Editor's note: this fictional work contains scenes of completely fictional mind control, rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, consensually non-consensual (CNC), or non-consensual sex or scenarios.

Sins of the Psion

| The Second Puffer and Lace Adventure |

Chapter One: A Chance Encounter at the Rusted Horseshoe

"Of course we'll take the job!" Puffer said enthusiastically. "Sounds like a righteous quest!" The half-elf furrowed her cute little brow and glanced over at Lace. "That is the right use of the word, right? 'Righteous', I mean?"

"Yeah, sure. Why ya lookin' at me?" said the barbarian. She narrowed her eyes at the man kneeling before them. "So they're stealin' your food, raiding your pantries, sneaking off with your daughters' underclothes. That about sum it up?"

"Yes, oh yes!" said the man. His name was Toefinger and he was pitiful looking. A halfling who made even Puffer seem large, he wore ragged clothes and had a bald head sporting a tremendous nose. He sounded truly desperate and looked the part.

She was about to ask him what he could possibly pay them when Lace glanced over at Puffer. Cute, eager Puffer. Lace's heart melted; the girl was always so desperate for a 'righteous' quest. Closing her eyes as she thought of her rapidly emptying coinpurse, Lace sighed. "Then if what you say about the 'quest' is true, we'll take the job."

"Hooray!" said Puffer, her big green eyes practically dancing.

Once the halfling scurried off, Lace sauntered over to the bar, returning a moment later with two heavy wooden mugs of ale and a small wooden bowl of sweet green grapes. She set them down with a thud and sat back, her long legs stretching beneath the rickety table.

"Enjoyin' those grapes?" Lace asked.

"Mmm-hmm!" Puffer mumbled around a mouthful, popping another sweet orb past her pouty lips.

"Well, eat 'em slow, 'cause we ain't gonna be affordin' fresh fruit for a while. We're broke, or near enough."

Puffer's cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel's, but she managed a crestfallen frown all the same. "Aw-weddy?" she managed.

"'Already'? Are ya jokin'?" Lace gave her an incredulous look. "We ain't had a decent paying contract in weeks. Now we're gonna waste days trackin' down some chemise-stealin' pest. That kind of work doesn't buy hot meals. Or fruit!"

Shrinking back slightly from the bite in Lace's voice, Puffer kept her eyes down. She gulped down some of the grapes then washed down the rest with a sip of foamy ale. Finally she said, "But... the necromancer's gold...?"

"All gone!" Lace said, her voice rising before she caught herself.

She winced internally, taking a long drink from her own tankard to force herself to calm down. The last thing she wanted was to snap at Puffer. She still carried a heavy weight in her chest over what had happened in the woods at Hieronymus's nest.

The image still burned behind Lace's eyelids when she tried to sleep: Puffer on her knees, bound up in living vines, completely naked, her mouth wrapped around that bastard's nasty cock. The look in those big green eyes when Lace had finally reached her was a mixture of trauma, hurt, and unspoken, agonizing questions: *Why didn't you protect me? Where were you?*

Lace knew logically that Puffer was a grown woman. She was twenty summers old and had lived her own life before they met. But despite her hardships she had been, and remained, a ball of sunshine. Yet Lace couldn't shake the ugly feeling that because of her, a piece of Puffer's innocence had been ripped away. That maybe some of that sunshine had dimmed. That if only Lace been more careful, Puffer wouldn't have been violated.

That guilt was why she had been indulging the half-elf so much lately, buying whatever she wanted and taking whatever local charity cases Puffer pitied. But now reality was catching up to them. They were down to their last few coppers, and Lace needed to make her understand without sounding angry.

"Look," Lace said, softening her tone. "I don't regret spendin' the gold, Puff. We've done good work these last few weeks. But we need payin' work now. Sometimes ya do what ya gotta do so you can do what ya wanna do."

Puffer nodded slowly, the hurt leaving her expression. "I understand," she said softly. "We'll still help Toefinger though, right?"

Lace opened her mouth to speak, but she didn't get the chance.

A young, skinny barmaid carrying a heavy wooden tray loaded with full, foam-topped pitchers of dark ale was weaving her way through the crowded common room. She was several feet away from their table, walking along a wide, empty gap between benches, when suddenly the girl's body jerked.

It was a strange, jagged movement, as if an invisible rope had yanked her forearms forward. Lace didn't see this, though. She looked up just in time to see the girl gasp, her fingers violently open, and the heavy tray slip from her hands. A massive, overflowing pitcher of sticky dark ale plummeted directly into Lace's lap and chest before the barbarian could react.

