The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Standing in a small market plaza in the centre of the town of Ralisham, a tall, fair-skinned elf wearing finely wrought plate armour stands imperiously over a gnome sat behind a folding table. Even if she wasn’t carrying her famous mithril longbow—two meters tall with a three-hundred-pound draw strength, capable of landing an adamantine-tipped arrow through a flying dragon’s heart at five-hundred paces—everyone knows who she is.

“…and in the event that the debtor, ah, that is yourself,” continues the clerk, “is unable to repay upon demand after the initial period, that being two-hundred years, regardless of who the debt has been transferred, sold, or otherwise acquired by…”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Tybethia Lyremantle says, tapping her foot impatiently. “We haven’t got all day to stand here—do you want the gryphon to attack again?”

“…then they shall be compelled to render services suitable to skills both arcane and physical, economic climate, and the severity of the debt.”

“Okay, I get it! If I don’t pay you back, I get sent on a quest or whatever, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” the gnome nods, before continuing back into the legalese. “Refusal to attempt or failure to complete any request from the debtholder, related to the repayment of this debt, shall result in permission to apply one of a list of approved control or restraint devices. This includes, but is not limited to enchantments, potions, collars, and more as technology develops.”

“Hah! I’d like to see anyone come up with something that can compel an elf,” Tybethia says, casting a sour glance at a rickety stall covered in ticking gears and flickering lights, attended by two diminutive greenskinned creatures. Damn filthy goblins, she doesn’t know what this place has come to if Ralisham is letting them and their useless contraptions into the market.

I mean, honestly—why would you ever try and store lightning in something other than a storm gem? Thinking that a stack of cheap copper plates could do anything useful is ludicrous…

“Be that as it may, in the event that more than three control permission stamps have been imprinted upon the contract, then the possibility of a breach from either party is to be considered, following which—“

“Fine! Yes! I shall sign this document,” Tybethia says, leaning down and grasping the provided quill to scribble in the box, “and link with my arcane seal, duplicate, triplicate, whatever, blah-blah-blah. Now can I have my money?”

The gnomish bank clerk purses his lips, looks down at the signed contract, not entirely sure the elf understands what it means… but he gives a slight shrug of his shoulders. It’s not his problem if she doesn’t pay it back—assuming the bank still exists in two centuries, it’ll be his grandchildren’s grandchildren that would need to try and collect. Notarising Tybethia’s agreement to the contract, he then opens a small strongbox beside him, and counts out four silver pieces.

“Ugh, finally! I can see why not many people take this stuff. Basically free money, right? I’ll be here to pay it back after the quest anyway, no way I’m missing out just because my lucky bowstring snapped…”

Counting out the thin silver coins, stamped with a profile of the local human kingdom’s monarch and national crests, Tybethia walks away from the lender and straight to the town’s good fletcher. By the time she’s setting out on her quest, Tybethia has all but forgotten about the bookish gnome who simply handed her the small amount of money—pocket change, for such a powerful, prolific adventurer.

But… she didn’t want to get the fletcher to find change for a gold coin.

203 years and 8 months later…

A knock on the front door of Tybethia Lyremantle’s stylish one-bedroom apartment distracts her from the glowing tablet in front of her. Not an enchanted slab of stone imprinted with ancient runes—but instead, simply the latest computing device from Gobble™. Well, maybe not latest. It was certainly top-of-the-line when she bought it, but the damn thing seems to have been slowing down lately.

Tybethia snorts in irritation as another program hangs, almost taunting her, as if it’s trying to get her to buy a new one. Already! She’s barely had it a decade. Glancing up at the gleaming bow-stave hung on her wall, Tybethia recalls fond memories of exploring dark forests, slaying foul beasts, and becoming a hero for the common people!

Now if she tried to slay a dragon, she’d be arrested for poaching an endangered species. Still, maybe she should go down to the range tomorrow. It would be good to stretch her muscles, prove to anyone that a solid bow is better than any newfangled firearm. Or missile. Or those flying golems that can drop enough munitions to make a pyromancer weep…

Another knock at the door. It means whoever is there didn’t go away—and Tybethia will have to deal with it. Rolling her eyes, she tosses the tablet onto a cushion, and reasons that she wasn’t getting anywhere with her memoirs anyway. Bard-work! But she has to do something to make ends meet, with adventuring all but dried up.

Stalking down the hall, loose riding pants billow around her slender thighs, while a fine camisole top clings to her trim torso—although her well-defined back muscles will show to anyone with experience that she’s an expert archer. Tybethia looks after her body and mind with the utmost diligence… it’s just a shame that effort isn’t shared with her finances.

