Hanging up his phone, Tiernan grinned across the desk at his partner. “Just heard from the courthouse. O’Shea’s case was dropped.”

“Oh, that’s great news,” Phoebe smiled back at him. “I mean, not surprising, but still, I’m glad to hear it. The case against him was so flimsy, it was never gonna make it to trial.”

Tiernan nodded his agreement, grinning with satisfaction. Of course, the case against Derek O’Shea had been significantly weakened by his own actions, cleaning up the mess left behind by Aislinn Gold. Letting the guy go to jail for kidnapping didn’t sit right with him or Lizzie, since it was all the ex-hypnotist’s own doing - so he’d had a short but productive chat with Derek, and his girlfriend Millie, and the officers who’d heard his confession. Now, as far as Derek and Millie remembered, they’d had a normal evening that ended with them going to bed together - and the next morning, she’d woken up alone and he’d woken up in custody.

He could have got Derek off for the petrol station robbery as well, but there was still physical evidence of that - aside from the backup CCTV footage of Lizzie and Aislinn, which he’d erased. He could’ve still removed the other evidence, and erased everyone’s knowledge of the crime - the gardaí, the shop manager, the cashier... but, to be perfectly honest, he just couldn’t be bothered. Besides, with nothing tangible to actually prove O’Shea committed the crime, and no record or memory of his confession, he was bound to walk free. And indeed he had.

His smile faded as he glanced down at the stack of sheets in front of him. Paperwork. The one and only aspect of his job he really despised. He let out a very audible sigh.

“I know,” Phoebe tutted, flicking through the papers on her own side of their desk. “There’s a mountain of this crap. I’ve already called Lindsay to tell her I’ll be home late - again.”

“You’ll have to make it up to her at the weekend,” he said with a wry grin.

“Damn right. I’ve not really been living up to the ‘happy wife, happy life’ maxim, have I?”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” he shrugged. “Besides, I’m sure she understands. And if she’s upset... well, I could always have a word with her, if you like? Put in a good word on your behalf?”

She smiled gratefully. “Thanks, pal. That’s not necessary though. We’re fine - for the moment, at least.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He looked down at the paperwork and exhaled heavily again. He really couldn’t be fucked with this right now. If he was going to struggle through the tedium, he needed a little something to perk himself up first.

“Looks like we’ve got a long night ahead,” he said casually, not making eye contact with Phoebe. But he could see her reacting to his words, sitting up straight and smiling playfully.

“Well, I’m sure there’s a way we can pass the time,” she said quietly, just as he’d known she would.

They played a round of rock-paper-scissors, and Phoebe won again, her scissors cutting Tiernan’s paper. It didn’t matter - he’d rigged the game. Just as he’d conditioned her to respond to the trigger phrase, he’d made sure she’d always make the same choice anyway.

“Meet me in the storeroom,” she whispered, halfway out of her seat already and leaning across the desk, her hands planted on the wooden surface. Her wedding ring glinted from the reflection of the ceiling light.

He nodded, grinning lasciviously. Winking at him, she scurried away.

He spent another minute in his seat to avoid attracting suspicion, his head full of images - and memories - of her kneeling behind one of the big metal filing cabinets, waiting patiently for him. With the lower half of his body hidden from view by the desk, he was able to stealthily reach down and unzip his flies, as a time-saving measure. At length, he got to his feet and strode away to the storeroom, acting as if everything was perfectly normal and all was right with the world. Because, paperwork notwithstanding, for him, it was.

Damn, he loved this job.

***

Jogging up the last few stairs to her floor, Lizzie fished her keys out of her jacket and made her way down the corridor to her flat. She had no more lectures for the day, so the afternoon was hers to enjoy. She had no fully-formed plans, but that was the best thing about being a demon - she could act upon any random whim whenever she fancied.

Putting her house back in order after her brief spell of hypnotic enslavement hadn’t taken too much effort. A conversation with the administration had ensured that all record of her dropping out of uni would be quickly erased, as if it had never happened. Similarly, her friends no longer had any memory of her departure, or of the woman she’d planned to depart with, so it was a simple matter to reclaim her old room.

