her flesh and the covers, her feet flat on the floor. Then he took hold of the back of her gag, pulling her head up and back, and slowly, carefully pushed himself inside her.

She moaned loudly around her bit at the delicate intrusion, aching for him to fuck her in earnest yet already overwhelmed by being filled twice at once. Her body wanted to press itself against the sheets, clutch and the covers and bury her face, but none of that was possible the way she was bound and held, which only increased her excitement—and then he thrust into her again, hard and swift, his magic reaching everywhere his body couldn’t, and she lost herself entirely.

 

Evelyn laid back on the bed she shared with Kaaras, hands unbound and face unmasked but collar and harness still on tight, basking in the glow of the multiple orgasms he’d brought her to, not all of them by touching her physically. 

“That was good, Kas,” she murmured, holding one of his large hands—the one without the Anchor—with both of her own. 

He hummed, almost a purring sound, and stroked the back of her upper hand with his thumb. She could notice her own mark again, the perception as usual a bittersweet promise that this was real and that the real world was in many ways so much poorer than the ones Kaaras could make her believe in. She remembered her magic again, too, and called on the Fade to undo the clasps of her harness.

“Thought you’d like that one, Evelyn,” he replied, using her name as he always made a point of doing after messing with her mind more than usual. “Anything for next time?”

“Being called your pet was quite enjoyable,” she smiled, reluctantly discarding the last of the leather he’d strapped her in, and rolled over to kiss him. “Even without turning me into a self-obsessed Orlesian tart, I wouldn’t mind taking that further in the future.” 

He laughed in affirmation, running his hand along her side, and she added, “Although it’s probably best if we don’t try to convince Par Vollen that’s how to take over the south. Bull might insist they’re open about these things, but after the Storm Coast I wouldn’t trust those bastards with a kitten, much less a living sex toy.”

Adaar laughed again and kissed her, before pulling her close against his broad, warm chest and closing his eyes, and soon they were both sound asleep. As they were mages, of course, that was far from the end of their night together.

Chapter Text

The woods were lovely, dark, and deep—actually, it was mostly the last two, Jaune admitted to himself as he stumbled through another set of low-hanging branches. He’d left home alone, with just his grandfather’s sword and shield, a breastplate, and the coin he’d scraped together doing odd jobs around his village. Now, he was down mostly to the first three items, his original coin distributed to various innkeepers and grocers and more reluctant to find the hands of a barely-trained adventurer who had his hands full with a nest of devil slicers. 

He tripped over a rock and chastised himself for refusing the offer of help he’d received in a few towns back from a red-clad knight, skittish though the man himself had seemed. 

If he were being honest with himself, Jaune would have admitted that he’d taken this job—well, not so much a job as following rumors that would probably lead to a reward if he took care of the problem—out of desperation. But then it wasn’t honesty that had gotten him this far, so he took his sword (his grandfather’s, really), still sharp despite misuse, and hacked on through the brush.

“Hello there!”

Jaune yelped and stumbled backward into a large tree. In front of him, about halfway across a maybe ten-foot clearing between the trees and the cliff he hadn’t noticed, was a goddess. There was no other word for a woman so beautiful and so tangibly powerful. She was almost his height, perhaps taller with the heels of her thigh-high, bronze-ornamented boots, with almost literally flaming red hair, blood-red lips, and emerald eyes that seemed to pierce his soul and twist and enchant his mind. She wore a bronze and leather corset in imitation of a cuirass; a wide, royal collar around her neck; and a very, very short skirt.

He was kneeling, he realized, which made sense given the goddess whose presence he had stumbled into. She stepped close, his head tilting back to follow her eyes, and he swallowed heavily as she traced his chin with her fingers.

“Well, you’re cute, at least,” she mused, circling him slowly. “In case you were wondering, my name is Pyrrha, and I generally don’t take well to jumped-up adventurers attempting to slay me.”

Jaune hadn’t heard the name Pyrrha before, but he remembered dimly something about rumors of a powerful demon in the woods. It seemed impossible that Pyrrha was that demon, though: she was beautiful, and lovely, and made him feel like kneeling and obeying her, being good for her, was something he could finally be good at.

She grabbed him by the hair and pulled, sharply, and Jaune gasped as he toppled over and found himself lying against her legs; she had apparently seated herself on a small boulder just behind him, and a relaxing shiver passed through him as she stroked his hair, gentle and possessive. He was hard, he realized, and wondered vaguely what she planned to do with him, not quite daring to put his hopes in the form of concrete desires. 

“Of course I’m going to keep you, pet,” Pyrrha laughed, a musical sound that sent a wave of joy and pleasure through his body and mind. “You belong to me now. I just have to teach you what that means.” She stood up abruptly, letting him crash to the ground. “Now strip.”

Crouching on the ground, so as not to stand up without permission, Jaune quickly undid the clasps on his breastplate, tossed aside his jerkin and shirt, and pulled off his boots and pants. His erection was even more obvious once he was down to his underwear, but he still hesitated for a moment—just a moment, until Pyrrha clicked her fingers impatiently and his conscious mind took a momentary time-out while his hands and legs obeyed.

That done, he knelt without needing to be told, hands behind his back and legs apart, his cock painfully hard as it waved in front of his stomach. 

“I do love men like you,” Pyrrha smiled down at him imperiously, dragging her foot slowly along his cock. “So much vigor, so much energy that I can turn against you and have you begging for my control. Isn’t that right, pet?” Before he could answer positively, she stepped firmly on his chest and pushing him backwards, his arms falling out to the side as he tumbled and landed hard on his back.

“Good boy,” she smiled. “Ordinarily, I’d tell you to come around now, and that would be it for, well, pretty much everything as far as you’re concerned. You’d be just another one of my mindless fucktoys, devoid of want and will and even memory. But you aren’t like that Winchester gang that visited me recently,” she licked her lips, and part Jaune wondered what had happened to them, while the other hoped something at least as interesting, and satisfying for Pyrrha, was in store for him, “so you won’t become an empty drone for me. No, an earnest, helpless little boy like you, you’ll make a delightful little pet for me, won’t you?”

Her voice adopted a cooing, condescending tone at the end, and Jaune, his voice not working or lacking any coherent input, nodded desperately, at least as best he could while on the ground. 

“Excellent.” Her grin widened, showing sharp teeth. “Now, first and most importantly, let’s see how well you can satisfy me properly.” With that, she turned around, hiked up her miniscule skirt, and deposited her generous ass directly on Jaune’s face.

“Lick.”

Jaune couldn’t see, could hardly breathe, and could smell only the oddly perfumed scent of his goddess’ ass, but he didn’t need to be told twice. Pyrrha ground herself onto his face, lifting herself off him every minute or so, or maybe every few minutes although that seemed long to the small part of Jaune’s brain that was still thinking and not being happily overridden by the ache in his cock and the presence of a beautiful woman’s ass on his face.

“Very good, pet,” Pyrrha praised as she dropped back down again, leaning forward this time to run feather-light fingers up his cock. “I think you and Yang will get on wonderfully, although she did take longer to tame, I admit.” She sat back, a cold ring forming itself at the base of his cock that somehow only made him feel harder and ache more, and added, “Well, either way, I’ll certainly enjoy the look of you next to each other. Matching hair, and both of you so… well-made, in your own ways. A little private exhibit of well-endowed, obedient blondes.”

Pyrrha’s voice and touch and the weight and smell and feel of her on top of him all combined with her description of his future, and he moaned desperately into her ass as his body tried to go over the edge. But the ring she’d placed on him—and he realized now, still eagerly helpless and aroused and eager to obey, but a little more aware despite the overwhelming aching pleasure, that it was a literal metal ring—collared and leashed his arousal and held him in check. Then she stood up, and he was free to breathe, gasping and moaning at the same time, as she conjured a collar around his neck and pulled him up to his knees. 

“Follow me, pet,” she commanded lightly, almost laughing at the unspoken idea that he might do anything but follow and obey. 

He crawled after her as best he could, eyes glued to her swaying hips and ass, as she sauntered into a crack in the cliff that expanded as they approached—or maybe it had always been that big, without looking it—into the entrance to an ornately decorated cavern. Four men, their eyes open but glazed, their cocks stiff and leaking, hung by their wrists along the hall of the entryway. Further in, Pyrrha ascended a set of carpeted stairs to rest on a throne, beside which knelt a collared, ball-gagged woman with extraordinarily long hair and breasts even larger than Pyrrha’s, her purple eyes as glassy and devoted as Jaune’s must have been as she gazed up at Pyrrha.

“Jaune, Yang, my other pet. Yang, Jaune, my new favorite. Don’t look like that, you’re going to peg him for me,” Pyrrha introduced her two slaves. She snapped her fingers and Yang shifted her stance to give Pyrrha easy access as she buckled a strapon harness around Yang’s waist. “Be a good girl, and I might let you feel like it’s a real one next time,” Pyrrha promised, pinching Yang’s nipple; Jaune’s fellow pet moaned loudly through her gag and nodded eagerly. 

Pyrrha circled around to slap her on the ass before taking a seat on her throne, crossing her legs deliberately and looking down at them with hooded eyes. Yang approached Jaune slowly, letting his eyes dance frantically between her breasts and her glistening fake cock, and he felt a moan stifled by his collar as she let it rest against his asshole. When his goddess wanted to hear him, he would know and obey. For now, he would embrace what she chose to give him.

Pyrrha smiled sharply. “Alright, pets. Give me a show.”

Chapter Text

Isaac MacElroy took in the crowd with an approving smile; it was always good to see the thaumaturgical association’s soirees well-attended, and of course it was personally enjoyable to see so many attractive women in formalwear. He took a glass from one of the steward automata (not as attractive as stealing the university football team and cheerleaders for a night every couple months, but significantly more discrete) and smiled as he saw Julia Harris giving a demonstration of her particular talents; it looked like she was angling for a couple this time. Isaac himself wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, this time, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt if—

His train of thought abruptly slammed on the brakes as he saw her. 

Carlina Roethke was wearing the same midnight-blue dress she has at each of the last three fall parties, which means Isaac knew exactly what she looked like from every angle, even though she was facing him with an ineffable smirk ghosting across her lips. He knew how her legs moved beneath the ankle-length skirt, that her back was almost completely bare, the way a certain twist of her body could toss open the slit in her skirt and flash almost her entire leg, and that—and this he not only knew but could see—the neckline of her dress dove almost to her sternum, where it gathered in a knot that cupped her breasts, creating a valley between them that, like everything else about her, he could lose himself in.

She was toying with another girl, shorter than her, with silken brown hair and generous curves. Hannah, that was her name; Isaac had taken her under the previous winter and ended up keeping her straight through to the end of the break, she was such a good subject, not to mention gifted in other ways. Now, though, his attention now was not on Hannah but Carlina, as the magnificent blonde dropped her mark—her initial mark—deeper and deeper while looking him straight in the eyes across the room.

Then she snapped her fingers, softly, and Isaac felt part of himself spring to attention as a full-body wave of relaxation passed visibly over Hannah’s form. Smiling vacantly, she trailed just behind Carlina as the taller woman stalked, with self-assured deliberation, toward Isaac. He stood transfixed, eyes helplessly tracking the movements of her thighs against the skirt of her dress, the sway of her hips, her feline smile, the path of her fingers as she traced a hand down her throat and the neck of her dress. 

“Good to see you again, Isaac,” she purred, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder like the grip of a puppeteer’s spell. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it? I’ve been enjoying Hannah’s company—she’s so very attentive —and I can certainly see what drew you to her.” Her lips twitched, as if enjoying a private joke, and she added, “And, I admit, what in her let you draw her in. The dear girl is so… responsive .”

He swallowed thickly and nodded, unsure what else to do or say to the arousingly humiliating insinuation that he could hardly be expected to dominate a woman with a modicum of willpower. It wasn’t strictly true that he was weak, or even one of the weaker members of the association; Julia could attest to that, and had happily done so in the past. Standing in front of Carlina, however, with his cock tenting his pants and her body pinning his own so close against the wall that she was practically whispering in his ear—not quite, that he couldn’t break eye contact with her was testament to that, but nearly—the protest died before it ever got near his lips.

And then she kissed him. His eyes closed reflexively, but he could still see her ice-blue eyes in his mind, piercing his soul and taking him apart one piece at a time. She took his glass with one hand while the other reached down to caress him through his pants. He moaned into her mouth, letting her tongue slide between his lips and dominate his own, as her other hand returned, now empty, and took hold of his hands that he had reflexively placed above his head for her to hold. 

When she broke the kiss and released him, his arms fell to his sides, feeling incapable of force, and all that held him standing upright was the force of her amused gaze. Hannah returned his glass, and he accepted and drained it without thinking before placing it on a side table conveniently next to him. Had she rearranged the furniture while Carlina held him? No one else seemed to have noticed, though admittedly that may have been because most of them were now either with their own pets or being seduced as Isaac was.

Then she snapped her fingers again, and he stopped worrying about anyone else as he followed her swaying hips through the crowd and upstairs, down the hall and into a private room that held nothing but a desk, a few small shelves, and a couch with its back to the window. This was not where they would spend the rest of the evening (though that was one purpose of the rooms, as well as for reading), but evidently Carlina wanted to get him in the proper frame of mind as soon as possible. As soon as they were all inside the room, Carlina spun on her heel, the front of her foot hitting the ground with a sharp click, and Isaac dropped to his knees as the door shut as if of its own accord.

“Good boy,” Carlina cooed, towering above him. “I was going to lead off tonight with a question, but it doesn’t seem like we’ll need that this time, will we?”

“Question?” Most of his attention was on her legs, crossed one in front of the other to place one foot almost between his knees, but if he was fully under her command, he had not quite stopped thinking for the night, at least yet.

Carlina smiled. “I was going to give you a choice,” she said, stroking his chin, “between having Hannah here suck you off for me, and eating her out while I fuck you from behind.”

His mind froze. He could remember Hannah on her knees for him last year, her breasts and mouth and hazy, submissive eyes and how happy she was when given a chance to obey. But at the same time he could imagine being forced between her thighs, pleasuring her with his tongue while Carlina thrust deep inside him, every stroke fucking him deeper into her power, maybe even deep enough that she would never let him go at all, simply keeping him and Hannah and whoever else she wanted or wanted to control on their knees for her where all of them, where Isaac especially, knew he belonged.

