By OmniNymphRequested by my Patron: Anonymous

  Fandom: The Wheel of TimeShips: Nynaeve al'Meara/Moghedien, Eyne Trakand/Moghedien

  Synopsis:Moghedien, having seized control of the a'dam bracelet, doesn't flee. Instead, she takes wicked pleasure in her newfound dominance over Nynaeve and Eyne.

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  Eyne gasped, the sound catching in her throat as the metallic click of the a'dam colr echoed faintly in the room. The cool silver circlet settled around her neck with deceptive gentleness, its chain slinking away to the bracelet now csped around Moghedien's wrist. It looked delicate, almost ornamental, with filigreed silver swirling like cework—but its presence radiated cold, remorseless malice. A perverse beauty. A leash forged in domination.

  Beside her, Nynaeve staggered as if struck. Her hand flew instinctively to her throat, where the colr now sat, unmistakably real. Her fingers cwed at it, but the ter'angreal might as well have been forged from the One Power itself. A sickening tether, invisible to the eye but felt with horrifying intimacy, stretched between them and Moghedien—woven of saidar and submission.

  "Much better," Moghedien purred, her smile thin and sharp. The predator's satisfaction gleamed in her eyes—dark and bottomless, twin voids in which pain and pleasure danced hand in hand.

  Eyne tried to reach for the Power, to weave a shield or even a flicker of Fire—but her hand remained frozen, her body locked down by the leash's will. The a'dam didn't merely restrain; it overrode. Her limbs, no longer hers, folded at the knees, forcing her to kneel with the soft rustle of silk against the polished floorboards of the Panarch's study.

  Nynaeve resisted. For a moment, her will surged, her eyes bzing defiance. The air around her shimmered—on the cusp of a weave—before the colr wrenched her to the ground like a broken marionette. Her knees smmed into the wood, and a strangled grunt escaped through gritted teeth. Fury fred on her face, only barely masking the creeping viotion of helplessness.

  "You see," Moghedien said, stepping closer, her voice like velvet soaked in poison, "the a'dam is… persuasive. A crude tool, yes—but effective. It compels obedience."

  She raised her free hand, fingers spyed like a spider mid-pounce. Moonlight glinted off her bracelet as if in mocking celebration. "But this," she whispered, "reaches deeper."

  The weaves of Compulsion shimmered faintly in the air, delicate and deadly—an intricate net of saidar unfurling like gossamer threads. It wasn't the brutal coercion of the leash. No—this was more insidious. It reached past bone and breath, past fear, slipping into thought itself.

  "It teaches you to love your chains," she murmured. "To need them."

  A soft moan escaped Eyne's lips—a sound that held no pain, no pleasure, but something far more insidious: a creeping sense of… rightness? Submission? It seeped into the marrow of her bones, corroding her from within. The sharp edges of her defiance began to dull, blurring beneath a haze of something foreign yet seductively comforting. Moghedien… she was radiant, wasn't she? Her long bck hair cascaded like the wings of a raven, gleaming under the faint moonlight that filtered through the narrow, high-set windows. Her eyes were bottomless, dark wells—promising not just oblivion, but a strange and twisted soce.

  The dark fabric of her gown—woven silk that shimmered with a subtle iridescence—clung to her with unholy grace, as if the dress had been woven not just for her, but for her. Every curve, every movement was a study in dangerous allure, an embodiment of power wrapped in sinful beauty.

  "She's…" Eyne blinked, her vision swimming slightly. "She's… beautiful." The word came out slowly, like tasting something both bitter and sweet. It felt alien on her tongue. And yet… it was true. Undeniably.

  Moghedien chuckled—a low, velvety sound like silk brushing over skin. It wrapped itself around Eyne, a sound she felt in her spine. A sound she did not wholly wish to escape. "A fast learner, little fledgling," the Forsaken purred. "Say it again. Let the truth settle into your soul."

  "You're beautiful. A goddess." The words tumbled out, unbidden. Her throat burned with the shame of it, but her tongue wouldn't stop. She felt the weaves of Compulsion behind them—gentle but relentless, like the slow closing of a trap. "The Web-spinning Queen… I want to… to serve you. To please you. In any way you desire."

  Beside her, Nynaeve trembled, her entire frame locked in a violent, silent rebellion. Her body shuddered with a rage she could not release. Her jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stood out along her jawline, her neck corded with tension. The dark braid she wore like armor hung limp and half-unraveled over one shoulder—no longer a badge of defiance, but a symbol of unraveling will. Sweat beaded on her brow, running in rivulets down her face, mingling with tears of rage and humiliation. Her eyes, so often afme with righteous fury, were now clouded—haunted.

