This safehouse was a grander building on an equally grand street, but she was once again bundled down into the basement. They were prepared for her here, too: as soon as she arrived she was helped onto a long table laid with a thick cloth (“Sorry it’s not more comfortable — the best we could do”). This room was brightly lit with candelabras on all four walls and a too-large chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which brushed Sofya’s hair as she sat on the table. As she sat, heart thudding, she was offered a cup. “So that your mind does not fight it,” said the man. He was quite old, Sofya realised, now that the light was enough to see him. She was suddenly struck that he was the only old member of their conclave that she’d ever met. She knew what the potion was for without his explanation, and knocked it back quickly. It tasted awful, as if someone had made tea from boiling old boots without bothering to clean them.

Not allowing her to think too long on this, the figure put a wrinkled hand to her arm and laid her gently down. Drawing back the cloth below her waist revealed stout iron staples driven into the oak tabletop, into which were threaded buckled leather straps. He guided her left hand into the strap. “So that your body cannot not fight it,” he said, also unnecessarily and, it seemed to Sofya, almost apologetically. Her heartbeat in her ears threatened to drown out his voice, and she could not keep the tremor from her body. The man adjusted each strap and tightened them down, then did similarly with her feet. He disappeared from view for a moment before his voice startled her, “the final strap now, my dear. Hold still, please.” This strap passed over her forhead and was drawn painfully tight.

Sofya was about to mention the discomfort when she noticed it: the feeling started in her fingers and toes as a tingling announcing the potion’s taking effect. The tingling progressed up her arms and legs and left behind it a lethargy. The effect was becoming ever stranger when she realised that it was already affecting her mind and her thoughts: her heartbeat had calmed from thunderous drumming to an insistent pulsation and she struggled to think what was so nerve-wracking. Even when she remembered, it didn’t seem so bad.

“We have your letter to yourself here, and some supplies — was there anything else you’ll need?” Sofya tried to shake her head, forgetting her restraints, before lazily confirming that all was ready. “This is it then, the final piece of the spell. Goodbye, Sofya.” The potion was really taking hold now — she could barely focus on the huge, beautiful gemstone as it descended towards her forehead, and certainly didn’t care about its significance. She became aware of muttered incantations which became low chants, then hands on her temples, then the room seeming to become darker even as the candle flames became brighter, until the light was, all of a sudden, extinguished, replaced a moment later by a flare of criss-crossing, glowing purple lines embedded in the walls, and a fresh, obliterating roar of sound in her ears.

Then she felt it start as a tugging inside her head, a soft tearing, like skin after a sunburn. First, her memory of the kind old man’s lined face faded from her mind to be captured in the stone. Even through the numbing effects of the potion it felt… wrong: to be aware of something even as it slipped from one’s mind like sand through one’s fingers, to be left only with the barest sensation of there having been something. A tear welled at the corner of her eye as, one by one, Sofya’s memories were wrenched out of her, as all she could do was lie, dumbly spasming and — almost — uncaring, and forget. Next to go was the appearance of the grand building and its grand street. Then the way there from the tavern basement, the two people who’d helped her there, the way to the tavern. Her ride from the manor to the city, her freeing of the mages, the explosion and break-in, the ride out, the day’s preparations. Months of work planning. The location of every safe-house they’d used, the name and appearance of everyone she’d met in the conclave, and along with them every moment of joy and sorrow, of love, of mundanity, of excitement and idleness, of every single experience for a whole year — all gone.

The purple light faded and the candles flickered back to life. The tear ran down her face onto the fingers touching her there, and the man withdrew them.

He took the gem from her forehead, unbuckled the straps, and left Sofya lying there. It would be hours until she awoke.

Sofya’s mind changed rapidly in the days that followed. First, Henrik returned and noticed that she was too calm — a result of the increased attunement he had mentioned. So, to ensure that she didn’t forget to eat, he had removed that command and replaced it - first of all with an instruction not to worry. He explained that it was a little more complex than calmness, but was more targeted, which was what was needed. The calmness had lifted a bit like a fog, but the worries that resurfaced immediately receded once more.