“Would you like me to choose for you, good boy?” Carlina asked, amused, already knowing the answer.

“Y-yes, please… Carlina,” Isaac managed. She sat back on the couch, her front foot swinging up to wave in front of his face, and his eyes followed the swaying heel like a pendulum.

“Are you sure?” she asked, almost rhetorically. “You know what happens when you let me make one choice for you.”

He did know that, and it only made asking her to choose for him easier. After all, she had already made the choice that he would follow her up here rather than staying and hypnotizing someone for himself at the party. 

“When I give you my choices, you make my choices for me,” he murmured softly, almost reverently.

“Good boy. And you’ve already given my your choices, haven’t you, so you have no choice left but obeying me, doing as I say, thinking as I say, being as I say. Isn’t that right, pet?”

“Yes, Goddess.”

“Good boy.” She snapped her fingers, and he sighed in relaxed pleasure as he felt himself sealed perfectly under her control. “We’ll get to those options later. For now,” she lifted her heel, drawing a circle in the air before his face, “crawl forward and lick.”

Chapter Text

Duncan Kilmarnock knew he was in trouble. He was simply having a very hard time managing to actually care. The demon in front of him was, quite frankly, stunningly attractive, and it didn’t hurt her case that she had literally hypnotic eyes and was wearing little more than lingerie, if of a sort that resembled a female character’s armor in a boilerplate medieval-fantasy MMO.

Then again, his familiarity with boilerplate medieval fantasy hadn’t exactly helped Duncan resist the demon. Amara, that was her name. He had recognized what she was, almost incredulously at first since it seemed impossible for something out of a computer game to be coming for his soul, but it was recognition nonetheless. It just did absolutely nothing to make the idea of being fucked into absolute submission by a physically stunning, metaphysically overpowering woman anything less than incredibly hot.

So Duncan lay on his back, stripped to his boxers and cuffed spread-eagle to his own bed, his cock poking up through the waistband of his boxers, as Amara finished removing the incredibly and yet tastefully indecent dress she had worn for the first… part of their interaction—it had to have taken some time to get back to his house and undress him, yet to Duncan it seemed to have happened in an instant, and the disorientation only made him feel fuzzier and more aroused.

“That’s it, pet,” she purred, and the vibrations that carried her voice through the air seemed to bypass his ears and go directly to his cock. “I own you. I own you because you want to be owned, you need to be owned,” she leaned over, her breasts seeming to fill his entire field of view, and let her fingers brush against his cock as she pulled down his boxers, “and you can’t even think of anything but being owned, can you?’

His only possible response was a nod and a whimpering moan of desire as she stroked him. She smiled viciously, and he twitched in her hand. 

“Good boy,” she repeated, squeezing his balls and drawing another moan that twisted into a yelp as she dug her nails in and pressed harder. “You belong to me now.” 

He moaned and murmured incoherently, and she twisted her grip. “Say it.”

“I—belong to you,” he gasped, and was rewarded by a flood of pleasure that caressed his cock and cascaded through the rest of his body. “I belong to you, I belong to you I belong to you I belong to you—”

She cut him off with a look and a finger on his throat, resting without pressure but enough that he knew what she wanted. Moving up to straddle him, she discarded her silver bra and, somehow, her underwear, leaving her slick warmth pressed against his cock and his eyes fixed on her intricate nipple piercings. 

“Only one more thing, and you won’t have to worry about anything ever again,” she smiled, in a way that terrified him even as she leaned down, resting her chest against his and drawing his brown eyes into her burning gold and violet ones until the world vanished and he only came back when he felt her tongue trailing against his neck, sharp incisor scraping his flesh.

“I—I, uh, you—” he tried to protest, but of course he was no longer allowed to; or more to the point she didn’t care. 

“I’m not a vampire, pet,” she laughed against his neck. “It’s a mark of ownership, that’s all. You belong to me already, I’m simply going to seal that with blood so that no other harpy bitch,” her free hand scratched his side, and his reflexive hiss of pain came out half as a moan, “can notice your empty little mind and decide to make off with you. You belong to me ,” and she bit into him.

He had expected to scream, or at least hiss-moan like he had when she scratched him, but his voice and mind simply shut off as his cock twitched helplessly beneath her, pleasure echoing between there and her bite and subsuming the rest of him in the process. 

Chapter Text

The Cousland family had been among the most influential nobles in Ferelden since before the kingdom’s founding, and it was no surprise to the nobility that Queen Elissa took a strong hand in ruling the country, one that King Alistair not only supported but often seemed to follow. Still, Alistair reckoned they would be quite scandalized if they knew how much she truly controlled him. Of course, the fact that the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, a mage, exercised just as complete control over the queen herself, and by extension the king, would be far more scandalous, but Alistair wasn’t thinking about scandal of any kind as he knelt in the royal chambers, wearing only a leather collar and cuffs that bound his hands behind his back. 

Elissa and Leliana stood above him, a study in contrasts: where the bard was a good half a foot shorter than Alistair, generous curves concealing wiry muscle, Elissa was almost his height and built like a monument, the soft outline of her profile belying the corded strength of a shield-bearing warrior. Her face was the same way, he thought as she smiled down at him, gentle curves and aquiline features given a piercing quality by her own experiences, capable at turns of making intransigent nobles quake with a stern look and of melting Alistair’s knees, and everything else, with one of kindness and approval. 

Leliana wore little more than Alistair—collar, harness, nipple chain—but her hands had been free, at least until Elissa cuffed them to the bedposts. Elissa, for her part, wore nothing at all, and Alistair distracted himself from his neglected but still definitely hard cock by studying the swirling, Dalish-inspired lines of the tattoos that bound her perfectly to Julian Surana. Alistair wasn’t jealous—he’d outgrown that during the Blight, never mind how Julian regularly tied him up for one of his elven lovers to play with while he fucked the queen on her wedding bed—but it was nonetheless an odd feeling to be reminded of their layers of control and submission. He had given up his control, and Elissa had given up hers; all Alistair had to do was obey.

A soft moan drew him out of his reverie, and he looked up to see Elissa pulling back from Leliana’s mouth, one hand on the bard’s cheek and the other lightly toying with her nipple chain. Then she turned and tugged harder, causing Leliana to yelp and stumble after her. Elissa laughed and tugged again, leading the blushing but unresisting Orlesian onto the bed, where the queen pushed her back against the headboard and cuffed her hands to the bedposts. Undoing the clamps of the chain drew a moan of relief from Leliana, followed by more emphatic noises as Elissa, one hand between the redhead’s legs, leaned down to lick and suck gently on her breasts. 

Then Elissa moved back from Leliana, allowing Alistair to see the faint teeth marks around the bard’s nipples, and replaced the chain she had removed, prompting a disappointed but arousing whimper. The sound reminded Alistair of himself when she or Zevran sucked his cock for Elissa without allowing him to come, or when Solona did her “electricity thing” to keep him focused while Julian and Elissa occupied the bed.

“Eyes on me, good boy,” Elissa’s voice brought him back to the moment, and he saw that she had put on her signor , an Antivan leather cock sized in imitation of Alistair’s own. “That’s it. You and Leliana have been so very good for me lately, so I’m going to reward both of you together. Well, you’re going to reward Leliana, and if you do a good job I’ll make sure you get off from my fucking you. It wouldn’t be right for a king to profit while his subject wants, after all.”

Alistair knew better than to argue, although part of him was admittedly disappointed that he today was not to be a discipline training day and was tempted to earn a punishment through backtalk. On the other hand, there was every risk that Elissa might simply put on the orgasm-blocking ring Solona had given her and then fuck Leliana on top of him, or do something else agonizingly frustrating, so he simply nodded obediently. Honestly, he reflected, had he known earlier during their adventures that being king would simply require earnest obedience to a caring authority, he wouldn’t have been nearly as afraid of being crowned as he had been. Not that Elissa had been terribly subtle at Redcliffe, or ever, he simply hadn’t dared hope for what he, and all of them, had won for themselves in the end.

Elissa clicked her fingers and pointed, and Alistair shuffled and hopped as best he could toward the bed, and at last, with an affectionate laugh, Elissa took him by the collar and hoisted him onto the bed, head resting directly between Leliana’s thighs and ass just far enough back from the bed that his cock waved in empty air without hope of touching anything without help. A slap on his ass told Alistair to get started, and Leliana moaned and wrapped her legs around his head as he worshipped his spymaster. 

He could feel Elissa’s presence as she crawled over him, cooing to Leliana, before the bard’s noises became muffled in a way that suggested Elissa had gagged her. “That’s it, such a good girl,” Elissa was saying, “such a sluttly, obedient pet for me. Moan for me, good girl,” there was a quiet metal sound, and Leliana squeaked and clenched her legs around his head. 

Elissa drew back again as he continued licking, further encouraged by Leliana’s bucking against his mouth as Elissa’s cock pressed against his ass. His own cock twitched in response, and he moaned into Leliana as the hard, well-oiled instrument pushed into him. The toy filled and stretched him, sliding in and out as Elissa fucked him hard and fast, every thrust renewing the overload of sensations where he had once never thought he could feel so sensitive and desperate. 

“Just like that, good boy,” Elissa praised as she fucked him, holding him by the hips to steady him as Leliana moaned through her gag and clenched her legs around his head. “Such a good boy, my obedient pet, my little fucktoy, taking my cock like a good little puppet, being such a good boy for me, so hard, so weak, my perfect obedient pet, oh, yes—”

She cut herself off as Leliana finally came, locking her thighs around Alistair’s head and crying out through her gag, finally pulling out of his ass as Leliana rode out her orgasm on his face. He felt himself pulled backward, falling into Elissa’s embrace as she stroked his chest and murmured soft phrases into his neck.

“Now,” she added, looking toward the still-bound Leliana, “since you were such a good boy for us, why don’t we see what the seneschal can do for her king?”

Chapter Text

“I have two plans for today, pet,” Winter announced as she trailed her favorite crop across Blake’s back. The dark-haired faunus was on her hands and knees, dressed as she had been almost every day since her capture-slash-defection from the White Fang: leather collar and harness, ball-gag, nipple chain, leather cuffs and shackles, all of the leather infused with Dust in a way that let it suppress her Aura, keeping her properly helpless so that she couldn’t run from her Mistress even if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to run, of course, didn’t want anything but what Mistress wanted her to want ever since she had broken into her office and dropped to her knees, aroused and obedient, at the subversive heiress’ half-amused glare. She had tattoos now, too, Schnee snowflakes trailing across her body that both announced her place to the world—as if it needed announcing to any who saw her in Winter’s playroom, or even dressed up like a maid to serve her in her reception study, all eager obedience and earnest deference, protesting at even the thought of recompense for her devotion—but gave Winter yet another tool with which to control her body, and through her body, her mind.

A sharp double tap of the crop on her ass drew a yelping moan from Blake, and then Winter took hold of her leash and led her into an adjacent room. Her Mistress’ boots clicked sharply, the polished leather glinting just ahead of Blake as she followed on her hands and knees. Then those boots abruptly turned around, and Blake found her mind on pause as Winter rested her toe on her forehead.

“The first plan, of course, is for you to worship my feet. The second is this,” she patted the bench on which she was sitting, which was in fact designed for a person to be laid out along it on their back or stomach, though at the moment Blake was hardly aware of its existence at all.

Mistress’ boot vanished from her forehead, replaced by her tall heel pressing against her mouth. Her lips parted easily, unthinkingly, and Winter smiled as she slowly fucked Blake’s mouth with her heel. The faunus made adorable, pathetic mewling noises as she sucked, the mere submission and humiliation of her position arousing her until only Winter’s hold on her mind stopped her from sliding a hand between her legs as she worshipped her owner.

“Good kitty,” Winter murmured as she switched her legs, unzipping her first boot as Blake slid her tongue up and down the heel of the second. “Such a good, obedient pet for me, aren’t you?”

Blake whimpered, both at the praise and at the insistent and unanswerable heat between her legs. 

“Knees apart for me, good girl,” Winter instructed, and Blake obeyed as her Mistress once again withdrew the heel that she was sucking, replacing it with her bare, musky foot. “Lick now,” she ordered, and even if Blake hadn’t been her perfect, mindless pet she wouldn’t have needed to be told twice. She breathed deeply as she dragged her tongue along her Mistress’ bare sole, the leather-tinted scent and taste overpowering her mind as they traveled directly between her thighs. 

“Such a good kitten,” Winter repeated, shifting her foot to prompt Blake to lick between her toes. “You really are a perfect pet for me, aren’t you? So submissive and obedient, and you’ve been such a pleasure to train, truly, so eager to learn your place for me, isn’t that right, my pet?”

Blake made a cute, affirmative noise around the foot in her mouth, but Winter knew that her pet’s mind wasn’t really functioning at the moment. She withdrew her foot and used it to push Blake’s face against the floor, drawing only a faint whine from the faunus, before she took hold of Blake’s leash again and pulled her up onto the bench, securing her on her back by the arms and legs before she could process what was happening enough to do anything but let her Mistress manhandle her into position.

“This is plan two,” Winter explained, bringing her crop down again on Blake’s ass. The girl was well-trained enough to swallow most of her reaction, which in Winter’s opinion made the half-yelp whine that escaped all the more attractive. With crisp efficiency, she took a long slender chain and clamped both ends to Blake’s nipples, keeping hold of the chain as she circled her pet. Standing in front of her, Winter leaned down and took her pet by the chin, looking her in the eye as she added, “It’s been a while, and you’ve been a very good girl the past few months, so I’m going to break you again. Take it like a good girl, and I might not even put you back together for a week or two, how does that sound, pet?”

Dazed, aroused, and already anticipating the pleasure that would grind her down to an empty, obedient plaything for her Mistress to toy with, Blake simply offered a nod and needy keen. Winter smiled, climbing over Blake to sit on a higher part of the bench with her feet in her face, and turned on the machine.

Already licking obediently, Blake moaned loudly against her Mistress’ soles when she felt the twin dildos push into her, lubricated and vibrating heavily, both as large as anything she had taken for Winter. A sharp tug on the long nipple chain drew another, higher-pitched moan but brought her back to her task, and she poured all her mental effort into focusing on the taste and feel and smell of her Mistress as she drew her tongue along Winter’s bare soles. 