*THWACK.*

The sloshing liquid hit Lace like a bucket of iced well water. The heavy clay mug clattered against her chest before shattering on the floorboards, soaking her entire front from the dip of her tunic down to the crotch of her leather trousers.

Silence fell over their corner of the tavern.

Lace sat frozen for a fraction of a second, ice-cold ale dripping off the tip of her chin. Then, a primal, dangerous rumble echoed from deep within her broad chest.

In a flash of terrifying speed, Lace's huge hand shot out and locked around the barmaid's apron collar. With a single grunt of effort, the muscular barbarian hauled the slender girl off her feet, slamming her up against the edge of the wooden table so hard the mugs rattled.

"*Again?!*" Lace roared, her bright blue eyes blazing with violent fury. She towered over the terrified girl, her broad shoulders tense, her heavy bosom heaving against her dripping tunic. "What in all the hells is wrong with the people in this shithole town?!"

The barmaid let out a pathetic, terrified squeak, her hands clawing futilely at Lace's iron grip. "I... I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, mistress! I didn't mean to!"

"You didn't *mean* to?" Lace snarled, her face inches from the girl's. "That's seven times! Seven fucking times in six days! First a blacksmith drops an armload of horseshoes on my boots, then a porter spills a barrel full of manure on them! Day after some fool dumps a bowl of hot mutton soup down my spine and yesterday some bastard trips me in the middle of the marketplace, with me falling into mud! And now *this*?!"

Lace shook the girl roughly, putting the fear of the gods into her. "Who's payin' ya?! Who told ya to dump ale on me? Speak, or by the gods I'll break yer neck!"

"Nobody! I swear on my mother's grave, nobody!" the girl wept, hysterical tears streaming down her flush cheeks. "I didn't go to do it! My... my hands just twitched! It was like my fingers weren't mine for a second! They just opened up!"

Puffer, snapping out of her initial shock, jumped up from the bench. "Lace, stop! Let her go, she's terrified!"

Lace held the weeping girl for a beat longer, her breath coming in ragged, angry hitches. Her instincts were screaming at her that something was horribly wrong, but looking into the barmaid's wide, terrified eyes, she could tell the girl was telling the truth.

With a disgusted grunt, Lace shoved the girl back. The barmaid scrambled away on all fours, sobbing as she fled toward the kitchen.

As the girl scurried away, Lace realized she was starting to see red. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down: the last thing she needed was to fly into a rage inside this small tavern. But the degradations she'd endured since arriving in Yorin a week earlier were becoming intolerable. Five "accidents" so far. If she became the victim of just one more she was going to lose it.

***

"Gods above, Lace," Puffer breathed, rushing over to her side. "Are you alright?"

"No, I ain't alright!" Lace spat, running a hand through her wet blonde hair and cursing under her breath. "I'm bloody well soaked!"

As Lace stood up, Puffer's breath caught in her throat.

The thin, beige linen of Lace's tunic had turned completely translucent from the dark ale, clinging plastered tight against her skin like a second layer of skin. The heavy, glorious swell of Lace's massive breasts was laid completely bare to the eye, the pale linen rendered so see-through that the dark aureoles and hard, erect tips of her nipples poked sharply against the wet fabric. Down lower, the dark ale had pooled into the crease of her waist and saturated the waistband of her leather trousers, outlining the thick, muscular expanse of her thighs and the heavy, seductive curves of her hips.

Puffer felt a sudden, fierce heat bloom in the pit of her stomach. Her cheeks burned bright crimson as her eyes remained glued to Lace's soaked chest. A sudden, heavy throb coiled deep between her own thighs. *Gods, she's so big... so beautiful...*

"Don't just stand there, Puff, give me a rag or somethin'!" Lace growled, completely oblivious to how mouth-watering she looked as she tried to wring out the hem of her tunic.

Puffer quickly pulled a dry napkin from the table, her small hands trembling as she stepped close to Lace. "I... here, let me help," Puffer murmured softly.

Driven by a sudden, possessive urge, Puffer pressed the napkin against Lace's sternum, dabbing at the valley between those colossal breasts. She could feel the radiating warmth of Lace's skin burning right through the wet linen, the heavy thrum of the barbarian's heart beneath her fingers. Puffer's thumb accidentally brushed against the hardened peak of Lace's left nipple through the transparent cloth, making the larger woman gasp softly and stiffen.

