The office is dark when I arrive, its neatly arranged bookcases and antique wooden furniture barely visible in the shadowy gloom. Twin computer monitors blaze with pale light at my desk, the only source of illumination in the room. In this faint glow sits 11, buzzing electric squares reflected in her glasses, her full lips set in a pensive frown as she fingers the scroll wheel of her mouse.

I clear my throat. “Good morning, 11.”

My entrance startles her, her slight frame nearly leaping from her sleeveless blouse. “M-Master!” she stammers, hurriedly standing and brushing raven strands of hair from her face. “H-how may I be of service?”

“Let’s start with some light, shall we?” I pull the thick curtains back, revealing a row of towering windows, grey dawn spilling through their spotless panes. Beyond the glass lies an exquisite view of my estate, rolling hills wrapped in wintery white, dark evergreens standing like sentinels among the freshly fallen snow.

“There,” I say, dusting my hands. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

11 bows, her black slacks having no skirt to curtsy. “Of course, Master. My apologies. If I’d known you were coming—”

“It’s alright. I understand you were working. All night too, by the looks of things.”

She smiles weakly. In the light of day, it’s clear how tired she is. Exhaustion rings the edges of her hazel eyes, her business-like ponytail half-way through dissolving. Still, she is as beautiful as the day we met, when she became the most valuable acquisition I ever made at an investor conference. Since then, her dedication to growing and preserving my wealth has come to rival my own, her sharp intellect and keen sense for business making her an indispensable member of my harem.

Especially in times like these.

“So. Where are we?” I ask, settling into my chair and gesturing for her to join me.

She complies, sighing with relief as she nestles onto my lap, her soft, slender body curling against my broad chest. “The governor still won’t budge,” she murmurs. “Doesn’t matter who I call or what I offer—he’s completely dug in.”

I frown, scrolling through her work and absently stroking her shoulder. “And our financing?”

“No one’s pulled out yet. But you know the type—they’ll scatter like roaches the second they sense danger. Our reputation is buying us time, but it won’t be long before someone notices the proposal’s stalled. And then…”

I nod. She needn’t finish her sentence; not when describing the scenario that’s kept me up all week. After years spent arranging this endeavor, amassing the capital, talent, and permits necessary to finally bring it to fruition, the thought of it unraveling thanks to the inexplicable actions of a single, rogue puppet…it’s a nightmare I can’t seem to wake from.

Not that I’m through trying. Not by a long shot.

“You’ve done well,” I tell 11, smiling as she coos and shivers with pleasure. “I’ll take it from here. Sometimes, our ‘partners’ just need a reminder of who it is they’re really dealing with.”

My assistant nods, rising unsteadily to her feet. “Yes, Master. I’ll review the contracts one more time. See if there’s potential leverage I’ve overlooked.”

I stop her with a stern look. “You will do no such thing. It’s time for you to rest; you’ve done more than enough for one night.”

11 blinks. “You are most generous, Master, but I can still be of use. Please, permit me to stay and—"

“To whom do you belong?” I interrupt.

Her answer comes immediately. “You, Master. Only you.”

“Precisely.” I steeple my fingers. “You are my property, as much as this home or any of my other assets. Tell me: would you risk their well-being against my recommendation?”

11 keeps her expression neutral, though I can sense tears threatening behind her glasses. “No, Master,” she answers.

“Good. Then afford yourself the same care. Your health is far too valuable to treat so frivolously.”

She sniffs. Bows, as if to hide her face. I benevolently avert my gaze. “Th-thank you, Master,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I—”

A knock at the door cuts her apology short. “Breakfast for Master!” a chipper voice announces. “Can I come in?”

Ah, perfect timing. “Yes, 15,” I call towards the entrance. “You may enter.”

A tray of covered dishes pushes into the office, followed by the bouncy, buxom form of my personal chef. Unlike her serious, svelte sister-slave, 15 is all chubby curves and cheerful smiles, her almond cheeks radiant with good humor, her French braid flouncing behind her with every step.