“Good kitty,” she could hear Mistress praising her, “such a good kitten, worshiping your Mistress while my machine fucks your mind away. Such a good girl, obeying and pleasing me no matter what,” Mistress’ feet were so perfect, Blake thought, she was so lucky to be here beneath them, “letting my fuck your mind away while you worship me like a good little pet, such a good little pet for me.”

Blake’s first orgasm crashed over her, blanking out thoughts and awareness of everything she could put a name to, and when she regained some semblance of self-awareness she was already drowning in pleasure again and it was darker than it had been—Mistress had slipped off her stool to rest her ass on Blake’s face, and Blake kept licking, kept reaching out with her tongue to taste and please and satisfy her Mistress, doing everything she could to focus on serving and obeying and the sensation of being beneath her.

But the machine she had been bound to was relentless, and her focus could only endure so long, especially with her mouth and nose trapped between Winter’s powerful legs and ass while the machine fucked and fucked and fucked her, never slowing down, and the lube on the arms that were fucking her must have been coated in some new aphrodisiac beacuse all Blake wanted was more. 

At last, she brought her Mistress to orgasm, and Winter’s breathless cries of “Good kitty, good kitten, oh my perfect pet, my good kitty my good fucktoy—” were the last thing Blake heard as the pleasure crashed through her again and she gave up on focusing on anything for a while.

Chapter Text

The Queen of Ferelden knelt before Julian Surana, half-elf mage, naked, bound, and very obviously aroused. Her husband, Julian’s good friend Alistair, was tied to a chair in the corner, physically gagged and magically silenced, while the bard of the royal court knelt between his legs to keep him… interested in the proceedings.

But it was for Elissa Cousland alone that Julian had eyes at the moment. Her powerful arms, strong enough to hurl an armored dwarf as far as an ordinary man could throw a spear, were bound inescapably behind her back, her muscles straining involuntarily from the pose. The very same rope wound tightly around her breasts, soft, smooth mounds of flesh that contrasted beautifully with the chiseled definition of her stomach. Her equally powerful, stone-carved legs were bound simply with shackles—Julian would have loved to put her through a complicated tie, but he also wanted access to her body—while two enchanted toys filled and vibrated inside her.

In this moment, though, just before he began to test and enjoy her body, Julian loved most to admire Elissa’s face, proud aristocratic features simply but carefully made up for him, red lips silently begging for his cock, eyes shining with love for him. Alistair, he knew, was looking just as carefully, but he made no acknowledgement of the ex-templar’s presence as he stroked Elissa’s chin, allowing the faintest trace of magic to flow through her body, just enough to light up the tattoos that bound her to his will, smoothing out her mind so that she could focus completely on the most important aspect of her being: belonging to him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his thumb between her lips for her to suckle, stroking her hair with his free hand. “That’s a good girl, no thoughts, no worries, just obedience and submission. It feels so good, doesn’t it, pet?” She nodded slightly, lips still wrapped around his finger. “Good girl. You belong to me, that’s it, give in and obey, good girl.”

He punctuated the last sentence with a sharp tug on her hair, pulling her off-balance and interrupting any possible thought pattern as she flushed with arousal. 

“Good girl,” he repeated. “No thoughts, just perfect, pleasurable obedience, nothing by complete surrender to my will. Such a good, mindless girl for me. Would you like to suck my cock for me, pet?”

Elissa nodded, her expression now utterly devoid of thought, but still sharply focused on him, clearly conveying her need to serve and obey. She nodded again, and he sent a pulse of magical energy through her body, smiling as her eyes glazed and she tried to moan without parting her lips from around his thumb. Elissa—strong, confident, heir-to-a-teyrnir Elissa—had always been responsive, had always loved to give herself to Julian and let him unravel her with pleasure and pain until she was simply a body and arousal and surrender. In anticipation of her coronation, she had come to him and asked to give herself completely, and the night of her wedding, King Alistair had watched helplessly from Solona’s arms as Julian marked Elissa with her Dalish-style tattoos and fucked her, mind and body together, into perfect pleasure and submission.

She shivered with the memory as Julian withdrew his thumb and allowed her to take his cock between her lips, the hum of his magic through her body stilling her mind again as easily as it had stirred her memory. His grip on her hair tightened as she ran her tongue smoothly, firmly along his cock, and pleasure pulsed in time between her legs as she bobbed her head up and down. Like this, she was no longer the Queen of Ferelden, though even seated on the throne she belonged to Julian. She was simply his pet noble, a privileged human accepting her place on her knees, blissfully vacant and powerless in the hands of the mage who had fucked her into perfect submission, a mindless, obedient good girl—

Julian yanked her back by the hair, her mouth falling open with the quick shock of pain and humiliated pleasure. His cock waved in front of her face, long and hard and shiny with her saliva, blanking out her thoughts again as she fixated on it, wanting only to taste it again, to worship her master properly, but that was not his desire, she remembered as he took her chin with a forefinger, filling her mind with his control.

“Come for me, pet,” he commanded, and the pleasure between her legs surged, washing through her mind like a wave, sweeping away thought and memory as her head fell back and her expression slackened, her mouth wide in a silent cry of overpowering bliss.

Julian smiled down at the mindless, statuesque women before him. “The queen of Ferelden. I really do love you personally, Elissa, but I must admit I get a kick out of that. You could be with us in Amaranthine, just another Warden among the ranks, and I would love you and love what we have all the same, but this… this is special. You being the queen and the queen being you… Anora is a delightful little toy, but she’s nothing compared to you, could never be in any imaginable world.”

Elissa looked up at him through a fog of lust. She registered his tone, and it made her happy to receive what was clearly praise from her owner, but words like “queen” and “Warden” could mean nothing to her at the moment, as deep in his control as she was. Julian reached down and pinched her nipple, drawing a half-vocalized moan. Then he gestured, almost lazily, and a leather ball-gag floated across the room and fastened itself in her mouth.

“Are you ready to really make some noise for me, your highness?” Julian chuckled, circling Elissa and giving her another sharp tug by the hair. She yelped, the sound muffled pleasingly through the gag, and Julian repeated the motion moments before bringing a conjured lash down across her breasts. Her sound that time was closer to a scream, but she pressed her thighs together and pushed her chest out as much as she could while he held her tightly and off-balance. He lashed her again, twice, three more times in quick succession, leaving two red lines across her breasts, just above her nipples, before pulling her by the hair again and depositing her face-down on the royal bed.

“Remember, pet,” he purred, caressing her ass, and the queen of Ferelden cried out into her gag and the mountain of pillows around her face as her master lashed her across the ass. Then, caressing her again with the tingling pleasure of his healing magic, he commanded, “Come for me, pet.”

Julian discarded the lash to move closer to her, and his mindless pet moaned in pain and arousal as he brought his hand down on her ass again and again. 

“Come for me,” he urged again, timing his strike as she writhed in pleasure beneath his hands. He ached to feel her around himself, to see her come undone not only for him but around him, a masterpiece if ever any god had wrought one now utterly in his thrall, her sculpted body and landscaped mind bound by his will and so perfectly responsive to his desires. At last, when her firm, round ass had turned the color of a sailor’s sunset, he let his magic wash through her again, erasing her injuries with new, unique pleasure, and slipped a hand between her legs, bringing her once again to the precipice he wanted to balance her on.

“Remember, my love,” he urged again, teasing her clit with his fingers, only too briefly, before he turned her over, and Elissa beamed up at him around her gag. He moved slowly up her body, trailing kisses across her iron stomach, pausing to gently suck and nip and each breast, before hovering over her face as he sank himself slowly into her.

In the corner, unheard and unheeded, Alistair moaned into his gag as Leliana backed off, leaving his cock to wave and twitch helplessly in the air as he watched and listened to Elissa’s pleasure and submission.

Chapter Text

The door swung open silently, and Jacques breathed a sigh of relief as he stared between the ancient oak panels into the dark mansion they sealed. Crouched at his shoulder, Belle almost hissed in excitement as she slipped past him into the shadows, their eyes still alert for further traps. The dark-haired, slender girl had been raised without parents in Jacques’ village, welcomed as one of their own but never quite at home, and the two had become natural companions, and eventually lovers, as they sought out hidden and forbidden places to unlock in search of legendary treasures.

The house of the old witch, up the hill from the main village, had loomed large through their earlier, comparatively petty adventures. Although the mansion had stood nearly untouched for years, hosting only a single occupant, the outer walls never looked to age a day, and inside, as they now saw, it appeared perfectly kept: the floor clean and polished, the grand hall lavishly decorated, the candles shining unburnt as if they had just been set up for a masquerade. The two glanced hesitantly at the statues that lined the hall, their opal eyes seeming to track their every move. 

But soon they stood in the middle of the hall, untouched by any traps, scanning the room to plot their next move. There were three doors at the far end, one almost glowing with magical seals, but the other two—the side doors that, when the manor had been occupied by a minor noble, would likely have afforded the servants access—appeared manageable, and when Jacques tested the left door and Belle tried the right, both swung open without resistance. Jacques looked at Belle, and they nodded in sync; they had little time, and would have a better chance of finding a real treasure if they split up to cover more of the house. Belle turned with a glint in her eye and vanished into the dark passage.

Jacques tiptoed down his own corridor, flinching as torches flared to life on their own; it felt like something was watching him, leading the way to where it wanted him to go. But if they were leading him somewhere, that place seemed very far away, and he lost track of the twists and turns as he followed the lights up and down, left and right, sometimes swearing he had passed a certain wall before until the next torch ignited itself to reveal a clearly original pattern in the stone wall.

The masonry was unusual, too, he noticed, faced with stones cut only enough to make the wall smooth, but leaving the grout to trace broken, undulating mazes that seemed to dance in the torchlight. Watching them shift as he followed the shimmering glow of the torches, he felt as if he were on the cusp of some extraordinary revelation, as if the purpose of life itself could be discerned from spiraling patterns of the stonework in the flickering torchlight. Even so, he seemed to himself to have had a purpose when he entered these winding hallways, though he could no longer quite recall what it was, and the more he stared at the dancing masonry in the winding light of the torches the less he could remember what it was and the more unimportant it seemed.

Once, he tripped and found himself bound by ropes with invisible anchors, his cock suddenly hard as he thought of Belle’s lips on him while she worked her way out of another tie and brought him down to pleasure her in return. He had nearly given up, sagged into the ropes to let the dance of the torchlight on the shifting mortar lull him into relaxation and relief, but as he thought of her hand in his hair and her legs around him, he suddenly pulled free, and staggered on down the dark and dappled passage.

At last, the lights delivered him before an intricately carved door, so subtly wrought that he felt he could have lost himself for ages, perhaps forever, in contemplation of the woven spirals that drew the eye ever closer and closer, deeper and deeper down toward the gem in their center. But Jacques blinked hard and knelt to examine the gem, which shone and glittered as it reflected the light, concealing the mechanism of the lock within. If he could simply peer deep enough, let go enough to understand, he could unseal the door and take from the vault beyond what priceless things he pleased.

He had lost his pants along the way, he noticed as his knees hit the ground, discarding his tunic as well so that the itchy fabric wouldn’t distract him from his work. He must have taken them off—perhaps there had been a sludge pile, or a lower passageway that flooded; he didn’t remember such a thing, and his bare feet were dry, though not quite cold, but it no longer mattered. The lights had led him here, and all he needed to do now was consider the lock on the entrancingly carved door.

All he had to do was watch the gem, stare closely at the dancing lights, look deep into its iridescent, fractal heart until he went deep enough for its secrets to unfold themselves around his mind. Shifting patterns of infinite complexity wove and changed themselves around him, infinite and in constant motion, their meaning encoded in impenetrable abstraction. But slowly, slowly, more discrete shapes emerged, and he strained to look deeper, to see more clearly more quickly—but that only made the shapes scatter again, and he relaxed and let the lights harden his cock and soften his mind until the shapes returned.

He saw himself first. He was on his knees, of course, his cock hard, one hand stroking himself slowly while the other hung at his side, as limp as the rest of his body, his eyes glassy and expression entirely blank, mind empty of thought, open and ready to be informed. He stroked and stared until the image sharpened, and he understood at last that this was him as he truly was, his mind scattered by the lights and washed away by his own arousal, leaving him weak and submissive, ready to be taken, instructed, claimed.

A woman of impossible beauty—winged, horned, with full breasts and narrow hips and eyes that pierced him as if he were looking at her directly, the power of her gaze transfixing his eyes and taking complete control of his cock, and hence control of his mind—appeared behind him, and his cock throbbed desperately as the force of her will bound his hands behind his back, leaving him to ache and sink deeper into mindlessness and obedience and surrender. Then her fingers brushed his neck, the faintest touch of her skin bringing incomprehensible pleasure that whited out his mind as she fastened a collar around his neck, and finally, as he gazed into the gem and knew himself as a picture of perfect submission, the door swung open.

Given a task more important than his mindless pleasure, his arms found themselves free to fall before him, allowing him to crawl after the shimmering silver heels of the perfect woman who had collared him. But as perfect as his position was, his gaze soon found itself drawn past her, and a smile split his face as he realized where he had come: a gorgeous human woman, crimson-haired and emerald-eyed, sat on a velvet throne, a dress to match her eyes draped sparingly across her body. 

As Jacques crawled across the floor to lick reverently at the bottom of her silver shoe, a corner of his mind took in the remainder of the scene: by the witch’s left shoulder stood an impossibly handsome man, horned and winged like the servant who had brought Jacques to his owner, and at his feet knelt a dark-haired, glassy-eyed, large-breasted girl his dazed and foggy mind, preoccupied with more important things, just managed to recognize as Belle. 

 

The witch looked down at her two new playthings, the boy whose cock indicated he had once been quite clever indeed, the girl whose tits had drained an even sharper mind, and smiled in satisfaction. Robbers as a rule earned her wrath without mercy: she was not kind by nature and saw no call to be so, and would take no chances with the conditions of her wealth. These two, though—she licked her lips as the male accepted the heel of her shoe between his lips, sucking devotedly as if it were a slender cock—their obedience had been swift, and they promised to make delightful toys.