“Hallo dere!”, says a diminutive voice, from Tybethia’s waist height. “Yer Tyba… Tya… beefier? Lie ruh, uhhh… mantle. Ain’tcha?”

Tybethia doesn’t even attempt to hide her disdain for this ugly creature. Three feet tall, at a push, with a balding head of greasy black hair, and a gnarled and sneering face that leads down to a fat, slouching figure. Back in the day, this repulsive thing would be on the lowest rung of a goblin camp’s already low hierarchy, barely worth the arrow it would take to skewer it.

Honestly, with how much work Tybethia put into clearing goblin warrens back when they were still considered a non-sentient pest, there’s plenty of likelihood that she did spare one of this thing’s unfortunate ancestors, all because it wasn’t even worth killing. And here one is, knocking on her door, wearing an ill-fitting suit, and looking up at her as if they were equals.

“…yes. And may I ask your business?”, Tybethia asks, frostily, crossing her arms and scowling down at her visitor. She’d considered slamming the door in his face, but then he might just come back tomorrow.

The goblin nods excitedly, extending a hand up to shake (which Tybethia ignores as she would a cockroach), while the other digs around in its jacket pocket.

“Pleased ta meet’cha!” He says cheerily, a smile somehow making his visage even uglier, and his rancid body odour starting to reach Tybethia’s sensitive nose. “Name’s Chumblag Jerginson, an’ I’m ’ere ta collect a debt from ya.”

Opening her mouth, Tybethia’s delicately sculpted face, a paragon of classical elvish beauty, contorts into disdain. How dare this goblin presume to show up at her door, and then demand money from her?! She’s just about to tell him exactly where he can stick his debts, when Chumblag pulls out a rumpled, tattered, ancient sheet of parchment from his jacket pocket.

Which, Tybethia quickly realises, does indeed have her seal on it, shining as bright as the day she placed it.

“Huh,” she says, deflating a little. Do banks and debt collection companies employ goblins now? It seems unwise, but Tybethia knows that times are changing quicker than ever now. “That’s from… oh, I now! The bank in Ralisham, I borrowed some silver for a new bowstring.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, not wanting to deal with this stinking lump of green, leering flab for any longer than necessary, Tybethia grabs her purse from a table beside the front door, and digs out a 5-silver note.

“There. I think the debt was four silver, right? Take this and go,” she says, proffering the white-hued strip of paper towards him. It still feels cheaper than an actual coin, with coppers being the only ones still in circulation, but Tybethia has never thought much about money except as a means to continue her adventuring.

The goblin takes it, his greasy fingers almost touching hers, tucking it hurriedly back into his ratty blazer. Glad to get back to her work, as little progress as she’s making, Tybethia goes to close the door… only for Chumblag to hold out a hand.

“Ah! Tha’s mighty generous of ya, miss,” he says, the diminutive term only souring Tybethia’s opinion of the cretinous goblin even further. “But dere’s still the issue of, ah… da inchrest.”

It takes Tybethia a moment longer to parse that he means interest. The way that a debt increases in severity over time, by a fixed percentage, which was… what was it?

“Y’see, dis loan ’ad a fixed APR o’ seven-point-one percent, compoundin’ monthly, over a two ’undred year term…”, Chumblag says, his eyebrows raising about the length of time. Probably amazed that Tybethia still looks as good as she does, older than the goblin’s great-grandparents combined. ”Ahem. Though it’s been a li’l longer’n that. Since the debt was sold on a while back, an’ changed hands a few times since then, now owned by… uhh… well, it ain’t impor’ant.”

Tybethia didn’t follow much of that, although the numbers he said do seem to correspond to what she re from the contract. Obviously, it would be trivial to get rid of him, kick him out onto the street, maybe string her bow and hunt him like old times—he’s only a goblin, after all—but… Tybethia knows that wouldn’t be acceptable nowadays. And her agent would kill her.

“Okay… okay! Fine. What do I owe you?” She asks, opening her purse again. Seven percent doesn’t sound like much, and while two hundred years is a long time, she only borrowed four silver pieces! How much could it-

“Five million, nine ’undred and six thousand, nine ’undred and seventy-eight silver. Well, seventy-three now, includin’ the payment you just made—which also constitutes an agreement to honour the debt, as it ’appens!”

For a long, long moment, Tybethia thinks the goblin is joking. Then lying. Then just stupid and misinformed. But she takes the contract from him (unbreakable due to her seal, and likely a copy of the original anyway), and takes some time to read it thoroughly. Then look up what some of the mean. Then ask some more questions.