“Morning Master! Morning 11!” she chirps, proceeding to plate my breakfast. “Another all-nighter, huh? There’s plenty of coffee if you need a pick-me-up.”

I clear my throat, unfold a napkin. “Actually, I’ve just relieved 11 of her duties. She’ll be taking her leave shortly.”

“Oh, congrats 11!” The voluptuous cook exclaims. “How ’bout a night-cap on the way out, then? Or, er…a day-cap, I guess?” she amends with a giggle.

11 shoots a glance towards me. I indicate my permission with a forkful of omelet. “Sure.” She smiles. “That would be lovely.”

15 claps excitedly. “Yay! C’mon, let’s hurry down to the cellars—16’s decanting this amaaaaazing port and…”

“A moment, please,” I interrupt, halting both slaves in their tracks. “While you’re here, 15, I would like you to help me properly reward 11 for her work. Three orgasms, if you would. Somewhere I can see,” I add with an arched eyebrow.

15 is taken aback at first, but her expression soon turns sly. “Oh! Oh…” she purrs, shooting a suggestive look towards her sister. “Yes, Master. Whatever you desire.”

11 takes a step back, watching 15 like an approaching panther. “Um, that’s okay. R-really, Master, your praise is t-the greatest reward I could ask for, and—”

“Shhh…” 15 places a finger on 11’s lips. “You heard our Master. He wants a little show with his breakfast. You’ll be a good girl and help me give it to Him, right?”

11’s throat ticks as she swallows. “Yes. O-of course.”

From my desk, I smirk, amused. For whatever reason, 11 has always been easily flustered by the carnal demands of her duties. Perhaps she harbors (unfounded) insecurities regarding her thin, boyish build, or maybe her upbringing instilled a reflexive sense of shame wherever matters of sex are concerned. Whatever the case, I could’ve removed this instinctual embarrassment long ago, but chose to merely soften its edges instead. This is in part because deep, psychological rewiring is risky, and in part because her vulnerability makes her an absolute joy to tease.

A pastime 15 is especially fond of.

“Feeling okay, cutie?” she asks, stepping closer and placing a hand on 11’s forehead. “Gosh, you’re turning bright red. And look at your hands—they’re shaking! You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“N-no,” 11 replies, though her wide eyes say otherwise.

The buxom maid giggles, gives 11’s knuckles a kiss. “You know you can trust Mommy to make you feel better, right?”

“M-mommy?” A forced laugh. “What are you…?”

“It’s okay,” 15 interrupts, her smile honey sweet as her glides down her victim’s cheek. “You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to do anything.”

“I…nnuu…” 11 strains to remain dignified, but her stoic mask is rapidly melting, every caress wiping away another layer of composure.

“Shh, relax, baby,” 15 coos, drawing a thumb across 11’s lower lip. “You’ve been working so hard. So very, very hard. I bet you’re feeling tired, aren’t you? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

“I…y-yesss…” 11’s confession becomes a moan as 15’s mouth presses against her neck, kissing and nibbling up her collar and jaw before halting, hovering tantalizingly close to her lips.

“That’s right,” 15 murmurs. “You’ve been such a good girl. And good girls deserve a reward, don’t they?”

“Y-yes—mmph!” 11’s body stiffens, then melts into the kiss. 15’s fingers curl in her hair, pulling her close and eliciting a soft, simpering whine.

I watch, savoring the sight with a long sip of coffee. Despite standing almost head taller than 15, 11 is completely helpless in her grasp, seemingly unable to resist as the shorter, curvier woman pushes her back onto the nearby sofa.

“There we go, baby.” 15 bends forward, planting a knee between 11’s splayed legs. “Just relax now. Let Mommy take care of you.” Her small hands undo her victim’s blouse one button at time, neither slowing nor quickening as the svelte woman’s hips begin to roll, grinding against 15’s thigh as if possessed by some desperate, undeniable instinct.