"Easy, Puff," Lace muttered, her voice dropping an octave, a faint flush touching her cheekbones as she glanced down at the half-elf.

Before Puffer could say anything, a smooth, familiar voice rang out from the front of the tavern common room.

"Well, well, well. I thought I recognized that glorious, blood-curdling roar."

Puffer froze as Lace snapped her head toward the entrance.

Walking into the tavern, dusting the road dirt off his embroidered velvet doublet, was a small, slight man with greying dark hair, sharp features, and a thin, rat-like face. He carried no weapons, dressed like a man of refined tastes, and carried himself with an effortless, subtle grace.

Lace's eyes went wide with sheer disbelief. "Gerard Fistooths?!" she exclaimed, bumping the table as she stood up straight, completely forgetting her soaked shirt. "I thought you were dead, ya ol' bastard!"

A winning, charming smile broke across his face. "Lace!" he laughed, stepping forward.

Lace marched across the floorboards and engulfed the smaller man in a massive bear hug, lifting him two feet off the floor. Puffer frowned at the severity of the embrace: it'd been weeks since Lace had hugged her like that. Since before the necromancer.

"By the gods, look at you!" Lace boomed, setting the man back down on his feet. "You've done well for yourself."

Gerard immediately went down on one knee, bowing his head with a dramatic flourish. "By the gods, it's good to see you, Princess!"

At first Puffer assumed it was a joke. But then the man averted his eyes and remained bowed. Looking at Lace she saw that the woman was stammering for something to say.

"Princess?" Puffer asked, her green eyes bulging.

Lace winced, her cheeks reddening instantly. "Shit," she said.

It was clear from Lace's expression that the man wasn't making a joke.

*Princess*!? Lace of Crushstone Mountains was a princess? Well, of course she was. And Puffer felt like an idiot not realizing it sooner.

It made sense. All of it. The sharp, noble cut of Lace's high cheekbones, those striking blue eyes that could command a room without a word, and that casual, unyielding authority she carried even when she was caked in dirt and blood... or ale. Puffer had always just assumed it was her raw barbarian presence, but now the truth hit her like a cold splash of well water.

A real princess. Puffer's big green eyes darted from Lace down to the man kneeling on the sawdust-covered floor. Gerard Fistooths. The name sounded like something out of a bawdy tavern song, yet he had lowered himself with an effortless grace that made it obvious he was used to bowing before royalty.

A hot, unpleasant prickle bloomed in Puffer's chest, spreading down into the pit of her stomach. It wasn't just the surprise of Lace's secret past; it was the way Lace had reacted to him. The big hug, that rare, genuine smile of hers, the familiarity... it all bothered Puffer for some reason.

"Enough of that. I still ain't no princess, and you'd best put a cork in it, Gerard," Lace warned, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him back up. She was smiling. "Unless ya want me to break yer jaw for old times' sake."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Gerard said smoothly, brushing off his knees with a pleasant smile.

Puffer didn't hesitate. Driven by a sudden, fierce urge to assert her presence, she hurried over and slid along the bench right next to Lace as the big barbarian sat back down. Puffer pressed her petite thigh tightly against Lace's wet leather trousers, absorbing the heat radiating off her partner's body. Feeling bold, Puffer rested her small hand firmly on Lace's broad knee, squeezing it to command her attention.

"So," Puffer said, her green eyes locked onto Lace with a fiery intensity, her pout deepening. "Care to introduce your old friend properly, *Your Highness*?"

Lace gently brushed Puffer's hand off her knee, clearly flustered. "Don't call me that. This is Gerard. We fought together in the war. Or some of us did the fighting while he did the conniving."

"Conniving?" Gerard said, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite them, looking aggrieved. "Sure I took on the responsibility of maintaining and improving regimental morale, and that took a certain amount of... creativity. But 'conniving'? That has such a negative connotation, does it not?"

"If she says you connived, you connived," Puffer said with a scowl.

Gerard flicked his gaze toward her, taking in her fiery red hair, her petite frame, and the defensive line of her pouty lips. She didn't like the way his eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts beneath her pale yellow dress.

He nodded slightly in her direction. "Ah, my deepest pardons, little lady. I meant no offense to the Princess's charming companion."

"I'm her partner," Puffer declared stoutly, her chest puffing out despite herself. "Puffer. Full partner."

"A pleasure, Lady Puffer," Gerard smiled warmly. He turned his eyes back to Lace, his gaze lingering with deliberate, calculated appreciation on the damp, see-through linen clinging to her large breasts. "You look as magnificent as ever, Lace. Though... you seem to have had a bit of a mishap with your drink."