Then she looks up what ‘compound interest’ means.

Eventually, extremely reluctantly, Tybethia accepts that she does owe the ludicrous sum—far more than she’s earned over the last century, quite possibly more than all her adventuring earnings put together. There’s absolutely no chance of her paying it back any time soon, not with her memoir, and not even if she sold all of her old adventuring gear.

Waiting patiently in her entrance hall—not that Tybethia wanted him in her house, but it’s better than the neighbours seeing—Chumblag Jerginson smiles up at her when she storms back over to him.

“Fine,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “I get it. You want me to work for you, which freezes interest, until the debt is paid back. No problem. Just point me towards a dungeon, and I’ll earn enough for you… eventually.”

At least it would give her some time to work out if she can get out of this contract. Unfortunately, the goblin just shrugs, a faux-innocent look on its face, as if he wants to let her do that, but… it’s simply out of his power.

“Awful sorry, miss,” he says. “Ain’t much need for adventras nowadays. Dat bow o’ yours on the wall, a nice tungsten-carbide alloy, is nice an’ all, but… it can’t compete wi’ precision guided depleted uranium munitions. Or just, y’know… a gun.”

“It’s made of mithril,” Tybethia corrects testily, not caring for these stupid modern for materials they’ve created with magic for centuries. “And if you don’t need an adventurer… I don’t know what other work I would be qualified for. You might as well dismiss the debt, if I can’t earn it back for you!”

Instead of recoiling or being disappointed like she expected, Chumblag’s smile just widens even further, nodding his head slightly.

“Khekhekhe…” he chuckles, ominously. “Don’tcha worry ’bout that, Tyba… thee, uh… miss. We c’n pause da inchrest for now, an’ I’ll be back in da mornin’ wiv some suitable work for ya!”

Tybethia spent that afternoon and evening calling around, to old adventuring buddies, legal advice charities, and even her agent—dodging questions about the draft of her memoirs to try and get answers. Or a solution, ideally.

Unfortunately, while most of them start off optimistic, they assume that the debt is an unpaid bar tab or other informal promise of repayment. But as Tybethia explains, their attitude shifts, and by the end of each call, when she explains how she accepted that the debt is hers, and started to pay it back…

Suffice it to say that Tybethia is in a foul mood when Chumblag Jerginson arrives at her door the next afternoon.

“I thought you said you’d be back in the morning,” Tybethia says as way of greeting, scowling down at the greenskinned sleaze, wearing the same grimy suit as yesterday. For her part, the willowy elf is wearing a practical set of light, versatile dragonshide armour, suitable for any kind of combat or scouting. Chumblag carries a small bag with him, slung over one shoulder, and his seedy smile is somehow even wider than the day before.

“Mornin’ Tibsy! You don’t mind if I call ya that, do ya? An’ I’m a late sleeper,” he says, once again not treating her with the respect due to a hero and former adventurer. “I had ta grab some stuff for… uhhh… for ya new job!”

Tossing the bag down on the ground in front of Tybethia, she doesn’t take it straight away. Instead, planting hands on her hips, she fixes the vile goblin interloper with a smile. It’s clear that she is on the hook for this debt, and the contract gives the gross thing in front of her some options to persuade her, but Tybethia doesn’t know of any that reliably work on an elf. Especially one of her calibre.

So, she feels confident in pushing back a little.

“Tya. Bee. Thch. Æia. Not… Tibsy. My name is simple to say, Chumblag,” she enunciates, effortlessly pronouncing phonemes which don’t exist in any goblin language. Crouching down, not liking how it brings her closer to his rancid musk, Tybethia unzips the bag. “You might as well make the effort to… wait, what the fuck is this?”

From inside the bag, Tybethia holds up a pair of platform pumps, with at least six-inch heels, and copious rhinestones studded into the leopard-like print. Fake gryphon leather, if she’s not mistaken, cheap apparel that tries to look expensive, and… used to make what look like stripper heels.

The rest of the outfit stored within is little better. A tiny golden thong, black fishnet stockings, and a golden-trimmed bikini top which looks like fishnet stockings, with matching golden accessories—all with a worrying magical charge, which she can’t quite identify the purpose of. Obviously, the goblin couldn’t expect her to wear something so crass!

“Dat’s yer new uniform, Tibsy!” Chumblag replies, which Tybethia finds quite horribly unsurprising. “I c’n tell ya more ’bout da job itself once ya get changed, but I’ll tell ya now, it’s manda-tree. An’ dere’s no fightin’ involved!”

