My first thought is, ‘Is she even going to try to fight back?’
Because she’s just lying there. Covered in those barbaric tattoos, back arched, writhing like a worm on a hook. Gods, what a… a tight, nubile body. I can’t help but admire it, biting my lip, even as I marvel at the display.
This is the witch who broke the baron’s mind, the foul mage who created the wax woman that turned our captain into a monster. She’s locked herself in the baron’s bedroom, surrounded by crimson candles, and this is what she’s doing?
Just… stroking herself?
My second thought is, ‘Gods, it stinks in here.’ Sex and musk. It’s a heady scent, and my head swims as I enter. But I see Jaspen hesitate, leaning against the wall for support, and I roll my eyes. Rookie.
But as I take another step into the room, I swallow. The smells get stronger and heavier the further in we go. Some of the other guards are stumbling, too.
The witch lets out a loud moan. Her voice is thick and cloying with pure, unadulterated joy. I try to keep it out of my head, to recover and advance.
The smell isn’t so bad, I tell myself. Thick and strong, but with an undercurrent of sweetness. A thought flashes unbidden into my head of spreading the witch’s legs wide, of tasting the source of that heady smell…
I shake it off and walk forward.
“Guenile of the Quill,” my comrade Mitton proclaims, taking a deep breath, “You are under arr—”
“Aaah!” The witch looks up at us, giving a weak grin. Her fingers probe beneath her black panties as wet sounds emit from her quivering form. “S-sorry. Cont… mmm… cunt-inue.” She gives a little giggle at her joke, followed by a little wriggle.
My third thought is, ‘Magic really must fry someone’s mind, huh?’
I mean, really. After all she’s done, this is what she’s reduced to? We came here expecting some sort of climactic fight. Some of us made arrangements with our families!
I can’t really blame her—for this, anyway. Her fingers are working with exquisite technique. Her fingers are slender and dextrous, soft and smooth, and she seems to be driving her whole body closer and closer to the edge with every long, loving stroke. Her moans are getting thicker, more animalistic. Oh, gods, she’s just melting from pleasure.
My cock throbs at the sight, and my nipples tingle as I watch her other hand paw at her own breasts.
I bite my lip harder, squirming slightly in my suddenly heavy armor. I haven’t had the chance to see to my, erm, womanly needs since the night before, when all this started. Watching her assail herself with such intoxicating pleasure, I can’t help but imagine my own fingers around my needy, sensitive cock, stroking with that perfect rhythm, pinching my own nipples…
I hear a faint moan. Turning back, I see Jaspen’s hand on his crotch, squeezing his dick through his armor, his face sweaty and eyes wide.
“Jaspen!” Mitton barks. “W-what are you…”
A whimper interrupts him, as to our right, Lucralia drops her halberd and falls to her knees. She is mewling as she frantically strips her armor off, and her own sweet scent fills the chamber.
Mitton and I exchange looks.
And then the witch’s gasps and moans hit a new octave, and she whispers, “Oh please, oh, please, please-please—yes-yes-yes!”
My knees nearly fold beneath me as wonderful bliss blossoms within my mind. And my fourth thought is…
‘How does it feel so good?’
It feels like a hand is touching me. A soft, smooth, nimble hand. Stroking me. Playing with my breasts. My breath catches in my throat as lust flows through my brain like the rising tide, pulling more sand away each time, stripping the beach… to… to whatever lies beneath the beach.
Emptiness beneath the deep, deep waves.
I hear more soldiers collapsing behind me. Jaspen is loudly stroking himself. Mitton has fallen this knees, whining, struggling to keep control. A chorus of moans and squeals and gasps sounds all around me. My already weakening head is swiftly being filled with promises of easy delight.
I take a step towards the witch, even as my shaking hands, unbidden, unstrap my armor, and suddenly my underwear is all that separates my cock from the open air. It is twitching, desperate to be freed. My hand rests on it, still separated by cloth, and lazily squeezes and strokes.
My heart is beating rapidly. I have to stop. I know I have to stop. I need to stop. But I also need to stroke. My chest is heaving with effort. I need to stroke. Need to be… need to be a good girl…
With my free hand, I raise my sword. I must cut quite a dramatic figure—half-naked, hand on my cock, lips quivering, my sword raised to strike this temptress down.
She looks up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her lips curve up in a sly smile. “Silly girl.”
I swallow. I try to steel myself to strike, even as I hear Mitton give a loud moan, realize I am the last. The very last.
“My pleasure,” Guenile breathes, “is yours.” She laps her tongue over her painted red lips. I lick my own lips, tingling with sensation.
“My pain,” she gasps, still stroking, still building herself—myself—up, “is yours.” She pinches her nipple. I barely hold in a yelp.
I stand there, shaking, sword at the ready as she smiles dreamily up at me. “So strong,” she whispers, dragging her finger lazily across her slit. I am stroking my cock through the fabric. “But it’s so hard to resist, isn’t it? Horny little girl.”
She pinches her nipple again. Drags her fingers over her underarm, and as I let out an involuntarily giggle, her lips quirk upwards. “Ticklish, are we? Oh, that’s adorable.”
“P-please…” I do not see the sword clatter from my hands. I do not even hear it. I am lost in her dark, pitiless eyes.
Her right index finger delicately strokes her clit. Her left hand reaches out, and to my horror, slips into mine and pulls it away from my cock.
“You don’t need that,” she coos sweetly. “All you need is me, my sweet girl. I can make you so—so h-happy.”
I am shaking. Weakly, I try to pull my hand back, letting out an involuntary whine.
She giggles. “Now, now. Cum with me, pet. Cum with me.” Her back arches, and she stars to pant. I start to pant. “Cum with me. Cum. Cum now. C-cum—cum—cum—”
She lets out a squeal, a squeal that is echoed throughout the room as the pleasure rushes through her like a tsunami. It tears my mind apart like a paper raft.
I fall to the ground. She is squeezing my hand, crying out, moaning and laughing in total ecstasy.
She is swimming in it. I am drowning in it.
My head sinking into the smell of her sex, the flood of her pleasure, I pull myself up. My knees quake as I stare down at her, my cock throbbing. I still have not come.
With Mistress, I’ll never need to.
She smiles up at me and allows me to faint into her arms. Her embrace is possessive, but it is also tender.
“I have to go soon,” she coos in my ear, as she continues to stroke herself, as I continue to whimper and buck. “People here don’t like me anymore. But you like me, don’t you?”
“Y-yes,” I hear myself gasp.
She giggled. “Good girl. I love pets like you. You wanna come with me, don’t you?”
I’m not sure what she means by that. I don’t care. I whimper and nod and kiss her breast, and we both tremble in pleasure.
“We have some time yet,” she whispers, caressing my cheek. “So come with me, pet.”
And my last thought is a mess of gibbered adoration.
It is customary for any mindweaver of any meaningful standing to claim a title related to their main aspect of mind control. Members of the Weavers’ Guild often eschew this mark of status, for reasons unknown.
Guenile of the Quill is a fairly well-known witch with a particular knack for work with ink and tattoos, as well as sensory links between herself and her pets. Her title, however, is rumored to be less about inkwork and more about a few of her favorite pets’ particular love for feathers.