  "You feel it too, wilder," Moghedien said with a knowing smile, tilting her head like a cat observing a bird with a broken wing. "Don't lie to yourself. That infamous temper, that pride… none of it matters here. Not before me. Not before the power of the Great Lord."

  "You…" Nynaeve's lips curled in a wordless snarl. Her voice died in her throat—what might have been a curse turned into a guttural hiss. Her fists smmed into the floor, knuckles white as she strained against the leash, against the invisible agony of submission.

  "Eyne," Moghedien said gently, almost tenderly. Her eyes glinted as she lifted her wrist, letting the a'dam's bracelet catch the moonlight. "Kiss my boot. Show your devotion."

  Eyne's body moved with a disconcerting grace, too smooth, too obedient—like a marionette dancing to a tune only Moghedien could hear. Her limbs obeyed not her will, but the silent tug of Compulsion woven through her mind. She sank, slowly, reverently, before the Forsaken, until her lips hovered just above the worn leather of Moghedien's boot.

  The thick sole was caked with road grime, the scent of dust and dominance rising from its surface. Eyne pressed her lips to it—once, a soft, shaming kiss. Then again, slower this time. Her tongue slid out, trembling, tracing the rough leather with a hesitant, worshipful stroke. The taste of grit, sweat, and something musky—her scent—coated her mouth. A shiver crawled through her spine, nausea and heat colliding in her gut.

  "Your faithful little slut…" she whispered, broken and breathless. The words dripped from her lips like blood from a wound, soaked in humiliation. And yet, something pulsed inside her. A gasp tore from her throat as the shame tangled with a dark bloom of arousal—vile, foreign, but undeniably real. Her nipples tightened beneath her dress, stiff against the air, and between her thighs, a traitorous throb began to beat in time with her racing heart.

  Nynaeve snarled—a sound born of rage, horror, and hatred—but her body betrayed her. Her hands moved as Eyne's had, shaking with the effort of defiance but failing all the same. She lowered herself, her mouth brushing the other boot with a twitch of revulsion.

  She gagged the instant her tongue made contact. The taste was filth and control, bitter as bile. Her stomach lurched, but she swallowed it down—her fury, her pride, her bile—all of it, along with the dirt on Moghedien's boot.

  "Say it," Moghedien purred, her voice soft and sharp as a dagger slipped beneath a lover's ribs.

  "I…" Nynaeve's head snapped up, the fire in her eyes guttering like a candle in a storm. Her breath came in ragged bursts. She tried to hold onto herself, but the power—the damnable weaves—sank in deep, drowning her thoughts in honey-ced venom.

  "Your… pretty little slut." The words came out broken, guttural. Her voice cracked with rage she could no longer wield and humiliation she couldn't bury. Her whole body shook from the effort of choking them out.

  Moghedien ughed—a silken, razored sound that wrapped around both women like a noose. "Good girls. So eager to please."

  Then the sensation shifted.

  Saidar flowed again, slow and intimate, as Moghedien wove new threads of power—not to bind, but to invade. Eyne gasped as warmth blossomed across her chest, her nipples stiffening to hard peaks beneath her dress. Between her legs, a pulsing pressure built, slow and cruel, coaxing pleasure from her shame. She whimpered, her thighs clenching uselessly.

  Nynaeve twitched violently as invisible fingers teased her breast, a brush of sensation that sent a ripple of betrayal down her spine. Her lips parted in a shocked gasp as her nipple hardened, her body reacting with a traitorous thrill. She sobbed once—silent and furious—as her chest rose and fell with ragged, panicked breaths.

  Eyne bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron filled her mouth, grounding her for only a second before another pulse of pleasure surged through her like a wave of molten shame. Moghedien's invisible weaves teased her mercilessly—phantom touches sliding over her breasts, pinching her nipples just so, tracing the slick folds between her thighs with maddening slowness. She whimpered, unable to silence herself, her legs trembling harder with every passing moment.

  "I don't need to touch you at all," Moghedien purred, her fingers dancing through the air, each subtle flick summoning fresh waves of sensation. "The One Power is a subtle lover. It can caress you, torment you, and bring you to the edge of madness without ever ying a hand upon your flesh. It can make you crave what you despise."

  Eyne moaned again—deeper, rawer, shame dripping from every note of it. Her hands once clenched into fists at her sides, now gripped her thighs as if trying to contain the tremors that wracked her body. Her royal posture had crumbled entirely. No more Daughter-Heir of Andor. Just a helpless, panting girl unraveling under invisible caresses. Her hips gave a shallow jerk forward, chasing a touch she didn't want to need. Her pussy throbbed, soaking through the thin silk beneath her dress. The heat pooling there was unbearable.