“So needy,” 15 chuckles. “You’re all pent up, aren’t you baby? Working for Master all night—I bet you’ve been wanting this for a loonnnng tiiiiimmme. I know, I know, sweetie. We’ll take care of it soon, don’t worry.”

11 seems intent on speaking, but her words dissolve into a shivering breath as 15 parts her top, revealing two tiny, pert nipples trembling in the open air.

“Ah, there we are,” 15 croons, her fingers deftly circling the stiff nubs before gently pinching and rolling their sensitive tips. “Such a good girl. You like when Mommy makes your cute, li’l titties feel all tight and tingly, don’t you?”

“Y-ye…ah…aah!” Again, 11’s attempt at elocution implodes. Her back arches, fingers digging into the cushion as her captor continues toying with her pale breasts. 15’s hands move with the confidence of a master performer, circling and stroking the stiff, pink tips with precise, rhythmic motions, deftly conducting the rising tension within her victim, until 11 is stretched as taut as a bowstring. Eventually, something in her snaps, a sharp gasp breaking as her core convulses, thighs clenching tight around her captor’s leg, holding it like an anchor as she shudders and moans.

“Aw, cumming already, cutie?” 15 grins, appearing to bask in 11’s broken, quivering moans. “Such a sensitive girl. You’re gonna waste all your orgasms before Mommy’s had her fun. Here.” Reaching into her uniform, the curvaceous temptress scoops one ample breast free of its frills, then the other. “Show me what a good girl you can be,” she intones, drawing her captive’s face towards the heavy, pillowy softness.

11 yields without a trace of hesitation, her wet mouth hungrily devouring one large, dark nipple, sending a visible shiver through its owner. Yet even as 15 clearly enjoys her partner’s lustful licks, she always maintains a careful awareness of my presence, shifting to ensure I have the best view in the house. I flash a grateful grin, very much enjoying 11’s descent into utter, undignified hedonism. Her flushed face practically vanishes into her captor’s bosom, drool dripping freely as she sucks and squeezes with reckless, ravenous abandon.

“Mm, t-that’s right, baby,” 15 exhales, her own voice beginning to quiver. “S-show Master how much you love being M-Mommy’s needy li’l titty-slut.”

A sound somewhere between a moan and a growl leaks from 11’s throat, the pitch sharply rising as 15 lowers a hand between her captive’s slender legs.

“Gosh,” 15 gasps with mock astonishment. “You’re gushing like a fountain, baby.” Her fingers stroke the soaked seam of 11’s trousers, slowly unfastening them as their poor owner wriggles against the tender touch. “Easy now, baby. Relax. You’ll hold still and let Mommy have a taste, won’t you?”

Despite being smothered in 15’s breasts, 11 apparently hears and complies, her body stilling and sinking back into the sofa. She allows the last of her clothing to be stripped away, a sticky trail visible as her panties peel from her flushed, quivering sex.

“Mm, such a pretty thing,” 15 murmurs. “You look soooo delicious, baby.”

I, for one, must agree. In fact, I’m tempted to rise from my chair and indulge in this exquisite delicacy myself. Still, I hold back, allowing my beloved chef the first taste. She worked very hard to prepare this dish, after all.

15 kneels at the base of the sofa, licking her lips and resting her hands on 11’s bare thighs. The once-hesitant slave’s eyes burn with unbridled lust, all traces of self-restraint lost in her open-mouthed stare. She knows exactly what’s coming, the anticipation straining her breath into shallow, shameless pants. Though I’ve ensured my slaves are all well-trained in the oral arts, 15’s tongue is a truly transcendental experience. It’s a talent she takes great pleasure in sharing, the precision of her technique eclipsed only by her passion for making her sisters squirm. Her skills are legendary among my flock, some members so smitten as to ply her with gifts and favors at every opportunity, hoping to coax her into their bed at night. Ever the generous soul, 15 rarely demurs. Still, she does have her favorites.

11 being among them.

“Haaahhh…” 15’s exhale is husky and low, the heat of her breath almost visible as it wafts against 11’s pink folds. A tiny whimper escapes the trapped woman, her hips and legs tensing, trying to press her pussy towards her captor’s mouth. But 15 holds fast, ever in control, keeping her victim in place as she torments her with teasing, tender licks.