Once again, Tybethia is struck almost mute by Chumblag’s apparent glee, and obliviousness to how this is simply impossible. Her skills are in tracking, combat, minor nature magics, all of the multitude of skills that an elven ranger with centuries of adventuring experience would bring! To… a world where adventurers are no longer needed, relegated to historical reenactment and trashy drama shows.

“N-no,” she stammers, shaking her head slightly. “There’s no way I’m doing whatever… lowly job would require such garments as these! And I told you my name is Tybethia, so…”

Tybethia trails off, her anger still rising and the fiery heat solidifying to a cold fury. But Chumblag doesn’t seem to care, shrugging off a look that would send an ogre fleeing for its life. Instead, he’s in the process of… pulling a thin plastic glove onto his hand? It doesn’t fit very well, splitting a little on one of the knuckles, contouring to his knobbly digits.

“Ah… dat’s a shame, Tibsy,” Chumblag says, though he’s clearly pleased. “I s’pose dat means I gotta use one’a those control methods da contract mentions. Stay still, would’ja?”

Accompanying that request is a snap of his fingers—and Tybethia freezes, her legs ten and arms shaking. It’s a simple magic, sourced from the seal she placed on the debt contract—full body control is almost impossible on an unwilling elf, their natural magical production protecting them from nearly all enchantments or mental attacks. Even the contract seals, forged with an elf’s own magic, can only hold them in place for a few moments.

“What… ugh… what are you… planning?”

Chumblag ignores Tybethia while he reaches into his blazer again, and withdraws a small vial, full of pink, viscous liquid. Pouring a little out onto his long, bony middle finger, he spreads the gel evenly, while Tybethia is frozen in place. It smells odd, adding a floral note to the goblin’s stench, but she doesn’t recognise it.

“Now, ’old still, Tibsy,” the goblin says, his bare hand cupping the back of Tybethia’s head to hold it steady, while the other hovers at the side of her face. “This shouldn’t ’urt a bit.”

Tybethia wants to recoil from Chumblag’s unwanted touch, but her body is only barely starting to obey her again, and he holds her steady… then inserts the tip of his middle finger into her ear canal. It just feels cold and gross at first, but then the gel seems to warm up, tingling and thrumming with some kind of purely-alchemical effect, until-

sqllrch~

Chumblag forces his hands together, and his finger sinks into Tybethia’s delicate, pointed ear, all the way up to the second knuckle.

“Hnnnghwah~?! Y-you… mnnngh… p-put it… in m-my bwain…?”

It’s a little-known fact that elves don’t have eardrums—part of why their ears are so large is to accentuate the bone-induction manner of their hearing. Better all-round, with excellent pinpointing of direction, while being not much less sensitive than humans or dwarves. It also leaves a tiny gap that allows access to their cerebrum, theorised to be why their natural magic flows are so intense. And the hole is entirely harmless, of course.

Unless you happen to have a specifically designed oil that allows you to loosen it, enough to fit an entire finger. Chumblag wiggles a little, and Tybethia’s mind goes haywire, more unintelligible gasps and grunts leaving her lips, while she empties her bladder onto the floor.

“Oops… I ain’t meant ta go in that deep,” Chumblag chuckles to himself, withdrawing until his first knuckle is at the opening to Tybethia’s ear canal. But that still leaves plenty in her grey matter, the pink fluid forcing her neural folds to part as the goblin swivels and probes for a specific area. All the while, Tybethia convulses in something akin to an orgasm, only kept upright by the contract locking up her muscles.

Eventually finding exactly the spot he was looking for, Chumblag starts to massage it, gently loosening the neurons, while the pink oil promotes the development of different synapses. Sure, a few might get squished, but… elves have plenty of smarts to spare.

“Now then, Tibsy, let’s see if this works like da manual said,” Chumblag says to her semi-conscious face, with eyes rolled back and tongue lolling over her chin. “First up, we gotta fix how ya talk…”

Apparently, verbal communication is one of the simplest tweaks that can be made to an elf’s brain. Similarly to a human, the processing of speech and the production of speech are in differing areas of the brain, so Chumblag makes sure to angle his finger towards Tybethia’s frontal lobe.

“Dat’s a good girl, Tibsy,” Chumblag says again, emphasising her name as the pink oil allows his finger to sink into her cerebral cortex. “Tibsy, Tibsy, Tibsy… tha’s right, ain’t it? Can ya try an’ say somethin’ else?”

Focusing on the sensations through the glove, there’s a faint response sparking in Tybethia’s unconscious mind—which Chumblag immediately snuffs out. Repeating that a few times, he decides to alter some other specific terminology as well, before finishing up with a general depletion of her vocabulary.

