Chapter 4 - Blaze

Story by Alecta's Shadow (2025).

Foreword: more chapters of No Smoke Without Fire are already available on my website for my patrons! By subscribing here, you get early access to new chapters and Patreon-only stories, you get to make direct requests, and more.

Thanks for your support! I rely on writing to pay the bills, so your backing is the best way to ensure I can keep creating stories.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

IV - Blaze

Sarah

Fiona grunts as she lowers herself down on the yoga mat, hips flexed, her feet tucked under her buttocks.

Wisps of her jet-black hair tumble down from an unkempt ponytail. Her eyes are closed as she focuses on steadying her breathing, inhaling and exhaling through her nose, in perfect sync with the movements of her arms.

Today, her body is providing much less resistance. I don’t need to push against her back to keep her balanced. I don’t need to forcibly guide her arm with mine. Her hands are interlaced with each other much more cooperatively.

I can’t wait to see them interlaced around cock.

It takes physical strain on my body to resist the temptation. I want to place my hand behind her neck and push her forehead down to the mat, at Master’s feet… but not yet. This frog needs to boil a tad longer before she’s ready.

The payload’s effectiveness is amplified in moments like this, when she’s not consciously on guard against it. It’s a foot in the door, a chance for me to bypass her defences and delve deeper into her mind. I’m like a programmer, coding lines of subjugating payload into her mind. I could confront her payload head-on, but I prefer a more subtle approach.

I guide Fiona into the next pose, cat-cow. She arches her back, thrusting her chest forward, ass in the air. I take the opportunity to run my hands along the curves of her body, lingering on her tits. Glorious, worthy of the sex cow she’s meant to be.

No woman with such fantastically sexy boobs can be smart. All the points that should have gone to her IQ have gone to her endowment instead.

She shivers under my touch but doesn't pull away.

"Breathe into it," I tell her. "Feel the stretch." My fingers skim over her hardening nipples and she lets out a shaky exhale. I smile to myself. She's so responsive. Her will is softening. And this is just from a woman touching her, and a man sitting back to enjoy the show. When he touches her… she’ll fold like a house of cards.

We move into downward dog, Fiona's rear pointed invitingly at Master. I step behind her, aligning my hips with hers, pressing my pelvis against her upturned ass. She stiffens for a moment before relaxing into the contact with a soft whimper. I grip her hips, pulling her back against me in a crude mimicry of taking her from behind.

Fiona's breathing grows ragged, her thighs quivering with the strain of holding the pose - or perhaps with barely contained arousal. I chance a glance at Master and have to bite back a moan at the sight of the prominent bulge tenting his pants. Knowing I'm putting on such an enticing show for him makes my clit throb with need.

Unable to resist, I slide my hand between Fiona's legs, cupping her sex through the obscenely thin — and wet — fabric of her yoga pants. She gasps and looks back at me, eyes flying open in shock, but I just smile serenely and press my fingers harder in response.

"Shh, it's alright. It will help clear your mind."

I’m barely keeping up the pretense that this is payload resistance training, at this point. But I don’t really need to. I cannot read Fiona’s thoughts, but I know the payload, as does every woman that’s been sharing a brain with it since the glorious day of the event. I can practically see the rationalizations playing across Fiona’s face.

She’s thinking that it’s okay. It’s not my fault that she’s aroused. I'm the woman who resisted the payload, after all, so strong-willed, so in control of myself.

By contrast, she's just a weak, horny mess who can't stop thinking about Master's cock even with my help. Poor thing, so ruled by her base urges.

Maybe it’s time to show her that’s not actually the truth… and drive home the point that she’ll submit anyway. Because, as a woman, she is part of our shared destiny.

With a quick tug, I yank Fiona's sweat-dampened top over her head, baring her heaving breasts to the cool air of the room. Her nipples are already hard. I lick my lips hungrily, drinking in the sight of her delectable tits.

"Sarah, what are you…" Fiona says weakly, but her words dissolve into a breathy moan as I cup her breasts, squeezing the pliant flesh. I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Hush now, dear. Trust the process."

I trail my hands down her quivering abdomen, reveling in the way her muscles flutter and tense beneath my fingertips. When I reach the waistband of her yoga pants, I hook my fingers under the fabric and slowly, teasingly drag them down her legs, baring her inch by inch.

Through it all, I’m acutely aware of Master’s eyes on us — on her — and I’m sure she is, too. The payload makes sure of that. He’s our center of gravity, resplendent like the sun, impossible to ignore. Even when it’s high overhead, when you don’t dare look up at it, you know the sun is there.