“Easy, baby,” 15 murmurs. “Settle down. Let Mommy savor you.”

“Y-yes…Mommy…” 11 replies, apparently too drunk with desire to stop herself. “Oh…Oh!”

“Good girl,” 15 coos, then lowers her face between her partner’s thighs, the wet music of her lips and tongue barely audible over their target’s moans. Such a small thing is 15’s mouth, and yet it seems to control 11 completely, the subtlest stroke or kiss causing her to writhe and squeal in submission. As her pleasure approaches another peak, her hips gradually rise off the cushion, chasing 15’s equally slow retreat, until at last the bustier woman breaks away, leaving 11’s pussy hovering and shivering in the open air, shining strands of arousal and drool dripping onto the cushion.

“Please…” 11 begs. “Please…”

“Not yet, baby,” 15 whispers. “You only got two more to go. And Mommy’s not even close to finished.”

A whining, incoherent response trembles in 11’s throat, sweet and succulent with need. The sound is so decadent, so alluring it nearly draws me from my desk. Alas, as 15 resumes her meal, I know I too must return to my duties. It will be some time before she’s finished, and there is much work to be done.

Suppressing a sigh, I shift my attention to the task at hand, going over 11’s notes as her moans and cries fade into the background. As always, her work is incredibly thorough, and it’s clear she spent nearly every minute of the night trying to get this project back on track. By all accounts, the matter should’ve been resolved already. Our proposed solar farms are a slam dunk for both the local government and investors we’ve accrued, a sure-fire way to bring cheap energy and economic opportunity to vast swaths of underdeveloped land. The logistics and overhead may be daunting, but we addressed those concerns several interminable negotiations ago. All that was left to do was break ground and begin building.

Until the governor suddenly got cold feet.

Pouring myself a fresh coffee from the steaming carafe, I begin rolling calls through 11’s list of contacts, using my best “Daddy’s home” voice to try and eke out whatever concessions I can. The volume of 11 and 15’s tryst rises at one point, to the degree that it draws a couple awkward pauses and forced jokes from the other end of the line. I brush off any comments or questions, not bothering to quiet my slaves’ copulation. The particulars of my Gift may be a secret, but my business partners know how I keep my house, many of them having sampled its delights at one point or another. It would be beneficial, in some ways, for them to overhear my property’s exultations, a potent reminder of the pleasures that await those I consider loyal. For the majority of my investors, this admittedly crude maneuver is enough to extract their assurances.

Then my call list reaches the capital. And suddenly, I’m hitting the same brick wall that 11 encountered. It doesn’t matter how I bargain or threaten; for reasons too vague to reckon with, the governor has suddenly decided that our proposal no longer suits his needs, and that he’d rather mothball it in red tape than allow it to flourish. His refusal sets my teeth on edge—not just with anger, but another powerful emotion as well, one I haven’t felt this sharply in some time:

Fear.

My fingers drum on the desk as my list of contacts dwindles, every failed attempt lending credence to my worst-case scenario. I bite back a snarl as I hang up, silently cursing the limitations of my Gift. If only I could reach through the phone and seize the governor’s mind in an instant, ensnaring it as I’ve done so many times before. But my power weakens the further it extends, a limitation that he now seems at least obliquely aware of, given his recent reluctance to meet. It’s doubtful he’s suddenly intuited the true nature of my abilities; I only ever manipulated his mind with the lightest of touches, always distracting him with more “traditional” means of persuasion. How then, to account for his sudden change of heart? Especially when there’s no material or political justification for it?

The answer is, unfortunately, simple:

There must be another Gifted lurking somewhere in the capital. And they’re trying to lure me into a trap.