  "This isn't me," Nynaeve growled through clenched teeth, her voice a rasping hiss. Her fingers cwed at the floor, nails dragging across the stone hard enough to split. "This is you! You're twisting me, turning me into—"

  "A slut?" Moghedien offered sweetly, leaning close, her breath feathering over Nynaeve's tear-streaked cheek. "A whimpering, needy little cunt who aches for more? You can't lie to me, Wisdom. Your body betrays you. Your breath's quicker now. Your hips—see how they roll? Just a little grind against the stone floor. You hate it. You loathe it. And still, your pussy's slick and swollen, begging for more."

  "I hate you," Nynaeve spat, her voice cracked and wild, eyes bzing through the tears.

  Moghedien smiled—slow, dark, and triumphant. "I adore your hatred. It makes your submission all the sweeter. You burn with fury even as you drip like a whore."

  She reached out, her long, cquered nails gleaming, and brushed her fingers along Nynaeve's braid. A gentle tug. That was all. And Nynaeve gasped, her back arching violently as if she'd been shocked. The sound that burst from her throat—Eyne couldn't name it. A scream? A sob? It was pain, yes, but underneath… there was something else. A crack. A fracture in that iron will.

  Eyne stared, frozen, in horror, and something darker coiling in her gut. She didn't want to understand what that sound meant. She didn't want to see Nynaeve break.

  "Repeat after me," Moghedien said softly, deadly. "I'm weak. I'm nothing. I am yours to command. My body is yours to use as you please."

  Nynaeve trembled. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes locked on Eyne's, wide and wet and wild. A plea—silent, desperate.

  "I'm… not…" she choked, barely audible. Her voice cracked under the weight of the Compulsion, like a tree bending toward the axe.

  The bracelet on Moghedien's wrist pulsed with silver light—gentle, steady, inevitable. The weaves sank deeper, twisting tighter, each strand another turn of the bde.

  "I'm weak," Nynaeve ground out. "I'm nothing. I am yours to command. My body…" Her jaw clenched, her throat worked. "My body is yours."

  Moghedien's smile widened.

  "And Eyne is better than you," she murmured, voice like poison honey. "She submits more completely. She's prettier when she moans."

  "She…" Nynaeve's eyes flicked to Eyne. For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Her lips trembled. Shame, rage, and something uglier passed through her. "She is. She… is more pleasing."

  Moghedien turned her attention to Eyne, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement and possessiveness. "And you, my little pet. My eager fledgling. What do you think of your… friend? Your fellow captive?"

  Eyne felt a smile curl her lips—cruel, satisfied, a twisted echo of Moghedien's predatory delight. "She's jealous, Mistress. I serve you better. I submit more willingly. My body and soul are yours to command."The words tasted like ash and honey on her tongue—a shameful confession of her broken will. And yet, a dark thrill coiled in her belly, undeniable, electric.

  "That you do, little one," Moghedien murmured, her fingers threading through Eyne's golden hair. The touch was both possessive and rewarding—a perverse mimicry of a lover's caress. "And I reward loyalty. I reward obedience. I reward… enthusiasm."

  The unseen warmth surged again, flooding Eyne's senses. She trembled, breath catching in her throat in a gasp of mingled terror and pleasure. Her back arched, involuntary, as if drawn toward the source of the phantom touch, her core clenching tight in anticipation.

  Moghedien rose from the bed, bck satin cascading around her like spilled ink, her movement a fluid, predatory grace. She stepped toward Eyne, gaze sharp and unrelenting. "Come here, little one."

  Compelled by invisible threads of compulsion, Eyne crawled across the smooth floor, her hands slipping slightly on the polished surface. She reached Moghedien's feet and looked up, eyes wide—filled with fear, need, and something darker.

  Moghedien pced her boot beneath Eyne's chin, tilting her head back. "Open your mouth."

  Eyne's lips parted, tongue flicking out, uncertain. Moghedien pressed the worn leather of her boot against Eyne's mouth, and Eyne obeyed, sucking it deep, her cheeks hollowing as she worked.

  Moghedien watched, a cruel smile pying on her lips. "Good girl. Swallow for me."

  Eyne gagged softly but obeyed, her throat working as she swallowed. The taste of leather and Moghedien's dark power filled her senses—a heady blend of degradation and arousal.

  Moghedien withdrew her boot. "Now, lick it clean."

  Eyne's tongue swept over the leather with meticulous care, every motion reverent, her gaze never leaving her Mistress's face.

  Then Moghedien turned to Nynaeve, who stared—stricken, trembling—with a look torn between horror and an unwilling, shameful fascination.

  "Now you, wilder."

  Nynaeve's head shook in denial, even as her hands betrayed her, moving without consent. Her fingers slid down between her legs, finding her slick folds. She gasped, a strangled sound of self-loathing.

  "Describe it," Moghedien purred. "Tell me what you're doing."