The local village would tell tales for years about frolics glimpsed in the woods, Jacques the lockpick with his oversized cock and Belle the cutpurse with incredible breasts, though even the pastor would not quite fear what had been heard when he was at last alone.

Chapter Text

“You have been good for me lately, haven’t you, Kitten?” Winter circled Blake, trailing her crop across the kneeling girl’s shoulders. Blake was, as usual in Winter’s presence, naked save for her collar, harness, nipple chain, and handcuffs, with a blindfold on this time for good measure. Winter could have simply made Blake close her eyes, but old-fashioned tools had their uses, and she enjoyed her accessories. 

“Yes, Mistress,” Blake murmured, nodding fractionally while keeping her torso as still as possible. She had learned from experience that the slightest twitch might inspire Mistress to punish her, and didn’t want to spoil her performance in the middle of being praised for her obedience. Winter chuckled.

“So sure of that,” she purred, tracing Blake’s jaw with her crop before bringing it down on the faunus’ breast. Blake squeaked and bit her lip to suppress her vocal reaction, and Winter quickly stung her pet’s inner thighs as her legs pressed together. “Do you think you deserve a reward, pet?”

“I don’t think, Mistress,” Blake protested softly, careful not to let her tone suggest she knew better than Mistress, because of course she didn’t. Mistress had simply set her up without a better choice of phrase, and if she were feeling merciful, she wouldn’t take the opportunity to correct Blake for her impertinence. Of course, being corrected by Mistress was always good, since it made Blake a better, more mindless, more submissive, more obedient pet for Mistress, but if Mistress decided she did deserve a reward then Blake might have a chance to earn an orgasm.

“Good girl,” Winter laughed, bringing the crop down on her pet’s breasts again. Blake made such lovely noises when Winter whipped her, it was a shame she had to let her out to play the hero. She undid Blake’s cuffs with a glyph and pulled her by the hair so that she fell forward onto her hands, her lovely round ass now up in the air, and led her over to bow in front of Winter as the specialist relaxed on her pet’s bed.

Legs crossed, Winter raised her front foot so that the silver-white sole of her boot was almost in Blake’s face. “Lick.”

Blake leaned forward eagerly, a whine escaping her throat as her nipple chain swayed again, and drew her tongue gratefully along the sole of Winter’s boot. This was always where she felt the happiest, where she felt most in her proper place: completely beneath her Mistress, worshiping at the bottom of her elegant, powerful legs, Mistress’ perfect figure extended above her. 

“Good kitten,” Winter laughed, binding Blake’s hands behind her back again with a negligent wave before her pet could start touching herself. Blake keened against her Mistress’ boot in frustration, but knew better than to stop. Nor, of course, did she want to: she wanted more intensity, more arousal, to be used more forcefully and emphatically by her Mistress. But she was Mistress’ pet, and she was a good kitty for Mistress, so she spread her knees as wide as she could and kept licking.

Winter smiled as she looked down at her favorite pet. She had others, of course: the chameleon who had tried to rescue Blake early on, currently working as a mole in her father’s company; the long-haired brawler Blake had introduced her to on her last visit to Vale. But if Ilia was infinitely pliable, and Yang a delight to harness and corral, there was a particular charm in Blake’s combination of clear identity and absolute submission. 

“Hey, Blake—whoa!” Winter’s head snapped to the door; Blake began to react, but the telltale tug of a glyph on her nipple chain let her know not to worry. Instead, she turned her head slightly, facing away from the door, to wrap her lips around her Mistress’ heel.

“Do come in,” Winter smiled to her pet’s two other teammates. Jaune Arc and Pyrrha Nikos, those were their names. She had met Pyrrha once before, if her memory served, and the buxom redhead had folded beautifully for her; Jaune was said to possess an excellent cock, and to be totally devoted to Pyrrha. “Miss Nikos, it’s been some time. I did enjoy our meeting at the Mistral Tournament; you acquitted yourself well for an amateur.”

Pyrrha flushed, her knees visibly weakening, and stammered out a greeting. Next to her, Jaune—also blushing flamboyantly—had remained an open-mouthed statue. 

“Or for a champion submissive,” Winter added, before casually continuing, “I see Blake was a good girl and didn’t tell you about her owner. Although I do hope you took advantage of her, a weak, obedient pet like her in need of a strong hand while she’s away from her Mistress.” She crossed her legs again, and Blake continued licking the new boot without any sign of acknowledging her teammates.

“I, ah,” Pyrrha stammered again, “We—that is, she seemed quite… capable herself, I didn’t think—”

“Well, of course,” Winter interrupted her, pushing Blake’s face to the floor with her boot before standing up, her weight on one foot and the other on her pet’s head. “Thinking is only for pets who’ve been told to think, isn’t it? Kneel, both of you, and no more thoughts unless I give them to you.”

Jaune and Pyrrha dropped to their knees with a resonant thud, eyes wide and faces slack, an impressive tent already present in Jaune’s pants. It took Winter’s glyphs only a moment to discard their clothing, and then she snapped her fingers for Blake to assume a new position. 

“I assume,” Winter smiled, seating herself on Blake’s back and raising one crossed leg, “that you can guess what I expect of you for the first step in your training. Pleasure yourselves while you serve me, but I assure the punishment will be even harsher than thinking if you come without my command.”

Hands reaching obediently between their legs, Jaune and Pyrrha brought their faces together and began to worship Winter’s shining boot.

Chapter Text

The wonderful thing about mortal societies having a stick up their ass and all sorts of unreasonable fears about demons, Eligor reflected, was that it left them almost utterly blind to the things they reasonably should have feared about demons. He wasn’t out to win anyone’s soul to some distant overlord in some ineffable game of cosmic wits, and although he was certainly vulnerable, as mortals understood these things, to the powers preferred by celestial rather than cthonic entities, all the aromatic devotion of dozens of well-to-do faithful inspired in him was something that might be called hunger.

And, while metaphorical sticks weren’t nearly as fun as actual ones, both had a way of making it ever so delightfully easier to fuck with people. 

Case in point, the lord secretary’s daughter with whom he had been silently flirting for over an hour, eyes meeting from across the room, subtly lingering glances and enigmatic smiles. A lithe, athletic blonde, just a few inches shorter than his own preferred form, she had exactly the aesthetic that, in another demon, could have had him on his knees with a glance, and in a mortal exactly described his favorite toys. She was, if a little less devout, then even more reserved than most of the nobles and merchants at the gala, not out of character for a trainee witchfinder, especially one of her background. Time and the realities of such a career would either embitter her sincerely or force her to leave such affectations behind—or they would have, had Eligor not planned to get to her first.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” He bowed deeply, both to charm her and as befit a relative stranger in such a setting. Eligor prided himself on good management of his affairs, but the well-mannered rake was nonetheless a deeply enjoyable role. 

The young woman—Nadira was her name, although he hadn’t officially learned it yet—blushed and curtsied, accepting his hand and falling into step as he spun her across the room. He let his hand rest low on her back, just above the almost scandalously low back of her cross-halter dress; with the right positioning, so that no one else in the room could see, he could move down a few more inches to her ass. He was almost tempted; he could see from the way her dress hugged her slim figure that it was a very nice one, but soon she would beg him to take her completely, and then he would not need to care for subtlety.

Besides, the look in her eyes clearly said she realized the opportunity he had, and that she was struggling with the part of herself that suddenly wished he would take it. He almost laughed at the self-destructive repression of this era’s mortals, but the idea of so fine a pet breaking her own mind and will against his very presence, with hardly a directed effort on his part, was too delicious not to see through with perfect care.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, voice low and mouth almost to her ear. “I was in such awe of your grace that I forgot to ask your name.”

He could almost taste her blush, and was more than almost tempted to reach out and do so. But such mannerisms were uncouth in human society, so he contented himself with her scent—like peaches and the crust of late snow—as she whispered back to him, as if merely sharing her name were a new and exhilarating transgression, “Nadira. I—and yours?”

“You may call me Eligor,” he told her, using a step in the dance to turn them aside and brush his lips against hers, unseen by those who knew her. She melted into him, and when he finally broke the kiss, leaving her dazed and breathless, he wasted no time in leading her—smiling, eager, like any mortal suddenly thrust into unknown pleasures—through the crowd in winding patterns and at last away from the crowd, down an empty hallway into an abandoned room.

Safely hidden from the mortals below, he finally slid his hand below her dress, scraping his fingers roughly across her firm, round ass as his other hand circled her throat possessively. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck as if begging to be taken, with a keening moan that he stifled with his lips on hers, drinking greedily of her desires as she gave herself to the bliss of his control. She knew what he was now, but the part of her that would have run was lost and silenced under the promise of submission, pleasure, purpose. All Nadira wanted now was to belong to Eligor.

“It has been some time since I took a mortal as nice as you,” he smiled, holding her pale blue eyes entranced in the infernal depths of his own true gaze. He tweaked a nipple through her dress, drawing another quiet moan, and let his tail part the slit in her skirt and tease her ass. “So deeply submissive you almost leapt into my control, so weak and obedient as mortals are, but so willing to embrace it… You will beg me, soon, and only then will you be mine forever,” he traced her jawline, absorbed in the architecture of her body, knowing her mind would soon surrender.

She nodded, lost in his power and longing to remain, but speech evaded her for the moment. It would come to her, Eligor knew, when she was desperate enough, and he kissed her again, teasing her with his tail to bring her to greater heights of frustration and blissful helplessness.

“P-please—” the word stuttered across her lips, as faint as an evening breeze.

“Please what, pet?” he purred, his lips brushing her ear. She pressed herself against his chest, whimpering as his hand slipped beneath her dress to thumb her nipple, as if hoping that his warmth and presence could remove her need to chose. He would, of course, but not yet, not until she chose to beg him to.

“Please, master,” she gasped at last, her hands clinging tight to his hips, “please fuck me, master, break me, claim me, make me yours, please–aah!”

Her words turned to senseless moans as he drove his tail into her ass, the pleasure and unfamiliar sensations and abject, humiliating surrender overwhelming her mind in an instant, leaving only a desperate, mindless fucktoy. He could let her think again later if it pleased him; for now, he ripped off her dress—that, too, could be easily repaired—and sank himself inside her, bracing her against a wall as he filled her and fucked her and feasted on her pleasure.

Shattered and awash in sensation, completely under his power, Nadira’s mind lay open before Eligor, allowing him to feel her desire, her need for him, her surrender of all thought and self-consciousness and control as he alternately thrust his cock and tail inside her, and he decided he would have to leave a dream informing the mortals downstairs of what had happened to their lost angel. She was a perfect toy now, her mind an empty sea of pleasure, her body’s few imperfections—too small for mortal eyes to notice—smoothed away as Eligor prepared her to be his for centuries. 

Soon, overcome by the alien pleasure of his tail fucking her ass and the added pleasure of his cock between her legs, Nadira came, her mind wiped perfectly, immaculately clean by the volcanic pleasure. Still, Eligor kept fucking her, and she clung to him and prayed to him as he bit her neck and whispered in her ear, remaking her with incomprehensible bliss into a perfect thrall. With every orgasm, propelled by the writhing tail inside her, the fragments of her mind dissolved further into Eligor’s power, and she knew that soon, sooner, almost now, she would lose herself perfectly, permanently, and completely.

No sooner had she formed that thought than the last of her mind capitulated, Eligor released himself, and they came together with a mingled cry. Eligor pulled out of his new and loveliest pet, cleaned himself and restored their costumes with a simple spell, and wrapped his tail around her like a collar and leash, resting its tip in her mouth. 

As she trailed after her new owner, obediently sucking on the end of his tail, her empty mind dreaming of a life of blissful obedience, Nadira hoped that, soon, he would decide to break her all over again.

Chapter Text

Elissa was a good girl. She could be a firm and inspiring leader, ruthless and merciful by turn, when the situation called for it, but in her heart she was a well-trained, mindless, obedient bitch. That was why, on her ostensible wedding night—she had married Alistair, true, but that meant something different under the Living Goddess than it did for the lost souls who followed the Maker—she was kneeling in front of her bed, sucking the cock of another man, while a slender blonde elf-girl sat on the king’s face and teased his cock with her toes.

Overseeing the proceedings was Ishara herself, stroking her cock as she watched Julian, her first, most loyal, and highest-ranking thrall, guiding Elissa by the hair. The only living goddess in Thedas wore the frame of an impossibly beautiful woman, even taller than Elissa, strong and lithe with generous curves, and she played with one of her perfect breasts as her burning eyes watched Elissa with glittering amusement. 

Then she snapped her fingers, and Julian pulled out of Elissa’s mouth, strands of saliva falling across her chin, and guided her to kneel before their goddess. Ishara looked at her, smiling, and Elissa gratefully wrapped her lips around her Goddess’ cock. 

She slipped into mindless surrender with a soft moan at the bliss of servitude. She bore the title queen but this was her truth: she was a pet, a puppet, a toy for a being infinitely her superior, and for those like her whom Ishara chose to rule her. Her thoughts, her body, her soul belonged to Ishara, and the Goddess made full use of her control. Ropelike tendrils of power coiled around her, pinching her breasts, binding her legs and arms, and Ishara stepped back for a moment as Elissa was hoisted into the air, her wrists and ankles bound to each other and knees held wide apart.

Powerless, exactly as she deserved to be, as she was in reality every moment of her life since Ishara had claimed her, but as she only truly felt in moments like these, when she was bound and fucked for her Goddess’ pleasure and yet gifted with the presence of mind to understand her situation. The only thing that felt better, she thought, as she reached out to taste the tip of Ishara’s cock, just close enough to flick her tongue against the head, was the state of mindless submission she would soon be fucked into, where even her own name meant nothing to her and she broke into a thousand shards that knew nothing but devotion and obedience and pleasure.

Ishara’s reason for holding back became clear a moment later, as Julian stepped between her legs and thrust his cock inside her. As deeply enthralled and deliriously obedient as she was, Elissa could not on her own have suppressed her reaction, arching her back as much as possible in her bonds and moaning as their Goddess’ favorite instrument fucked his supposed queen for Ishara’s amusement. After a moment, though, Elissa got herself under control, and Ishara allowed her once again to begin worshiping her cock.

