The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Codename: Majestic Woman

Geocode on file

Portal City, AZ

[date]

It is with a heavy heart that I write today to announce my retirement from the superhero life—and hence from the League of Heroes—effective immediately.

When one measures her lifespan in millennia, one must realize at the outset that any mortal endeavor, no matter how noble, is necessarily a temporary thing. More than seven decades ago I walked into the life and role of superhero knowing that one day I would leave it behind, that one day another calling would beckon, that one day I would pursue the next phase of my life. That day has come.

What I could not have known those 72 years ago is that the people I would meet, the men and women—heroes all—beside which I would live and fight and laugh for only a scant few decades, would become some of the closest friends of my entire 2,482 years. As I sort out what I am becoming, now that Majestic Woman is no more, I will remain based in Portal City. You are, one and all, welcome in my home and in my life, at least until the parts of my life that still hang in limbo are resolved. I ask only that you not show up unannounced, as I will be travelling extensively while I get my affairs in order.

Although I am sad to lose the Legion, I hope never to lose you, my friends. And I hope that I will be in your thoughts and prayers as I joyously run to meet the challenges of this new page in my life’s story.

As Cindi puts the letter in the envelop, the tears start to flow. «I said I wouldn’t cry. I SWORE I wouldn’t cry.» However, her emotional state is not something over which she has a very firm grasp these days.

«“Don’t”»

“My Lord? Is that you? Inside my head?”

«“Yes, baby bitch. Don’t send the letter. Don’t resign.“»

Having accepted the miracle of her “dreams” actually being some sort of reality and having accepted the miracle of the second collar found in her “waking” presence just hours ago, it’s really not that hard to also swallow that her Lord can speak to her telepathically. She just rolls with it. She is far more startled by what he is saying, than by how he is saying it. Being alone in her own home, she decides that it’s less confusing for her to speak aloud in response. Being alone with me in her own home, she drops to her knees in the magical presence of her Lord.

“Why, My Lord? My true calling is to be your property, your...your fucktoy. You promised to break me of my delusions of freedom, equality and leadership, and...and you did...you did. You could have killed me last night. I couldn’t breathe; I was so SCARED. But I would have died for you. I would have died to make you happy. Why would you want me to continue to embrace this lie that I am some kind of strong heroic leader? Why would I want to live another moment of this flat, dull, sexless life, when I can just give everything to you? I did give everything to you! Come to me here. Come to me now. I’ll give you every part of your slut’s slutty body all over again!“

A tempting thought, but I have to stay on track. «“Think, fuckmeat, think of the collateral damage. What would Blake do if you suddenly were to resign and disappear?“»

“Oh...OH GODS! He would never rest. He wouldn’t believe any of my reasons. He would press and hunt and dig until he finds you.” The fact that I know the Wraith’s secret identity passes almost unnoticed in her head.

«“And what would I have to do if the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ were to find me?“»

“You...you’d have to break him, My Lord. As thoroughly as you broke me.”

«“I didn’t break you. I repaired you. I’m still repairing you. I did it for a reason. I have a plan for you.“»

“Plan? What plan, My Lord?”

«“That is none of your fucking business.“»

“Yes, My Lord. Forgive me, please, M-my Lord.”

«“Forgiven. But you are right about the Wraith. I have no plans for him. I WILL break him if he gets in my way. I don’t want to break him. Or any of them. So let’s not go there. Stay in the Legion until the time is ripe. Until you can join me forever.“»

“But...My Lord, I’m not the person I was. I can feel it, My Lord. My will power is gone. All I want in life is to be your slutty ‘good girl’. I don’t care about anything else. I can’t think about anything else. It’s a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time until someone relies on me in the heat of battle, but I hesitate or space out or cower or freeze...and I FAIL them.”

«“Lean on me. Use my strength like you use the Shield of Athena. I will guide you. I will carry you. I can cover your timidity. I can cover your weakness.“»

“I...I don’t understand, My Lord. I don’t see how that will help. My knees are weak, my...my pussy is wet just from hearing your voice. Inside I want to beg you to magic me off to your place and ‘dump cum’ in me right now.”

«“Trust me, little slut. Submit to my will.“»

“I trust. I submit, My Lord. I’ll stay in the Legion. I won’t resign.”

«“Keep the letter though. One day I may allow you to use it.“»

“Yes, YES, My Lord! THANK YOU, My Lord. I live for the day.”

«“Some day. Patience, baby bitch.“»

A pause. “Do I really have to wait to see you, My Lord? Can’t you take me now?”

«“What did I JUST say?“»

“I understand, My Lord. I will try to be patient.” Now more tears are coming, but they are accompanied by great wracking sobs. Her Lord has remade her into a weak, needy slave to Him, to her lust for Him. But he is now demanding that she be impossibly strong. It’s tearing her apart.

«“No Cindi, you WILL be patient. Have I made myself clear?“»

“Y-yes, My Lord. snif My yearning, weeping hole and I will wait for your pleasure.” Even after the first two days, such a statement from her would have been half-sarcastic. Today it is utterly serious and contains an implied prayer.

«“Your hole will be filled. You won’t live a dull, sexless life. But in the mean time you WILL serve me in EVERY way that I demand.“» And with that I am gone.

