The camp was set up quickly: a cleared circle of ground for the fire, one tent for the soldiers and another for the hunter. His was larger — a horse had been hobbled in the clearing before their final pursuit, left carrying tents and supplies. Sofya watched it all, sat under the watchful gaze of one of the soldiers.

When it was done, the hunter beckoned her into his tent and gestured her guard away. The interior was plain, but spacious, with ample room to stand, and lit by that unnaturally constant silver light. A few objects lay on the ground: a small chest a, bedding roll, a folded chair. Her heart thudded as he looked at her, saying nothing, his eyes cold.

They stood for long seconds before he broke the silence. “Do you know why I’ve brought you in here?” Sofya didn’t answer immediately, but just looked at him. Finally, she replied,

“I can guess.” He nodded.

“Mmm. You’d be wrong. Let me ask you another question: Do you know why your hands are bound?” Sofya looked instinctively at her wrists, her arms looking strange in the light. Again she paused before replying.

“To give you time to react if I try something. You can’t hold my mind all the time.”

“Exactly. Even if I had the energy and power to maintain the spell indefinitely, I still need to sleep. I’m glad you’re not stupid. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to explain this to some of you.” Sofya just watched him. “So, why are you here?” he took a half step towards her, his hands behind his back, and she tried not to flinch.

“I do not know.”

“Very well, I will explain the rest. Do not interpret what I say next as a boast; it is just a fact. I have to keep very meticulous records. I have run after exactly four dozen of your kind—”

“MY kind?” Sofya burst out at him,“you’re just the sam—” and was cut off. The sudden presence in her mind was uncomfortable but ineluctable.

“You will not interrupt me again,” said the hunter, calmly, as if he were describing a change in the weather. Sofya felt the presence recede and gasped involuntarily, but said nothing more. “Good. I have run after exactly four dozen of your kind. Of those, I have caught up to thirty nine. Of those thirty nine, I have returned all but one to the Duke’s palace. You are going to be forty. You are not going to be two.” He seemed to be studying her face for a response before he carried on. “The purpose of bringing you in here is twofold. The first purpose has to do with your guess — there are certain expectations from the men, you see. The second is to demonstrate why you are not going to escape again now that I have you. Even though I cannot at all times control you.

“I’m going to untie you now. I will then release my hold on you and you will have your chance. And you will fail.” Without waiting for a reply she felt him slip back into her mind — it was so easy for him! - and she watched herself present her wrists to him. The warning seemed to make it less uncomfortable, but silently she railed and struggled against his hold on her, even as he unknotted the rope. It was like struggling against an old oak.

Once her hands were free he took two steps back and she again felt the intrusion recede, leaving her in control of her own body once more. He looked at her expectantly, but she didn’t do anything immediately, considering the situation. She pretended to inspect the red marks where the ropes had made themselves felt while she thought. She still held the rope, perhaps she could throttle him? He’d expect be expecting a magical attack… She had to be fast: she knew she had next to no chance, but there must be some avenue he hadn’t thought of.

With time short, she took the next idea that came to her and, with a sudden burst of movement, flung the rope directly at his face and summoned as much power as she could to blast his mind, to knock him out and give her time to subdue him permanently and escape.

He let the rope hit him in the face and Sofya felt her spell splash against a wall of force. Even as she realised her attempt at distraction had failed, she was reaching for the neck of her tunic, pulling it over her head and dropping it to the floor. She looked at him, her chest heaving slightly. “Oh,” she breathed, numbly.

“Yes. ‘Oh.’” Sofya looked down to where her hand was moving insistently in her breeches. Oh. She didn’t think she’d ever been so aroused, couldn’t quite comprehend what she was feeling or the complete control she was under so soon after her attempt at resistance. Pleasure radiated through her body from her fingertips, suffusing it, her eyes fluttering closed. She couldn’t tell if it was the hunter’s control or the pleasure that made it difficult to think, difficult to remember how this had started. “I am going to ask you to do a number of things,” he said, drawing her limited attention away from the pleasure. “You will not want to do them, of course, and I cannot make you want to — that comes later. So you have a choice, in a way. You can do what I ask willingly, shameful though it will be, or you can let me… make the choice for you. You will have resisted, which may provide you with some small comfort before such things are no longer relevant. Only know this: if that is the choice you make, you can be sure the things I make you do will be far more shameful.”