The next concept that Henrik pushed into her was loyalty. The feeling of loyalty erupting within her from nothing was strange indeed - suddenly she would have thrown herself in front of a spear for his sake. It was a fact which she knew instinctively, yet if someone had asked her why she would only have been able to answer “because of the magic.” Once again, the power that he had over her ought to have been worrying.

Soon enough, loyalty for Henrik was replaced with loyalty for the Duke and to Felsberg. Obedience was added to the list of things modifying her mind and behaviour, and to “monitor her progress”, he had Sofya hopping around her cell like some kind of erotic clown.

The experience was undeniably amusing, and Sofya found herself laughing with Henrik as she struggled with a body she was still not totally used to. Afterwards she felt a pang of guilt — she was under no command to enjoy her enslavement. And yet, since she had no ability to worry about what was happening to her, to dwell negatively on how her mind was being forcibly moulded, it was only natural that the enjoyable aspects were the more prominent ones. It was only afterwards, and then only briefly, when she could understand that she did not want this.

Her moulding reached a turning point when, one day before lunch, Henrik gave her a new command. “Do not try to escape,” he said, simply, and, as he always did, passed his hand over her abdomen. Sofya’s stomach turned over. Without realising it, the possibility of freedom had continued to burn in her mind, but with those short words, the idea was extinguished, drifting away like so much smoke. She felt her face twitch slightly and blinked. Henrik was watching her face intently. After a few seconds, he announced, “good. The attunement has proceeded well and your mind accepts the control. It’s time for the final few days of this process.” He reached into his satchel and withdrew a rose-coloured crystal. It was a handspan in length and an inch or so across, and a faint glow pulsed within it. A label had been affixed to it at the base, and neat ink named it, “mage conversion — final”.

Seeing her gaze, Henrik explained, “oh, it’s just so I don’t have to read all the things that go into it. It remembers them all for me.” Without ceremony he passed it silently over her belly, and Sofya felt the now familiar tingling that accompanied her mind being altered. “Well, it’s likely we won’t see each other again now, so goodbye,” he said and left, leaving the door ajar as he did so. She rose uncertainly and went to the corridor to watch him disappear, unsure of how to feel. Henrik had been… kind, in a way. Friendly and gentle, even as his words chained her soul to the Duke she had hated. And she realised she was surprised that he had never used his power over her to take advantage of her voluptuous body. Then she wondered, again, is he as much a slave as I am?

Shrugging mentally, she decided to explore. The corridor her room opened onto had a number of doors like her own, continued round a corner to her left, and to her right opened into a courtyard. She turned right, blinking as she stepped out into midday sun, having not felt its touch for many days. Warmth crept through her body — the special warmth of autumn sun which felt all the better knowing that such days would soon be behind them — and she allowed herself to relish it. She was still stretching when an unfamiliar voice called to her.

“Hello! I don’t recognise you!” A woman was speaking. She was sat on a stone bench, stunningly beautiful and completely naked. Long, honey-blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders. A scattering of freckles adorned her cheeks, shoulders and ample chest.

“Oh… h-hello,” she stammered in reply. “I’m…” she paused. “I’m…”

“Oh, you must have just been done! That explains why I didn’t recognise you. You don’t have a name any more, none of us do, any more.” The statement was delivered in such a matter-of-fact way that she didn’t stop to wonder at how strange it was.

“Oh… Well I… What should we call each other?” The situation was confusing the dark-haired woman, but the pleasant warmth was making it easy to set aside.

“Anything we like, really… but I tried having people call me something when I was newly done, and it doesn’t really work. It doesn’t feel like your name. Because it’s not! We don’t have names.” The blonde looked satisfied that this was a sensible answer.