By the time she’s finally naked, I can see Fiona’s body succumbing. I can feel her strength and resilience being eroded by my treason, and by the little demon inside her mind, whispering in a voice that must sound so much like her own.

It’s making me so fucking horny.

I reposition her to kneel before J.C., and I lower myself to my own knees, my body pressing close to hers as my hands snake around her body.

One gently clutches her throat while the other sneaks down between her thighs…

"That’s one wet cunt you have," I say into her ear. "Aren’t you embarrassed to validate racial stereotypes like that?"

She tries to squirm out of my grip, but only half-heartedly. It’s purely performative. "W-what stereotypes?"

"You’re yet another submissive Asian slut."

Fiona whimpers, equal parts mortified and aroused, and her hips buck forward slightly, closer to my teasing fingers. Good. She's so ready to give in, to accept her place. All she needs is a firm guiding hand.

"P-please…" Fiona says, hips twitching forward again as she seeks more friction. But I pull my hand away, tutting.

"Ah ah, naughty girl. This pussy belongs to Master now. Only he gets to touch. And me, with his permission, of course."

Her body goes so rigid at the suggestion that Master already owns her sex, and her eyes practically lock on to him… which is a mistake, because now she couldn’t look away from him if her life depended on it.

I press even closer against her body, and resume edging her.

I grin wickedly as I watch Fiona squirm, her hips thrusting desperately into empty air, seeking the friction I've cruelly denied her. Her eyes are glazed with a feverish need, pupils blown wide with lust. She's trembling, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her flushed skin.

"Please, Sarah…" she says, her voice breaking. "I need… I can't…"

"No, that’s right, you can’t. You can’t resist the payload, even with my help. You’re not strong enough. You’re a pathetic, spineless woman, you know that, right, cunt-for-brains?"

The shudder of pure erotic humiliation that courses through Fiona’s body makes me bite my lower lip. Fuck, so hot. The payload has been chipping away at her defenses, exploiting every insecurity, every fear. And I'm here to deliver the killing blow to her fragile resistance.

"I mean, you’re on your knees, being masturbated by your mentor, in front of a man who’s not even your husband… can you really argue that you’re not a cunt-for-brains?"

She cries out, back arching as she grinds herself against my palm. I let her ride my hand for a few blissful seconds before withdrawing once more.

Fiona practically wails in despair at that. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s my cue.

"She’s ready for you, Master."

At my words, Master stirs and rises from his chair. He looks so towering from down here, it takes my breath away.

"Fiona," he says deliberately and solemnly, "you can’t cum without permission."

If that wasn’t enough to turn Fiona’s residual brains into mush, the next bit will. With deliberate motions, he undoes his belt, unzips his fly. His cock springs free, thick and hard.

Fiona stares at it, transfixed, her lips parting as if in awe. She knows this is her purpose on this earth.

Master grips his cock, giving it a few slow, teasing strokes. Fiona's eyes follow the movement, unable to look away, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake.

Then, he kneels down, joining us on the floor, and without further preamble, buries himself inside Fiona’s slick cunt. The whore cries out, her back arching, pressing her ass more firmly against my pelvis. I unceremoniously rub myself against her lower back. Fuck, just seeing Master claim a new thrall for his growing harem is enough to make me cum — if I had his permission to.

Fiona is in a similar position, evidently. She was so close to climaxing on my fingers, I’m sure this extra stimulation would have pushed her over the edge under any other circumstance. But now the payload won’t let her cum.

Like an invisible glass wall blocking a starving man from food.

"I acknowledge myself owned!" Fiona says at last, more shouting than talking, as the jaws of the payload snap shut around her brain. Maybe she hopes this will finally allow her to cum, but Master clearly plans to enjoy himself a bit longer, and she won’t be able to finish without his explicit permission.

"Please, please let me cum!" she begs, her voice raw with need. "I'll do anything!"

Master just smirks, his pace steady and relentless. "No," he says simply, and Fiona whimpers in despair.

I watch in delight as she unravels, her body writhing and bucking beneath Master's thrusts. Her tits bounce every time he impales her, the flesh jiggling obscenely. Sweat glistens on her flushed skin, plastering strands of jet-black hair to her face.

"I'll leave my husband!" Fiona cries out, growing more **** by the second. "You can collar me, keep me as your ****. I'll serve you forever, just please let me cum!"

Master arches his eyebrow. "You’ve already acknowledged yourself owned, bitch. You aren't offering anything to me I can't take anytime I want."