I close my eyes and recline in my chair, searching for any alternate explanation, any reason not to fall prey to the worries stalking my thoughts. The fact that there’s another Gifted in town is not itself a cause for concern. I’ve encountered several of my kind in the past, the crossing of our paths only natural, given the narrow corridors of power we all traffic. But while this isn’t the first time I’ve brushed up against a fellow sovereign, it is rare for them to be so…brazenly hostile towards me. Generally, there exists an unspoken agreement among us, a silent pact of non-aggression, allowing each to their own without fear of open conflict. Upon the few cases where another Gifted has trodden upon my territory, the transgressions were all accidental and short-lived, the marks on my slaves’ minds enough to deter any would-be usurper.

Not so in this case.

In this case, my opponent has not only stolen one of my thralls, but done so in a way clearly meant to draw my attention. Such a bold, outlandish maneuver can’t be an accident. The only rational explanation is that by making their presence and aggression known, this other Gifted is trying to draw me out into the open, hoping I’ll travel to the capital and attempt to take them down myself.

Naturally, that is the one thing I cannot do.

As of right now, I don’t think that this mystery villain—let’s call them Gifted X—knows precisely who has been manipulating the governor. If they did, there would be no need to lay such an obvious trap. But if I show up in town and start poking around, I’ll risk providing an opportunity to pin me down. Worse still, there’s no telling how many of my other agents have been compromised. Just because the governor is the first victim I noticed doesn’t mean he’s the only one to fall into Gifted X’s clutches. The safest course of action is to assume that all of my political pawns now belong to a new Master, and will not hesitate to turn against me the moment I show my face.

I need a new weapon. Someone who can serve as my proxy in the capital. Someone who Gifted X hasn’t accounted for.

Fortunately, I know just the woman for the job.

My fingers flit across the keyboard, finishing one final email before I tab out of the program and open the manor’s security hub. Scanning the video feeds, I zero in on the basement camera network, expanding one particular window until it fills my screen.

There she is: Diana Leto, journalistic prodigy and rising star among the chattering classes. Though you wouldn’t know it from her current state. Her short, auburn hair is messy and matted, her normally sharp gaze dulled and distant, a faint strand of saliva trickling from her lips. She sits limp in a large leather armchair, light from the nearby fireplace flickering across her naked skin, the allure of her full breasts and shapely hips uncompromised by her slouched, sedate posture. It’s easy to see how she’s managed to charm so many power players into interviews, despite how often her subjects end up skewered upon her subtle, acerbic wit. The quality of her work was what first drew my attention, my interest only growing as I discovered that she was not only a skilled reporter, but beautiful and single as well. It’s so much easier to acquire talent when it’s not tied down, and Diana’s lack of close family or romantic attachments made her an especially appealing target. Still, I restrained myself from acting, the benefits of her procurement not yet worth risking exposure to her investigative instincts.

The emergence of Gifted X has changed that. Now, the taking of Diana Leto is not just a desire, but a necessity. She’s the perfect solution to my predicament, a relatively new face who can move freely about the capital without drawing suspicion. Even better, she’s already gained access to several inner circles, an information network that will only grow along with her reputation. And if she ever outlives her usefulness as an investigator, well…I imagine a maid uniform will suit her just as nicely.

But those are concerns for the future. At present, she is still in the early stages of her conversion, having only arrived at the manor last night. Her capture was the exquisite handiwork of 13, who now sits in an identical armchair across from her captive, elegant features pinched tight in concentration. 13 is the only Gifted I’ve ever added to my harem, though neither of us were aware of her potential at the time. After discovering her talents, I’ve since ensured that they not go to waste, training and guiding her to become quite the adept psychic in her own right. The strength of her Gift pales in comparison to my own, but she’s reliably capable of subduing any potential recruits, especially after a few drinks to lower their defenses. After she’s brought them to the conversion chamber, 13 then performs the admittedly tedious task of prepping an acquisition’s psyche, deconstructing their beliefs and unraveling their identity until their minds lay helpless, exposed, and ready to be reformed.