Devoted worship, however, was apparently not what Ishara wanted at the moment, and with a rough hand in Elissa’s hair she began to fuck her puppet queen’s face. Julian increased his rhythm to match her, as always perfectly in sync with their Goddess’ desires, and Elissa fell back on her most deeply ingrained training, the bodily responses fucked into her over the first weeks of her submission to Ishara, as her conscious mind gave up on anything that could be construed as control. Her mouth did not exist to suck cock for her Goddess, her throat was simply another place for her to be fucked, another part of her body for rigid, sensitive flesh to take pleasure from and reward her with the marrow-deep bliss of her helpless, mindless, obedient surrender.

Julian gave her a more bodily form of pleasure, reaching into her with his magic so that every thrust of his cock lit up nerves even fingers could not stimulate properly, waves of pleasure crashing through her mind like waves on the Storm Coast, wiping out anything that might become a coherent thought. She was a toy, a mindless automaton, sculpted strength and softness—no longer even a weapon, but a useful ornament, a thing to be bound and fucked and used for the pleasure of the Goddess who controlled her.

At that understanding, too primal to be rendered in coherent thoughts, she came, and the way she clenched around Julian pushed him over the edge as well—or, rather, Ishara decided that they should come at the same time—and Ishara spilled herself down Elissa’s throat. The erstwhile queen of Ferelden coughed and sputtered despite herself, but her Goddess held her fast, racking her body with orgasmic bliss as she and Julian finished themselves inside her.

By the time Elissa had regained the ability to form coherent thoughts, she had been untied and left, still collared, lying on her bed. She still felt the lingering soreness where she had been used most roughly, still felt the lingering bliss of being mindless and obedient and nothing else, but her mind and strength were once again, as much as they ever were, her own. 

Alistair knelt in the corner, still bound and gagged, and, to judge from his still-hard cock and the ring of silver light around its base, had not and would not soon be allowed to come. Her Goddess was gracious, Elissa reflected; she had many purposes for her husband to fulfill before she would consider praying that Ishara grant him an orgasm of his own.

Chapter Text

James was on his knees, his forearms bound across his back and his head fixed forward as Penelope circled him, running her fingers lightly over his shoulders and playing gently with his hair. With his shoulder-length locks and lanky figure, he made—in his estimation—a poor Nightwing, Penny was in every respect a perfect Poison Ivy, from her athletic yet curvy figure and crimson hair to the fact that her power was creating and controlling plants, exactly as Ivy did in the old comics.

“Hello again, Batboy,” she purred, giving his hair a short, sharp tug that made him gasp. “Or should I call you Pet , hm? You did come when I called, after all, and I don’t think it will take too much training for you to come when I call, will it?”

As if on cue, his cock twitched inside his costume, and Penny-as-Ivy chuckled in his ear. 

“Not long at all, it seems,” she gloated, running a finger along the underside of his chin. “You’re going to learn to be a good pet for me very quickly, won’t you, Robin? Say ‘Yes, Goddess’.”

James loved to be a good pet for Penny, but breaking too soon would ruin the point of the scene. He wasn’t very good at protesting, but he gave it his best shot anyways; it would be worth it, he was sure, for the way Penny would shut him down.

“I won’t—” he managed, before a vine whipped around his throat—not tight enough to choke him, but with enough insistent force that he instantly forgot that he had been trying to object to something.

“I gave you an order, pet,” she growled, bending down so that her lips brushed his ear. “Do you want me to punish you, pet?”

His mouth opened and closed uselessly, unable to form words.

“Or is punishment not enough for my weak-willed little Batbitch, hm?” She took his chin in her hand, forcing him to meet her emerald eyes. “Beg me to take control of you, slut. Beg me to overwhelm you with my powers until you are nothing but a mindless thrall, a cock and holes for my pleasure, unable to think or disobey. Beg me now, pet!”

The dam inside him broke, and he begged and babbled without noticing the words. “Please, Goddess, Ivy, please, break me, please, Ivy, fuck me, break me, Goddess, please—”

A vine filled his mouth and he began sucking obediently, savoring the muted taste and the way it made everything else go fuzzy, narrowing the world down to his aching cock and the plant in his mouth and his Goddess standing over him.

“I’m so glad I found you, pet,” his Goddess mused as dozens of smaller vines made short work of his costume. “Such an obedient bitch, so weak with arousal, literally begging me to mindfuck you. This is what you’ve always dreamed of, isn’t it?”

The vine in his mouth withdrew, leaving him feeling empty but clear-headed. He knew what to say this time, as a thin vine wound itself possessively around his balls. 

“Yes, Goddess,” he begged. Her smile, the expression of her approval at his obeisance, was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Good boy,” she smiled. “You love being mindless for me, don’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Goddess!” He loved everything she did to him. A part of his mind wondered whether Penny was still roleplaying as Poison Ivy, but he quickly decided that he hoped she meant it. Being mindless for Penny would be so much better than pretending to be mindless for Ivy, and that was all he really had room to think about at the moment.

“Good boy.” Goddess cupped her breast, tracing her nipple with a single finger. “You love it when I turn your mind to fertile mulch for my thoughts to grow in, to remake you according to my desires, don’t you?”

“Yes, Goddess!” He loved being her fucktoy, physically and mentally. He wanted nothing more than to breathe and suck and absorb all her vectors of control, to become a helpless, obedient puppet, completely controlled by her whims. He would be so very, very good for her if she took total control of him.

Beaming at his hazy-eyed, lust-fogged submission, Penelope sat down and reclined on a throne of living wood that unfurled beneath her with a thought. She raised a foot, sliding one hand between her legs as she allowed her pet’s gaze to follow her pointing toes as if they were a pendulum.

“You love belonging to me, don’t you, pet? You would do anything for me, to worship me, to please me, to obey me, wouldn’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Goddess!” He did belong to her, and he loved it. Being her obedient pet, her mindless toy, was everything he had ever wanted, could ever want, would never think about wanting again because his thoughts belonged entirely to her and it was paradise.

Her vines curled and shifted, bringing him forward onto his hands and knees as another, with a bulbous end, prodded at his anus. One final tendril reached down and removed his domino mask: the play-acting, for tonight, was well and truly over. 

Penelope slipped another vine inside her and moaned; her powers were useful in so many ways. Then she focused past her pleasure on James, kneeling before her with mindless obedience and devotion, yet paying keen attention to see how she would command him or shape his mind.

“Then I think you’ve earned a reward, haven’t you?” She raised the sole of her foot for him to lick and pushed the vine behind him into his ass. He moaned, dropping his head for a moment, but soon, completely absorbed in her power, he had adjusted to her rhythm as she fucked him on the ground in front of her, and between his stifled moans he began to demonstrate that Penelope had absolutely made the right decision.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this, Cassandra?” 

Kaaras held a long coil of rope in one hand—enchanted, Cassandra could tell by its shimmer—and a leather collar in the other, and had stripped to the waist, fully revealing the disciplined musculature life as a mercenary had given him. Despite standing nearly six feet tall, Cassandra was over a foot shorter than her lover, and his qunari physique meant she had little chance against him in an unarmed brawl. Once the rope he held was looped tight around her wrists and legs and torso she would be completely defenseless, unable to move or even access her abilities as a Seeker. She would be completely helpless. But that was the point, and she trusted him, perhaps—almost certainly—more than she trusted herself, just as she knew he trusted her.

“I trust you, Kaaras,” she nodded. In contrast to his partially clothed—yet clearly aroused—state, Cassandra was completely naked, and had oiled herself so that her body, her iron muscles and soft curves, gleamed in the candlelight. The collar was to be their sign: once it was around her neck, she would belong to Kaaras, subject wholly to his will unless she chose to use their watchword. 

Her eyes lingered on that collar, even next to his powerful body and the rope he had painstakingly, secretively procured. It was not glorious or romantic, not the sort of thing that she would have read about even in Varric’s awful yet compelling novels, and yet it thrilled her in a way that was utterly unique. This wasn’t her first time submitting to Kaaras in the bedroom, but before it had always been a simple exchange of initiative, her following his lead and giving up command, but never giving up her strength. The collar, she thought, was a reminder of those nights, an assurance that nothing was about to really change.

“I know you trust me, Cass,” he shook his head, smiling at her. “But it’s not just about trust, it’s about how positive you are that you want this. We both saw that headstone, and this might be a bit much for your first time—”

“Then I will use the watchword,” she interrupted, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. His eyes darted down, and she pushed her arms up and together, cocking her hips with pretend confidence. “ Parshaara . You want to bind me, and I want to be bound. If you worry for my peace of mind, then do as I trust you plan to and give me better things to think about, or reasons not to be thinking at all.”

Kaaras smiled widely and rose from the bed, a few quick steps bringing him close enough to loom over her imposingly. Her pulse quickened as his eyes raked over her, and he raised the collar. “You are ready, then?”

She nodded. “Then kneel.”

Cassandra dropped quickly to her knees, arms falling to her side, her gaze fixed straight ahead as the tent in his pants grew to full size in front of her. She was tall and physically strong for a human, but part—a very small part, as far as where they were now, but a part—of her attraction to Kaaras had always been his literal ability, without making her feel smaller or weak or frilly, to sweep her off her feet. That she felt like a virgin every time he fucked her was another, similar bonus, one she often expressed her appreciation for while biting down hard on the nigh-impenetrable skin of his hand as he clamped it firmly around her mouth.

She sighed, a deep, shuddering breath of releasing tension, as the leather encircled her neck and Kaaras fastened the clasp. Like this, she could finally, entirely let go of all her usual worries, from Cullen’s lyrium withdrawal to dwarven diplomats and overbearing knights who thought they were still Templars. She was not Cassandra Pentaghast, last surviving Seeker of Truth; she was Cassandra, Kaaras’ submissive lover, and she could leave the worries and decision-making to him. 

He looped the rope around her wrists with swift efficiency, binding her arms behind her back, then fastening her ankles before passing the rope between her legs. The rope rose in front of her, held by Kaaras’ magic, before each end split off from the other and they wove around her torso to create a harness, in the process sealing the magical cage that suppressed her Seeker abilities.

Rather than the panic a part of her had expected to feel, Cassandra felt a sudden and overwhelming arousal. The ropes were tight where they passed between her legs, and the radiant magical energy sent pleasure humming through her body. Kaaras bent down to add two clamps to her nipples, each decorated with a tiny gem, and she gasped at the spark of pleasure that each caused as he fastened them.

“What should I do with you tonight?” he asked, trailing a finger along her jawline. 

“Should that not be for you to decide?” Cassandra replied, flushing as she leaned into his touch and tried to rub against her bonds discreetly. 

Kaaras chuckled, stroking her hair affectionately as he mused, “Then I suppose my first order should be that you don’t come without my permission. Understood?”

His fingers curled in her hair, preventing her from nodding, but she managed to get out the words, “Yes, messere.” 

He tilted her head back sharply. “You know the rules, Cassandra. Say the words.”

“Yes, ser!” She gasped, “I won’t come without permission, I understand, ser!” 

“Excellent.” He circled her again, smiling as he watched her writhe in her bonds. Her helplessness, the way he had handled her just then, all of it was incredibly hot, and she thrust herself against the ropes between her legs half because her body demanded it and half because of the way he looked at her as she did. 

Then Kaaras gestured and produced a small black rod, some sort of dwarven device by its appearance, and placed it between her legs, pushing it gently inside her. She cried out in surprised pleasure when it began to hum inside her, the combination of physical vibration and dwarven miracles lighting up places she thought only Kaaras’ spirit touch could reach. Pleasure washed and crescendoed through her body as Kaaras slowly removed his pants, and she braced herself to be punished appropriately—but before she could come, the stimulation disappeared, leaving her desperately aroused but with only a small crystal and a bit of rope that were suddenly not nearly enough.

“My second order,” Kaaras said before she could form the word “please,” and taking hold of her by the hair again, “is that you will not beg without my permission, either. I have better things for your mouth to do tonight.” She moaned softly at his insistence, her arousal flaring up again at the thought of being facefucked and teased at the same time.

He gave her just enough slack to nod faintly before guiding her onto his cock. He might have been average for a qunari (though she suspected he was not), but that translated to unusual size for Cassandra, and, as usual, she had to slowly, carefully work her mouth around him, taking him just a little deeper with each stroke. He kept his hand in her hair but let her set he own pace at first, becoming more insistent as the dwarven crystal between her legs hummed to life again. 

Finally, he took over completely, fucking her face and throat while her restraints wracked her body with pleasure. She was his entirely, helpless before his strength and his magic and her own desperate arousal—and even her arousal was powerless in the face of his will, as the toys once again stopped the moment before she would have climaxed, plunging her back into crisp awareness of Kaaras thrusting against her throat and the aching need between her legs.

If her mouth were free, she would have begged him to fuck her, regardless of his commands. Given Kaaras’ sense of humor, of course, that would only have made her situation worse, but with his cock stretching her mouth she was powerless even to get herself into trouble. Then the pleasure started up again, and she dissolved once more into helpless submission and arousal.

When he finally came, holding her tight as he spilled himself down her throat, the only sense of self she could summon was the pleasure and need that sang through every nerve of her body, and the overpowering bliss of complete surrender to his power, his control, his will.

“Would you like to come for me, Cassandra?” he asked once he had pulled out of her mouth. He held his cock up for her, allowing him to lick him clean as he slowly stiffened again. For a moment, the question didn’t make sense: she was his, preparing him to fuck her again in whatever way he chose, expecting nothing for herself but rising and falling waves of pleasure that would tear at her again and again, drowning her in frustrated need and eroding her mind like a soft tablet before the surf into perfect, obedient submission.

Did she want to come for Kaaras? If he wanted her to come, then of course she would. But if he was truly leaving the choice to her… she didn’t make choices when she was like this, she remembered, and that meant that she couldn’t choose to come. Didn’t want to come, in fact, not until he wanted her to, even—especially—if that meant falling even deeper into mindless, obedient, perfectly helpless submission. She pulled back from his once-again-hard cock, already eager to feel Kaaras taking his pleasure from her as she writhed on the precipice for him.

“I want to be good for you,” she answered. 