Sofya just about understood through the fog of magic, arousal and pleasure, what he was saying, but he continued, speaking softly now. “In a way I’m sorry. This is a…” his hand twirled in the air as he searched for the word, “… crude way of demonstrating this. But I really, really want you to realise how hopeless it is. And the men… they really, really expect to hear me fucking you.” He moved away from Sofya, who still stood, one hand in her breeches and the other desperately grasping one small breast, quivering on the spot. He unfolded the chair and sat in it, facing her. “But my wife wouldn’t like that, and I have no need of it. So, I will just watch.” He gave this speech in the banal tones one might use to explain one’s choice of one style of stitching over another. “Now,” he said, after watching her in silence for a few seconds, “remove your breeches.”

In her daze, Sofya started to obey instinctively, but something stopped her. She remembered his threat, but could not bring herself to submit so easily, her hand hovering by the hem. She opened her eyes, looking at him with desperation in them, not daring to speak for fear of what noise she might produce. “Hmm?” was all the reply he gave. A few moments later, she balled her fist. She couldn’t give in. But no sooner had she done so, than was it opening again, and her other hand withdrew to help it. And instead of simply pulling the garment down quickly, the intrusion in her mind had her draw it out, bending at the waist and sensuously sliding the rough material down her slender legs. “Mmm. You understand what I mean now, yes?” Yes.

“Turn around.” This time, she did as he said, but the next command followed as soon as she was facing him again. “Resume pleasuring yourself.”

“No,” she whispered. With his single gesture though, she was languourously sliding three fingers into herself and rolling one nipple between the fingers of her other hand.

“Moan loudly.” By now she was biting her tongue to stop herself crying out in pleasure, and was not sure she could have disobeyed if she’d wanted; the moan escaped her lips almost before he’d finished the instruction. Though she tried to deny him, the pleasure… that would not be denied. It was building inexorably and she was no longer sure she wanted to stop it.

The commands kept coming: “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it!”

“Move your fingers faster.”

She did.

“Beg for release.”

“Please! Let me…”

“Slap yourself.”

Her cheek stung.

“Pull your nipple.”

They pulsed with pain and pleasure.

“Stop moving. Start again. Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love it!” I love it? At some point Sofya lost track of why she was obeying — was it because of the magic? Because of the consequences? Or did she just want to? It stopped mattering until he ordered her to stop and then… said nothing else. She realised her eyes had closed of their own accord and, upon opening them, saw him standing quite close. He brought his mouth to her ear and whispered, “one last thing before I let you go.” He paused, letting Sofya quiver with need and anticipation. “I won’t use magic to force you — I’ll just wait.”

After a few moments in which Sofya gathered what remained of her ability to talk, she said, “w-what is it?”

“Bring yourself to climax. Let the whole camp know how good it was.”

It did not take her long. Under the leering, jeering gazes of the soldiers as she was forced to re-dress outside the tent, it was made quite clear she had, indeed, let them all know.

An hour or so more passed like this — silent riding, the manor growing larger — before they were near enough. Comfortably within bowshot if that had been their method. From here it was clear that this was no ordinary country estate of some petty noble from which to order peasants around and terrorise the local rabbit population with hawks. They crouched by a gate in a tall boundary wall, and though the central house itself was fine and beautiful, something about the lay of its stones felt oppressive. The grounds were adorned with nothing more than an avenue of trees stretching to the main entrance off to their right, and pairs of soldiers stood and patrolled around. It was by now early evening, and the golden light of the setting sun contrasted starkly with long, threatening shadows.

The cloaked man looked at her meaningfully and she gave a nod. From within his cloak he pulled a small paper packet, which he hurriedly shoved into the gate’s lock. Motioning for Sofya to stay where she was, he produced a taper and inserted it as well. At his look, the end of the taper smouldered and then flamed into life.

Content with this, he closed his eyes in concentration. Seconds later, sweat was beading on his brow with effort, and a grunt of exertion passed his clenched teeth. His efforts were rewarded by a low rumbling which grew louder, rolling and crashing until, through the gate, she saw it: a swathe of earth a mile or so off on the far side of the estate was inflating and rising, soldiers in the grounds running either towards or away. The ground’s movement slowed for a moment and then ear-splitting sound rent the air as the earth parted, giving vent to an almighty gout of smoke and steam which shot high into the sky.

