A Thousand Lords and One

Chapter 4 - A Lack Of Value

Carolina

A tremor of need ricochets through me, a clarion call that makes my psyche resonate like a gong.

The reflection of my own longing stares back at me in the astral mist. She looks like me, and less than me, and more than me, all at the same time.

The surreptitious biting of my lower lip, as every muscle in my body ripples under the erotic strain of being subjugated and sexually conquered.

The stiff tendons in my neck as I arch my back in toe-curling pleasure.

The way my eyes go glassy and unfocused as my mind leaks out of my cunt. The way they roll back into my skull.

This image is... me. A vessel for an ancient yearning that predates the first cities of humanity.

A surge of desire sweeps through me, raw and potent. It's a revelation, the sensation of the mind yoke that slave girl endures daily--no, not endures. Enjoys.

It's exquisite, erotic, an enigma made flesh. It's a yoke fit for humans. Carefully molded around the concept that power is more sexual than sex itself.

I reel from the pulsating energy of it, the pleasure laced so tightly with servitude that they become indistinguishable. The stories I've heard about the mind yoke pale beside this visceral truth. My body responds, seeking the firm control, the constriction, the corralling. Seeking its true master.

Astonishment grips me, stark and sudden as a lightning strike. There is such contrast between slave girl and I. I've always been so full of resentment, simmering rage, and just moments ago, it exploded into a thirst for power. But slave girl? She loves her chains more than I've ever felt anyone love anything in the world. In this fleeting communion, I glimpse her reality: pure, unadulterated subjugation, a state of defeated prostration so complete that it borders on rapture.

And who could blame her?

To be enveloped in the mind yoke's embrace must be heavenly. Like touching a joy beyond comprehension, an erotic thrill that surpasses anything else human life can offer. That's a low bar to clear - being human is often a miserable experience.

But if you could toss it all away, destroy yourself, and in return, you could just feel? Feel, in the purest sense of the word. Wouldn't you do it?

Wouldn't you unravel?

My breath comes in ragged gasps as the struggle within mirrors the one without. The magnetic pull of yielding to this power is undeniable. A gnawing need claws at my determination, eroding it. The desire to succumb floods every crevice of my mind, leaving no room for resistance, no space for rational thought.

And then, the tide retreats.

I blink, and the vision fades. The mindlink severs as the slave girl recedes, though I can still feel wisps of her psyche clinging to mine. She has left something behind in me, a dark seed planted in my core. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself.

The surreal, totalising presence of the yoke fades from my perception, and I'm back in the shimmering, luminous fog, catching my breath. The clash between Irmgard and Ragnar is ongoing, reverberating through my ribcage like the ring of steel, of psionic sword meeting psionic sword. I don't think they've even noticed what's happened to me, or if they have, they're too busy fending each other off to process it.

But what I feel is just... emptiness. I stumble back, desperate to regain control of my treacherous thoughts. But the damage is already done.

What have I done? I have gazed into the abyss, and now it gazes back at me. The abyss of forbidden knowledge, of what it is to submit fully, to relinquish all control over your very existence to another's strength, to another's will.

No one does that, and comes back the same. No one can look at their darkest, most destructive fantasies, and see themselves the same way, ever again.

I'm not sure how, or why, but I've been changed. I have a...

Need.

I clench my fists, enraged at my own weakness. This is not who I am. I am a fighter, a survivor. I've spent enough of my life on my knees.

But my limbs feel leaden, too heavy to resist.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a single thought surfaces through the haze of defeat. I... can no longer win. To defeat Ragnar or Irmgard now would be to challenge the very tide, and I am no moon to command such forces.

Is this how it ends for me, without even a struggle? Everything I believed about myself proved a lie?

And then, I narrow my eyes, clenching my fists one final time.

Maybe I can't win this fight anymore. But I can at least do one thing. One more thing, one final meaningful gesture, before the end.

That's to make sure that bitch Irmgard doesn't get to profit from my downfall.

I push my mind outwards, and reach out to Ragnar.