“I… mm… see.” She rubbed absent-mindedly at the skin of her shoulder. It felt very nice. “And… how come you’re naked?” The other woman burst into a fit of giggles, taking a while to control herself.

“Oh, darling! Look at yourself!” She did, and gasped. And then giggled herself as she experimentally touched a bare breast. That too felt very nice… a moan almost escaped her lips. “It’s one of the things in that pink crystal — none of us really care for clothes now. I suppose it’ll be getting colder, and maybe then we’ll wear them, but for now… you just won’t remember to put them on.”

The warmth she felt, once clearly stemming from the sun on her skin, had definitely moved deeper, and the feeling was becoming quite distracting. She rubbed her thighs together which helped the situation not at all. “I mm see,” she said, for a second time, the moan escaping this time. “You know this from… from…”

“From experience, yes.” The blonde woman rose from the bench and stood close in front of her. She was a little taller. “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now.” Her breath caught, and when she opened her mouth to reply the other woman stepped in and sealed their lips together. Unable to contain herself, she slipped her fingers between her legs and moaned into the kiss. The pair stood, locked together, writhing and moaning gently, eventually separating.

“Wh-what is happening,” the shorter woman breathed.

“One of the things in that crystal,” the blonde whispered back, directly into her ear, raising goosebumps all down her arm, “is that we get very, very aroused very, very easily.” She could only moan loudly in reply, her fingers speeding up. The blonde started licking down her neck, leaving a trail of tingling fire until tongue found aching nipple, and moans turned to squeals of delight.

The woman awoke in an unfamiliar room.

She felt as if a weight pressed on her head, like a debilitating headache kept at bay only through strong medicine. The room was strange — unlit candelabras adorning the walls, and a huge, dark chandelier looming over the hard bed. No, not a bed — a table. She sat up, holding her head, trying to remember… anything. How had she got here? What had she done the previous day? She had no idea. She tried casting her mind back further and further, started panicking as she remembered nothing of the last weeks and months.

Her heart racing, she looked around the room for some hint of what she was doing there. In the corner was a satchel and, lying conspicuously on top of it, a folded piece of paper, complete with wax seal. Rising from the table’s surface, the woman was suddenly made aware of how unsteady her legs were, but made it to the letter and took it up. Sofya was the only thing written on the outside. With a shock she felt in her chest, Sofya realised that the handwriting was her own. She cracked the seal and started reading.

Sofya.

You’ve probably already worked out it’s yourself writing this, and you can’t remember anything much. I’ll be brief because you won’t have much time.

Yesterday (if everything went to plan) you took part in an attempt to rescue some of the Duke’s pet mages. You’re in a safe house. You erased your own memory after returning from the attempt in case you are caught, and took precautions to make yourself less detectable but you will have cast a lot of magic, and they’ll find you before long. You have to run. The pack contains supplies. I packed it — you packed it — you don’t need to check it, just go as soon as you’ve read this.

The ritual which made you forget acted for one year. Keep trying to remember — I’m told it will be difficult at first to find those memories. When you do, you’ll remember agreeing to do this, and you’ll remember where to run to.

May your feet fly,

You.

Sofya sank shakily to the floor, too stunned to do anything else. Slowly, hazily, as if seen from a great distance on a shimmering summer’s day, she perceived the shape of a memory. A name… Roenne’s name. A square. Pipe. Thoughtful. Plan. Decision.

She was to run to Novēmost, through the forest, and she had to leave now. With hope and fear in her heart, she fled.

The nameless woman was led through the grounds of Felsberg’s mage gaol, shackled and collared — with irons which looked crude from a distance, but which up close were studded gems imbued with anti-magic power. She was flanked by guards armoured in full plate, similarly enchanted to deflect offensive spells, who held her chains, and followed by one of the Duke’s pet mages, one who had undergone this ordeal years before. These theatrics weren’t necessary but an air of authenticity was thought to add to the experience for all involved, and the precaution didn’t hurt.