He smiled and hoisted her onto the bed, adjusting her bonds so that her ass was exposed. She wriggled against him, opening her mouth wide as he leaned forward to gag her, and began moaning immediately when the ropes and toys hummed to life as Kaaras thrust into her.

Chapter Text

“Director Hill,” Emma Frost smiled across her desk, reclining easily in the principal’s office of the Charles Xavier Memorial School. She still wore her trademark white corset, necklace, and cape, though she had added close-fitting pants between her waist and thigh-high, high-heeled boots. 

“Professor Frost,” Maria frowned at the taller woman. “I understand you had some concerns about our policies—”

“As grateful,” Emma cut her off with a raised hand, and Maria found herself unable to continue talking, “as I am that you deigned to visit us personally, my problems with SHIELD, and your directorship in particular, go well beyond ‘some concerns’. Which, to be honest, is why I didn’t really ask you here to talk politics.”

That probably should have set off all sorts of alarm bells in Maria’s head, but she was too distracted by the sudden surge of arousal that sent her hands fumbling at her uniform, trying to touch bare skin or simply rub between her legs, as her knees gave out and she dropped to the floor in front of Emma’s desk.

The mutant rose, her smile now more sincere and yet colder, and she tilted Maria’s head back by the chin with her index finger, forcing her to clasp her hands behind her back as she flooded her mind with arousal. She was tempted—sorely so—to make this her permanent state, to erase Maria’s mind completely, wiping out her name and memories and everything else that defined her, leaving only an aroused, obedient shell for Emma’s pleasure. 

But that would not solve the larger problem, namely SHIELD as an organization. So, as Maria obediently stripped out of her uniform and crawled to retrieve Emma’s favorite strapon, she did not wipe away her name or her knowledge of SHIELD’s policies and protocols or any details that might be important to confirming her identity. Instead, underneath and on top of and throughout all of those parts of her mind, Emma made Maria realize that she was and always had been the obedient servant of the queen mutant. Maria had been born to serve and obey Emma Frost: primarily and most ideally as her mindless fucktoy, but also as a tool, a sleeper agent whose purpose was, first, to safeguard and advance Emma’s own power and prestige, and, almost as importantly, to advance the safety of mutantkind.

Enacting the best policies to do that would, of course, require close personal cooperation with the leader of the world's heroic mutants, in private meetings attended, at most, by a handful of other agents whose presence Emma herself requested. If there were other mutants there, then Maria would know that she had proven obedient enough to show off, like a good toy.

With her editing done for now, however, SHIELD could wait. Emma pumped the snow-white dildo in and out of Maria’s mouth before buckling it on while her new toy laid herself across the desk. From black-ops mutant oppressor, Emma smiled as she lined up with Maria’s asshole, to mindless, obedient fucktoy of the most powerful mutant alive.

It was exactly where they both deserved to be.

 

Chapter Text

“Very well,” Winter smiled, stepping forward to tilt Pyrrha’s head back by the chin. “If you are going to learn from me, you will first show proper deference. Both of you, kneel.”

Jaune hardly needed telling; his girlfriend had trained him well, Winter smiled as she used her glyphs to divest him of his armor and clothing. The champion herself was half a second slower, the sort of consequence of valuing her dignity that Winter would quickly train out of her. 

She clicked her fingers and pointed, and Jaune swiftly made himself a human chair. Sitting lightly on his back, she raised her boot toward Pyrrha’s face, pinning the champion with her glyphs. “Lick my boot, Pet. Dignity is for dead men. You are a Huntress, and what is more you have given yourself to me.”

To her credit, the redhead did not measurably hesitate this time, pitching herself forward onto her hands and running her tongue along the sole of Winter’s boot. The glyph beneath her shifted, stoking her arousal, and soon she had a hand inside her skirt, thrusting into herself in time as she worshiped at the feet of her new Mistress. 

  Boot heel firmly in the Mistral champion’s mouth, Winter smiled as she continued chiseling away at the girl’s self-image, filing her down into obedience. As powerful as she was on the court, her mind was delightfully pliant, she observed, uncrossing and crossing her legs to facefuck the redhead with her other foot. She was getting close like this, dignity swiftly abandoned for the pleasure of abasement, obeisance, and of course the effects of Winter’s Semblance on Pyrrha’s submissive mind. But letting her come this early would be detrimental to her training: she had to become truly owned, so that once she came there would be nothing left but surrender.

“Stop,” Winter ordered, and Pyrrha froze, clearly on the edge of orgasm. “Good girl. You belong to me, and that means you come when and only when I say. There will be no begging, no humping, no thinking unless I give you an order, is that understood, Pet?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Pyrrha—Pet—responded automatically. Winter’s—her Mistress’—aura was clamped hard around her own, flooding her with arousal and leaving her just enough mind to obey. It was thrilling, being so completely dominated, rendered so utterly powerless and yet kept perfectly safe, treasured and protected by her Mistress.

Winter rose from Jaune’s back, allowing her Pet to continue licking the tops of her boots as she directed the blonde into position. He was well-trained and needed little direction, which reminded Winter that she would want to collect the rest of Pyrrha’s former harem once she was done solidifying her control; Xiao Long and Belladonna would have particularly important uses, not to mention how they would look on their knees for a true dominant.

The flare of a glyph manifested a chair where Jaune had knelt a moment before, and Winter sat again, using the tip of her boot to push her Pet back onto her haunches. 

“I imagine you’re simply desperate for me to tie you up and fuck you properly,” she smiled down at Pyrrha, savoring the glassy look in her eyes as her arms strained involuntarily to reach between her legs again. “Isn’t that right, Pet?”

“Yes, Mistress,” came the automatic reply again, this time with a faint whine, admirably suppressed, though Winter would still have taken the opportunity to punish her Pet at almost any other time. Jaune’s cock twitched, and Winter favored him with a burst of pleasure that almost brought him to his knees; in a testament to her Pet’s ability to train him, however, he held his position.

Instead, she snapped her fingers, dropping Pyrrha from her euphoric submission back into reality. The girl blinked, opened and closed her mouth, and straightened her stance, clasping her hands more tightly behind her back and shifting her knees apart, but otherwise remained as she was. Winter’s smile widened.

“Are you prepared to become mine, Pet?” Pyrrha closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, exhaling something that sounded almost like “destiny.” Then she nodded.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Winter rose again, enjoying the champion’s look of clear-eyed devotion nearly as much as she enjoyed the way she looked as a mindless toy. Her broad bronze necklace clattered to the floor beneath Winter’s fingers, and she tilted her head back to bare her neck as her Mistress fastened her new, snow-white collar. Then her eyes glazed over again, and Winter brought her back to all fours with a sharp tug on her leash as she turned to Jaune, still standing hard and silent where she had set him.

“You’ve both been very good toys for me,” she told him as she guided Pyrrha’s mouth between her legs, “so why don’t you both enjoy a reward now?”

He slid himself into Pyrrha easily as the former champion proved that, at least under Winter’s control, she was just as skilled with her tongue as she was in the arena with a blade. And whatever marvelous deeds she could use her Pet to accomplish, Winter thought as she leaned back with a moan, owning her would always be the best and most enjoyable part in itself.

Chapter Text

Jack sauntered into Shepard’s cabin, as usual nearly naked from the waist up, and stopped short.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Jack cried, pointing an accusatory finger at the woman lounging next to Shepard on the captain’s bed.

“My girlfriend, you mean?” Shepard raised an eyebrow and looped an arm around Miranda Lawson’s shoulders. “She would be here because I asked her to, and because we both have had it up to here with your bad behavior undermining the mission.”

Miranda rose from the bed, hips swaying pointedly as she approached Jack.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she began, trailing a finger down the neck of her catsuit. “You are going to lick my boots, and then you’re going to eat me out while Shepard fucks your ass… but first, you’re going to beg for all of it.” She smiled sharply. “And who knows? If you beg nicely enough, we might even let you beg to come for us, too.”

Jack opened her mouth to retort, but the click of Miranda’s fingers reverberated through her mind and she found herself on her knees, gazing up at the superior woman with her mouth hanging open.

“I only even let you out to play like this,” Miranda told her, as the touch of her biotics ghosted over Jack’s skin, “because of how much I enjoy breaking you in again. But if you’re going to act like a spoiled bitch whenever I let you think for yourself, then I suppose I’ll just have to fuck your mind away completely.”

 A part of Jack wanted to protest at that, did protest inside her mind. She was a badass bitch, not some jumped-up secretary’s obedient pet, and she certainly would never do a damn thing at the behest of anyone who worked for Cerberus. But the rest of her was busy imagining, or maybe half-remembering, what it would be like to have her mind fucked away by Miranda. 

“Get up,” Miranda snapped her fingers.

Jack shot to her feet, the feeling of dazed arousal fading to make room for hot anger. Who did this bitch think she—

“And drop.” 

—was, trying to talk back to her Mistress like that? She belonged on her knees. She belonged on her knees in front of her Master and Mistress, mind blank, eyes glazed, ready to obey and be used in whatever way they desired. Mistress had given her orders earlier, but her mind was blank and fuzzy and she couldn’t remember what she hadn’t been told to think yet.

“And awake. Good girl.”

Jack found herself still on her knees, one hand between her legs as she gazed up at Miranda. At Mistress, she corrected herself, before realizing what she had just thought. Her mind was clear, at least mostly, but the feeling of fuzzy euphoria persisted in the corner of her mind, a memory of how good it felt to submit, to surrender, to give in and obey and be controlled.

“You’re starting to feel it again, aren’t you?” Miranda asked, in a tone that said she knew exactly what Jack was feeling. “Fuzzy, aroused, beginning to accept your place again. I could drop you a couple more times, maybe even just once more, and you wouldn’t be able to come up again, to think again, for hours. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She leaned forward, tilting Jack’s head back by the chin, her icy eyes seeming to envelop Jack’s entire world—except, of course, for her body, tingling all over with Miranda’s biotic grip and beginning to ache with desire. 

“Y-yes,” Jack managed, hardly able to move her mouth with Miranda holding her chin up, but better able to speak than to nod. Miranda smiled.

“Then beg for it.” She dropped Jack’s chin and turned on her heel, her ass almost in Jack’s face for a moment as she sauntered back to lean against the foot of Shepard’s bed. Shepard himself still sat at the end, stroking himself now as he watched Miranda unravel Jack like a small spool of thread.

“Please,” Jack began, almost as soon as Miranda released her, “please, please fuck me—” Miranda raised an eyebrow, and Jack corrected herself— “please use me, let me lick your boots, please, Goddess, break me, please—”

She cut herself off in surprise as Miranda pulled her biotically across the room, allowing her to fall at her Mistress’ feet, one of which was raised expectantly in front of her. As she dragged her tongue gratefully across the sole of Mistress’ boot, her arousal flaring even higher, she felt the pressure of Mistress’ biotics tighten just a touch around her throat.

“I have granted you the first of your wishes, pet,” Miranda warned her. “Be a good girl and keep begging.”

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. Between devoted licks, her position alone stoking her arousal with every moment as Miranda pinched and caressed her with her biotics, Jack gasped out, “Please, Goddess, please fuck me, use me, please! Please fuck my ass, Goddess, let me eat you out—please, Goddess, use me, fuck me, break me, please, Goddess, please—”

Miranda cut her off with another click. Jack froze, mindless and obedient, as her Mistress climbed onto the bed, peeling off her catsuit, and Shepard got out, slowly circling the mattress until he stood behind Jack. When Miranda clicked her fingers again, Jack hardly noticed the change in her own state of mind, but she knew enough now to crawl up the bed and dive between Miranda’s legs as Shepard slowly pushed himself into her ass. 

Of course, with Miranda’s conditioning, it wasn’t long before the rhythmic pleasure of Shepard fucking her from behind and the intrinsic pleasure of serving her Mistress meant that Jack’s mind was completely empty again, and would be until her owners decided to put something in her again.

Chapter Text

Katelyn Donovan—Kate to her friends, Captain Donovan to her superiors, Starlight to the general public—was having a very shitty day. It had started as simply a busy month, as the Paraphysics Containment Bureau kept her chasing after mad scientists, suppressing corporate insurrections, and dealing with various cults that had gotten their hands on “artifacts of power,” which usually turned out to be big guns. 

That was all fine and good, and pretty much what she’d signed up for rather than joining some freelance civilian super-smash band or doing her own thing, whatever that would have meant. But then, as she was wont to do, her old rival and self-proclaimed nemesis, Skylance—real name Callista Stromberg—had decided to pop back up and make her life difficult for a change. Apparently, however, something had decided that Skylance’s latest temper tantrum wasn’t trouble enough.

The air itself seemed to darken abruptly, and Starlight was distracted enough by the sudden shift in the environment that Skylance’s fist caught her across the jaw, photonic energy augmenting the physical punch and sending her careening backwards in midair. In the split second that she spent careening through the air, she saw Skylance’s face twist from vicious triumph to abject terror, and then she hit something.

Buildings and other objects that Starlight hit during fights tended to crumble under the force of her body, but whatever she had struck held firm, and then she realized that she couldn’t move. Her metahuman powers and her physical strength both drained like water through a sieve as an inexplicably arousing sensation of utter cold crept through her, slowing her mind until all she could do was thrust her hips against the empty air. All of the Protectors with experience against major magical threats had been called to the other side of the world or farther, and already a part of Katelyn found herself glad that she would have to face this creature on her own.

A form began to coalesce out of the darkening shadows that enveloped everything in sight, winged and surrounded by uncountable writhing tentacles of darkness. One such tentacle wrapped around her throat, and Katelyn reflexively opened her mouth, permitting another tentacle—or half a dozen, it was hard to tell if the larger ones were composite or whole—to thrust itself down her throat. Still more wrapped around her torso and heavy breasts, teasing between her legs and gliding across her nipples. Every touch and squeeze was a world of icy euphoria, and she cried out into the tentacles that filled her mouth as another slid beneath her costume and began smoothly fucking her ass.