Lace grunted, crossing her thick arms over her wet chest, which only served to push her heavy breasts together, accentuating her massive cleavage. "Don't ask. Some clumsy bitch couldn't keep her hands on her tray. Seems like Yorin is full of clumsy idiots."

"Is that so?" Gerard said softly. He reached across the small table, sliding his slender fingers over the wooden top until his palm rested gently over Lace's bare hand.

Puffer felt a sharp, ugly stab of pure jealousy hit her right in the stomach. She stared in disbelief, waiting for Lace to smack the man's hand away. But she didn't. Lace just sat there, looking somewhat confused and strangely subdued, her blue eyes locked onto Gerard's shifty ones.

"Well," Gerard said, his voice silky, holding Lace's hand with intimate ease. "It's a dangerous world. But it warms my heart to see you again. Do you remember the old days? The games we would play?

"Do you remember 'Toss Gerard'?"

Lace seemed confused for a moment. Then her brow furrowed, apparently deep in thought. Finally she winced and looked genuinely embarrassed. "Oh gods... Gerard, I'm... I'm sorry for that."

"What's 'Toss Gerard'?" Puffer demanded, her voice tight.

Gerard didn't break eye contact with Lace as he spoke to Puffer. "It was just a little game your royal friend here liked to indulge in whenever she was in her cups. Quite simple: she'd pick me up, take a running start, then toss me as far as she could. Then the other soldiers would take their turns, until they all got tired and declared Lace the winner."

Puffer's mouth fell open in surprise. She couldn't imagine Lace doing that to anybody, not for sport anyway. Unless they deserved it, of course. Maybe this man had deserved it?

"I did usually win," Lace muttered softly, a faint, uncomfortable smirk touching her lips before fading.

"Yes, you did," Gerard said smoothly, his eyes flashing with a cold, microscopic glint of pure malice that went entirely unnoticed by the barbarian. "You were always so broad, so strong, so very proud of the humiliations you put me through. Remember 'Hand Blades'?"

Gerard held up his free hand, showing a nasty, thick scar across the back of it. He went on to explain how Lace and the infantry boys used to pin his palm to a table and drop daggers between his fingers as a sort of game. He listed several other 'games' in a clinical and casual manner, detailing how the noble princess and her brutal war-friends had treated him like the runt of the litter, a pathetic punching bag for their entertainment. The more he spoke the more Lace seemed to shrink into herself, her face reddened from embarrassment, Puffer thought.

"It was wartime," Lace said, sounding miserable and defensive. "You always said your job was to..."

"...keep up morale, of course it was!" Gerard chuckled. He locked his eyes on hers again. "And as the smallest and weakest in the regiment I was the natural target for your 'games', wasn't I?"

As he spoke, Lace's brow furrowed again. She looked both lost in thought and in pain, staring down at their joined hands. "Gerard... I'm sorry. We were young... and back then I was so angry all of the time."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Gerard interrupted smoothly, squeezing her hand. His smile returned, warm and completely charming on the surface. "All water under the bridge. I only bring it up specifically so I can absolve you of any blame. It was wartime, you were young, and a small guy like me wasn't very useful on the battlefield. That I could rally morale with these games is actually a point of pride." He smiled.

Puffer didn't think he looked very proud.

He went on, "Actually, I was just thinking how wonderful it is that fate brought us together again today."

Lace blinked, her expression slightly dazed, as if her mind was trying to fight through a light layer of fog. "Yeah... fate..."

The shifty looking man finally broke eye contact with the warrior and turned his beady eyes on Puffer. He said, "And what, may I ask, did you do during the war? You look too young to have done anything useful, but given your elfish blood you might be even older than me."

Puffer felt her shoulders slump. She was young, only 20 years, but she didn't like thinking of herself like that. Lace was some ten years older and had seen a lot more, of course. She'd travelled far and wide while Puffer had spent the vast majority of her life in the grand city of Kerioth. But Puffer was Lace's full partner, wasn't she?

Then again, when she really thought about it, Puffer didn't really know much about Lace's past. She knew she'd been in the war, had become somewhat famous during it. But Lace never talked about it, never shared anything about why she'd joined up, and had certainly never mentioned anything about having royal blood.

How well did she know Lace anyway?