And so she has her marching orders, but she has no idea how she will be able to follow them. Before her Lord intervened she was afraid of being the weak link in a team, of hurting or even killing one of her friends by her failure to act. Now she is more afraid of disappointing Him. She knows, from long centuries of battle experience, that this shift in loyalties is a problem in and of itself. She knows that if her Lord were to call her away from her teammates in the midst of a pitched battle that she would leave them. It would tear her apart, but she would do it.

«The Legion deserves better from me,» she thought.

But she is the thrall of her Lord. If this is his will, then she must obey. She must find a way to make it work.

«“Be ready in one hour”»

She is nearly done eating dinner when she receives his order, clearly “there” in her mind, and then just as clearly “gone” before she can respond. Warmth floods her as she flushes all over. He wants her sooner than “bedtime”.

She can’t wait. She’s exhausted from trying to be “Majesticunt”—as she thinks of her now-despised hero self inside her own head—for even half a day. She didn’t even don the uniform, but she did try to get back to her electronic patrol routine: police scanner, LoH communicator, 24-hour TV news, BBC World Service satellite radio, local, national, and world breaking news via her laptop, all scanned continuously in a multitasking frenzy. She’s worn out and there wasn’t even anything that needed her response. In fact, looking back through the news archives it looks like it’s been a pretty calm week altogether, not even a major fire in Portal City. And no supervillainy that wasn’t immediately squashed by a nearby hero who was well-suited to deal with it. Her impromptu vacation was never even missed.

She had been pondering all this over the last few pungent shrimps scampi when He called her. So now there’s no more time for her thoughts. She cleans up and gets ready to present herself to her Lord.

After what seems like an eternity of yearning, of helplessly, hopelessly trying to will the minute hand to turn faster, the time finally arrives. She prostrates herself on her bedroom carpet. She begs her Lord to take her. I do.

She is surprised at the way she finds herself upon arrival. She is NOT prostrate on her Lord’s parquet living room floor. Instead she’s curled up in her dog bed under a rough but warm blanket. She feels groggy; she’s just now waking up. Looking around, she sees an envelope taped to the closed door at “hand and knees” eye level. Not surprisingly, “Cindi Cumdump” is written large on the outside. She is a bit surprised, however, by the round feminine cursive.

She rouses herself and opens the letter. Three pages of the same flowing cursive...

“Good morning (what’s left of it). Your Lord has allowed you to sleep in. He has gone out, but expects you to be ready for Him when He returns. Please follow these directions carefully. You will find everything you need in the master bath and the laundry room.”

And with that beginning, Cindi—made eternally beautiful by Aphrodite herself—is introduced to the utterly foreign concept of the “beauty regimen”: special facial wash, three separate stages to washing her hair, how to dry herself without chafing skin, two different skin conditioners, dental care including gentle cleaning of gums, tongue and palate, complex and confusing instructions for blow-drying and brushing her hair, nail filing (not clipping!) and cuticle care, saddle soap for her collar to avoid chafing her neck, and on and on.

So thusly, one of her last suspicions is confirmed, «“This is not MY body, magically transported and weakened. This is somebody else’s body that I’m borrowing. And now she has even left me an owner’s manual.“»

But even more is revealed by the instructions themselves. Her nameless beauty instructor was thoughtful enough to include the following: “DO NOT SHAVE! Your body is naturally hairless wherever you might want to shave or wax.” There are other surprise “don’ts”, but only by omission; there is no mention of perfumes, makeup, or nail polish.

Rereading the instructions as she goes, she makes her way to the shower, determined to present her most beautiful self to her Lord.

After a surprisingly long and frustrating time for our heroine, she is by the front door, kneeling, awaiting my arrival, feeling sexy. It seems to her like another frustrating forever before I finally arrive, but eventually I do.

She hears the key in the door and bends over, head to floor, ass to sky, arms to me. “Welcome home, My Lord. How may I serve you?”

I drop my gym bag on the floor and say, “Clean my shoes, bitch.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Inside her head, for the first time in her two and a half millennia, she echoes the disappointment of women throughout the ages, «“He didn’t even notice!“» But it is fleeting. He is demanding her attention, and she wants to be a “good girl”, so she gives it.

“Less talk, more action.”

She clearly understands by now that she should interpret most commands from me in the most humiliating way possible. So she rejects her own disappointment and crawls to me and my muddy shoes.

But before she starts, she’s determined to surprise me. She knows she has to lick my shoes clean, but first she kisses them, repeatedly, lovingly, soft little kisses interspersed with sultry affirmations: “I missed you”, “I was so lost without you”, “I felt so alone”, “I need you so much”. This gradually gives way to moaning, caressing licks. She is romancing my shoes as she eats their filth. She has not only swallowed her pride, she’s digested and eliminated it. Without pride there is no humiliation, only humility. She has turned a mortifying symbol of slavery into an incredible turn-on; we both feel it. I want to pick her up and ravish her where she stands...but not yet.

Eventually she is done. She looks up at me with eyes as big as dinner plates and hugs my thigh. I look down, smile, caress her flushed cheek. “Good girl. Now, deal with these dirty clothes, and go make me some coffee.”

She grabs the gym bag. She’s up and moving away from me, but I can see that she’s smiling with her whole body. In her mind we’re already fucking, we just haven’t put the round peg in the slotted hole yet.

