The Grand Adventure

Bound and muzzled, the defiant young witch was trotted across the sands of the Burning Coast.

The caravan likely thought of her as quite the catch -- amber-gold skin, sable hair, and eyes like dark ripened plums. They must have found her through sheer luck as she slept. Before she even knew what had happened, she awoke to find herself gagged, leashed, and bound -- forced to stumble along like some prized mare. Her buttocks still stung from their rough slaps; her ears from their laughter and scorn.

An experienced witch would have ensorcelled the lot of them. Turned them into pigs and sold them off to a butcher. Desa's cheeks burned at the thought. She would have liked that.

Instead, she was gagged, her arms bound behind her in a sheath so tight that it pulled her shoulders back and together. It drew her like a tightly wound bow; her breasts were thrust up and forward, her nipples exposed. Each was as dark as an olive and as hard as a peach's pit. The only regard for her 'modesty' was a scrap of linen around her hips, held in place by a few delicate threads. With each step, she feared the garment would snap.

A dozen or so other women trotted in a line before her. All were leashed together -- bound in the same way. They ranged from tall to short, slender to wide.

Desa bristled under her bindings. Had they not gagged me, I could easily escape! The men had no idea she was a sorceress. Their decision to gag her immediately had deprived her of a chance to demonstrate. But she only needed to wait for her opportunity -- when they provided her with food and water, perhaps. She had an assortment of spells in mind.

Desa only wished she had learned the one that turned men into swine.

SMK! The impact of that rough hand against her scantily-clad derriere distracted her from her thoughts. She squealed under her gag, rushing forward, her backside swaying -- one cheek left with a scarlet palm print. The man at her back laughed.

Perhaps, she thought, someone has beaten me to it.

It was not long before the ocean-side road led them to the marble spires of Iska. The sight of the City of Coin filled Desa with gnawing despair. She had hoped the men would make camp before reaching it, thus giving her the opportunity she needed. But they were already approaching its tall, intimidating walls. She would have to suffer whatever indignities awaited her in the markets before she made her move.

Men clad in banded mail and armed with spears stood at the gates. They greeted the caravan, then surveyed the line of captives under the guise of checking for diseases and lice. Desa squirmed under the approving eye of one guard -- his hand drifted to her breast, cradling it in the meat of his palm. He squeezed it, feeling her quickening heartbeat. Then, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. She suppressed a whimper. Cowards.

They were brought into the city. With every step, Desa felt eyes upon her -- tracing the lines of her body, the curve of her breasts -- the spasms in her supple thighs and calves, up to the rounded peach of her buttocks. She was unaccustomed to being observed like this -- objectified. The thought left her dizzy and shivering.

Focus. When they remove your gag, you can cast an illusion -- escape in the chaos. She closed her dark eyes for just a moment. Yes. She would escape, and -- if she could -- get as many of the others out with her.

She opened her eyes. Ahead was the market square, where many captives were already being processed. A stone slab at the center served as the main auction block, but informal purchases happened all along the booths surrounding it. Blacksmiths forged collars and bindings on the spot; jewelers and artists offered to customize one's purchase. Deeper in, one could find more twisted services. Desa suppressed another shiver.

The leader of the caravan was speaking to a large, portly gentleman surrounded by several 'mares'. The women were bound like Desa, but more thoroughly -- it was clear these bindings were not intended to be removed. Their arms were pulled behind them in tight sleeves of black leather, left to weaken with disuse. Their upper faces were masked in hoods, leaving only their mouths exposed -- clamped tightly down on bits. Their bodies were mostly bare, with straps running under and between their breasts and over their hips, providing multiple connection points to buckle on a load. Their legs were thick and strong, their bodies having been shaped through rigid exercise and control. Great care was taken to preserve their appearance, their 'aesthetic'.