When she wakes up, barely a few minutes later, Tybethia rocks back onto her butt. Still in the entrance hall, with Chumblag standing in front of her, she watches as he pulls the glove off and tucks it away.

“How ya feelin’, Tibsy?” he asks with a smile, as if he didn’t just have his finger inside her grey matter. Rubbing the tender area around the base of her ear, which seems to have returned to normal, Tybethia scowls down at him while she scrambles to her feet.

“Mmmnn… Tibsy feel kinda yucky…” Tybethia answers. After a moment, she realises exactly what she just said, and her pale face flushes in embarrassment.

“Wha… huhhhn? N-no! Tibsy not Tibsy’s name! Me… nngh…” she grunts, concentrating on her mouth and tongue, as if concentrating on the words she wants to say would help. “Daddy make Tibsy sound dumb-dumb!”

Instead, she just clearly enunciates the humiliating words even more clearly, the tone of her voice higher and more vapid than usual. In front of her, Chumblag—did she just call that gross goblin ‘Daddy’?!—pulls her contract out of his pocket, holds it against a wall, and imprints a red stamp onto it.

“There ya go!” He says with a smile. “That’s yer first instance of an authorised control procedure. Elfbrain Oil! We got our first shipment in last week, cuz collars an’ brands kept failin’ on you knife-ears.”

Speechless again, quite literally not trusting herself to say anything, Tybethia’s heart sinks. This sleazy goblin just rummaged around in her brain, making her sound like some kind of ditzy teen bimbo, and worst of all… he did it legally.

“So… ya gonna get dressed now? Or do ya need another li’l reminder…?” Chumblag asks, waggling his bushy eyebrows as he goes to pull the Elfbrain Oil out of his pocket again. Tybethia’s glare turns into more of a pout as she averts her eyes, then bends down to grab the bag of slutwear.

“Hmph. T-Tibsy… will g-get changed, ’kay? Hope Daddy’s happy…” she says, stalking off into her bathroom with the new clothing. It doesn’t take her long to strip out of the armour, though she grumbles under her breath the entire time, soon emerging to glare down at Chumblag.

“All donesies, Daddy. Ugh… like, now what?”

“Now…”, Chumblag says, his eyes shifting to the shining gold patterns woven into the outfit. “We let yer clothes do their magic!”

Tybethia stiffens, feeling the enchanted slutwear start to affect her, but unable to do anything to dispel them. First, a searing warmth spreads over her skin, smoothing and softening it, as her toned muscles wick away. From there, her curves fill out, buttocks engorging, and a mass of magically-generated mass enlarges her breasts to artificial proportion.

Dropping to her knees as her legs cramp, tendons shortening and optimising for heels, the golden hoop earrings continue to transform Tybethia’s face. Her lips swell to obscene plumpness, and garish makeup blooms on her skin, while her hair lengthens and lightens, pulling up into a platinum-blonde ponytail. Tybethia’s hands reach up to gently explore her transformed body, while she scowls at the grimy goblin standing in front of her…

Who seems to have taken the opportunity to drop his pants and expose his nasty green cock.

“D-Daddy… umph… w-what’th all’a dith mean?” Tybethia asks, her new kissers giving her a humiliating lisp in addition to her updated speech patterns. “Tibthy wook wike a… mmmn…”

“A bimbo, eh? An’ those tits’re some proper spaff-magnets! So, I’d say ya look just perfect for yer new position as my personal fuckslut,” Chumblag replies, a greedy smirk on his lips, as he gestures down towards his wrinkly shaft. It’s already dripping gross, yellowish precum, and the musky, acrid stench isn’t endearing Tybethia to the unsavoury goblin any further. “Go on, Tibsy. Open dose new dick-cushions o’ yours, an’ get ta work!”

Tybethia’s mind, first shaken by Chumblag’s finger, then shocked by her transformation, can’t process the request. It’s so far out of her sexual experience, mostly done decades ago with handsome elven nobles and roguish adventuring companions, that there’s no response she can make—except a point-blank refusal. If she was armed, she probably would’ve killed the goblin on instinct, like the dozens, hundreds of greenskin bandits that made similarly gross propositions before she wiped out their villages.

Unfortunately, this one has a unique advantage.

“N-nuh uh…? Tibthy’s… not gonna th-thuck your cock, Daddy!” she manages to stammer out, only for Chumblag to snap his fingers—and freeze her in place again.