It had seemed unfair to kick Orla out after she’d gotten settled in, so Lizzie had decided the gorgeous redhead could stay - and after another little chat, the admin team had been happy to allow this. It was only a two-bedroom flat, though, and Lizzie had no interest in sharing her bed. (Not permanently, anyway - hookups were another matter.) So she’d procured a pet bed for Orla, who was perfectly contented with this sleeping arrangement. In fact, that had led Lizzie down a line of thought that ended up with Orla basically becoming her and Sin’s house pet - walking around the flat on all fours, lying on their laps, enjoying getting headpats from them, wearing a collar... The demoness hadn’t quite decided what kind of pet Orla would be yet, but there was plenty of time to make up her mind, and she could always change her mind later. Naturally, Sin, and their other friends, treated Orla’s behaviour as perfectly normal, and didn’t retain any real awareness of it.

But neither Sin nor Orla would be at home this afternoon, both of them having other lectures. (Orla’s pet mannerisms were limited to their flat - outside, or in the company of anyone not part of Lizzie’s harem, she was normal again.) So Lizzie had the place to herself. She grinned, unlocking the door and stepping inside, to see a figure kneeling on the carpet, ready to greet her.

Having the flat to herself didn’t mean she was alone there. But the help didn’t really count.

Standing over her live-in servant, Lizzie wiped the soles of her chunky leather boots on the skirt of its ill-fitting maidservant uniform, one after the other. Then she planted them in the carpet, and the slave dutifully unzipped them so she could kick them off. Its head was bowed the whole time. She didn’t spare it a word of greeting, and it didn’t give any either, unable to speak without permission.

As she hung up her jacket on a wall hook, her lackey picked up one of the boots and began to run its tongue over the surface, cleaning off any other traces of dirt. There really wasn’t much at all - the daily polishing it gave them ensured they were kept in very good condition - but it had to complete the routine regardless. Leaving it to do so, Lizzie strolled into the kitchen, where a plate of freshly-cooked bacon, fried eggs and hash browns waited for her on the dining table. Smacking her lips, she took a seat, picked up the neatly-placed knife and fork, and tucked in.

While she ate, her personal slave entered the room and stood at attention in the corner, awaiting instructions, its polishing duties fulfilled. It would remain there until it was told otherwise, either by Lizzie or any of her closest friends. It had seemed churlish to keep her lackey to herself, so Sin, Orla, Kelly, Molly and Chloe could also order it around - as long as their orders didn’t conflict with hers.

‘Lackey’. It was an appropriate term, one which she’d been using to address it so often that it had effectively become its new name - as much as it had a name, these days. Not only a name for a servant, it reminded Lizzie of the word ‘lacklustre’, which it certainly was now, compared to its former vivid beauty. Its hair, once so luscious and golden, had become drab and lifeless, hanging limply down its shoulders. Its smooth, pink skin had turned a pallid white, almost every inch of it coated in a layer of grime and sweat, its face dotted with acne. Its posture was perpetually slumped, and its ungainly arms dangled at its sides. Its figure, previously seen as alluringly curvaceous by anyone who saw it, now just looked dumpy, pudgy and inelegant. This was mainly due to the diet Lizzie had been keeping it on, which mostly consisted of crisps and Coca Cola, although the maid outfit - completely the wrong shape and size for its figure - wasn’t helping the overall effect.

It looked truly dreadful. Lizzie adored it.

The best part was being able to compare what it used to look like - how extraordinarily, entrancingly beautiful it had been - with how it looked now, and observe how thoroughly she’d dismantled it. In only a few short months, all traces of the so-called Shining Vision had been extinguished, leaving only this pale, drab, graceless lump.

But the young demon took greater pleasure in its changed personality than its physical alterations. Its confidence had been crushed very quickly after it had first fallen under her control, replaced by sheer panic and terror, and that had remained just as intense in those early days. It had put up a fight at first, struggling in vain against every command she gave it. Every compulsion it failed to resist had increased its distress, its agony obvious. She’d played with its memories, too, to further confuse and disorient it. It used to stand in that corner and stare at Lizzie in anguish, wordlessly begging for its freedom. She’d sat there and stared at the miserable servant while she frenziedly masturbated (both with her human cunt and her demonic dick), making herself cum over and over again to the sight of her former captor’s despair.

Lately, though, its demeanour had been more subdued. It no longer stared at her from that corner, instead simply staring into space. Its expression was still miserable, but it didn’t look like it was on the brink of tears at every moment. It just looked resigned - even bored. It followed her commands without even a token resistance, always with the same passive, doleful face.