When she opens the bag though my sweaty clothes almost overwhelm her. She is hardwired to love the way I smell, and there is almost more of my smell here than she can bear. If she could figure out how to make love to my gym bag she might. But the moment passes; she’s ready to start a load of laundry combining my gym clothes and the contents of the clothes hamper, but first she has to empty the washer. Last night’s bedsheets are already clean in the washer so she transfers them to the dryer. And then she loads and starts the washer. And then she’s off to the kitchen.

The coffee maker in my kitchen is a far cry from the espresso-cappuccino-railroad-engine monstrosity she has in hers. Even so, it’s not exactly a “Mr. Coffee”; it’s taking her a little while to figure it out. She’s determined to suss it out herself. Not out of fear, certainly not out of pride, but out of a sense of duty and of trust. I gave her a job to do and she wants to do it, believing that I have given her everything she needs to get it done. She’s learning to submit to me and to trust me at the same time. Hey, she’s not exactly ready to face down the Sons of Dixie under my guidance yet; we’re still rebuilding. Baby steps, baby steps.

It actually doesn’t take her very long to figure it out, and soon she has everything bubbling and brewing. She comes to the couch and kneels beside me.

“My Lord, how do you prefer your coffee?”

“Depends. Which bean did you choose?”

“Oh, the Tanzanian. Um, the peaberry, My Lord, not the regular.”

“Ah, good choice.” In her mind, self-triggered, «“Good girl!“»

“Just an ounce or two of cream and a level teaspoon of brown sugar then.”

“Some breakfast, My Lord?”

It’s after 1:00, but she just woke up. Actually I’m glad she’s not watching the clock. “It’s a bit late for breakfast. But you can make me a sandwich from the leftovers. And fix yourself something if you’d like.”

She’s off and running. «“Less talk. More action.“» Soon she’s back presenting the filet mignon sandwich, complete with bacon and dijon bernaise. Then she brings a tray with a full coffee service to the coffee table. She kneels and prepares my caffeine prescription and presents that. Then she is off again. In a few minutes she’s back with her doggie dish and what appears to be an omelette. She puts it in the floor between couch and coffee table “where I can reach her”, then kneels waiting.

“Fix yourself some coffee if you’d like.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” Cream, sugar, cinnamon, and coffee all go into the water dish as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s waiting again.

“Eat, baby bitch, eat.”

She dives face first into her food. I stroke her curves idly while I watch the tube.

What’s really happening though—what’s happening in most of my “idle moments”—is that I’m sampling minds around the globe. My 10,000, about a quarter of whom are asleep right now, about 400 waking world military and political leaders, about a thousand sentries at various hot spots worldwide. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here in the moment too. Feeling those yielding curves, that flawless skin. I give her up-raised ass a small squeeze, eliciting a happy noise from somewhere in the vicinity of the doggie dish.

“Do you dance?”

“Mmm, um, I...know some line and circle dances that we do on celebration days in the Amazon Queendom, but...” She sits up, wipes her chin, and gives me a look that could melt steel. “That’s not the kind of dancing you mean, is it?”

“No, no, it’s not.”

She lowers her gaze. “I-I’ll take some classes.”

“Good. No hurry.” Somehow we both missed the lack of “My Lord” in that last exchange, but noticing it now I’m not concerned. Inside she has never belonged to me more completely than now as she imagines herself dancing for my pleasure.

Soon she’s up and moving again, done with her eggs, pouring me more coffee, collecting and washing dishes. While she was fussing in the kitchen, the dryer had sounded. So now she is off to take care of that. Folding the sheets, finding where I keep them in the bedroom. Moving the wet clothes into the dryer. Then she is back, kneeling, looking a bit...nervous.

“My Lord, may I...um, touch you?”

Seeing what she has in mind I assent. She lays her head gently on my thigh. She reaches up and strokes my stomach and chest, feeling hard muscle, drawing lazy circles, daydreaming with a vacuous stare. Her need for me is an ever-rising tide. But she waits on my will. I reach down and play with her hair. Not a bad way to pass the time really.

There’s a bank robbery in Portal City, but the police have it in hand; no need to bother her. Ares appears to be on the move again, as evidenced by the odd timing of a new border skirmish in central Africa. But he’s not out in the open yet, so Majestic Woman couldn’t act anyway without causing an international incident. If everything goes according to plan, Ares won’t be a concern much longer anyway. An LoH call goes out, but plenty of other heroes answer. The villain is subdued in short order. A beautiful naked woman who would have been thrown into frantic motion by any of these events is instead pooled bonelessly by my side, head resting on my leg, gazing longingly at her Lord/Master/Lover/Owner.

I redirect her gaze toward my bulging package and pull her in. Empty stare becomes laser-like focus. Wistful grin becomes lecherous smile. Idle hands spring into action, soon freeing my member from its prison of cloth. Holding her prize, she looks up at me with yearning, silently begging me for permission. I nod. Her eager mouth consumes me.

Time has passed. She’s draped over me, not asleep, but completely at rest. Small satisfied sighs escape from her mouth onto my chest. I’m reading a book while I play with her hair.

A ringing doorbell disturbs our peace. Cindi has a minor panic attack. It has somehow never even occurred to her that a third person could ever come to this perfect place.

“Get the door, Cindicunt.” The overwhelming flood of questions and uncertainty is worse than the sandwich on that first day. Who could it be? Should she throw on a bathrobe or answer the door naked? Should she stand to greet them as equals or kneel as a slave? Is kneeling enough or should she prostrate herself? Should she let them right in or hold them at the door until He says they may enter? And there’s no time to think about any of it. She has to answer the door NOW.