Helplessly bound, thoroughly fucked, and overwhelmed with incomprehensible pleasure, Katelyn found herself unable to escape even into submission, as every touch of the physical shadows burst on her mind anew and separate. As she struggled despite herself, two things impressed themselves on Katelyn’s sight: first Callista, her rival, bound and fucked just as she was, though in her addled state the woman whose features so closely resembled her own appeared to be a vision of her own abject surrender. Then, farther off, the outlines of the world seemed to warp, impossible geometries asserting themselves as the city shifted itself around them, creating, as it seemed, a pocket in which they could not be disturbed.

Clawed fingers stroked between her legs, and Katelyn came, her body hardly moving in her strict bonds, although her muscles strained with desire. The shadow-figure, her Master, stood above her, fingering her with one hand and her double with the other, although as each woman lay suspended on her back she could see the other hanging above her. It was more than a mass of shadows, she could see now, and yet the perfect, impossible, entrancing lines and curves of its appearance would have rendered her speechless even were she not already.

—You Will Be Delightful —her Master asserted, and the thought of pleasing Master sent a fresh wave of pleasure, heat that did nothing to diminish her Master’s icy control, washing through her body. —When You Have Been Brought Into Harmony. —The Low Devils Will Not Succeed, But Their Foolish Attempt To Sow Destruction Handed Me The Opportunity I Required To Enslave You.

Katelyn moaned around the tentacles still fucking her throat, the thin remnants of her mind aching with arousal at the thought of being perfected by her Master. A finger flicked her clit, and she came again, her world going white and simple as her Master’s will reached into her like the tentacle that finally, finally thrust between her legs, fucking her with perfect rhythm, keeping her mind blank and blissfull as her Master reshaped the cosmic threads that allowed her personal identity.

—No Longer Shall The Pair Of You Be Brought Together In Strife —her Master declared, and the two slaves knew that they would be forever their Master’s obedient servants, in perfect Harmony with each other as they existed together in their Master’s will. —You Shall Adorn My Court Together, As Befits Such Beauty That Great Chance Has Seen Fit To Render Twice In Such Adept Symmetry. 

The slaves’ pleasure ebbed a fraction, only to peak again with the ecstasy of their bond. Their shared existence promised each what she could see in her other half: mindless bliss, eternal submission, obedience to the perfect will. Neither could grasp the concept of resistance, and if one could then the picture of the other’s surrender would have instantly destroyed it, since they were one and each of them was a perfect thrall.

As the sky drifted shut beneath them, their Master moved between their legs so that each of its pets could watch her fellow being fucked above her as she was fucked herself. No human mind could have appreciated the geometries of their Master’s court, but to the slave-pair who gazed out at their new [they had always been here] home, lost in the pleasure of their Master’s power and control, only the bliss of servitude and the ecstasy of their Master’s touch could compare to the beauty around them.

—Perfection That Arises Is Fleeting —their Master observed as its tentacles fondled and fucked them, and though each touch and thrust was still a wave of pleasure washing their minds clean, they were no longer overwhelmed [they had always been here] but satisfied, because their Master wanted them that way. —I Will Remake You As A Perfect Shape, A Shape That Is Beautiful Both In Itself And Because It Shares Itself With Itself In Another, And Being One Thing And Two, Distinct And Whole, You Will Endure Forever.

Then their Master began fucking them directly, and their world was consumed in a perfect instant of infinite pleasure.

Chapter Text

Worshiping the Queen of New Asgard, Loki had to admit, was thrilling. The Lady Sif had never been especially fond of him, and the sequence of events beginning with his brother’s first, aborted coronation had only intensified her feelings, or at least the enjoyment she took in punishing him. Loki, for his own part, did not mind; a part of him had always taken a certain delight in her rebukes, and now that he was confined—the people of Earth were hardly about to let him wander about their planet freely so soon after New York—her visits to the private dungeon at least broke up the monotony.

Sif, for her part, thought of the jotun prince largely as a useful diversion. She rarely let him speak; the same gag in which he had been returned to Asgard with the Tesseract ensured that even his moans were hardly audible. Nonetheless, he had a talented tongue, and moreover she could see that slowly but steadily he was learning his place, perhaps even enough to appear in public as her servant in a century or two. Perhaps even a few decades, if her studies with the surviving sorcerers went well: after all, the queen of Asgard had to have certain tricks up her sleeves, especially when her husband kept accidentally destroying the ropes.

Her boots echoed sharply as she strode across the chamber to where the jotun prince knelt, eyes closed, his back to the door, as she had trained him to. He was naked but for his collar and chains; his dark hair fell past his shoulder blades, but he was neatly shaved, and his cock stood at the ready for her, covered with a hint of frost as his desperation pushed past his glamour. 

Sif did not bother addressing him this time, simply stalking around him with deliberate steps before raising his chin with her forefinger. The look in Loki’s eyes was unabashedly grateful now, and he remained silent as she released his gag and allowed him to lick between her legs. She twisted her fingers in his hair and allowed her head to fall back as she held him close, grinding against his face as he lapped and stroked at her pleasure centers, dexterous and devoted even without his seidhr.  

Well, he wasn’t physically incapable in all respects, Sif thought as she stepped back, not quite satisfied but willing to delay her pleasure a moment to increase her gratification. Hooking her fingers through his collar, she pulled Loki to his feet and shoved his back against the wall, shifting her grip so that her fingers pressed against his throat while she took his cock in her free hand. It was cool to the touch and as hard, denied any relief by the same silver thread that completed the binding enchantments on his collar. He stiffened further under her touch, and she laughed softly in his ear.

“Do you want to come for me, Silvertongue?” she whispered, holding him tightly enough that he could not answer, gag or no. He could nod, however, which he did accompanied by strangled noises of desperation as he tried to buck into her touch. 

She released him and stepped back, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A sharp look forestalled any attempt at speaking, and she seized him by the hair and dragged him over to the cell’s bed. It was more spacious than an ordinary cell cot in order to make room for Loki to be laid across it with his wrists and ankles shackled to the corners, which was how Sif arranged him before unceremoniously straddling him.

“Worship your queen,” she smiled down at him, I am queen and you have failed unspoken but clear, “and I may consider granting you… release.” Not an orgasm, but something, a temporary lull in the ache between his legs, and though the liesmith knew her words for what they were he needed no more encouragement as she settled herself on his face.

WIth her full weight on his face and Loki himself suitably restrained, Sif did not hold back her moans as he obeyed her to the fullest. Fingers locked in his hair, she let herself fantasize: showing off her pet to the court, the Avengers, drinking in their amazement as their former enemy knelt submissively at her feet. It could never be so simple, of course, but just as she dreamed of Thor learning subtlety to match his power, she could dream of sharing this secret, gifting the world with his glorious, obedient tongue.

Not that she minded Thor’s approach to things, not while she could also have Loki bound and compliant and so very nimble beneath her, she thought, and at last she came with a cry, clamping her legs around Loki’s head and smothering him between her legs, his tongue still working as she rode out the shivering waves of her orgasm. This was Loki’s purpose—his bound cock was a leash, nothing more—and Thor could bring her pleasure in so many other ways, but nonetheless she craved this absolute control. When Loki set foot outside the dungeon again, it would be because he had learned to do nothing whatsoever, even weave his never-ending schemes, without the blessing and control.

When her strength returned, she lifted herself off of Loki and rearranged his bonds again, leaving him gagged and kneeling just as he had been when she entered. He had learned not to protest or beg; that was progress. In time, he would learn obedience as well as silence and devotion, and when he was finally hers—well, at least she would be truthful when she promised to consider letting him come. But his pleasure would be nothing, then, compared to belonging to the queen of Asgard.

Chapter Text

The artifact didn’t look like Reaper tech. According to all the scans they could run on it, it was completely inert, or at least nothing that threatened to Indoctrinate them. Even so, Ashley felt… uneasy whenever she went down to talk to Liara. It wasn’t an unpleasant uneasiness, which in some ways made it more disturbing, but for all that she promised herself that she would avoid the alien archaeologist’s quarters she somehow kept finding herself back there, shuffling her feet while Liara prattled nervously about some aspect of Prothean culture until the tension grew too thick and she fled again.

The pattern couldn’t continue. The awkwardness got worse every time, Ashely’s eyes finding themselves drawn to the curve of Liara’s considerable chest or lingering on the hint of her backside beneath her field coat, the waxy sheen of her jawline, her mind wondering what it would feel like to clamp her fingers around the asari’s crest as her body wracked itself with pleasure. At the same time, it grew harder and harder to avoid Liara, and especially her cabin, and in the back of her mind (because she certainly didn’t think about it anywhere else) Ashley knew something was going to give.

When, the next time she entered Liara’s quarters, Ashley found herself pinned against the wall by a hand on her neck and a biotic field around her body, she was not—entirely—surprised or alarmed. She was surprised, certainly, and terrified in the initial moment, but the heat between her legs burned away everything but appreciation for Liara’s dominating touch.

If Ashley were honest with herself—and she certainly wasn’t lying, although she also wasn’t quite doing anything as sophisticated as thinking—what Liara was doing to her felt absolutely incredible. Blue fingers delved under the waistband of her BDUs and pulled keening moans from her throat while Liara kissed and nipped along Ashley’s jawline and her free hand groped blindly at the marine’s shirt. 

Liara pressed her lips to Ashley’s, and the human felt her knees buckle as the asari’s tongue pressed between her lips, dominating her tongue with ease. But as much as Liara was the dominant partner, Ashley dropping easily into compliance, she was no more in control of herself than Ashley was, greedily pulling at her hair and clothes, desperately seeking the feedback of the other’s pleasure.

For Ashley, that pleasure was not long in coming. Helpless before Liara’s sudden fierce strength and overwhelmed by the delight her own body took in being so totally controlled, she came with a wailing cry, contracting herself around Liara’s thrusting fingers as the rest of her sagged bonelessly against her unexpected lover. Liara responded by changing her focus, finally doing away with Ashley’s top with a biotic warp that atomized the fabric and lavishing attention on her breasts, fingers and teeth and tongue stoking her pleasure until she hovered on the edge, biotic fields lighting up her nerves beyond what the most talented physical touches could do, and all Ashley wanted was to collapse into Liara’s power.

Sensing her eagerness, Liara placed one hand on each side of Ashley’s face, her biotics continuing what her hands and mouth could not, and as Ashley moaned with pleasure, surrendering completely to the power that pervaded her body, overwhelming her with arousal and wiping her mind of conscious thought. She knew only the irresistible sensations of Liara’s dominance and her own submission, her own helplessness and Liara’s power to drown her in euphoria. And, awash herself in Ashley’s pleasure, Liara could scarcely focus enough to murmur, “ Embrace eternity.

Their minds merged, and Ashley was swept away completely.

Chapter Text

The demon facing Alynna Brightvale, paladin of the Order of Eternal Flame, was certainly larger and more powerful than any she had faced before—she was not quite six feet tall, her foe perhaps over seven—but for all his cruel magic and rude brawn, she was certain she could take him. Every thrust and slash of Alynna’s sword was met with a last-second parry with force or fire, and though she had yet to draw blood, she had kept the monster entirely on the defensive.

That the confident smirk had never faded from beneath his burning eyes escaped her notice, at least until the end of a whip wrapped around her throat from behind and caught itself, holding her as if it were a collar and leash. Alynna cried out as she fell to her knees, her sword clattering on the ground, her power to resist and dispel the works of demons—power granted her by a direct connection to the great Erina, the sun goddess who ruled and protected the western kingdoms—suddenly fading as if her bond with the goddess had been cut with some metaphysical knife.

“Not cut,” the demon she had been fighting chuckled, stroking her chin; the contact produced a rush of pleasure, and Alynna fought down a moan. Slaying these abominations was her entire purpose, surely they could not vanquish her so easily! Yet the massive cock of the beast drew her eye inexorably as it waved in front of her, and she found herself wishing for an opportunity to taste it.

“We have simply claimed you,” a softer voice continued, and Alynna found her gaze drawn up to behold a gorgeous woman—a succubus, part of her mind noted, though little of the rest of her cared—looking down at her with an amused and condescending smile, lazily stroking a hard cock almost as large as the first demon’s. “Like tying off a limb with a tourniquet. Your powers will return when they are useful to us, and you will be most grateful for the opportunity to serve us.”

Alynna wanted to deny it, to insist that she would never fall to whatever temptation or torture these demons had to offer, but she knew in her core that was a lie. Her body ached to be fucked, yearned for the pleasure that would drag her mind down into the abyss of pleasure and submission. The first demon’s tail flicked between her legs, and she moaned aloud, too distracted to wonder where her armor and clothing had gone. She wanted more, wanted his tail inside her, wanted to be fucked and to fall.

“I’m surprised one this weak made it so far,” the woman mused to her partner. He laughed, and Alynna’s face burned with humiliation—and greater arousal. The demoness flicked her whip, still wound around Alynna’s neck, and in a wave of motion and magic it transformed into a leather collar and a leash. Alynna was pulled forward, falling onto her hands and crawling after her Mistress to an odd bench, which she was placed across with her legs spread and her hands bound behind her back.

She was not asked if she wanted to suck her Mistress’ cock, although Alynna knew she was desperate enough—she was calling the demon Mistress already, and they hadn’t even started fucking her. Instead, the demon who would soon be her Mistress, because Alynna knew she would break and was almost looking forward to it by now, hazy and aching with lust and desperate to belong to someone with power, shoved her cock into her mouth, fucking her throat as she coughed and did her best to suck it properly.

The first demon, her soon-to-be Master, had positioned himself behind her, still teasing between her legs with his tail as he thrust himself slowly into her ass. She could hardly fit him, but of course he was a demon, and the way he stretched her and filled her deeper than ever brought pleasure that broke her faith completely. She tried to moan, but the sound was muffled by her Mistress’ cock filling her mouth, and she found herself caught between two exquisite ways of being overwhelmed as her Master increased his pace to match her Mistress. 

Every thrust from her owners filled her a little beyond her human limits, and every bit that she could take only with their control increased her pleasure. Then Master added his tail, and Alynna came immediately. She was their slave, their fucktoy, their mindless human pet, and she hungered to be used. Tendrils of power looped around her legs and torso, suspending her in the air, and in the absence of the bench Mistress’ tail began to caress and slap Alynna’s hanging, sensitive breasts. Both her owners continued to fuck her, her Mistress’ cock seeming to brush away a thought with every thrust into Alynna’s eager face, her Master filling her from below and drowning the rest of her mind in pleasure.