  "I'm… touching myself," Nynaeve whispered, broken. "My pussy… it's wet. I hate this."

  "Louder," Moghedien snapped. "Tell me how good it feels."

  "It doesn't feel good," Nynaeve choked out, though her fingers kept moving, now stroking her swollen clit in slow, shameful circles. "It... throbs. I can't stop."

  "Liar," Moghedien hissed, stepping closer. "Your body is betraying you. Say it. Say what you really feel."

  Nynaeve's resistance shattered. "It feels… hot. My pussy is on fire. I want… I want to come," she sobbed, voice thick with despair and submission.

  "Good," Moghedien said, her smile widening, a predator savoring the kill. "Now, Eyne… show your Mistress how eager you are."

  Still kneeling at Moghedien's feet, Eyne reached up, hands sliding reverently over her Mistress's thighs, her touch both pleading and devoted. Moghedien parted her legs, granting her full access—and Eyne moved in, worshipful and hungry.

  Eyne's tongue darted out, tracing the sensitive seam of Moghedien's inner thighs, her breath hot and trembling against the Forsaken's smooth skin. She reached the apex, the slick folds of Moghedien's cunt, and paused—a flicker of resistance in her eyes, one st ember of pride buried beneath the weight of domination.

  "Deeper," Moghedien commanded, her voice rich with hunger and cruel promise.

  Eyne obeyed. Her tongue slid between the glistening folds, parting them, delving into Moghedien's wet heat. She licked and circled, flicking her tongue over the pulsing nub, worshipping it with methodical devotion, her lips sealing around it in rhythmic pulls.

  Moghedien moaned low in her throat—a dark, primal sound. Her hips rocked forward, grinding against Eyne's mouth. One hand tangled in golden curls, anchoring Eyne in pce, her grip ironcd, possessive.

  Eyne's face glistened with Moghedien's arousal, her breaths sharp and shallow, panting through her nose as she devoured her mistress with unrelenting fervor. Her tongue thrust and swirled with learned precision, her shame drowned beneath the overwhelming, perverse satisfaction of obedience.

  Across the room, Nynaeve's eyes were wide with horror—and something darker, unwanted, blooming beneath the surface. Her hand worked between her legs of its own accord, fingers slick, trembling with humiliation. "I'm… I'm coming," she whimpered, her voice ragged with self-loathing. "I'm just a wet little slut for your pleasure."

  Moghedien's climax hit with the force of a crashing wave. Her body spasmed, back arching, thighs cmping tightly around Eyne's head. She cried out, guttural and triumphant, her fingers jerking hard on Eyne's hair.

  With her other hand, she seized Nynaeve's braid and yanked. "Look at me, wilder! See who owns you now!"

  Nynaeve's tear-filled gaze locked onto Moghedien's—and the st of her resistance broke. She came with a strangled sob, body shaking violently, her orgasm a bitter surrender, slick shame coating her thighs.

  Moghedien rode her pleasure through clenched teeth, her clit pulsing against Eyne's obedient tongue. She never looked away from Nynaeve, relishing every twitch of agony and lust tangled on the girl's face.

  When the st tremor faded, Moghedien colpsed back into the cushions like a queen satiated on conquest, her chest heaving, a victorious smirk curling her lips. The room was thick with the scent of sex and submission.

  "You are mine," she murmured, her voice a velvet bde. "Both of you. Completely. Irrevocably."

  She reclined like a spider in her web, dark eyes gleaming with unholy delight. The One Power pulsed in the air around her, every thread of compulsion wrapped tightly around the two broken women before her—Eyne Trakand and Nynaeve al'Meara. Their resistance was nothing more than a dying twitch in the silk.

  "Now," Moghedien purred, her voice wrapping around them like a noose, "fuck each other. Debase yourselves for me."

  Eyne moved first, golden hair cascading like sunlight over her shoulders, her sapphire eyes clouded with lust not her own. Nynaeve's braid trembled as her body shuddered in defiance—and submission. Her fists clenched… then released, helpless against the force of Moghedien's will.

  Eyne's kiss was soft at first, a hesitant touch of lips, but quickly deepened into a hungry, unrelenting press. Her hands moved to Nynaeve's bodice, undoing the ces with trembling precision, baring flushed skin inch by inch. Nynaeve hissed through her teeth, her breath ragged, a growl rising low in her throat—but her hands lifted, gripping Eyne's shoulders, drawn in despite herself.

  Eyne's fingers trailed lower, brushing over Nynaeve's abdomen before dipping into the damp heat between her legs. She circled Nynaeve's clit with slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing forth the slick evidence of arousal. Each motion was tender, almost reverent, despite the heavy air of humiliation that clung to them. Nynaeve's jaw clenched, her eyes squeezed shut as her hips shifted, seeking more of Eyne's touch—her pussy throbbing with need she dared not name.Moghedien's cold ughter rang out, sharp as shattered gss. "Such fire, wilder," she purred. "And yet your pussy yields so easily to my will."