Their ears still ringing, his tunic now sweat-drenched, her companion motioned to Sofya again. The gate’s lock, forgotten in the tumult, was a smoking ruin, and a few firm shoves got the thing open. Then she was dashing towards the manor, just one more running figure in the chaos if any of the guards might look away from the hole in the ground, still belching smoke, which had no doubt swallowed several of their friends.

It didn’t take long to reach the imposing building. Sofya slowed to a hurried walk and circled to her left to approach from its rear, avoiding those running to and fro at its front. Memorised plans guided her to an open servant’s entrance, into a low corridor then narrow staircase and finally into an upstairs room.

The journey back to Felsberg started at dawn. Sofya had surprised herself by falling asleep almost immediately, too exhausted from her ordeals for them to keep her awake. She sat at the foot of a tree as the camp broke around her.

The forest had an austere beauty, the morning mist clinging jealously to it, that was lost amid the bustle. To the soldiers, this was just another mission, a job to be done. One delivered Sofya bread and water, another came to untie her feet. Her hands, just as Direk had implied, remained bound. As the striking of the camp neared completion, he saddled and mounted the horse; everyone else was on foot. Evidently there were some perks to turning on your kind.

The pace was moderate, unhurried. The men chatted in low voices — relaxed but disciplined. At all times, at least one had an eye on Sofya.

Sofya found it hard to keep her mind focused. Her thoughts flitted from abortive escape plans to dread of what awaited her in the town to flashbacks to the previous night in Direk’s tent. No matter how she tried, how often she told herself it was just his magic, or that it had simply been wrong… she could not deny how good it had felt. Even the memory brought colour to her cheeks and, she wished she could deny, stiffness to her nipples. As for the fate which awaited her… she did dread it, but she could no longer be certain she still would when the time came, and she was kneeling on that scaffold before the town hall.

Each time her mind considered the possibility of escape, it seemed it just contemplated the same scenario: running into the trees a few yards until she felt the pressure slip slickly into her, force her to her knees, force her to bare herself before the men jogging to catch up. An attempt now was pointless, with her guards alert and vigilant. Maybe she’d get a chance at night or during a stop.

Resolved to wait, the mist lifted and morning passed with snatched bits of conversation from the spear- and bowmen: a tale of being swindled by a baker, of loaded dice, of wives and children. Sofya did not want to to hear it. She tried to listen to the sounds of the forest instead, but as yesterday it was strangely quiet. No longer did it promise to keep her secret: now it refused to give her aid. A halt was called for a midday meal, but she remained observed at all times, and the afternoon kept up the pattern.

Darkness fell gradually and the company slowed. There was some disorganised scouting as they had missed a suitable place to pitch their tents, but soon enough Sofya’s ankles were bound once more and she was sitting a short distance outside the ring of soldiers encircling the small fire; they took turns watching her. Without any real plan, she tried to strike up conversation with one of them. “Any chance of some of that?” She nodded her head towards the campfire, where a brace of squirrels and rabbits where spitted and cooking.

“No,” came the bored reply. The soldier’s eyes flicked to the fire and back to Sofya. He was in his thirties, with short dark hair and a neat moustache, as many soldiers still wore.

“Oh come on, there’s more than enough there for me to have a leg,” she wheedled.

“No meat for prisoners.”

“Who made that rule?”

“I don’t care. Shut up.”

“What, no talking for prisoners either?”

“It’s not a rule, I just want you to shut up,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice. Sofya wasn’t sure she was getting anywhere and fell silent. The fire was allowed to die down as the men turned in for the night, one remaining outside the tent to watch Sofya. Annoyed with herself for still having no inspiration at all, she tried to sleep. But unlike the previous night when exhaustion had drawn her swiftly down in its leaden grip, the day of walking had not been enough and she slept fitfully at best.

When she did finally drift away for more than a minute, she was chased through her dreams in a moonlit forest.

What seemed like moments later, she was awake again. Her guard was in the same spot, and still except for the rise and fall of his chest. Sofya sat watching for long minutes, trying to make out his eyes through in the coal-black shadows. It had to be worth the risk. Slowly, as silently as she could, she worked on the rope that bound her feet. It was well-tied but her fingers were nimble, and in only a few minutes she had enough slack to pull one foot free.