Shaking his head in mocking disappointment, Chumblag swaggers even closer to Tybethia’s kneeling form, and gives her forehead a push—knocking her over onto her back. And from that vulnerable position, he continues to walk forwards, stepping on either side of her body, until he’s straddling her shoulders. From there, uncaring about the dignity of the proud, ancient elf below him, or the vicious scowl she’s looking up at him with, Chumblag squats down to rest his stinky, hairy balls on her face. Right on the cleft between her plump, red lips and perky, sensitive nose, ensuring that she gets a deep whiff of his rancid taint whenever she breathes in.

“Well den…” he says, reaching into his jacket for more of the Elfbrain Oil, and uncorking the bottle of pink fluid. “I s’pose I’d better fix dat, eh?”

He doesn’t pull out a glove this time. Instead, he simply pours a generous portion over two of his bare fingers pressed together, spreading it evenly to cover his mottled green skin. Once the bottle is put back away, his ‘clean’ hand reaches down to start yanking at his throbbing cock, while the other approaches Tybethia’s ear again.

“Mmmmn~… now, ’old still, an’ take a deep breath,” he says, not that Tybethia has much choice, filling her lungs with his sweaty odour as she struggles against the contract’s magic. “I’m jus’ gonna imprint dat nasty gob-stench onta your dumb, knife-ear brain…”

Before Tybethia can throw him off, Chumblag’s fingers find their mark, sinking into the elf’s malleable ear-canal to reach her brain for a second time. She gasps, which just draws in more of the pungent miasma, and Tybethia’s eyes roll back in her head as the goblin starts to root around again.

With two fingers, and no gloves, Chumblag has a greater reach and more sensitivity to Tybethia’s responses, even if there’s… a slightly higher chance for damage. Not that the goblin was exactly being careful in the first place, but he’s not after a brain-dead flesh doll, so still has to pay some attention to his work.

This time, he digs his directly into Tybethia’s temporal lobe, aiming one finger towards her olfactory cortex, and the other into her amygdala… or was it her hypothalamus? Eh, he’s sure it’ll work out. Chumblag continues to lazily jerk off while rubbing his balls over Tybethia’s plush new lips, gently exploring her grey matter until he hits the jackpot.

“Ah! Das a good slut,” he compliments, when Tybethia’s mouth spontaneously opens, and starts to suckle on his stinky, sweaty nuts. Hyperorality, the manual called it, a compulsive need to place objects in one’s mouth. Of course, Chumblag doesn’t just want just any object to fit the bill, and starts fiddling with his other finger, trying to link it to her senses of smell and taste.

And, while he’s in there, he might as well give her hormone production a nudge in the right direction. Arousal up and anger down, for obvious reasons. Temperature up, for skimpier clothes and sweatier pits. Then dopamine down… except when the correct odours are being smelled. ‘Correct’, in this case, meaning Chumblag’s malodorous junk and general body stench.

“Mmn~… now, dat’s a good start!” Chumblag says, removing his fingers with a wet schlorp, the elf’s ear canal closing behind him. Like stirring a splash of cream into a stew, it’s very easy to add something… but almost impossible to undo. And yet, rewiring half of her autonomous responses and the reward centre of her brain, forcing Tybethia’s body to betray her (mostly) untouched conscious mind, really makes his cock throb.

“Ya don’t mind if I play with da rest of ya? Nah, ’course you don’t” he asks, looking down at Tybethia, who still seems unconscious. Apparently, this one took more out of her than the first time, meaning she’ll likely take longer to wake up. But on the upside, when he swivels around to wrap her tits around his cock, she automatically presses her tongue forward to start snogging his arsehole…

“Schlrrrp~… mmmmnf~… ahhhn~…glrck~…”

Leaning back on the elf’s couch an hour or so later, resting his arms on the duffel bag full of his belongings, Chumblag can hardly believe how well he turned his life around. From getting kicked out of his apartment for selling a few knockoff potions, then being told by those dumb gnomes at the bank that his s were being frozen, Chumblag’s last chance was pilfering something valuable when the manager’s back was turned.

He’d hoped that it was going to be some bonds, or stocks, or whatever fancy way those rich folk have of hiding their money. Instead, he’d found a contract, with ‘to be written off’ appended to a note. But the address on it was only a couple bus rides away, and he had enough cash left to buy a cheap suit, some magic slutwear, and the Elfbrain Oil. Which leaves him here…

“Mmmmfgh~… schlup~… gluck~… ahhhn~…”

Receiving a surprisingly competent blowjob from a barely conscious elven bimbo, while he helps himself to the leftovers in her fridge, and a bottle of some fancy beer. A position that precious few goblins have ever found themselves in—especially after the world was modernised, and capturing elves to serve as breeding stock went out of fashion. Then again, as he glances down at the blonde head bobbing between his thighs, Chumblag has always fancied himself as a traditionalist.