She wore a thick cloak against the chill of the autumn morning, though with nothing but a thin gown under that, still shivered. The cloak, pulled tight, could not hide the curves of her body, nor the soft sheen of her hair, nor her unusual height. As she was led out of the gaol, to the front of the town hall and onto the scaffold there, she wondered if anyone in the gathered crowd would recognise her.

At the top of the wooden steps, she looked out onto the assembled throng. The market was, in effect, closed for the time being, while all the stall-holders turned to watch the proceedings. Hundreds of faces looked up at her but she, of course, recognised none of them. What had been a murmur escalated to an excited buzz as they caught sight of the captured mage, rippling out through the crowd until it rose to a roar when she was led to the front of the platform and forced to her knees. The Duke of Felsberg though was not a patron of savagery; she knelt on a woollen blanket to protect her knees.

An official, already waiting on the scaffold, walked to the front as well, to her right side. He wore the black-and-green of the Duke’s household. After a few seconds’ pause, he raised his hand to the crowd for quiet, which fell upon the crowd gradually.

“Welcome, people of Felsberg!” he began. “What do you think of this meek creature before you, mm?” He paused for effect. “What possible danger could she be, to warrant such punishment as she now undergoes? Well good townsfolk, do not be taken in by her fair visage and—” with a flourish, he pulled the cloak from her in a single movement “—fairer body!” The leer in his voice and the sight of her, now clad only in a sheer gown, through which her luscious breasts and softly furred cleft were easily seen, drove the crowd to lusty cheer.

“Make no mistake! This witch has committed grave crimes against the Dukedom and its people!” The crowd gasped at the word “witch.” “Yes, good folk, this depraved, poxy devil worshipper, this dog, this louse, this thing has wrought evil sorceries, murdering dozens of your Duke’s faithful servants, she has defiled herself in unspeakable ways, engaged with foreign agents and consorted with them in foul, sinful rituals!

“But in his magnanimity, the Duke sees a path to redemption for this worthless toad. A way for her to demonstrate her repentance and her loyalty, to become something useful, something good. But first, she must demonstrate her loyalty, mustn’t she!” At this the crowd roared in approval. “She must show that she gives herself over, soul and body, to you and to your Duke. And that is what, is it not, you have come to see!” The roar of assent drowned out his last words. He turned to the kneeling figure and waited for the noise to die away before he addressed her so that all could hear. “Are you ready to do this?” Now, silence reigned.

The spelled commands that had been upon her to keep her from worrying, to keep her docile, to remove her inhibitions against nudity — had been removed; all that remained were those of loyalty and obedience. So when she spoke, her voice, although clear, was anxious: “Yes, my lord”

“And how are you going to show these people your worth and loyalty, eh?”

“I… will stimulate myself for their entertainment, my lord.”

“Stimulate yourself?!” jeered the official, “such eloquent words for such a squalid animal! Explain to these people exactly what you are going to do, in words more fitting for such a plague rat as yourself!”

“I… ah, sorry, my lord… I…” she swallowed, throat tight and cheeks burning with shame. “I will… finger my—”

“LOUDER!” he shouted.

“—I will finger my pussy, my lord!”

“Still too delicate, worm!”

She searched desperately for cruder words. “I’ll… finger my dirty fuck hole, my lord!”

“BETTER!” He yelled, and the crowd yelled with him. “And… tell the crowd how long you will do this for, and how you will find it!”

Moaning with shame, and maybe something more, she blurted out, “I’ll do it until you let me cli— let me come, my lord! And I’ll love every second of it! My lord!”

The noise from the crowd was like a solid thing this time, and the official, smirking, had to wait a full minute before he could finally say, “commence!”

The build-up had had the effect of humiliating her, yes, but also of building her own anticipation, giving her a natural — rather than magically effected — tolerance to the prospect of masturbating in front of a crowd. She started hesitatingly, but found that the enhanced libido and sensitivity that had been woven into her body by the Duke’s mages was still in full effect, found her pussy dripping and her clit begging for her fingers’ touch.