But what made Desa's blood run cold was what she saw upon their buttocks. On the left cheek, each bore a brand -- a mark of ownership. And woven into that mark was something she recognized. A sigil that stripped the bearer of all magic.

No -- no, no, no -- The caravan leader was shaking hands with the owner of the mares. They were laughing as the leader gestured toward Desa and the line of women. Already, one of the men pulled on the woman at the front, guiding her toward one of the booths.

Desa's feet shifted. She tried to push back. Some of the other women fought, too -- but then, the men struck them across their buttocks and breasts, pushing them along. Almost as if by instinct, the women moved as one. Like a herd. Desa was pulled along.

From the back, she could catch a glimpse of what was going on. The first woman was pulled into the booth and inspected. Hands grasped and squeezed her body in search of weaknesses. Once the man was satisfied, she was forced to bend over a worktable, and then --

ksssssst!

The brief sizzling kiss of a brand. Sealing her fate; dooming her to a lifetime spent as a mare. Stripping her of any potential for magic, in a way that was almost incidental.

Desa whimpered and wriggled in her bindings. She had to escape, had to slip free. She couldn't -- this couldn't --

The woman at the front made a muffled cry. The man smeared the mark with a blend of herbs to ensure it would heal clean and resist infection. She was then guided away to be fitted with the bindings she would wear for the remainder of her life.

The next woman was ushered forward. Her leash was cut and she was inspected. Soon, she would be branded, too -- marked forever as a mare.

Heat and dizziness overwhelmed Desa. She had to escape, had to flee. But how? She was leashed to the woman in front of her, like all the rest. If she dug her heels into the dirt, she would be dragged. If she kicked, she would be struck. If she fought, she would be put down.

Another muffled cry. This woman was taller; a warrior, perhaps? As she was lead away -- her bare buttocks now baring the mark -- there was a glassiness to her eyes. As if receiving the brand had broken whatever remained of her spirit.

It only occurred to Desa now -- how many of these women were also witches? How many might have had the same plan as her, only to realize the futility at the sight of that brand?

ksssssst! Another sizzle. Another groan. Desa pulled at her bindings -- they refused to give. She pulled back at her leash, but the woman in front of her -- tall and strong -- just grunted at the sensation. It was no use. But she had to, she had to escape --

ksssssst! Another moan. It almost sounded... relieved, this time. As if the woman who had received the brand was thankful it was over; thankful that she could stop fighting it. Stop trying to be a person. Desa's face grew flushed. Why did she even think about that, right now...?

This was -- this was wrong. This wasn't the way her story was supposed to go. She had grown up in a small village, first learning magic from an absent witch's notes left in an abandoned cottage. Desa learned in secret; when her father decided to sell her, she used that secret to escape. She had imagined herself going on grand adventures -- discovering long-lost treasures and overthrowing tyrants. Some grand destiny --

ksssssst! Yet another moan... Desa shuddered. Why...? Why was this... The leash pulled her forward, her face burning hotter and hotter.

Why... why was this turning her on?!

The realization had crept up slowly. The way each sizzle, each cry, made her toes curl -- made her nethers clench and twitch. Her breath was hard; her nipples jutted out, hard as steel. She could see the women who had been branded from the corner the corner of her eye, being stripped down and fitted with their new permanent bindings. A black hood that would leave them sightless, a leather sleeve that would hold their now-irrelevant arms tight. Their nipples were pierced, their bodies arched. In some horrible, strange way, they looked... almost...

...beautiful...

No --

ksssssst! The next moan came from the woman ahead of the one in front of Desa. At last, they cut the other woman's leash, guiding her forward -- providing Desa with an unobstructed view.

Desa watched, feeling a hand holding her now-cut leash. She watched as the woman was grasped, squeezed, groped; she felt her own cunt spasm in sympathy when one hand dropped between the woman's thighs and squeezed. As if her sex was merely a handle to seize. The woman shuddered, arching back. She made a sound not unlike a moan.