“How ya doin’, Tibsy?” he asks, picking his nose. This time, Tybethia’s grunts and gasps sound a little more like actual speech, and he pushes her head back and away from its oral service.

“Pwaaaah~… T-Tibsy not… nnngh~… not know why… why she…”

As she speaks, gradually coming back to her senses, Tybethia realises that something about those senses has changed. Instead of rancid goblin-stench and the eyewatering odour of dried jizz, Chumblag’s cock smells… well, it smells exactly the same. It’s disgusting! And yet, it makes her head spin, sending a potent spike of arousal down to her dripping-wet pussy, while her mouth opens wide and leans in, to-

“Ah-ah-ah! I ain’t wanna bust too early!” Chumblag scolds, and Tybethia realises what she just tried to do. The look of abject shame on the elf’s previously haughty face is worth savouring, but Chumblag doesn’t have any time to waste. His changes to Tybethia have all turned out very nicely, but they’ll soon start to fade, as her internal magic gradually puts her brain back to rights. And if that happens, he doubts that he’ll ever get another chance this good.

So, to prevent that from happening, he needs to inject some glue into Tybethia’s brain.

Not… literal glue. The Elfbrain Oil handbook said it was just a metaphor, describing a substance that—instead of changing her mind any further—would stick around and lock it into its new configuration. Of course, the handbook also assumed that the Elfbrain Oil would be used by trained psychiatrists to treat mental trauma, PTSD, and other serious issues, but… the point still stands.

“W-well… ugh!” Tybethia says, oblivious to how much danger she’s really in. “Tibsy give… blowieth to Daddy, yuh-huh? That mean… mmngh~… job d-done! No more… debt?”

“Sorry Tibsy,” Chumblag says, shaking his head patronisingly. “Dis job’s a lifetime commitment. At least till ya pop out a couple litters o’ gobbos for me, an’ I get bored of you. How’s dat sound?”

“Wha?! T-Tibsy not… totes not wanna m-make babieth w-with… mmmngh… Daddy?! Ugh… n-no!”

Tybethia recoils and refuses, struggling to stand up and pull away, but Chumblag just waits for her to turn her body to one side—then he snaps his fingers for a third time, invoking the final charge in her seal on the debt contract. Luckily, he only needs one more time.

With her mind still reeling from the last cerebral fingering, Tybethia is held in place for a little longer, giving Chumblag a chance to get to his feet, standing barefoot on the couch cushions. Next Chumblag gets out the last of the Elfbrain Oil—and upends the bottle, drizzling the thick pink fluid onto his erect, spit-shined cock.

“Khekhekhe~… y’see, Tibsy… whether ya want to or not is beside da point,” he says, using a hand to spread the oil along his shaft, focusing on the wrinkled foreskin. “All I cares about is what I always wanted ta know…”

Reaching down to grasp Tybethia’s head, Chumblag adjusts her position, while using his other hand to line the tip of his cock up with her ear canal. Faint twitches start to happen at Tybethia’s periphery, her fingers and toes trying futilely to move, to do anything to stop this from happening.

“How it feels…”

The Elfbrain Oil starts to soften the cartilage and bone around that opening, gradually spreading the opening wide, wider than the opposite side was forced to stretch around Chumblag’s fingers. Longer, thicker, grosser… and yet, as Chumblag slides forwards with a wet squelching, it’s already poised to go deeper.

“Ta fuck an elf’s brains out.”

Chumblag pulls her head towards his crotch, while thrusting his hips forwards, and a wet squelch is accompanied by a guttural moan from Tybethia’s throat as her grey matter is forced to part around a goblin cock. There’s no targeted manipulation of specific regions, no careful prodding and poking to elicit a response, just the perverted urges of a sadistic goblin that saw a warm, wet hole, and decided he wanted to put his cock in it.

A few inches sink in, synapses stretching and breaking, before reforming in jumbled configurations as Chumblag withdraws. The Elfbrain Oil is hard at work smoothing the age, making sure to minimise the damage… but it certainly doesn’t mean nothing will be changed by this. Rocking back and forth, Chumblag’s unwashed foreskin is pulled back by an intellect refined over centuries, only to smear its filth all over Tybethia’s brain matter.

“Ahhhhn~… now dat’s a good fuck…” Chumblag groans to himself, speeding up his thrusts as Tybethia starts to drool, Elfbrain Oil and precum bubbling out of her ear while Chumblag wanks with her parietal lobe. Wet, gross schlorps accompany each sordid thrust, mashing Tybethia’s thoughts into a slurry, only to get rapidly reconstituted again by her struggling magic.