Had Lizzie completely broken it? Or was it making the best of its torturous situation? Had it just become accustomed to servitude? She guessed it might have come to the conclusion that although things wouldn’t get better, they also couldn’t get any worse. It detested its life, but had come to accept it - which made its pain a tiny bit more bearable.

She wasn’t having that. She needed to remind it that as long as it was under her power, things could always get worse. And she’d been working on a wonderfully cruel way to do just that - and satisfy a certain craving of hers in the process.

“Lackey, go clean my room,” she ordered. It trotted away without a word.

As soon as it had exited the kitchen, she took out her phone. The person she was calling answered after the second ring. “Lizzie!” came the eager voice on the other end.

“Hey, cutie,” she giggled. “You busy?”

“Nearly finished my shift.”

“Wanna come over to my place when you’re done?”

“Hell, yeah!”

The demon grinned. “Wicked.”

***

Carrying the vacuum cleaner over to the cupboard, lackey stored it inside, turned, and took a brief scan of Her Majesty’s bedroom, its expression sullen. It had gone over every surface to ensure there wasn’t a spot of dust (not that there ever was these days, thanks to its diligent cleaning). It had made the bed, tidied the desk and shelves, and Hoovered the carpet. The room was immaculate. It had fulfilled its duties perfectly.

It hated it.

It had long since given up trying to resist or escape. The Queen’s control was as all-encompassing as it had been since the very start of its enslavement. It couldn’t even attempt to fight back as it was rapidly and irrevocably transformed into a silent, subhuman parody of a sexy maid, condemned to cook and clean for its demon monarch, her handmaiden Sin, and their pet girl. Lackey’s status in the household was below even Orla - at least she was treated with affection, while it was met with indifference at best, contempt as standard, and gleeful sadism at worst.

But then, that was what it deserved. It had done terrible things to Her Highness, and now it had to suffer the consequences.

That said, it wasn’t even sure what it had done, exactly, since Queen Bitch (and it had no more idea why she favoured that nickname so strongly) had tampered with its memories to a great extent. It wasn’t as if large chunks of its past had been blocked out, but more like it was all still there but with certain details... redacted. Erased. Edited out. It knew it used to have some kind of... power. Not the dark magical power its tyrant sovereign possessed, because it was only a lowly mortal (more lowly than most mortals, in fact), but an ability of some sort. It knew it used that ability to abuse and harm many people - not just Her Eminence, but dozens of hapless innocents - and the person it loved more than anyone in the world. It knew it was a terrible creature, unworthy of the power it had acquired.

It just had no clue what that power was.

Her Highness had left lackey with some awareness of what she’d changed. It knew it wasn’t an ‘it’ - it used to have normal pronouns, the kind a person would have. But every time it tried to remember what they were, or figure it out from its appearance, it was overcome with a wave of melancholy. It would stare at its reflection in the mirror, analysing its physical form and figure, but be unable to come up with any answer other than that it wasn’t a person - just a thing that didn’t deserve its own identity. It knew it had a name once, too (and it had the vague feeling that it had been a pretty name), but that was lost to it now. Any time it tried to come up with a new name for itself, it couldn’t hold onto it. They just didn’t set in its mind. It was stuck with the degrading terms with which Her Majesty addressed it - primarily ‘lackey’, which was one of the least cruel, but was still sufficiently demeaning.

The entire period where it first met the Queen was a blank. It had no idea what it had done to her, but it must’ve been awful. It was almost perpetually consumed with shame for what it had done, and the knowledge that this was probably mystically-enforced did nothing to diminish the effect. That was part of the reason it had given up its utterly futile efforts to fight back - it didn’t feel it deserved its freedom. Also, spending all its time housekeeping for its hellbeast owner while feeling constant, painful guilt was just too tiring. It had no energy left for anything else.

Lackey stood and waited in the corner of the bedroom, hoping there’d be a fair gap until the next command it had to follow. That was its only respite - the gap between fulfilling one instruction, and having to jump into action to carry out the next one. Being alone with its thoughts, full of helplessness, dread and self-loathing, wasn’t that much of a relief, but at least it didn’t have to physically do anything. As always when its hands were idle for too long, one of them inched up to its face, until its thumb was firmly lodged between its lips.