From the lack of tension in Diana’s body and utter vacancy of her expression, it seems she has finally reached this stage. It’s curious, then, that 13 hasn’t sought me out yet. Perhaps there’s some extant shard of resistance remaining, buried so deep that it requires a precise, patient hand to extract. In which case, it might be worth paying our new recruit an early visit. If nothing else, it will be a pleasure to finally meet her in person.

If she can still be considered one.

Turning my attention from the screen, I’m suddenly struck by the sight of 11 sprawled on the sofa, glasses askew and hair a complete mess, her glazed eyes staring at nothing as pitiful whimpers tremble from her lips.

“Please…” she whines, voice cracking and aching with desperation. “Please…please…please…”

Beneath her, 15 continues savoring the sweetness of her victim’s sex, heedless of her pleading cries. My eyes dart to the time—good God!

“15!” I utter, causing her shoulders to stiffen. “Stop torturing 11 and make her cum already. You were supposed to reward her, not edge her to death.”

A muffled, apologetic murmur wafts from between 11’s thighs. Moments later, she gasps, fingers flexing and limbs stretching, her strained breath stopping for a moment before breaking into a keening, deafening wail. Her entire body shudders with pulses of pleasure, each squeezing another sharp, high-pitched yelp from her lips. After what seems like minutes of orgasmic release, she finally collapses, limp and unmoving save for the occasional twitches of echoing ecstasy.

I watch, arms crossed, as the gluttonous slave withdraws from her spent sister, chin and tits shining with 11’s juices. 15 rises, lifting her apron to dab at her dripping face, abashed eyes remaining downcast as she turns to face me.

“Sorry, Master,” she mumbles. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

“‘A little?’” I repeat, casting a pointed look at her near-catatonic companion. “Is that your honest assessment?”

15 winces. “No, Master. I—”

The door clicks open before she can finish, the concerned visage of 08 peering into the room. Her sharp eyes narrow at 15 and 11, then widen slightly when she notices me. “Forgive me, Master,” she says, curtsying flawlessly despite the feather duster in one hand. “I did not intend to interrupt. I merely wished to investigate the scream I heard down the hall.”

“It’s alright, 08.” I gesture for her to relax. “15 merely lost herself servicing 11.”

08 grimaces at her shrinking sister. “Really, 15? Again?”

“I’m sorrrryyyy,” the remorseful slave whines, breasts jiggling slightly as she fidgets under her task-mother’s disapproval. “Once I get a taste, I just can’t stop myself and—”

“Enough,” 08 cuts her off, then bows her head towards me. “My apologies, Master. I will see to it that she is properly disciplined. Will a level-2 punishment in the rope room suffice?”

My eyebrows arch. It’s as if she’s read my mind. “Yes, 08, thank you. But before either of you resume your duties, please help 11 back to her quarters. I doubt she’s capable of getting there on her own.”

“Indeed.” 08 shoots a withering glance 15’s way, then delivers a sharp swat to her backside. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Eep!” 15 is momentarily jolted out of her rueful posture, only to resume it just as quickly. “Th-thank you, Master, for your judgement. I hope my punishment will make me more worthy in your sight.”

I acknowledge her contrition with a nod, then gesture to her stern sister. “Thank you, 08. You are all dismissed.”

As the pair shoulder and escort 11 out of the room, I maintain my disappointed expression, though it’s little more than a front at this point. In truth, minor indiscretions such as this are necessary for the overall health of the household, providing a chance for my slaves to exercise inter-harem discipline and reinforce social cohesion. Besides, it’s hard to be upset when I think about my “special guest” waiting downstairs. I can’t help but smile as I think of her trapped and waiting beneath my feet, her brilliant mind open and vulnerable, soon to become an instrument of my will. It won’t be easy, bringing her to heel. Achieving total enslavement is a delicate art, its difficulty increasing the more willful and intelligent its subject. But unlike browbeating unruly investors, this is a challenge I positively relish, a daunting climb I’m already itching to begin.

Powering down my computer, I cast one last look out the window. The sun has completed its rise, rays of bright morning light now dancing and glittering across the snow.

It looks to be a beautiful day indeed. A beautiful day for brainwashing.