«Well, when in doubt, go for max humiliation, right?» She hits her knees away from the door but in reach of the knob, opening the door.

Bowed down and curled into a ball—and hence not as utterly prostrate as before her true Lord—she welcomes His guest, “Welcome to My Lord’s home,” noticing the shoes, “ma’am. Please ent—“

Two feminine hands grab Cindi’s shoulders and pull her roughly to her feet. A lilting Aussie accent says, “NO, Annette, what the fu...”

Cindi looks up, eye-to-eye really, and sees shock turn into amusement on the lovely stranger’s face. “So. You’re the one.”

“The one?”

The woman looking Cindi over is maybe an inch shorter than Cindi herself. She’s wearing a long trench coat, buttoned all the way up to the neck. She has cascading red hair, piercing green eyes, and perfect porcelain skin with just a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“Master’s new pet hero,” she continues, “Majestic Woman.”

“I am My Lord’s new pet, Majesticunt,” she says, showing her nametag, “former hero. Is it that obvious?”

“Well, Annette never would have met me at the door naked, bowing, and scraping. She would have thrown on some clothes first and given me a hug,” the woman says, smiling.

Then “the look” comes over the stranger’s face, the same one Cynthia has seen innumerable times over the last seven decades. “Oh God, you have no idea what a fan I am of yo- Master!”

Looking over Cindi’s shoulder the woman has seen me walking up. She hits the floor kneeling, eyes downcast. Cindi turns and does the same.

“Cindi Cumdump, meet Julia. Julia meet Cindi. Julia, you can ask for her autograph later. Cindi, take her coat and hang it up.”

As Julia unbuttons the coat it becomes obvious that there’s nothing under the coat but more Julia, lots more Julia.

«Nice tits, not as big as mine though.» It’s the universal fem-fem checkout comparison, the human equivalent of butt-sniffing. It’s not related to slavebody urges. It’s not related to how I’ve changed her. It’s not even related to gender; guys do it too.

«But does the carpet match the drapes?.... Woah! No carpet! “...naturally hairless wherever you might want to shave or wax.“» Clearly Julia is another of her Lord’s slave girls, as if the kneeling and the word “Master” didn’t give it away. Thinking about what she knows of me so far Cindi instantly extrapolates, «If He has two then He has a harem.... No, an army.» Jealousy flickers through her for just a second, and then it’s gone. Good girl.

As Cindi hangs the coat in the hall closet, I call after her, “In the bedroom, the top drawer has a false bottom. Put on what you find there and meet us in the living room.”

Top drawer, neatly folded men’s underwear and socks. At the bottom she sees a thumb hole and lifts. It’s her Majestic Woman uniform. The bodice is authentic, one of the gifts of Aphrodite, but she stifles her curiosity about how he got it. «Hey, He’s magic.» The boots, armbands, and tiara are from a high-quality cosplay set. Everything fits perfectly.

She returns and starts to kneel beside Julia. But I stop her and have her stand beside me instead.

She’s confused. “Stand, My Lord?” She hasn’t stood in my presence—unless she was performing some task that needed her to stand—since the second day. She feels awkward. She feels presumptuous. Especially with Julia kneeling. She feels...bad.

“STAND.” I’m amused at how firmly I have to reinforce it. “Julia is here to help me with a demonstration. You are here to be Majestic Woman. Look.”

Suddenly Julia’s face changes somehow. A horrified look comes over her. Her voice has a strangely gruff American accent, “No. NO! I did everything you said! Please don’t drown m—“

“Shut up!” I interrupt. “Tell her who you are. Tell her everything.“

“Julia” is clearly not home. Whoever is using her body is male and definitely not in Kansas anymore. Looking down and cupping breasts, he mutters, “What the fuck?” Then his eyes light on Cindi.

“Majestic Woman!”

“TELL HER,” I yell.

“M-my name is—” He stops when he sees me wave him off impatiently. “Um. I am, uh, was...Portal City’s best and highest-paid torch. BUT NOT ANYMORE! I took all my loot and moved back to Nebraska. JUST LIKE YOU TOLD ME TO, M-MASTER! I’m clean! PLEASE DON’T DROWN ME AGAIN! I’M CLEAN! I’M RETIRED!”

With that he’s gone, and Julia is back. Cindi looks over at me. “Who was that?”

“He was responsible for over half the large building arson in your adopted home town. Now he’s not a problem.”

“There’s more than one arsonist in Portal City.”

“I can show you eight more like him, all with the same story—”

“And there are eight more ready to take their places.”

“’TAKE THEIR PLACES’, WHAT?”

“M-My Lord! I’m sorry, My Lord, but—”

“Better. When those eight come along I’ll deal with them too.”

She has a rejoinder but stifles it. Instead she asks, “Why ‘retire’ them, My Lord? Why not make them turn themselves in?”

“I hate waste. They’re no good to me in prison.”

“You collect torches, My Lord?”

“Watch your tone, cocksucker. I never know what I’ll need.”

Her eyes flutter; it hurts her to think she is displeasing me. But she has one last question. She has to know. Eyes lowered she asks, “You tortured them, didn’t you, My Lord?”

“I tortured you too, slave. What’s your point?”