It wondered, as it often did, what Her Highness would do when she eventually got bored with it - if she ever did. She might just keep it forever, have it serve and obey her for the rest of its life. Which would be completely horrendous, but at least there was security in that. It knew roughly what to expect each day. It would perform its household duties with single-minded devotion and efficiency, worship the ground she walked on (however unwillingly), and in return it would either be completely ignored, or receive relentless, often ingenious abuse, of both the verbal and physical kind. Queen Bitch’s harem would join in, having apparently been brainwashed in such a way that they didn’t consider it a person either - just a domestic appliance, a human-shaped punching bag. It had to stand there and let them slap its face from side to side without complaint, although it found it was able to quietly squeak and yelp whenever it was hit (while its talking privileges were still as denied as ever).

They would have it lie flat on the floor while they used its face, tits and stomach, or its hair, back and bum, as their footrests. They would use it as a convenient dustbin, sticking crumpled cans of cider down the front of its uniform (where they would invariably dribble the last few sticky, smelly drops down its chest), and stashing screwed-up wrappers in its mouth, which it would only be permitted to transfer into the actual bin when there was no more room. They would nonchalantly insult it just as its demon owner did, calling it ‘ugly slut’ and ‘dumb cunt’ - and they’d graffiti its arms, legs and face with similar phrases, using marker pens. They would reach down its dress and savagely pinch and twist its nipples. They would lift up its skirt and spank its sex with flat palms, or whip its rear with a belt. It almost always had welts and bruises on its butt, and the back of its thighs, from these beatings.

None of it was callous from their perspective - they didn’t think it had any feelings or emotions, no matter what evidence its face or voice showed. They were just entertaining themselves, the way Her Majesty had conditioned them to. It couldn’t blame any of them.

As for the flat’s actual residents - Orla had started getting herself off in a most animalistic fashion, by humping its leg to completion. Oblivious as she was to her increasingly pet-like behaviour, she clearly didn’t feel anywhere near as humiliated by the experience as it did, standing there as passively as a lamppost as she frantically grinded, and eventually came, on its bare calf. Sin largely asked generic domestic favours of it, but she’d also had it make her cum with its mouth once or twice.

And then there was the Queen Bitch herself, whose endless capacity for sadism rarely extended to sex - but when it did, she fucked its holes roughly, remorselessly, and contemptuously, making sure to remind it that its only value was in serving and being used even in this manner. It was, at least, permitted to feel pleasure when it was fucked - in fact, the pleasure was intensified, accompanied by even more crushing shame and self-loathing. But it wasn’t permitted to cum, and it would spend the rest of its day pent up and humiliated.

On one occasion, Lizzie had been sitting on her couch reading, having seemingly forgotten her lackey was even in the room, when she’d casually told it to stop breathing, without even looking up from the page. And it had obeyed. It had stood there, its eyes wide and terrified, unable to inhale or exhale the tiniest gasp of oxygen. As it had slowly turned purple and its vision had begun to blur, it had wondered for a moment if this was it. If its tormenter was simply going to let it suffocate, standing there in the corner. The order had been rescinded at the last possible moment before it lost consciousness... and it still wasn’t entirely sure it was glad.

So, yes, its existence was a sheer nightmare - but what was the alternative? If Her Highness disposed of it (and elected to spare its life when she did so), she might leave it homeless, forced to scrounge or sell sexual favours for food. She might give it away to a friend or a fellow demon, to use and abuse as they so choose. If she did cast it aside, she might rob it of all memories of its past, leaving it with no knowledge of how or why it ended up in such a predicament... or it might keep it as it is now, trapped in the wreckage of itself, aware (at least partly) that it wasn’t always a powerless thrall, unable to stop itself from following whatever suggestions had been imprinted in its mind.

It shuddered a little, contemplating the possibilities. At no point did it imagine being freed, returning to the life it had before. Even if it hadn’t forgotten much of who it used to be, it knew it wouldn’t be going back. Her Eminence would never show it a shred of mercy, let alone enough to give it back its identity and autonomy. No, it would either remain enslaved by her for the rest of its days, or be cast out into an uncertain, but undoubtedly awful, future. As much as it hated living under the authority of its lizard liege, at least it knew what it was dealing with. And after all these months of agonising monotonous servitude, it was daring to believe that things wouldn’t - couldn’t - get any worse.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open, and Lizzie - her dreaded, tyrannical, glorious Queen Bitch - pranced inside, a malignant smirk on her face. And close behind her was...