SMK! The woman's nethers were firmly swatted, and then -- and then --

Desa gawked, trembling. For just a moment, they removed the woman's gag... so they could inspect her teeth.

She was then bent forward, her breasts flattened to the table -- the curve of her ass rising up into the air. Desa could not look away. But as she watched, her mind was spinning. They took out the gag! There was a chance! She could use that moment; cast a spell, create a distraction -- escape --

The burning hot brand loomed into view. Desa felt her heart spring into her throat. She could avoid this fate -- when they took the gag out, all it would take is a spell, a word, and she could --

ksssssst! Another moan...

Desa whimpered. Her vision refocused. There had been two moans, she realized. One of them had been the woman's -- and one of them had been her own.

The brand was there, marking the mare's left cheek. The man smeared it with the salve. Then, she was lifted, led away -- her eyes glassy, her lips parted...

...her cunt dripping...

Someone pulled Desa forward. She felt those hands herself, now; grasping her soft, sensitive breasts. Squeezing them. Pinching her nipples. Stripping her of the last scrap of fabric around her hips, reaching down to grip her own dripping cunt --

They were removing the gag. Pulling it from her lips. Strands of spit connected it to her mouth; her tongue unfurled. She groaned. It was off. All she had to do was speak a word; a word, and her magic would save her. Just a word --

Rough, strong hands pushed her down upon the table. Her lovely, golden ass lifted into the air. Her soft breasts were squished beneath her. She felt the texture of the wood against her throbbing nipples. Her hair was draped across her back like a curtain, vibrant and dark. Her whole body trembled -- she felt like a harp-string, pulled tight and about to be plucked. She just had to speak a word...

She thought about her dreams in the village. Yearning to see the world, to go on a grand adventure. Some tiny part of herself wondered... was this -- what an adventure was truly like?

The heat of the brand approached her buttocks. Her toes curled. Her body clenched in anticipation. She whimpered and tried to push the word past her lips.

All that came was a soft, submissive, defeated moan.

ksssssst!

Weeks later, Desa stirred from her stall, drawn out by the scent of something sweet.

A sleeve of black leather engulfed both her arms and hands, pulled so tight that it drew her into a splendid, permanent arch; her eyes and upper skull were hidden beneath a similar hood, with her thick, coal-black hair pulled through a slit at the top. Time spent at the stables had been good to her -- her body had grown thicker and more shapely, with her breasts swelling and her thighs strengthening.

It was a curious thing. Some part of Desa suspected that she could still speak with words if she desired, but -- once branded and bound, mares rarely bothered. All she made now was noises -- little moans, whimpers, and cries. It was as if each mare had come to the same decision, independently; that words were of no more consequence.

Desa's cunt, now exposed, twitched at the thought. It felt good to give so little thought to such things. It felt good to simply -- feel. She felt like an animal, expressing herself in only the most elemental ways imaginable... and in doing so, discovering a depth of expression she had never imagined possible. Words felt like clumsy, ineffective things. Her body -- the motion of her breasts, the sway of her hips, the noises her throat made -- was a far more expressive instrument.

She could not see. Her world had been reduced to one of smells, tastes, sounds, and physical sensations. And that somehow made it all the more rich -- more tactile. A man -- her owner, her rider -- was offering her something, she realized. She blushed and sniffed at his palm, catching the tangy sweetness of an apple.

Bite by bite, she gingerly ate it from his hand -- even licked and nuzzled against his palm. And when he stroked her back, squeezed her buttocks, and told her 'good girl' -- she wiggled her backside happily and nearly came on the spot.

In the days that followed her branding, she had been trained as a mare. Taught to respond to the pressure of a hand or the pull of a bridle. The once proud self-taught sorceress now strutted proudly about, her bare branded ass exposed, eager to obey. And now, as she was bent forward, her ass lifted as her rider mounted her for use -- Desa whickered with joy.

At last, her grand adventure could truly begin.