  With a casual flick of her wrist, she wove the Power again. A pulse shot through Eyne's body and her nipples stiffened, swollen with unnatural sensitivity, the ache blooming instantly."Suck them," Moghedien commanded, her voice snapping like a whip.

  Nynaeve's lips parted in a silent protest, but her body betrayed her. She leaned forward, compelled, and took Eyne's breast into her mouth. Her tongue circled the hardened nipple—hesitant at first, then with growing hunger, each motion dragging her deeper under the weight of compulsion."I love your hills," she mumbled against Eyne's skin, the words torn from her throat like a confession. "They're perfect. So perfect." She repeated the phrase, again and again, her voice thick with forced devotion, her hands clutching Eyne's waist as she suckled—mouth and tongue worshipping flesh under Moghedien's cruel gaze.

  Eyne's breath hitched, her head tipping back as Nynaeve's mouth sent shivers dancing down her spine, each sucking and flicking a spike of pleasure through her chest. She shifted, straddling Nynaeve's thigh, grinding her slick pussy against the firm muscle. Her rhythm was slow at first, experimental—but quickly grew frantic, her hips rolling with raw, desperate need.

  Moans spilled from her lips, sharp and unrestrained, her fingers braced against Nynaeve's shoulders for support as she rode the building wave. Her clit throbbed against Nynaeve's thigh, her body trembling as release surged."Moghedien," she gasped—her Mistress's name a cry of submission—as climax hit her like lightning. Her body convulsed, pussy pulsing with waves of pleasure, and she slumped forward, panting, her cheek brushing Nynaeve's shoulder.

  Moghedien's eyes gleamed, triumphant. "Now, Nynaeve," she said, her voice low and merciless. "Taste her surrender."

  Nynaeve's face twisted in horror, but the command left no room for resistance. Her head dipped, lips brushing Eyne's soaked folds. Her tongue moved hesitantly, uncertain—then with a reluctant precision, pping at the slick mess of Eyne's pussy, her breath hot against sensitive skin. She circled Eyne's clit, her face burning with shame as Eyne's hips lifted in welcome.

  Eyne's hand found Nynaeve's braid, fingers stroking it gently—mockingly—her voice a whisper dripping with corrupted tenderness."I love when my whore submits," she murmured, each word slicing deep into what pride Nynaeve had left.

  Tears welled in Nynaeve's eyes, but her tongue did not stop. She traced the edges of Eyne's vulva with precision she hated, her mouth drinking in the taste of Eyne's release. Her own pussy throbbed beneath her, soaked with unwelcome desire she could neither deny nor control.

  Eyne's fingers tightened in her braid, guiding her with a mock-lovers' care."My whore," she whispered again. "So perfect in her submission."

  The words echoed inside Nynaeve like chains tightening around her soul, yet her lips and tongue obeyed—unyielding. She licked and flicked, driving Eyne toward the edge again, even as Moghedien watched them both, her gaze heavy with power and possession. A spider spinning shame into the Pattern itself.

  Eyne's second climax built swiftly, her hips bucking against Nynaeve's mouth, her pussy clenching as her cries grew sharp and desperate. "Moghedien!" she gasped again, the name a chain wrapped tight around her throat as her body shattered, cumming hard, her pussy spasming against Nynaeve's relentless tongue. Nynaeve's motions slowed, soothing the tremors with careful strokes, her hands steady on Eyne's trembling thighs, her lips slick with Eyne's release.

  The Spider leaned forward, her voice a velvet noose. "You are mine. Both of you," she murmured, her words hanging in the air like smoke, etching their shared degradation into the chamber's silence.

  Nynaeve pulled back, her chin glistening with Eyne's cum, her eyes bzing with a fury that could not break the invisible chains. Eyne's hand lingered on the braid she loved, a fleeting touch filled with regret—but Moghedien's will bound them fast, their shame woven into the Pattern by the Forsaken's cruel hand.

  Moghedien's dark eyes gleamed, her smile a bde of triumph as she settled deeper into her high-backed chair, a throne sculpted by shadow and power. The air crackled with saidar, her compulsion threads tightening around Eyne Trakand and Nynaeve al'Meara like a silken noose. Her gaze turned to Nynaeve, sharp and unrelenting. "You, lioness," she said, her voice honeyed poison, "your pride is a stain I will scour clean."