Lackey swallowed, which had the inadvertent side effect of audibly slurping her thumb. It... it knew that person. It recognised them. Their buxom frame, their cherubic face, their dyed hair - one side jet black, the other sea green...

That was its person! Its person! They were here!! But... why? Were they here to rescue it...? No, why would Her Highness allow them in if they’d come here to save it...?

They wouldn’t save it anyway. It recalled the last clear memory it had of them - the anger and hurt in their voice, the tears in their eyes. “You abused me.” “I’m better off without you.” “You’re too fucking broken.” “I don’t love you.” Its chest tightened, its heart pounded, its own eyes grew wet...

It had hurt people. It knew that as surely as it didn’t know its name. Queen Lizzie, of course, and who knows how many others. But knowing it had hurt them, their beloved... The shame was unbearable. It was a strong contender for the worst thing it had ever felt.

And another candidate was the realisation that it didn’t remember their name.

Its own identity being stolen, excised, stripped away - that, it understood. But being made to forget who they were? Even she wouldn’t be - no. Of course she would be that evil, that vindictive. And she clearly had been. And now she was parading them in front of it, to hurt it worse than she’d ever hurt it before.

It was working.

Lizzie strolled past it and flinging herself onto the bed carelessly. “Make yourself at home, ****,” she said airily. Lackey groaned inwardly, realising that she’d just said their name out loud, and that its brain had automatically redacted the word. It wasn’t permitted to know its soulmate’s name.

They crossed the room to join the demoness, but stopped in their tracks, their brow furrowed, at the sight of the mind-controlled maidservant in the corner. It turned its head to gaze at them beseechingly, its voice still silenced, its thumb still stuck in its mouth, its eyes wide, wet and hopeful. No matter what harm it had caused them, it was sure they wouldn’t abandon it to its plight. They must have some affection for it, somewhere in their heart -

“Who’s this?” they asked, staring at lackey with obvious consternation... but no recognition.

They didn’t know it. They didn’t remember it.

It wanted to scream. It wanted to wail and thrash and pound the wall with its fists. It wanted to curl into a sobbing, whimpering ball on the floor, to hide its face from the light of day forever.

The most it could do was squeeze its eyes shut, tears streaming down its cheeks now, and suck its thumb harder, desperate for any measure of comfort it could provide.

“What’s going on, Liz?” their beautiful, soft voice continued, full of concern and trepidation. “Who is this - why’s she dressed like that? Hey, love - why are you crying?”

Its eyes snapped open, hope suddenly surging into its heart once more. Of course - if they couldn’t remember it, they wouldn’t remember how it had hurt them before. They’d only see it as a person in distress, in need of help. And they were a kind-hearted, generous person - it knew that. They were bound to help it -

“Oh, that’s just my lackey,” Her Majesty replied, her tone as blasé as before. “Don’t worry about it, hon - it’s not really a person, just a thing to keep my flat clean. Kinda like a humanoid Roomba, really.”

They nodded thoughtfully, their eyes glowing red as Lizzie’s magic took effect. Still, they looked a little troubled. “But why does it look so sad?”

“Because it’s funny.” There was a malicious edge to her voice now. “Isn’t it?”

Their frown faded, replaced by a growing grin. “Yeah... yeah, it kinda is,” they said, their voice wavering as giggles bubbled up inside them.

Lackey’s hopes died again, as quickly as they had been resurrected. It hung its head, unable to look at them, sobbing mutely in utter desolation.

“It’s so funny, how fucking miserable they look,” the demon Queen continued mercilessly, springing to her feet and coming over to join them, starting at her helpless, heartbroken slave. “How pathetic and stupid they are. And you don’t just have to look at it, ****. I like to poke it and slap it a bit now and again, just to amuse myself, and work off some excess energy. It makes all the right noises, but it doesn’t defend itself - give it a try, it’s pretty neat...”

It let out a muffled grunt as their index finger prodded it hard in the ribs. They poked it in the upper arms, and then the forehead, forcing its head up enough that it was looking at them again, against its volition. It could see them tittering at its discomfort, and felt another burning flare of grief and shame, flinching and whimpering as they flicked it hard with their middle finger, right between its eyes.