She dove inside to coat her fingers before starting slowly on her pearl. Pleasure shot through her, sending with it a wracking shudder, eliciting a moan that the near-silent crowd drank in eagerly. As the pleasure built and her speed increased, it pushed the shame and humiliation to the side — still present, but in the background, compared to the pulsating insistence of her pussy.

She hefted one delicious breast in her other hand, squeezing it rhythmically then, when that proved insufficient, pulling and twisting the nipple. The combined assault on her pleasure centres near overwhelmed her, shrieking her lust for all to hear. She needed more though, shoved three fingers inside herself and stretched her tit to her mouth so she could suck at herself, moaning into the soft flesh.

She would never have believed such sensation possible a week earlier, the sheer intensity of it surely only being caused by pain, not pleasure. Her toes curled and uncurled, her throat tightened, choking off her screams as it built and built, but never peaked. As she rode the wave, she looked pleadingly at the official who, she knew, held the key to unlocking her climax. The prospect of orgasming in front of all those rapt faces was by no means a pleasant one, but that of no orgasm in her current state, thrumming with need, wasn’t just worse but simply unimaginable.

He frowned down at her, a look of pity and disdain written on his face. The meaning was clear enough: she had to do more. She arched her back, as if to thrust her tits further towards the crowd, spread her legs wider, sped the thrusting of her fingers into her cunt. The silent crowd started to murmur once more, and even with her eyes closed she could see their faces, at once scornful and leering. Still the man stood stoically, and her need became desperation. She started to cry out in frustration, begging, “please! PLEASE!” but the only response from him was the tiniest flicker at the corner of his mouth, so she poured her need and frustration into her words, “PLEASE I need to come! PLEASE sir! Let me come! I can’t handle this I need it I need it PLEEAASE!!”

As she moaned out her abjection she gazed between the crowd, now cheering, and the official, who finally drew a crystal from within his green-trimmed cloak and waved it at her, shouting so the crowd could hear, “REMEMBER!”

In a flood, Sofya’s identity washed back into her, eliciting from her a gasp that had nothing to do with her fingers driving in and out of her dripping pussy. The full magnitude of her debasement, from resistance fighter to mewling whore, crashed into her psyche, shattering it, rending from her lips a howling, moaning sound that carried in it her utter defeat. “NO!” she shrieked, “OH GODS! PLEASE!” But she couldn’t stop pulling at her hard nipples or fingering herself, couldn’t suppress the need she felt.

“DO YOU SWEAR,” boomed the voice over the baying crowd, “LOYALTY, SUBSERVIENCE AND SUBMISSION TO YOUR DUKE?”

Groaning in frustration, Sofya knew she was broken, mind and body. It took only a second for her to croak out her affirmation, then shouted it, “YES! YES, I SWEAR IT! PLEASE LET ME COME!”

The man turned out to the crowd, raising his arms at them and dutifully, rising in volume, pitch and tempo, came the chant — “come! come! COME! COME!” He pointed the crystal at Sofya and extended one arm, fingers bent and stiff, to the crowd. An inner glow started to illuminate the crystal, intensifying and pulsating until, with a final flash, it extinguished.

Sofya’s body went rigid, her voice seized in her throat. Then she started to shake, a whine escaping her. Then the full force of the orgasm which was coursing through her was apparent as she collapsed onto the blanket, screaming rhythmically in time with the spasming of her spurting cunt. Her shattered mind was barely able to comprehend the pleasure that had been unleashed upon it and she lay for long minutes as her screams turned to moans turned to whimpers, the blanket soaked.

The crowd started to dissipate, traders returning to their stalls to hawk wares, labourers to the work postings, everyone going about their business. Just another day in Felsberg, just another rogue mage caught and punished.

The guards picked up Sofya’s limp body and carried her away.