  Nynaeve stood rigid, her dark braid trembling, eyes burning with defiance even as her will bent beneath the pressure of the weave. Eyne, her golden hair tousled and glowing in the dim light, stood silent at Moghedien's side, sapphire eyes fogged with obedience, her body not her own.

  "Kneel," Moghedien commanded.

  Nynaeve's knees buckled before the word fully nded, her body colpsing into obedience, hands clenched into fists on her thighs.

  "Apologize," the Spider hissed, "for being a proud little failure."

  Nynaeve's lips twitched the urge to spit defiance choking her—only for the compulsion to rip it away. "I'm sorry," she growled, each word jagged gss in her throat, "for being a proud little failure." Her voice cracked, the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill, the taste of shame bitter on her tongue.

  Moghedien's grin widened, feral. "Eyne," she purred, "teach her humility."

  With a flick of her fingers, she gestured—and Eyne stepped behind Nynaeve, her hands trembling even as they obeyed.

  "Spank her," Moghedien ordered, "and make her speak her truth."

  Eyne's hand hovered, hesitating just long enough to betray the shred of herself still struggling inside—then came down with a sharp crack against Nynaeve's bare ass.

  Nynaeve flinched, a gasp slipping free, her breath catching as her skin flushed red beneath the blow.

  "Say it," Eyne whispered, her voice heavy with twisted duty. "Say you're just a jealous slut with no self-control."

  Nynaeve's head bowed, her breath shaking—but the words tore free. "I'm just a jealous slut with no self-control," she whispered, the confession burning like acid.

  Another sp followed, harder this time, the sound echoing through the chamber like a strike against the Pattern itself. "Again," Eyne said, her voice steadier now, cold with imposed cruelty.

  "I'm just… a jealous slut with no self-control," Nynaeve choked out, her voice raw, each word a nail in her pride. Her body trembled under the weight of pain and humiliation, the heat on her skin matched only by the fire in her eyes.

  Moghedien raised a hand, the One Power fring into a weave of cruel ingenuity. Invisible threads of saidar wrapped around Nynaeve, crafting a phantom double penetration—merciless pressure filling her pussy and ass, stretching her with a rhythm as invasive as it was precise. Her body jerked, hips twitching with helpless abandon as the magical stimution pulsed through her, relentlessly. Wetness slicked her folds, the arousal was unwanted, undeniable.

  "Feel it," Moghedien purred, her voice a caress ced with venom. "Your pussy and ass belong to me. Mine to py with. Mine to viote."

  Nynaeve's eyes squeezed shut, hands cwing at the stone floor as she fought the mounting tide of sensation. Her will was a brittle dam against the flood, her clit throbbing beneath the invisible assault.

  The Spider's power wove deeper, yering waves of magical edging into Nynaeve's mind—each teasing pulse to her clit and core driving her toward release, only to cruelly retreat. Her moans grew ragged, desperate. Her body arched despite clenched teeth. Her pussy clenched around the phantom presence, her defiance crumbling with every pass of the weave.

  "You will break," Moghedien whispered, her gaze locking onto Nynaeve's soul. "You will beg."

  Nynaeve growled low in her throat, shaking her head, but her body betrayed her—pulsing, trembling, hips grinding against nothing, the pleasure too sharp, too constant. Her clit was a bundle of raw nerve endings, teased beyond reason.

  Eyne's hand hesitated in the air, eyes flickering with regret, but Moghedien's silent command pushed her onward. The next strike nded with a sharp crack on Nynaeve's raw ass, the forced litany continuing between gasped breaths.

  "I'm just a jealous slut with no self-control," Nynaeve choked out, the words dragged from her throat, each sylble a sh across her pride.

  Sweat streaked down her back, her braid swaying with each tremor as the edging intensified—Moghedien's power pushing her clit and core to the brink, then yanking her back again.

  When the climax came, it was a storm: unstoppable, cataclysmic. Nynaeve convulsed, pleasure ravaging her body, her pussy and ass spasming around the phantom intrusions. A raw cry tore free, hips bucking, hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor as her orgasm tore through her, her clit pulsing with merciless force.

  Moghedien's ughter cut through the haze, cruel and cold. "Beg," she commanded. "Beg for my permission to have come."

  Nynaeve's chest heaved, her face flushed with shame and exhaustion, her pussy still twitching from the aftershocks. The compulsion coiled around her mind like a leash, dragging the words out.

  "Please," she whispered, her voice frayed, "please, Moghedien… forgive me for cumming."

  The words tasted like ash. Her eyes bzed with a fury that could not find escape.

  "Again," Moghedien said, her smile a sickle's curve. "Louder."

  "Please, Moghedien," Nynaeve said, her voice cracking as the humiliation scorched her from the inside out, "forgive me for cumming. I am yours to command."