“That is neat,” they mused, grabbing its wrist and pulling its sodden thumb out of its mouth. Its arm went back to dangling at its side, while they pressed their fingertips into its cheeks and squeezed hard, squishing its mouth out of shape. It let out a pained whine, but got no sympathy from the person it loved, who let go of its face only to slap it with each palm, the strikes turning its head from one side to the other and back again.

Her Eminence had fetched a marker pen, and she stepped between it and them, raising the pen towards its face. She wrote one word across its forehead, and then more letters on each of its cheeks. “I find it’s often useful to label it,” she commented to her guest. “Helps remind people of what it is, and not to think of it as a normal human.”

“I guess that must be useful,” they sniggered.

It squirmed under the two pairs of spiteful eyes. It couldn’t see what Lizzie had written, of course, but it had a feeling it could guess - ‘STUPID’ on its forehead, and ‘WHORE’ on its cheeks, with its mouth as the ‘O’. She’d done that before, quite frequently.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to slap your stupid whore around,” they said blithely, unwittingly confirming its suspicions. They suddenly gave Lizzie an imperious look. “Did I?”

She seemed to shrink beneath their gaze, looking rather... intimidated, for the first time since it had known her. “No, Mxtress,” she said, in an uncharacteristically high, almost simpering tone.

“No,” they sneered, crooking a finger at her. “Come on then, pet.” And they turned their back on lackey, striding over to the bed.

“Yes, Mxtress,” Lizzie sighed rapturously. Then she shot it a gleeful smile, and leaned in close to quickly speak into its ear. “Don’t take your eyes off us, dipshit,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t want you to miss a moment of this.” Then she scurried over to join them.

It blinked in confusion, watching as both of them climbed onto the bed and kneeled in front of each other. What - what was happening? They were Lizzie’s Mxtress? The Queen Bitch... was submissive?!

It didn’t know why, but this revelation was ringing all sorts of frustrated - even indignant - bells. She was submitting to them? Something in the back of its clouded mind was insisting that they didn’t have a dominant bone in their body, but it couldn’t summon up any clear memories to prove that assertion. And it couldn’t ignore the evidence of its own eyes - they loomed over Lizzie, their deliciously soft features shaped into a commanding expression, while the demoness abased herself before them, beaming broadly.

It would have to watch this. It had no choice but to obey Her Majesty’s order. It would have to stand there and watch its overlord, its tormenter, its evil Goddess, being dominated and most likely fucked by its beloved ex-paramour. It would be a silent, immobile voyeur - a literal captive audience to a twisted tryst between the one person it loved more than anything in the world, and the creature it hated and feared most.

This was Hell.

But, it knew as surely as it didn’t know its own name, it was exactly what it deserved.

***

Lizzie’s mother had recently asked her a question that she found herself considering again now, as she knelt on all fours on her bed: had she learned anything? Had her experience as a mesmerised pet taught her any valuable life lessons?

Well, in truth - yes, she felt she had learned a few things from that day of hypnotised submission. First of all, she knew now that she wasn’t infallible. As powerful as she was, there was always a chance she could be outclassed - even by a mere human. She’d underestimated the hypnotist, and had the memories of that humiliating day to remind her of how foolish she’d been. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Of course, the artist formerly known as Aislinn Gold wouldn’t make the mistake of messing with her either - or anyone else, for that matter. She intended to keep it until she grew bored with torturing it (which could take many years) or sick of its ugly face (which might not be quite as long). She had a few ideas of what to do with it when she did get round to sending it away - obviously, she had to trap it in a similarly dehumanising situation so it could continue to suffer and not pose a threat to anyone else, but she hadn’t decided what, exactly. But there was no rush. She had all the time in the world to come up with something sufficiently sadistic. Besides, she was far from done playing with it.

She resolutely hadn’t learned the error of her ways. Just because she now knew what it felt like on the other side of things - what it was like to be made to do, think and believe things against her volition - didn’t mean she felt any remorse for her actions, any empathy for those she’d ensorcelled, or that she was going to stop using her own powers. She would act the same as ever, and enthral whomever she chose, whether it was the creature once known as Aislinn, or her roommates and closest friends, or casual acquaintances, or anyone who pissed her off, or just randomers she came across in her daily life. It was her right as a demon - as a descendent of Satan himself. To reform her behaviour, to ‘turn good’, would be like letting Aislinn win - and that was not something she was remotely prepared to do. She would just have to be a tiny bit more cautious than before.