She shakes her head, wipes tears, then looks up with a smile. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“You’re welcome. Now, are you ready to see the rest?”

“The other torches, My Lord?”

“The other hidden thorns in your side.”

She nods. Out through Julia’s mouth comes a cavalcade of corrupt politicians going straight, mobsters closing their drug and gambling operations and volunteering their men for the neighborhood watch, pimps resolving to put the girls in their stables through college and then let them go, dirty cops who’ve become zealous defenders of justice, more and more and more. It’s all a bit too much, but finally it’s done. Realizing the show is over Cindi falls to her knees, happy to join Julia in her rightful place. She doesn’t know what to think. She knows He has done it all for her, but she doesn’t understand why.

Looking up into my eyes searching for...she doesn’t even know what, she asks, “So this is how an amoral God fights crime?...My Lord?“

I look in her heart and see no judgment, no bitterness, only a sad resignation and acceptance.

“This is how an amoral Master helps his weak, needy slave carry out impossible orders. Do you understand now?“

“Yes, My Lord, thank you. I...” Eyes drop to the floor, “I really do love you.”

I stroke her cheek. “I know you do, baby bitch,” I murmur softly, “You can’t help it.”

I look down at her attire. “Go put that gaudy thing away and come back. Julia wants to worship her favorite superheroine some more. I think both of your heads might stay screwed on better in the process if that happens without that uniform in the way.”

Julia is still kneeling/sitting and squirming uncomfortably in the floor. It’s hard for her to be around me—or any male slavebody, really—this long without fucking me, but she has a lifetime of discipline keeping her in her place. I’m petting her lovely red hair and telling her that she has done well, that she’s a good girl. It helps some.

Soon Cindi is back and kneeling beside Julia again. “My Lord, may I make some dinner for Julia and myself? There are plenty of leftovers.” But then a stricken look crosses her face. “Oh no, I’m a bad sl—. My Lord, um, would you like some dinner? I’m sorry, My Lord. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t d-d-disci—“

I cut her off. “Your failure and your self-correction are both noted. I’ll deal with it later. In the mean time just fix me a sandwich and some salad.” As she opens her mouth to ask I gesture for her to stop, and I continue, “Ham and swiss, on rye, yellow mustard, condiments are up to you. Catalina on the salad. Fix whatever you like for the two of you, but let Julia help. She’s going nuts sitting here doing nothing. Julia, get me a beer.“

With a unified “Yes” that diverges at “My Lord” and “Master” they look at each other and smile. Then they are up and moving.

Julia meets me at the couch with my beer. She waits kneeling for instruction like a good slave, but clearly her mind is elsewhere. I shoo her back to the kitchen, leaving me with a grin.

I hear happy chatter from the kitchen, mostly from star-struck Julia of course. Cindi had borne this worship countless times before, but never so lightly. «It’s so much easier without all that hubris in way. I really want to hear what she has to say.»

Dinners prepared, the chatter, the two slaves, and the two doggie dishes move to the dining room floor. Julia is gushing, “I’ll never forget the Great Forest Fire of ’97. The one that threatened Canberra? You were amazing. I was just a wee thing, but I remember it like yesterday.“

“Oh, but Power Man was first on the scene. Um, I guess he went by ‘Power Boy’ back then. He did most of the heavy lifting.”

“Power Boy tried to blow out the fire. He made it worse!“

“Well...”

“You were the one who talked to the firefighters on the ground. You were the one who came up with the plan that worked. You were the one who found the empty tanks that were both big enough and strong enough to do the job. You were the one who got Sea King involved. You were...you were brilliant!“

“Well, I...”

“Sure, all the news photos were of Power Boy dumping great gobs of water on the fire, but anyone who read the stories knew who did the real ‘heavy lifting’.“

“You were a ‘wee thing’ that read news stories?” asks Cindi somewhat skeptically.

“I was a precocious nine. And I was already a fan. OH! But that wasn’t even the best part. You lot had your ‘command performance’ before Parliament the next week, medals and speeches and wot. Sea King declined, natch. Power Boy gave his standard ’Twarn’t nuthin’, ma’am’ speech. Sincere I’m sure; he really is a dear. But you...YOU gave a short lecture on forestry management and a ripping endorsement for the opposition’s forestry bill. The opposition was only at 30 percent of the House at the time, not much better in the Senate. The bill had no hope of even getting press before you stepped in. After? It was passed and signed the next day!... Oy! What’s all this then? No crying! Cindi love, what’s wrong?“

Cindi doesn’t know why she’s crying. There’s a whole lot going on in there so I’m not completely certain myself. But I know that my pheromones aren’t helping the situation any. As I rise, four eyes in the dining room are suddenly glued on me.

“As you were. I’m going for a walk.” Cindi’s nipples crinkle painfully as she gets excited thinking about cleaning my shoes again. Good, some distraction from that inner turmoil.

“I’ll be out a while. Everything should be cleaned up by the time I get back.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Yes, of course, snif My Lord.“

I’m gone but of course still listening.

“You know he really likes that ‘My Lord’ thing.“

“snif Yeah?“

“Oh GAWD yes! Makes ’is donger practically jump out of ’is shorts. I think He’s gonna make us all switch to that some day. The blokes already kid him about that on the basketball court, ‘My Lord’ this and ‘Sire’ that and ‘My Leige’ the other.”

“There are other men? Other, um, Masters?”