***

I close my eyes and open my mind, casting out my thoughts to find Ragnar's. Our consciousness brushes and I recoil from the sheer domineering power of his will. So masculine. So inherently confident, capable of claiming, taming, molding its target. It makes me shudder - because it will probably end up taming me - but for the moment, at least, we have a different purpose.

I sense his hesitation, his surprise. He fears a trick. But he is decisive, if nothing else, and a moment later, he acccepts the mind meld.

Our consciousness melds together. Ragnar's mind is like a great bonfire, radiant and overpowering. I am but a single candle flame beside it. Yet as our minds unite, his blazing psionic power fuels my own. Like two strands of dancing flame, our minds twirl and snake around each other, twining more and more tightly, until it's impossible to tell one apart from the other.

Until we become a whirlwind of psionic energy.

How appropriate, that word is. Irmgard has sown the wind. Now, it's time for her to reap the whirlwind.

Together, we are the storm that breaks upon Irmgard's mental defences. She flails within the eye of our power, her once formidable presence now just a flickering ember in the gale of our combined force.

Electric blue sparks crackle around her form. The astral winds howl. Our psionic grip tightens. And Irmgard's eyes...

Something so haunting, there. Her eyes, those wells of ambition and cunning, lust and entitlement, are alight with something else now.

Realisation. Recognition.

Fear.

She's quick on her feet, I have to give her that. She can't go two against one, not directly, she has to try and dance away from us, before a gale of imagery of erotic destruction starts bombarding her mind from every side.

She has to. But I don't think she can.

She thrashes like a ragdoll in a hurricane, her limbs flailing, her energy no longer radiating outward in pulses, but being pushed back. Circumscribed. Hemmed in.

The blue psionic flames of our will wrap around her body, tightening, sending arcs of energy dancing across her skin. Sending images.

A fallen domme.

A rich heiress, reduced into a slave.

A queen, broken in like some dumb filly, brought to heel like a common dog.

Irmgard contorts in agony, mouth stretched open in a silent scream. I can feel her frantically throwing up mental blocks, trying to shield herself, but we - and Ragnar especially - strip them away, one by one. Methodically. Inexorably.

Slowly, slowly, the fight drains out of her. Her limbs go limp, her body sagging in defeat. Only her eyes still hold that glimmer of defiance. And not for long. Eventually, her eyes widen in terror as our psionic grip finally snaps firmly shut around her. She thrashes and struggles one last time, her body convulsing, but it's no use. Our minds are united, our will implacable.

Slowly, inexorably, we force her to her knees before us. Our assault is predatory, a constriction of will and desire, a violation so profound it takes my breath away.

I never realised how horrifying, beautiful, and hot it is, to destroy someone. To actually destroy someone.

At first, Irmgard's thoughts are a roiling chaos of fear and rage. But under Ragnar's tutelage, I learn how to exert control. How to dominate. How to make her submit.

I force her deeper into herself, peeling back layer after layer of her identity. Her ambitions, her pride, her sense of self - I strip them away until only the core remains. That raw, primal part of her that craves direction. Purpose.

"Please, no!" she gasps, her voice ragged. Once so proud, now reduced to whimpering and begging. "I'll do anything, just let me go!"

That makes me smile. I wonder if it's her very first time begging someone.

It won't be the last.

Irmgard shudders, tears streaking her face. With a twist of our minds, we force her arms behind her back, binding them there with psionic restraints. She is totally helpless now, at our mercy.

Ragnar nods, and I know it is time. I grip Irmgard's hair, yanking her head back. She whimpers as I press my lips to her ear.

"You wanted to own me," I whisper. "But now..."

Ragnar steps forward, radiating kingship. Irmgard trembles, awaiting her fate.

Irmgard's body trembles, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Ragnar's mind fully envelops hers with an iron grip. We feel her frantic pulse quicken as he begins to siphon her abilities, drawing them from her essence like poison from a wound. The air crackles with static, her psychic energy draining in rivulets of light that licks over her skin. Her mind bucks wildly beneath Ragnar's, like a spirited filly trying to unseat her new rider, her new master.