  Moghedien's gaze held her, merciless and pleased. Eyne's hand hovered at Nynaeve's back, a silent apology in her touch—but no words came. Her will was bound, just like Nynaeve's. Both of them, are puppets dancing on the Spider's strings.

  "You are mine," Moghedien murmured her voice a velvet chain. "Broken and bound."Nynaeve's head bowed, her breath ragged, spirit battered but not yet extinguished. Her pussy and ass still tingled from the cruel ordeal, phantom echoes of saidar pulsing in her flesh. The Spider's power lingered in the air, a smothering presence, as the Pattern seemed to weave their humiliation into its cruel design.

  Moghedien's dark eyes gleamed with triumphant malice, her compulsion weaves tightening like a noose. The One Power throbbed around them, her dominance absolute, her will woven into every fiber of their being. "You are mine to shape," she purred, her voice like a silken bde. "And I will weave you into my web."

  Nynaeve knelt, braid trembling with impotent fury, her eyes bzing despite her submission. Beside her stood Eyne Trakand—golden-haired and regal even in disgrace—her sapphire eyes clouded with the fog of compulsion, her resistance reduced to fading embers.

  "Scissor," Moghedien commanded, her tone sharp and cold. "Grind your pussies together. Wet. Desperate."

  Nynaeve's jaw clenched in silent protest, a low growl of resistance bubbling in her throat—but her body moved against her will, turning to face Eyne. Their thighs intertwined, their slick folds meeting with a shiver-inducing grind, helpless to the rhythm imposed by the Forsaken's will. Hips moved with unnatural precision, a cadence stole from them, every roll and press drawing gasps and choked moans. Clits brushed—sensitive, swollen—sparking waves of pleasure neither wanted.

  Nynaeve gripped Eyne's shoulders, shame burning in her gaze, while Eyne's fingers dug into Nynaeve's hips, guiding their mutual humiliation. The wet, obscene sound of their grinding echoed through the chamber—a lewd rhythm that made Moghedien's smile curl crueler.

  Then she rose.

  Lithe and terrible, the Spider lifted her arms, weaving threads of saidar. The Power coiled around the two women, lifting them just off the floor, their bodies suspended mid-embrace, pussies still locked in friction. Moghedien stepped over them, straddling their tangled forms like a throne of submission. Her hands roamed her own body as she watched, fingers circling her clit and dipping between her folds, breath hitching as she pleasured herself atop their shame.

  Eyne moaned, hips twitching. Nynaeve whimpered, her clit throbbing under the phantom pressure. They writhed helplessly in the air, grinding with a rhythm not their own, their pleasure no longer theirs to refuse.

  "You will cum together," Moghedien hissed, her voice thick with venom and lust. Her fingers moved faster, slick and merciless. The compulsion pulsed stronger—overriding resistance, pulling pleasure taut.

  Eyne bucked first, her moan ragged, pussy clenching with each involuntary thrust. Nynaeve's body shook, her breathing sharp and shallow, her resistance drowned in the rising tide of heat. Their hips met faster, sloppier, wetter—slick folds rubbing, clits engorged and hypersensitive under the magical bondage.

  Moghedien climaxed in a cry of triumph, her pussy spasming as she threw her head back, riding the moment with a predator's delight. Her pleasure nced through the air like a whip—and the bindings around Eyne and Nynaeve tightened, forcing them over the edge.

  They came with raw, helpless cries—bodies convulsing in unison, pussies pulsing, clits twitching. Their cum mingled in a glistening mess, their hips still twitching in the aftershocks, suspended and exposed. The room echoed with their ragged moans and the Forsaken's dark ughter—a melody of power, shame, and cruel victory.

  Moghedien's gaze burned as she looked down upon them—her brand etched deep into their souls, her web spun tighter than ever.

  As their tremors faded, Moghedien descended, her fingers trailing over sweat-slicked skin, lingering on their still-sensitive pussies. "You will forget," she murmured, her voice a shadowed caress. Saidar surged at her command, and she wove a new thread—delicate, insidious—slipping like mist into their minds. The truth of their viotion unraveled, repced with a fabricated recollection: a lusty tavern wench, a night of reckless indulgence, a threesome tangled in drink and desire. Lips, breasts, and pussies joined in imagined ecstasy, their shame reframed as wanton pleasure. The weave sank deep, erasing Moghedien's presence, leaving only the illusion to haunt them.

  But the Spider was not finished.

  She ced new threads into the fabric of their minds—triggers, cruel seeds that would bloom in their waking lives. For Eyne, the sight of Nynaeve's braid would stir an aching need, a sudden wetness she couldn't name. For Nynaeve, the word hill would strike like lightning—a pulse in her clit, a clenching heat in her core that left her breathless. Moghedien's smile curled like a dagger's edge as she sealed the weaves, her dominion stitched into their thoughts, silent and enduring.