“Oh, no...I keep forgetting that you’re just an ankle biter ’ere. About half of the Ten Thousand, that’s us, dearie, are men, but there is only ONE Master. He owns us all; we’re His slaves. ‘His herd,’ He sometimes says, like we’re farm animals or wot. He says he’s been breeding us for bleedin’ ages, practically since the stone age.”

“And you’re all okay with that?”

“Well...It’s not exactly like he takes ‘No’ for an answer, now is it, love?”

“Um, no.”

“And it certainly has its benefits. When you orgasm, what’s it like?”

“What?“

“Come on, love. Just us girls. What’s it like when you cum?”

“Julia...It’s amazing. I want to write poetry about it. Not sonnets. I want to write epics, eddas, GOSPEL HYMNS.“

“I know, right? And in your ‘real’ body?”

“Um, not the same. It used to seem fine to me, but now...”

“Wet firecracker?”

“Exactly!”

“Lots of us girls get really sad in our teen years. You know, thinking about being ‘love slaves’ for the rest of our lives? So when it gets bad enough he’ll body-swap us with our best muggle friend, or maybe some muggle girl we envy, and order us to jill off until we cum. Happened to me when I was 15. It’s not very satisfying. Kind of a wake-up call.”

“Muggle?”

“Yeah, some while back one of our lads in Europe started calling them that. It sort of stuck. It’s not like the Harry Potter stories, of course. We don’t have magic or go to a special school. But we do live a secret life in the midst of them, and there is something supernatural—super-something—about the Master. Anyway, Master calls them ‘wild humans’ which, again, makes us feel like farm animals. So, muggles they are, in my book at least.“

“But the men are slaves too?”

“It’s different for the men. He wants the men to be our, um, the women’s, ‘keepers’, which suits them just fine. Us too, really, most of the time. And He wants them to be full of piss and vinegar, which is fine with them too. And, well, you’ve seen Greg, I mean the Master. They’re all built like that, big strong ‘Lords of Creation’ with porn star willies. They like that too. But he also wants them to be his mates—“

“Um, gay marriage?”

“Uh, no, sorry, his buddies, his pals. That buddy-buddy thing is not so easy for them.”

“Why? It sounds like they’ve got it great.”

“He’s still their owner and slavemaster. He chooses whom they marry. He chooses where they live. And more...He likes smart slaves, men and women, and He pays for it all, best teachers, best schools, everything. But if you’re reading English at the Uni because you want to be a poet, and He decides He needs you to be a lawyer, guess what you’re gonna be? So it’s not all tea and crumpets for the men either. And then there’s the riding; women don’t have to deal with that so much.“

“Riding?”

“That’s what He calls it. Master doesn’t have a body of his own. He’s like some sort of ghost that possesses people, but He has to put their mind somewhere else while He’s in their body; He did it to me this afternoon. I got to be a bunch of fat smelly scared muggle blokes in rapid succession while they were in me. But I don’t know how he does it; it’s all too confusing to me.

“When He’s in someone’s body He calls that “riding” them. You know, like a horse. Yeah, that’s not very flattering imagery either. But anyhow, he hardly ever rides women. So the men have to share time in their own bodies. Now you’d think with over five-thousand-odd men it wouldn’t be such a burden to share, letting Master ride you once every few years, but He has favorites. Those guys are ridden much more often than the others. That means they spend a lot of their time living in someone else’s body while the Master is living in theirs. It’s frustrating for them.

“Greg and Annette are the Ten Thousanders who live here, but Greg hasn’t been here during his body’s waking hours in ages. Master loves to ride him. Now it’s starting to be that way for Annette too. She spends two-thirds of her days sleeping now; sleeping in your body when she’s there, and sleeping in her body when she’s here.”

“Oh. I’m...Tell Annette I’m sorry”

“She doesn’t mind, not really, Cindi dear. She’s as big a fan of yours as I am, since we were little girls, maybe all the more now because she’s your spitting image. You could have knocked her over with a feather when Master told her that she was going to swap bodies with Majestic Woman. He had her start taking martial arts classes; she hates ’em. But she loves being you. I think even if she’s sleeping right now, she’s living the dream. I know I would be in her place.

“And besides, it’s not like any of us has a choice. He moves us where He wants us. His reasons are His, end of story. Even so, lately it’s like he’s mobilizing for something; all of the Ten Thousand can feel it, his...urgency. None of us knows what’s really happening, but it’s certain as rain is wet that you’re a big part of it, love.“

“Yes...He’s told me that he has a plan for me. Then he was angry. It was like he let it slip and then regretted saying it. He won’t tell me what it is.”

“And that is as much as you’ll get until he needs you to know more. Our Master plays his cards pretty close to the vest.”

“So...so there are ten thousand of you, er, us?”

“Well, not exactly. That’s Master’s target number. We’re about two hundred over right now, but a bunch are retiring soon.“

“Retiring?”

“Right, He doesn’t count anyone over 40. He makes ’em get their tubes tied and ‘retires’ them, which is right ripping compared to what he used to do a century or more ago. No, no, love, you don’t want to know.”

The conversation was starting to peter out, but now it’s Cindi’s turn to stand and deliver. What’s it like to fly? What are the other heroes like? Who are you really? That one opens the floodgates. Very few people know Majestic Woman’s origin story, none except me outside the Legion or the Queendom; people only know that she hasn’t aged noticeably in over seven decades and that she settled in Portal City some time after World War 2. Now Julia is one of the few that know the whole story. Julia is amazed, an entire city of women, Amazons even, in the middle of modern Greece, hidden in plain sight. Master isn’t the only one with an entire secret population right under everyone’s noses.