On the other hand, she’d learned another lesson that had changed her to a greater extent than she’d ever expected. As much as she hated that Aislinn had got the better of her, and had used her for its own purposes, she couldn’t ignore how wonderful, how blissful, how transcendently hot it had felt at the time. Having her thoughts scattered, her mind softened, her free will drained, until she was nothing but a horny, subservient pet, desperate to obey her owner’s every whim... After years of enthralling friends, foes and strangers alike, indifferent to how it felt for them to be controlled and compelled (if they were actually aware it was happening), she’d finally learned the joy of submission for herself. And in the weeks since, she’d found herself craving it, until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

But if she was going to submit, she would do it on her own terms - to a dominant she trusted, because she’d created them herself. One who would never betray her, or violate her consent, because she’d conditioned them not to - not because they remembered what it felt like to have that happen to them. (Because, in point of fact, they didn’t.)

Renewing her friendship with Ruby had been rewarding for both of them. They’d benefited from a friend who shared many of their erotic fantasies, and was happy to explore a variety of kinks with them. Also, she’d erased their memories of Aislinn, and their abusive relationship, so they could live without the trauma. It had seemed like a kind thing to do, and it solved the potential problem of them recognising her lackey.

Lizzie, meanwhile, had been able to explore her burgeoning switchiness, taking a little time to tweak Ruby’s personality to make them more assertive. She hadn’t had to do much to convince them that they were a talented hypno domme - they already had a wealth of knowledge on the subject, and had only needed the push to put it into practice. Now she had her own personal mesmerising Mxtress, with whom she’d already spent dozens of molten-hot hours, hypnotised out of her mind and reduced to a mewling plaything - an obedient, oversexed creature at Ruby’s command.

She’d been waiting for the perfect moment to torture its slave with this revelation, with the sight of its ex controlling the being that controlled it. She couldn’t imagine what it’d think when the session actually began. It didn’t even remember what hypnosis was, let alone that it used to possess exceptional talents in that area - and it would never be able to relearn the knowledge it had lost. But it might retain some sense, on some level, that what it had needed to take from Lizzie by force, she was now giving freely to Ruby. It was about to get thoroughly cucked, both as their ex and as her former hypnotist.

Shooting it one last mocking grin (and noting with a little aroused delight that its thumb was already creeping back up to its mouth), she turned her head away, putting it out of sight and out of mind, and faced Ruby again, locking eyes with them. Their irises were midnight blue, almost black, blending with their pupils. Responding to the eye contact just as she’d been conditioned to, she found she couldn’t look away, and felt a little vertigo, making her sway ever so slightly on the duvet. She had propped herself up on her hands and knees, sitting on her back legs and gazing up at their hypno domme like an eager puppy.

They smiled salaciously, reaching for her shaved head with long obsidian fingernails. “Now, my dumb little dragon,” they purred, “are you ready to let the Void pull you deep into darkness? Ready to get lost within me, and let me play with you in the shadows...?” Their leading questions were punctuated by the sharp bite of their nails across her scalp.

“Uhnngh,” she moaned. “Yesss, Mxtressss...” She was dimly aware of her voice becoming more sibilant as she slipped into trance, even while she remained in human form.

“Good pet,” came their captivating voice. “That’s right. Look into my eyes, and lose yourself. Let yourself tumble into the silent, empty darkness, where all that matters, all that exists, are my words, and the way they make you feel...”

She was already lost. She was staring into the Void, and could feel them staring back into her, dragging her down into the tranquil trance she longed for. She knew she wouldn’t be the same when she awakened - they’d change her thoughts, her memories, her perceptions, in some ingenious and unutterably sexy way that she couldn’t begin to anticipate. She didn’t have enough of a mind left to think about what they might do with, or to, her. She didn’t really want to. And she didn’t have to.

She knew she was safe with Ruby, their homemade hypno domme, in a way she’d never been with Aislinn. She didn’t have to be in control right now - she didn’t need to be the Queen Bitch. Just for the moment, for a few luxurious hours, she could lay down her crown, let go of her mind, and allow herself to be consumed by the darkness. She could happily, safely surrender her mind and body to the control of her Mxtress.

And, with a dreamy smile, that was exactly what she did.