He fucks deeper, penetrating her ear with his cock right down to the base and threatening to emerge from the other side, but Chumblag’s earlier masturbation and sloppy blowjob have brought him close to the edge. Except instead of wasting anything out of Tybethia’s left ear, Chumblag starts to jerk her head back and forth, focusing on only half of his shaft, until…

“NNNGH~!”

Chumblag ejaculates, directly into the centre of Tybethia’s brain. Porridge thick goblin jizz, congealed and fermented after months spent in Chumblag’s oversized nuts without release, hot and salty and sticky. Rope after rope is emptied into the elf’s skull, spreading out and mixing with the Elfbrain Oil to form a crude slurry that seeps into every wrinkle of Tybethia’s mind.

If Chumblag is correct, it should act as the glue he needs, to permanently, irreversibly imprint his changes onto Tybethia’s brain. And if he’s wrong, well…

He can always buy some more of the stuff.

Shuffling through the papers in his next folder, Chief Fiduciary Clerk Thrumble Figginsworth furrows his brow as the doorbell chimes again with no answer. He’s only been with this bank for a few decades, not that long for a gnome, and this is an important job! Relisham Silver Holdings is one of the country’s largest financial institutions, and even if adventuring is old business, there is a lot of interest in the heroes of old—especially the still living ones.

“Ms. Lyremantle? I’m here from RSH, about your loan!” he calls out, knocking again. This is the third time he’s tried her place, even going so far as to call her agent, but there’s been no . “Please, it’s nothing bad, I promise!”

A loan of four silver, over two-hundred years ago, with a… frankly staggering interest accrued. Left languishing until a recent overhaul of the system, including a reprinting of the contract after the first copy went missing, it would be ludicrous to expect Tybethia Lyremantle to actually pay back that enormous amount. Instead, the higher-ups were hoping to spin this point of into an advertising deal—something about long-lived races, and the stability of their investments. Maybe film an advert with Tybethia shooting some arrows against a forested backdrop, if the marketing department get their way.

Letting out a serious sigh, Clerk Figginsworth is about to give up and try again later when the door finally opens. Except, instead of the powerful brunette elf that he expected, that starred in the epic sagas he used to read as a child, there stands… a goblin. Wearing naught but a grubby white tank top, he narrows his eyes at the bank employee.

“You a debt collector?” the greenskinned man asks, no love lost between goblins and gnomes despite their similar height. “I ain’t got no time for dat.”

Trying not to look down at the man’s crotch, Thrumble purses his lips and discreetly checks the address on the documents. No, he’s in the right place. Then perhaps their data is wrong?

“Oh, ah, I’m awfully sorry, sir, I was just looking for…” he starts to ask, only to trail off as another person walks up to the doorframe, late morning sun falling on their equally nude body. Except this elf’s waist is at head-height to Thrumble and the goblin, not to mention extremely pregnant. Long blonde hair, enormous breasts, plush lips, and a complete vapidity in its eyes.

“Ms. Lyremantle?” he asks, but immediately knows that it isn’t, as the goblin snorts and reaches up to fondle her buttocks.

“Never heard of ’er. Maybe she moved?” the goblin says, as Thrumble takes in the full extent of the elf’s perversion. A tattoo is imprinted above her crotch, reading ‘CHUMBLAG’S CUMRAG’, while a splattering of a thick white fluid implies it’s far from metaphorical. “Ain’t dat right, honey?”

The blonde elf blinks slowly, her head shaking for a moment, as she looks down at her goblin companion. It’s like there’s something going on between her ears, something that knows this situation is wrong, but… can’t quite make the connection with why. But that’s none of Clerk Figginsworth’s concern. There’s no way a goblin could keep an elf like that unless she wanted it.

“Ummm~… like… nuh-uh, Daddy,” she says, arms held up at her sides, with a wispy robe hanging loosely off her shoulders. “My name jutht-EEP!”

“There ya have it!” the goblin says, cutting off his partner with a hearty spank on her rump. Stepping back from the door, he gestures at the poor elf for her to get back into the apartment, which she seems to happily comply with. “Now, if yeh’ll excuse us!”

“Oh, m-my apologies sir, you… have a nice day?” Thrumble starts to say, but the door is already shut in his face, a muffled squeal of pleasure ing through it a moment later. Shaking his head in disappointment, Clerk Figginsworth returns to his car, making a note that Ms. Lyremantle’s new address will need to be found. But with everything changing so quickly nowadays, he wouldn’t be surprised if it took another two hundred years…