“And you all live forever?”

“Well, we don’t age after we reach full maturity, 19-to-25 years depending. That’s not quite the same thing. Many Amazons have died through the centuries. We all tend to live...dangerous lives. The Gods help us replenish, even increase, our numbers though.”

“Real gods, now. Really real?”

“They seem real to me, Julia. The Gods cast the glamour that hides the Queendom of Themiscyra.”

“’Casts glamour’?”

“Oh! That’s ‘glamour’ in the old, original meaning.” Muttering, “How do I describe this?” She thinks for a few seconds and then says, “It’s a magic spell that alters appearance or perception.”

Now it’s Julia’s turn to take a disbelieving tone, “Magic? Really?”

“OH, COME ON, JULIA! You’ve lived under your Master’s magic your whole life! You CAN’T be THAT much of a skeptic!”

“Touché, love. Touché.”

“In any case, everyone in the outside world thinks Themiscyra is a dead city near the Black Sea in northwestern Turkey, when it’s really a modern city, populated by 75,000 of my Amazon sisters, only about 80 kilometers from Athens. The Gods keep us from aging. They cast a different glamour inside Themiscyra so that when outsiders do enter the city, delivery drivers, travelers, whatever, they simply never notice anything unusual. Is it really magic of the Gods? I don’t know any human or alien with a superpower that powerful, unless it’s the aliens behind the Magic Lamp Corps, or maybe our Lord and Master. The Gods gave me my powers. They visited me to present me my powers, and other times too. The visitations, even the gifting of my powers, are dreamlike in my memory, but the effects are undeniable. My mother, Hippolyta...“

“The DINKUM Hippolyta? Queen of the Amazons? Like from the Iliad? Like from the Labors of Heracles?

“Yes, that’s her. She is still our queen. The Iliad says she died, but of course it’s not true. Anyway Mother always told me the story of the Gods that were attendant at my birth, that they each gave me two gifts.”

“Gifts?”

Sing-sing she continues, half chanting,

“From Hera: great integrity and strength.

From Hermes: great shrewdness and speed.

From Artemis: great confidence and aim.

From Athena: great wisdom and valor.

From Aphrodite: great compassion and beauty.”

She blushes at the last.

“Um. That’s quite a trove of gifts, I must say!”

“Sometimes they felt more like burdens than gifts. Like everyone was watching me, prodding me, testing me to see what I would do with the gifts of the Gods. When you’re 8 years old with three missing baby teeth and a broken nose from a playground fight, it’s kind of hard to represent ‘Aphrodite’s Gift of Beauty’ to the world. When you are a junior officer, and you make a stupid mistake in deployments during a training exercise you can hear the sniggers about ‘Athena’s Gift of Wisdom’ behind your back wherever you go. But yes, eventually I did grow into my gifts. I think.“

“So what about the other Olympian Gods? Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon, Demeter, Dionysus, the rest?”

“They weren’t there when I was born. They weren’t there when I was granted my powers. I’ve never felt their presence. I don’t know. I’ve met and fought Ares, but he’s not like the other Gods. Somehow I think he’s some other sort of magic being pretending to be an Olympian God. But I can’t imagine why the real Gods would let him get away with it.”

“Wow...just...wow. And all that myth and legend about the Amazons. A right load of rot, I bet! Like the whole thing about cutting off your breasts?”

“A tale told and repeated by idiots. Most of our archers strap down one breast to keep it out of the way—I certainly did when I was an archer—but none of us cut them off. Now having said this, the word ‘Amazon’ literally means ‘without a breast’, so at some point in our history we must have embraced that story. The name was already used self-descriptively within the Queendom long before I was born, and I never really asked anyone about it. I always just assumed we made a virtue of it, using the story to fuel the fear of our enemies. You know, ‘If they’re willing to do that to themselves, what would they do to us?’

“In any case, a lot of the stories are rubbish. But some have at least a hard kernel of truth. One of my aunts, Penthesilea, really was killed by Achilles, and there were many other Amazons that died fighting for Troy in the Trojan War. Heracles and his men really did enslave the entire Amazon Queendom, but it was only about 500 women at the time. Mother claims, and I believe her, that the Gods freed us from that slavery. All this was before I was born, but I know living eye witnesses to all these events.“

“Right from the mouth of a fair dinkum Amazon! What a corker! And what about...” It goes on like this for a while. Somewhere in there they finish eating and drinking, take breaks, clean and straighten as I had commanded, but none of that ever interrupts the conversation.

At some point in all this I do return. When they hear my key in the lock both women spring into action. And so I am welcomed home by two prostrate beauties instead of one. Right shoe cleaned and adored by olive-skinned black-haired beauty, left by alabaster redhead loveliness, the life-long slave actually following the new slave’s lead. One removed and stowed shoes. Other removed and hung up coat. Both followed me into the bedroom like puppies chasing after their favorite treat.

It’s Cindi’s first threesome, but she seems happy about it. Well, at first. Then her mood changes when she has to bend over and take a few stripes from my belt: for arrogance, for presumptuousness, for inattentive service. I didn’t come up with this list. These are sins that Cindi discovered inside herself.