Puffer sat beside her, her stomach churning. Only 20, not well travelled, no war stories. She looked down at her wardrobe, her cheap yellow dress, then at Gerard's wealthy velvet clothes, and finally at Lace holding a man's hand without a fight. A horrible feeling of inadequacy washed over her. *She really is royalty,* Puffer thought bitterly. *Royalty! And she never told me. Probably because she belongs with people like him. Not a shabby, useless half-elf who gets her into trouble. Not a dumb half-breed like me.*

As Gerard and Lace talked, Puffer felt her eyes welling with tears. *I am not worthy of her. She doesn't even love me. She doesn't even care about me!*

Across the table, Gerard smiled warmly at both of them, taking a slow sip from a clean goblet he had ordered.

***

Underneath the polished wood of the table, hidden from view, Gerard's left hand rested lightly on his knee. His fingers twitched in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

Deep within the dark, hidden recesses of his mind, Gerard felt the subtle, invisible threads of psionic energy humming like pluckings on a lute string.

It was intoxicating.

He looked at Lace's wet tunic, taking in the faint, dark outlines of her nipples beneath the damp fabric. He remembered how her booming voice had echoed through the Rusted Horseshoe when she had grabbed that barmaid by the throat.

*Seven times this week,* he thought with a surge of dark, silent ecstasy.

It had been so easy. A gentle mental push to the blacksmith's wrists to make him drop the horseshoes. A tiny, unseen twitch forced into the tavern boy's elbow to send the hot soup splashing down her spine. The sudden urge, delivered to a ratcatcher, to relace his boots in the middle of the busy thoroughfare, causing Lace to trip over him and fall face first into the mud. And now just minutes ago, reaching across the room with his mind to seize control of that pathetic barmaid's fingers, forcing her to dump a full pitcher of cold ale right into the proud barbarian's lap.

Lace had been the golden princess of the regiment. The tall, magnificent, untouchable warrior who had rejected him. And the "games" they'd played for the benefit of the regiment? Sometimes she hadn't held back. Sometimes she had honestly hurt him and almost seemed proud about it.

And he had loved her anyway. For some gods damned reason the worse she treated him the more he'd wanted her. He had lusted after her broad shoulders, her massive curves, her arrogant, noble face until his teeth ached. But nothing had ever come of it, of course, because she was Lace and he was... well. They had all called him Gerard Shortprick.

Not anymore, though. Now, he had wealth. Now, he had the Power.

And he was going to use it. From the moment he chanced upon her in the marketplace a week earlier he'd been plotting his revenge. Yorin was his town, his domain... and she had stumbled right into it.

Gerard squeezed Lace's hand again, feeling the soft, trembling pulse beneath her skin. It was a thrill, holding her hand like this. It'd been a risk even trying but well worth it. He'd learned that tactile touch made his manipulations easier. He could feel her mind, usually a fortress of stubborn barbarian willpower, softened under the subtle, persistent pressure of his psionic influence.

The "accidents" he'd been putting her through was only the beginning.

He stared into her bright blue eyes, watching the faint, uncomprehending daze in her gaze, and made a silent promise to himself. He wasn't just going to kill her. He was going to strip away her pride, piece by piece. He was going to humiliate her, break her reputation, and have his way with her.

First though, he was going to drive a wedge between Lace and her cute little half-elf pet.

As they talked about old times, Gerard subtly began sending messages into the petite beauty's brain. He found her thoughts like a sunny day with looming clouds on the horizon. Perfect. He began implanting feelings on insecurity there, self doubt, shame. He slipped some thoughts into her mind so subtly, so expertly, that Puffer would think they were her own: *I'm not worthy of her. She doesn't care about me. I'm not worthy of her...*

Back in the day Lace had never had real friends. Gerard had always observed how introverted she was, how closed off she became unless she was drinking. Despite her popularity she was quite the loner during the war. He took great satisfaction at the idea of destroying the only friendship she'd ever had, and so he kept his focus split between both Lace and Puffer.

To the Princess: "Gerard is gorgeous. Gerard has my heart. Gerard deserves me."

To the half-elf: "I am not worthy of her. She doesn't love me. I am shabby and useless."

He would start, then, by ruining the only friendship she'd ever had. Then, after Lace was completely broken, begging and groveling on her knees with nowhere else to turn, he was finally going to take that gorgeous, barbaric body for himself. He would keep her as a pet to be played with, tormented, and fucked until, someday, he grew bored of her.

"So, Lace," Gerard said aloud, his voice dripping with gentle warmth as he stroked the back of her hand. "Tell me... what brings a princess and her lovely partner to a place like the Rusted Horseshoe?"

END OF CHAPTER ONE