Sofya took another long look at the guard before daring to stand up. Slowly she inched away from the camp and into the trees. No sooner was she out of sight of the camp than did she hear shouts and she broke into a run. She had no idea which way she was heading but had no choice but to keep moving. Soon the sounds of pursuit crashed through the forest, and not long after she began to feel pulses of mental contact buffeting her mind. Panic gripped her, but she could tell she was not running quickly enough — it felt like her legs were pushing through syrup. She snatched a glance over her shoulder, realised they were close enough to catch glimpses of — a pale figure ran after her, easily dodging through the trees. As she looked back around, she realised with a shock that there was someone else ahead of her, barely visible in the murk. Instinctively she started to adjust her course to avoid the new danger before she realised it was running away from her. Whom was she chasing through the forest? No matter. She would catch up to them and find out.

She pushed herself as hard as she could, gradually nearing her quarry, but more glances behind her showed her pursuer had closed the distance too. As the gaps narrowed, she felt the anticipation mount higher, her breath coming in ragged pants. She could hear panting from in front and behind, too. She dared one more look — she could make out the female figure more clearly now in a brief patch of moonlight. She didn’t remember any women among the hunter’s party. Another gap in the canopy revealed the runner in front to be female too. Why wasn’t she wearing any clothes while running through the forest? Sofya looked down. Why wasn’t she wearing clothes? It was so confusing. She reached forward, near enough almost to touch the bare back of whomever ran from her, her arousal mounting as her legs pumped. The sound of panting took on its own tinge of arousal. A hand’s breadth separated her fingers from her quarry and she took a last look behind her, to be confronted with her own face staring intently back, twisted in pleasure. It was getting so hard to think, gasping in front of her and behind her, but it didn’t matter — she stretched her arm further and further until her shoulders ached, sprinted as fast as she could until finally, almost lazily…

Sofya started awake as she felt something brush her shoulder. She was panting, and so so turned on. Her hands, still bound, were twisted strangely, as if trying to reach forwards and backwards at the same time. Her guard had an awkward expression visible in the moonlight.

The scene which greeted Sofya inside the room could not have been anticipated. Little was known about the inhabitants who lived and trained at this manor and its grounds beyond rumour and what could be gleaned from the public demonstrations before they were sent here. The room was luxuriously appointed, an enormous, laden bookcase lining one wall, a large fireplace, sumptuous couches, chandeliers and vast windows overlooking the chaos outside.

The dozen or so inhabitants were in various states of dress — some in fine clothes of the latest fashions, but most missing at least some garments that would be required were they to, say, appear at court. Five were in fact completely nude. They all — as far as Sofya could see — had a piece of jewellery sparkling at the top of their pubis, below the navel. Every visible phallus was both large and startlingly erect; every breast seemed achingly full.

Most of the people in the room were at the window, watching – discarded books and embroidery hinted at the shock with which they had gone there. One woman — naked from the waist down — was still reading, a man’s head buried between her thighs. Two others stood opposite each other just to Sofya’s right, hands held carefully at strange angles, fingers crooked, turned to look directly at her. The man wore nothing, the woman only a sheer underskirt.

“Don’t worry!” said Sofya immediately, “I’m here to help.” She tried as best she could to ignore the couplings and unabashed nudity, to focus on her mission.

“Who are you?” asked the man turned to her, suspiciously, “I’ve never seen you before.”

Sofya couldn’t tell him the real reason, tried to stall by repeating herself: “I’m here to help,” and smiling warmly. She stepped towards him, hands outstretched, trying not to let her eye be drawn below his waist. He watched her warily but made no move to stop her, whilst the others in the room mostly ignored her. She reached for his hand, took it in hers and laced fingers with him, closed her eyes, reached out…

She gasped; she could feel it within him. A purple thread deep within his mind. Not woven in — not hard to disentangle, not for the rebellion’s most skilled practitioner of mental magic. A few seconds was all it took and a tug, and it slipped free like silk. Her eyes fluttered open while his were still closed, a shocked expression frozen on his face. It relaxed even as she watched, even as several others in the room looked on in confusion.

“Thank… thank you,” he said at last, releasing her hand and looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Thank you,” he said again, uncertainly. He passed dextrous fingers over the jewel sitting above his cock, and Sofya realised that it appeared to be fused to his flesh, rather than a piercing. As she watched, the sparkle in it dimmed. For his part, the man seemed to become suddenly aware of his state of undress, blushing furiously and jerking a hand to cover himself, but then gave it up as pointless.