She came again, and as her owners continued to fuck her the pleasure and the drowning of her thoughts seemed to increase their intensity. Mistress’ tail lightly pinched her breasts and she came again, harder, and the pleasure increased again and again as she came again and again, the only soreness in her body somehow the ache for more. But Alynna, riding the crests of a thousand surging waves of pleasure, had stopped thinking about that, or about anything at all, her mind a puddle of submission so deep she had lost, at least consciously, even her desperation to be used.

Then Mistress came down her throat, and Master came in her ass, and a fresh, colossal, mind-breaking climax overtook her, leaving only an obedient thrall with a paladin’s body kneeling before her owners.

“I did enjoy that,” Mistress smiled at Master, “but I think I’ll let you keep her. You played the distraction, after all, and I still have that adventuring party to finish breaking in.”

Master returned the smile, pulling the mindfucked warrior by the hair to kneel at his feet.

“Most gracious, Vae. Now, pet, what shall I do with you?”

His pet smiled up at him happily, her gratitude increasing as echoes of her old memories slowly returned. “Whatever you want me to be, Master. I belong entirely to you.”

Chapter Text

Annabelle Kenson was, arguably, the greatest monster-hunter of her generation. She was certainly one of the most admired, thanks to the inimitable combination of her skills as a tracker, fighter, and strategist with her honey-blonde hair, cloud-grey eyes, and generous curves on a body strong and agile beyond the limits of ordinary humans. Trained from adolescence, the twenty-three-year-old had a world-threatening monster’s head on her belt (metaphorically, of course, since they tended to disintegrate on death and would be macabre and cumbersome in any case) for every year since she had reached adulthood and become a real hunter.

However, it might have been more proper to say that Annabelle Kenson had been the greatest monster-hunter of her generation, since it seemed rather unlikely that she would ever take up that profession again. Her armor lay some fifty feet below her, discarded by the vines that bound and fucked her, and her mind, if it still existed, was much, much farther away.

Annabelle had come to the place of her reconstruction in pursuit of a minor pack of goblins, oddly malevolent trooping faeries that had been causing problems for the local mortals—not that they knew the reason for their distress. She had followed them into a deep glen, and realized too late that they had strayed into the Feywild. Then the goblin trail vanished, and Annabelle knew it was only a matter of time before the local fey-lord took care of her, too.

Vines sprang to life sooner than she expected, and in an instant she was pulled to her knees, arms held tight behind her while impossibly sharp thorns sliced away her cuirass, gauntlets, and greaves. She prayed to her patron goddess, the wily Athena, but knew no help could come to her while she was trapped in another’s domain. As the floral tendrils threw her clothes away she broke free—not with any real hope, but instinctively—and ran for her life. Hardly had she taken a step, though, when new tendrils snarled her ankles, and yet another drove itself between her thighs, and she collapsed to her hands and knees in sudden ecstasy. 

More vines curled around her, suddenly comforting, encircling her hanging breasts and holding her in place as she tried in vain to fuck herself harder, scarcely comprehending and certainly not caring how everything—her mission, her purpose, her very name—grew fainter and foggier as the pleasure increased. She opened her mouth to moan and more tentacles entered, thrusting themselves down her throat, as others pressed against her asshole and filled her beyond the limits of sensation. 

Her body and mind were primed for new ecstatic violations, ready and desperate to be brought to new heights and depths in one explosive moment after another, but it was not to be. The pleasure and helplessness, which only exacerbated the pleasure, sawed at her, constricted her, opened her, unraveled her, yet held her inescapably on the brink. She writhed and moaned and pleaded wordlessly—she would have spoken, were her mouth free and her mind not already drowned in pleasure—but no matter how close her captor drew her, she remained—however overwhelmed and desperate and lust-fogged—stubbornly herself. But if she could not escape into pleasure, she could use her thoughts, perhaps, to escape them, to embrace her helpless obedience, this gift of being brainwashed by some unknown, overpowering deity.

And suddenly, the pleasure stopped. The vines did not withdraw, but their motion and the overpowering pleasure of their presence fell away and Annabelle realized that she was herself again, and that she was no longer kneeling but suspended in midair, her arms behind her back and—oh. Still being fucked below the waist, and quite well at that even if—even if it wasn’t so mind-blanking as it had been a few moments ago—not quite, but still very, very good.

A soft, sharp-nailed hand stroking her cheek brought the slave-girl out of her reverie. The goddess who owned her now stood before her, clad only in a mockery of human undergarments. Hair the color of brilliant fall leaves cascaded in ripples to her waist, and eyes like fathomless highland springs captured Anna’s eyes and silenced every thought behind them. The vines around her breasts began rhythmically contracting again, and the buxom blonde opened her mouth in pleasure—only to instinctively close her lips as the goddess inserted her fingers for her to suck.

The vines in her lower half picked up again, and she strained involuntarily against her bonds as her muscles tried disobediently to contract in a full-body shudder. The goddess pinched her nipple and fresh pleasure bloomed throughout her body, stilling every part of her as it spread. She was being claimed, she knew, repurposed by her goddess to be a perfect slave in payment for her transgression. Soon, if she proved her worth—and she knew she would, she could be as perfectly obedient as she would be perfectly thoughtless, and her muscles and curves were the envy of any mortal, the perfect toy for any god—she would remain here forever, with no sense of self or worry, only the perfect pleasure of perfect, mindless obedience.

Her face was pressed between the goddess’s legs and she began licking with devoted joy, the musky scent and honeyed taste further eroding her consciousness as she worked desperately to return a fraction of the pleasure that filled and overfilled her. Every part of her body resounded with pleasure, most of all the empty, thoughtless void of her mind.

Taleira Nouanthea, queen of the Leimonysia fey-glen, threw back her head and cried aloud as her newest mindless fucktoy brought her over the edge. The high nymph had benefited from the monster-hunter’s work in the past, but she had the right to exact payment for such a trespass on her domain, engineered though it may have been. Other heroes would arise, a few of them, too, destined to join their lost legend in service to the fey-lords; meanwhile, the woman who had once been Annabelle Kenson would remain, as perfect as the day she had discovered her true purpose, hanging like the most desirable fruit ever conceived from the branches of the glen. Perhaps, Taleira thought as she drew her new pet up to her display position, she could even loan her out to resolve some old debts with a few other fey-lords.

Anna would love it, after all. And one of them might even let her come.

Chapter Text

Natasha Romanova may have serious issues with teamwork, Stephen Strange considers, or at least that’s the impression Stark gave with his account of Berlin. But subsequent events—namely the near-annihilation of half the universe—did more than anyone could have imagined to heal old wounds, and his overriding impression of the veteran Avenger at the moment is that, as attractive as she is in tactical gear, she is even more so on her knees, wearing nothing but bondage gear and a custom leather collar.

Specifically, the Russian’s hands were cuffed behind her back, her breasts encircled by a leather harness, her erect nipples clamped and joined by a silver chain, and her ankles shackled, while a large ball-gag filled her mouth, turning her attempts to moan into muffled whines. In addition to the general appreciability of her lithe musculature and pert, generous curves, her dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, and rapid breathing all spoke to her anticipation in a way Stephen found particularly gratifying. 

With a wave of his hand, the sorcerer ignited a candle on the room’s single small shelf, allowing Natasha’s eyes to flicker from him to the candle before he flicked his fingers to tie a black cloth around her eyes. He debated adding a vibrator between her gymnastically parted legs, but decided against it for now; she didn’t need the extra stimulation, and letting her focus one one thing at a time might make the later stages easier to get through without breaking the rules.

The ball-gag was definitely a good idea, though, or else he’d have strongly considered forgetting the candle and simply fucking her face. Natasha let out a soft whine, scarcely audible, and he watched her for a moment before moving again.

“Ready?” She nodded, and he levitated the candles, letting them circle her in one direction as he paced around her in the other. 

After a moment, he reached down to run his fingers through her hair, enjoying the quiet inhalation, the way she tensed slightly at the contact, before relaxing as he simply stroked her head, almost petting her. Then he tightened his grip—not painfully, but enough to make her tense again as he lifted her hair out of the way and a drop of wax spilled down her back.

She cried out, the harsh noise captured by her gag and translated into a melodic plea, and Stephen tilted the other two candles to drop their beads across her breasts. She jerked involuntarily in her bonds, pulling against his grip on her hair, as the molten wax rolled down her chest, almost to her clamped nipples. 

“Stay calm for me, Natasha,” Stephen murmured, reaching down with his free hand, “that’s a good girl. Let go of your thoughts and be in the moment.” His fingers glistened with the touch of ice, and Natasha moaned into her gag as he stroked the underside of her breast, tracing a melting path up to her nipple before tugging lightly on her chain. She moaned again, and he let more wax drip across her, teasing the valley between her breasts as he released her hair, instead holding her head back with a gentle hold on her neck from behind, the way one restrained a dog.

“Good girl,” he repeated, letting the chill of his touch settle into her as he teased her other breast. She moaned, thrusting her chest forward as he circled her nipple with a frost-coated finger, then yelped into her gag as more wax dripped across her thighs. Swiftly, he knelt beside her, following the wax paths along her legs with melting ice, until he reached their ends and slipped one hand between her thighs. Her muffled cries grew louder and more insistent as she bucked against his hand, but held back insistently, ghosting his fingers across the apex of her thighs.

“Patience, pet,” he murmured, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. Moving back and standing up, he gestured, and her handcuffs parted, rose above her head, and rejoined, pulling here into a standing position and then higher, forcing her to rest only on the balls of her feet. 

Circling Natasha again, Stephen reminded himself to heed his own words as his nails left a trail of stinging cold across her ass. They had only gotten started.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne crouched atop the Wayne Industries tower, peering out across his city. Gotham was closer to the infernal realms than most other places on Earth, and on this day of the year the barrier was always thinnest. Factions innumerable cast their eyes toward Gotham as a way to corrupt the world of men, or as a cesspool that had to be destroyed no matter the cost, and all of them had to be stopped.

Tonight, his gaze was fixed on the greenhouse complex near the southeastern edge of the city. The buildings were owned by half a dozen companies, all of which he had determined to be subsidiaries of a single corporation, unimaginatively titled Sargassum Holdings. Halfway across the city, he could see the dense-packed leaves that brushed the tops of the greenhouses, but the details of what went on inside, under the canopy, were shrouded in mystery, even to him. The broad strokes, however, were obvious enough, so the Batman—mortal he might be, but the demons themselves had learned to fear him—leapt from his perch and glided on the stiff wings of his cape toward the Sargassum compound.

He landed almost silently, his footsteps so faint as to be imperceptible under the leaflike rustling of his cloak. With careful steps, he moved across the glass rooftops in search of an unexpected entry point, eyes alert for any sign of what was going on below.

He found both sooner than he expected. Near the center of the complex, impossible to see from the outside, a window into an addition had been left ajar, and he slipped quietly into the atrium superlevel: glass still separated him from the ground floor, but he could see beneath himself more clearly as the canopy-providing plants ascended through a few holes in the lower ceiling—taking up too much space for him to shimmy down—to block observers from above the compound, but not, or not completely, from the upper floor.

But far more shocking than the convenient entryway he’d found was what the sparser growth below him now revealed: a goddess, or an avatar so close that the difference, for Bruce, was negligible. Her skin was as green as the leaves of the plants around her and almost entirely exposed, contrasting brilliantly with her hair, which was the color of autumn leaves. And shocking beyond the appearance of the goddess was who knelt before her: a large-breasted blonde instantly recognizable as the chaotic Harley Quinn, and his own protegés, Batgirl, also known as Barbara Gordon, and Nightwing, Dick Grayson.

All three were completely naked and clearly aroused—Nightwing most obviously, but he could see the signs for Barbara and Harley as well. There was a glassy, greenish sheen to their eyes, as well, if Bruce had needed any more evidence that the goddess had his apprentices under some sort of control. Whatever it was, it was clearly potent and fast, he thought as he adjusted the crotch of his suit: he hadn’t even realized Dick and Barbara were missing, and he had personally trained them in countless techniques to keep control of their minds.

More surprising still was when a vine suddenly shifted its position next to him and shattered the glass beneath his feet. He braced for a rough landing, trying to identify a perch to grapple to, but his fall was suddenly halted by a greater tangle of vines, which brought him to a kneeling position on the ground, between Dick and Barbara and staring up at the green goddess.

“Welcome, slave,” she smiled down at him with moss-green lips. Her voice was inarguably that of a goddess, and his cock twitched at the way she addressed him as though his submission was a foregone conclusion. That, he realized, was what had made his suit uncomfortable before, as the goddess continued, “I am the Lady of the Green, but I understand that the whispers you may have heard have called me Poison Ivy.” 

The corners of beautiful lips twitched upward, and Bruce smiled in clueless, sympathetic amusement as she added, “It matters not. All you need to know, for the short time you have left to know anything at all, is that I am your Queen.”

She stroked his chin, filling his nose with a heady mix of spices, and he nodded as much as he could without resisting her touch. She was his Queen; it was good to be certain of that, at least. A persistent part of the back of his mind realized that her smell had to contain pheromones, some sort of compound that was bending him to her will. His smile widened, and he inhaled again, more deeply.

His Queen laughed, a sound like the music of the heavens, as he nuzzled her hand. 

“Demon-boy, mouthy bitch,” she commanded to someone, or someones, beyond the periphery of his muzzy awareness, “go fuck each other some more. Have a competition for who can break the other’s brain through her pussy or something, good little fucktoys.” Rationally, Bruce knew that Barbara—a human, like him—would be unable to withstand Dick’s unleashed, or rather retrained, demonic powers. The part of his brain that knew he was in the same boat simply commented, Good for her, then.

“Now, Harley,” the Queen sized Bruce by the throat, hauling him up and back into a sitting position without giving him an inch to move on his own, keeping his blue eyes locked on and lost in her jungle-deep green ones, “why don’t you be a good little bimbo for me and suck this gentleman’s brain out through his cock for me, hm?”

The Lady of the Green may have trimmed away every part of her personality that made Harley Quinn who she was on her own, but, as she started the same process on him, Bruce had to admit that the new version was every bit as impressive, and far more enjoyable.