I feel her anguish, her spirit railing against the violation as everything she's cultivated, every single element of her self-perception, is amputated from her. Her eyes are wide and unseeing, lost in a haze of pain. She lets out a keening wail that echo in both the physical world and the astral plane.

I am filled with a heady mix of power and desire as I watch her writhing form. The thought of breaking someone so utterly and remaking them according to my will is intoxicating. Once her defenses fall, Ragnar can sculpt her into whatever he wishes. She will have no choice but to submit.

I see the anguish etched into her face, her horror at this metaphysical vivisection. Irmgard's breath catches as the very last of her psychic defenses collapse, leaving her exposed and vulnerable beneath our assault. Her eyes, once keen with cunning, now fill with dread. She knows she's staring into the deep dark abyss of identity death.

As we drain her abilities, I see the light fade from her gaze. Her lips part in a silent orgasmic sigh, her eyes rolling back into her skull. Her spirit unravels, psychic sinews snapping one by one until only a hollow shell remains. Ragnar plunges deeper into her psyche, almost like he's... fucking her. Penetrating her in the most violating way possible. Thrusting deep into her mind with a psionic cock, battering her brain into mushy, pliable submission.

The way he controls, psionically penetrates and dominates her with his own energy is more sexual in nature than physical sex could ever hope to be, which is why Irmgard is drooling uncontrollably.This woman who once believed herself untouchable, who tormented me and my family, is now at the mercy her conqueror.

Our conqueror, I remind myself. Once this is done, I'll have to submit, too.

Ragnar smirks down at her, his eyes alight with victory. "I did tell you that your grasp of Lord Ruler ideology left much to be desired. Now, my dear Irmgard," he croons in a voice laced with poisonous honey, "let us begin your re-education."

He starts by planting seeds of subservience and obedience into her mind, burning them into her very being like runes etched in stone. With each thrust of his will into her psyche, she whimpers and arches her back, the last vestiges of her defiance crumbling like sand beneath his relentless tide.

I hesitate, suddenly struck by the brutality of what we are doing. This is Lord Ruler ideology at its core. Might makes right. The strong do what they can, and the weak get fucked how they must.

But it's not for me to change it.

Irmgard shudders in a quiet, subdued orgasm, the fight gone from her eyes. In fact, she's not really fighting us anymore. What we're doing to her now is like a systematic reduction, as Ragnar methodically rips her psionic powers away like wings from a fly. She can only squirm and writhe in our grip as he makes sure she will never possess mind powers again.

Dismantling her very mind.

Ragnar's psychic assault on Irmgard is a forceful, dominating sexual conquest that has utterly subdued and claimed her. She is nothing but a living cumrag for him now, her will crushed, her self shattered, and her intelligence dimmed.

Irmgard whimpers pitifully, her haughty arrogance gone, replaced by the mewling of a broken slave. She will be his kitten. His sex pet. She will be cast down from nobility and into the chains of slavery. She will live as I've lived under the Bothnias... only far more enraptured and enthralled.

Because Ragnar will be a Lord Ruler, and he will snap the mind yoke around her neck. In its grip, she will become little more than an animal, like slave girl, an infinitely happier one.

Her mind is like an open book, one that Ragnar leisurely flips through, savoring every private thought and cherished memory. He rifles through them carelessly, crushing and discarding anything that displeases him, which is most of what he finds. Irmgard whimpers and trembles under the assault, powerless to resist as her identity is steadily erased.

She is limp and unresisting as he explores the deepest recesses of her mind. I sense her despair as she realizes there is no corner of her being left untouched, no part of herself left unviolated. Ragnar penetrates and takes everything, even her most intimate secrets and desires.

Moving with deliberate slowness, I circle what's left of her, inspecting her as Ragnar completes his masterpiece. Her psychic form bears the unmistakable marks of trauma - ragged tears and gaping holes where parts of her identity used to be. Yet she still retains a residual beauty, a porcelain fragility.