Sofya did not sleep well the rest of the night, and the strange experience still plagued her thoughts by the time a sullen dawn broke. She couldn’t concentrate on organising an escape all through the day, and before she knew it, the sun was again setting and the band made camp.

This night she was once again beckoned into the mage-hunter’s tent. He gestured her to a chair while he ate. “I heard about your attempt to talk to one of my men uninvited last night. And the unusual dream you seemed to have afterwards. I do apologise — an after-effect of my intrusion, of course. Not common, but not unheard of either.” Sofya looked at him and said nothing. He continued without meeting her gaze, “I took your gregariousness with him to be a sign that that time had not had sufficient effect, which is why you’re here again.” He chewed noisily at a piece of meat.

Sofya did not attempt to deny it, but shifted slightly on the chair. “A simple reminder to you of my control over you, and to the men of your exact status here, should do the trick.” She braced herself for the invasion into her mind, but it did not come. After a pause, he finally looked up from his plate, smiling slightly. “In fact, I’ll offer you a choice again. You can obey my instructions freely, or I can compel you. It is for you to decide which is more humiliating.”

Sofya was forced to wait while the hunter finished eating, then wiped his hands and face at length. Finally, he turned to face her. “Right! My instruction is simple: convince the entire camp that you are having an orgasm.” She looked quizzically at him, almost disbelieving. “Oh, don’t look like that. You understand the rationale; I explained yesterday. Why, odds are good that you’ve done it once or twice already!” He shot her a wicked grin. “It’s your choice, Sofya.”

The same game then Sofya thought to herself. She felt resigned, not to mention exhausted and so, after a few moments’ consideration, started to moan aloud: “Mmmmm!” she groaned, loudly, closing her eyes. But after only a few seconds, she was interrupted.

“Stop stop stop! If that was the best you put on I don’t think you spared the ego of any lover. Can you do better?”

Sofya closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to collect herself. She opened her mouth, breath catching in her throat before she sighed. A vision came unbidden to her, whether lost memory or fantasy she knew not, of a tangle of black hair between her legs. Her hands instinctively clutched at the wooden arms of the chair and she dragged the sigh into a rough moan. “Better,” said the mage-hunter, softly, “but you’ll need to be louder than that for the camp to hear.”

The vision made it easier to ignore the distraction of his voice, and her voice rose at his command. She slouched in the chair, splaying her legs and pushing herself into the imagined lover’s face. “Yes!” she shouted, “yes!” the second cry quieter. The idea of the camp’s soldiers crowding outside the tent threatened to intrude but she pushed it aside, her speech devolving into ragged squeals.

Sofya opened her eyes, still breathing heavily, to find his face only a few inches from her own. Looking up at him, she was gripped suddenly by an anger dampened by helplessness into listless resentment. Reading the faint curl that crept across her lip, the mage-hunter gave a slight smile. “Well, I’m not sure you convinced me,” he whispered, “but I’ll let you off for a first try.” The anger flared briefly in her and she opened her mouth to say something, but it sputtered out before she could. There was no point.

The walk out of his tent was nigh unbearable. The other soldiers had gathered around and cheered when she left, elbowing each other and shouting ribald comments. The same man she had tried to strike up conversation with the other night stayed silent, but smirked knowingly as he tied her hands once more.

The listlessness that had gripped her had not eased by morning, and the knowledge that it was exactly the purpose of the mage-hunter’s treatment did nothing to help. Sofya allowed herself to be untied, fed and prodded into line as they set off.

They soon reached the city walls and gate. The party marched straight past the queue of traffic waiting for admission into the town, earning them a few angry curses, swiftly silenced by a soldier’s glare or upon noticing the Duke’s colours.

They were recognised at the gate itself and waved through by the guards, overhearing a merchant complaining loudly at the taxes on his goods. Within, the atmosphere was different than what Sofya remembered — she had no idea whether it was due to her actions that she couldn’t remember, or if it had already changed by then. But it was different, threatening — bustling still but underneath it all was a tension. She could spot it in the sideways glances, the paused conversations.

Some of the glances became jeers as some of the people realised what she was, but she was soon being brought into a compound with high stone walls, handed off to a new set of guards and guided through a maze of narrow corridors to a small, windowless cell. Sofya was shoved in, and the door clanged shut behind her. Trying to feel her way around, hands still tied, she tripped over the chamber pot, spilling the stagnant contents from the previous inhabitant everywhere.

She tried to weep, but the tears wouldn’t come.