“Have you been a bad girl?”

“Yes, My Lord! I...I’ve been bad!”

“What have you done?”

Cindi cries out her sin, then her shame, then her pain, each one for each transgression in turn. Inside she knows she deserves every lash. Inside she yearns for me to purify her, to burn away the last husks of her old life even though she still has to live it. Meanwhile Julia holds Cindi’s head in her lap. She wipes away her tears, She tells Cindi that she is new, that she is still learning, that some day she will be a good girl she longs to be. Pain, fear, shame, and humiliation feed arousal. Cindi is on fire.

After the discipline, Cindi’s head in Julia’s lap becomes Cindi’s mouth on Julia’s snatch. Cindi is no more experienced at cunnilingus now than she was at fellatio yesterday, but at least here she has a “home court advantage”. She knows what she likes and doesn’t like “down there”, so she’s doing a pretty passable job of servicing Julia. At the same time Julia is worshiping at the altar between my legs bringing to bear a lifetime of cocksucking training and experience.

I let my girls cum when I do, and then I change things up. I move the girls into a soixante-neuf width-wise across the bed with Cindi on top and Julia’s knees hanging off the other side of the bed. While they are getting to know each other a bit better, I pull out some sex lube from the bed stand and apply a generous portion to my member. Then I tell Cindi to open her asshole for me. Cindi begins to protest even as she opens up, but Julia distracts her, doing...something that causes Cindi to cut off in mid-word and emit a loud moan.

While she is distracted, I enter her ass for the second time in three days, but not to punish her this time. This time it is the gentle act of her perfect lover and she feels it as such. Pain and pleasure blend inseparably in her mind and her arousal builds to a fever pitch. Eventually I bottom out, fully encased in her tight, hot ass. I let them both cum again.

As I begin to thrust in Cindi’s rectum, I’m ready to change things up again.

“Julia, it’s time for you to go home. Say good night to Cindi.”

“UNNNNNNGH. Yes, Master.” I didn’t tell her to hurry, so she disengages slowly, kissing her way up Cindi’s taut stomach. Cindi is almost lost in her sexual heat, but she is there enough to reciprocate. Both moan as they figure out how to slide two pairs of massive tits past each other. Kissing mouths now linger on each other’s freshly stimulated nipples, but slowly Julia disengages and kisses her way up Cindi’s chest and neck until they are sharing a deep, juicy, chin-by-nose kiss. Julia finally breaks off, whispering her love and her goodbyes to her new friend. Cindi grunts something in reply and grabs after her as she retreats.

Still stroking Cindi, I remember that there are some details yet to take care of. “Have Rupert errrm call you a taxi. Do you have enough for the fare?“

“No, Master. You said ‘nothing but the coat’.”

“Oh! Right. There should be plenty there on the dresser.”

Julia takes cash from my wallet and risks some cheek. “Bit less than me nawmal rayte, guv.”

I laugh as I stroke into Cindi again. Cindi doesn’t seem to notice the joke. I grab Cindi’s hair and turn her head towards the redhead slave.

“One more thing, both of you. Cindi, watch.” Her eyes focus on her new friend.

“Julia...cum.”

Cindi’s eyes go wide as Julia collapses into a writhing, groaning heap. “One day you will obey me that completely,” I say.

“One day, Mmmmmmy Lord.”

After a few minutes Julia gathers herself off the floor and makes her way out.

“Okay, Cindi. Let’s practice. Cum on every down stroke.”

It’s a repeat of yesterday’s countertop fuck, but in her ass instead of her pussy, so it’s not really the same at all. It seems like it is different for every one of my women. For Annette’s and Cindi’s shared body vaginal orgasms are huge, satisfying, rolling waves, but anal orgasms are wild, shocking earthquakes. In just a few strokes she goes from moaning her release to screaming it. She begins thrashing uncontrollably; I have to stiff-arm her head into the mattress with my full weight just to keep her in place.

Now seems like as good a time as any to have a relationship conversation, right?

“What are you, Cindi?”

“Sssssslave...Fucktoy!”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“My Lord?”

As I open my mouth to respond she screams. Apparently I struck oil down there in her ass and her empty cunt is the gusher. I wait for it to subside a bit.

“I mean, are you a happy fucktoy? Are you fulfilled being my slave?”

“NNNNG Love you! Be...anythinnnnnng...you want.“

“That’s not the question. Are you being what you want?“

“YEESSSSSSS, happy...contennnnnt...I just wa-wanna sssserve, be a good giRRRRRRRRl...feel bad w-when I don’t plEEEEEEase you, Lord.”

“Then please me as Majestic Woman. Do the best Majestic Woman impersonation you can muster. Nobody knows her better. Make me proud.”

“Yes...OH! Oh, Yessssssss...Make My Lorrrrrd proud!...Thhhhhanks...M’Lord” In her mind I see that she is finally content with what I have demanded of her. She will fake being Majestic Woman for as long as it takes.

I push to the hilt one last time and fire my load deep into her bowels.

After her last orgasm subsides, I withdraw and walk around to the other side of the bed, where I find Cindi, not exactly alert, but eager to tongue-clean her Lord’s cock. So she does. I stroke her hair and tell her she is a good girl. Then I gather her up and cradle her in my lap. I rock her gently. We make small satisfied noises at each other. I kiss her forehead and send her home.