This will be the last time I get to experience something in the astral plane like this. After all, Ragnar will snuff out my powers just like he has hers. But if I have to pick one final superhuman thing to experience before transcendence is put forever out of my reach...

There's no better choice than this one.

I reach out and trail a mental fingertip along one of the tears in Irmgard's shattered identity, eliciting a faint shudder. She is exquisitely sensitive now, raw and open to any sensation. Where once stood a cunning, ambitious woman now kneels a blank-eyed slave, mind wiped clean of everything but the need to obey.

Then, at last, the tattered remnants of Irmgard's power sputter and die.

And that's when the physical matches the mental, as Ragnar cradles her face in his hands, and in one swift elegant motion, lowers his pants and impales her mouth with his throbbing cock.

He grabs her by the hair and thrusts deeper into her mouth, the motion incredibly fluid - she's just been psionically implanted with the ability to deepthroat on a whim, after all. I'm sure the subdued gagging sounds coming out of her throat are more for Ragnar's benefit than a sign of actual struggle.

She once sat on my face in a pleasure room at the Candy Shop. The stupid bitch.

I run my fingers through her sweat-soaked hair, as Ragnar yanks her head back and forth. Irmgard's once-arrogant demeanor has vanished, replaced by submission and resignation. She's nothing more than a receptacle now. As the regime would say, she has no utility beyond that.

And therefore, no value.

And therefore, no freedom. Not anymore.

"I've lived my whole life like this," I whisper to her. "How do you like it?"

Her answer is muffled by Ragnar's cock, but I see the resignation in her eyes. The knowledge that she's been bested. That this is her new reality.

Ragnar thrusts deeper into Irmgard's throat as she chokes and gags. Tears stream down her face, yet her eyes plead for more. She is utterly degraded and defiled, reduced to a living sex toy for Ragnar's pleasure.

I crawl over and sensuously lick the salty tears from her cheeks. My body trembles with arousal watching this once-proud woman broken and used. Irmgard moans, her throat vibrating around Ragnar's thick length.

Ragnar grunts, pumping faster, seeking his release. I kneel beside Irmgard and caress her breasts, tweaking her nipples as she whimpers.

"You were born for this," I murmur. "To serve your superiors. This is your due."

Faster and faster, Ragnar's hips slam into Irmgard's lips, her face flushing a darker shade with each breath-cutting thrust. And then, with a final grunt, he climaxes down her stupid whore throat. Her eyes look glassy and dumb as she swallows rope after rope of his cum, hollowing her cheeks to suck it all in, to drain every last drop of our new master's pleasure.

Ragnar pulls out of her mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening with Irmgard's saliva and his cum. Irmgard collapses, gasping for air, slumping limply down on her belly.

It is done. It is over.

Where Irmgard once stood, only a hollow shell remains, empty and pliant. Bereft of will or purpose beyond service. Her defeat is total. No thoughts, no will, no sense of self remain.

Ragnar stands tall, a monolith of power, stepping symbolically on Irmgard's neck, a pose that implicitly declares her to be less than human, just quarry successfully hunted. I stand to the side, head bowed, tethered to his triumph.

Such a beautiful and haunting composition. Victor over vanquished. Man over woman. Ragnar over us.

And then, the astral plane around us begins to recede.

I stare longingly into the depth of the stars, into the swirling colours of the mist. I'll never witness this beauty again, not like this. At best, I will get to feel the outward ripples of its presence through Ragnar, once he fully comes into his power.

Just like slave girl with her master.

Ragnar will begin to grow powerful soon, and the mere thought is enough to make me turn towards him, like a flower reorienting towards the sun. His eyes, those twin abysses, seem to swallow the light. They're not human eyes, not anymore. In his victory, he has become something more than man, something akin to a god.

And now, with no more distance left to run, there is one final thing left for me to do: listen to this god's terms for me, in my own defeat and submission to his power.

As the mists dissolve around us, I sink to my knees, and await to learn my fate.