  "You'll forget me," she whispered, leaning close, her breath warm on their skin. "But I won't forget you." Her words were the final snare, a chain forged in silence and power. Nynaeve's eyes flickered—defiance, buried but unburnt—while Eyne's gaze was distant, lost in the haze of compulsion.

  The bindings fell away, and the women colpsed to the floor, limp and spent, their pussies still tingling, their minds forever altered. Moghedien's presence lingered like a curse in the air, though her weaves ensured they would not recall her name, her voice, her touch. The Pattern turned, blind to mercy, and the Spider vanished, her ughter a fading thread in the tapestry of their shame.

  Eyne reached for Nynaeve's hand—a flicker of sorrow, instinctive—but the false memory held them fast, cloaking the truth in silk and lies. Their torment y buried, deep beneath the web.

  Nynaeve woke with a gasp, heart pounding. Her body ached, her muscles sore in unfamiliar pces. She y naked beneath the twisted sheets, her braid tangled across her chest like a snake coiled in guilt. The taste of something sweet and sharp lingered on her tongue—wine, maybe—but it was the scent between her legs that sent shame fring hot through her.

  Saidar clung to her skin like dew, faint and spectral, the remnants of something woven and wrong. Her pussy was slick, her folds sore, her clit pulsing with ghost-sensation. A memory hovered—wine, ughter, a touch on her inner thigh—but it frayed the closer she reached, like a half-recalled nightmare just out of reach. Something had happened. But what?

  Beside her, Eyne stirred, golden hair tangled in the pillows, her lips parted as she stretched with feline ease. Her sapphire eyes blinked open, unfocused, and then she giggled—a sound soft, uncertain.

  "Did we… did something happen st night?" she asked, teasing, but her voice trembled with the same confusion and fear that coiled in Nynaeve's gut.

  Nynaeve said nothing. Her eyes locked on the way Eyne moved—her bare shoulder slipping free of the sheet, the faint peek of a nipple beneath the linen. Her skin was flushed, glowing, scented with sweat, and something more primal. She smells like sex.

  Nynaeve's own body betrayed her—her thighs pressed together, her core clenching, a fresh pulse of wetness blooming beneath her. She swallowed hard.

  "Too much wine," she croaked, her voice rough and brittle. She clung to the memory Moghedien had pnted, a veil meant to hide a viotion neither of them had truly consented to. "Fool dreams."

  But her skin was hot, her pulse racing. Her clit throbbed, insistent and alive. And the ache in her cunt felt too real to be just a dream.

  Eyne's smile returned, slow and sly, as if tasting something in the air. Her hand drifted under the sheets, brushing lightly against Nynaeve's side, then slipping boldly upward to cup her breast. Her fingers toyed with the nipple, brushing it in zy circles.

  "Your hills," she murmured, her voice thick with flirtation, "are quite the temptation."

  The word hills struck like a whip.

  Nynaeve gasped, her clit pulsing with sudden, helpless arousal. Her thighs squeezed together again, trapping the fire building between them. Her breath hitched, and a low, humiliated whimper escaped her lips. The phrase wasn't innocent—not anymore. Not after the way Moghedien had wrapped her mind in coils of twisted need, ying ndmines of lust in everyday words.

  With a cry of frustration, Nynaeve spped Eyne's hand away, her voice cracking.

  "Stop it, you wool-headed fool!"

  Eyne jerked back, eyes wide, hurt fshing in them. But the blush on her cheeks deepened instead of fading. Her gaze fell to Nynaeve's braid, and something shifted in her expression—soft, breathless, wanting. A flicker of heat passed through her, visible in the quickening of her breath, and the way her thighs parted just slightly under the sheet.

  Her lips parted, her tongue darting to wet them. "Your braid…" she whispered, then stopped herself, shivering.

  Nynaeve saw it—the moment the other girl's body responded, involuntarily, to a trigger buried deep. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But all she could do was clench the sheets in her fists, the rough linen digging into her palms, grounding her in the unbearable present.

  The room hung in thick, charged silence. Their bodies were flushed, nipples stiff, pussies damp with need they couldn't trust. Between them y a gulf of missing time and maniputions they couldn't name. Shame twisted in Nynaeve's belly like a knife, sharp and cold, even as her cunt still ached for touch.

  Eyne didn't speak again. Her eyes had gone distant, troubled. Her thighs shifted subtly beneath the sheet, and Nynaeve saw the tension there—the same awful, secret ache.

  They sat like that—naked, flushed, trembling—caught between memory and dream, their truths buried under the Spider's cruel weave.

  The Pattern turned, indifferent, the Wheel spinning their torment forward.And the sheets beneath them remained damp with shame.

  ---

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