"Master," I say, pressing myself against Fiona's sweat-slick back. "Her daughter’s recently been fired from her office job… I’m sure she’s a young, hot, pretty little thing. Fiona was telling me how she was valedictorian in high school, a good little Catholic girl…"

I barely have the words out of my mouth before Fiona is babbling her agreement, so **** in her arousal that she'd offer up anything, even her own daughter.

"Yes! Yes, my daughter! You can have her too!" Fiona cries, her voice cracking with raw desperation. "I'll bring Heather to you, I'll make her submit! We'll be your perfect fuck-toys, a matching set of holes for you to use however you want! Just please, please let me cum, Master!"

Master leans down, his chest pressed against Fiona's sweat-slicked back, his lips nibbling at her earlobe.

"You’ve got yourself a deal."

And with that, he slams into Fiona one final time, burying himself to the hilt in her convulsing cunt. Fiona screams, back arching violently as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave, consuming her utterly. Her body spasms and writhes, impaled on Master's thick cock, lost to the overwhelming pleasure.

I watch in awe as she comes completely undone, her eyes rolling back, tongue lolling out obscenely. She babbles incoherently, thanking Master over and over, pledging her eternal devotion, promising him everything and anything if only he'll let her cum like this again.

One down, one to go…

***

Heather

Not gonna lie, these breathing exercises look, huh, kinda sus.

I try to steady my breathing, to focus on the in and out of air like Sarah is instructing, but it's hard with a man sitting right there, watching us. Especially with how Mom is dressed - or rather, barely dressed.

Why would she not wear yoga pants for this? Why go with such revealing shorts and a sports bra that leaves so little to the imagination?

I've never seen her wear anything so revealing, especially not since the… the…

No. Better not to think about that. The mere presence of a man in this room is making my nervous system tremble like a leaf. If I let my thoughts linger, I…

"Breathe in through your nose," Sarah says, "out through your mouth."

I guess it’s easier to focus on that. I shut my eyes, hard, to limit the amount of sensory input my brain has to deal with, to pretend that we’re not three women kneeling and posing artistically under a man’s gaze, and I just focus on my body.

J.C., I think he introduced himself as. Sarah’s husband. Why why why would he be here?

But I know. Mom told me it’s super important. His presence is supposed to help fortify the mind against the payload, and at the end of the day, I either trust the process or I don’t. I need this. Mom needs this.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to visualize my breath moving through my body like Sarah described - in through my nose, down into my lungs, then back up and out in a steady stream.

Unbidden, the image of J.C.’s large hands gripping the armrests flashes behind my closed eyelids. I hate the photographic detail my mind registered that imagery in, when I saw it. I remember instinctually thinking that I wanted those hands gripping my throat.

Squeezing. Groping. Claiming…

A shiver runs through me and I shake my head sharply, dispelling the intrusive thoughts. Beside me, Mom shifts on her yoga mat, her breathing growing louder, more labored. Is she struggling with this as much as I am?

Sarah's honeyed voice breaks through again. "Now, I want you to picture a flame inside you. It represents your inner strength, your core sense of self. See it burning bright and steady, undimmed by outside influence."

I try to conjure up this mental flame, to stoke it with memories of who I was before the payload - studious, ambitious, a good Catholic girl with a promising future ahead of her, a girl with positivity, a girl who entered the office each morning with a smile and a kindness for everyone around her.

But the flame gutters and wavers.

You're not that woman anymore. You were never meant to be. You’re a lesser being. You’re the ground men tread on. Your smiles should be for men, and so should your —

I dig my nails into my palms, forcing the intrusive thoughts deeper down my mind with all the strength that I can muster.

My focus wavers as odd sounds reach my ears from behind - wet, rhythmic slapping noises mixed with muffled feminine moans. It almost sounds like…

No. Nonono.

But the sounds grow louder, more insistent, impossible to ignore. Curiosity and dread twist in my gut. I'm about to glance back, to confirm or deny my worst suspicions, when J.C.'s deep, commanding voice stops me cold.

"Heather. Open your eyes and look forward. Focus on me."

My eyes snap open instinctively, locking onto J.C.'s imposing form. He's leaning forward in his armchair, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. His intense gaze bores into me, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a corkboard.

I try to maintain eye contact, to cling to some semblance of dignity, but my treacherous gaze keeps drifting downward, drawn to the considerable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips. Gosh. I try to rally my resolve, but… but…

His cock is right there, and my mouth is right here…

J.C. crooks a finger then, a simple 'come hither' gesture. For a wild, hopeful, shameful second, I think he's summoning me. Ordering me to crawl to him, to service him, to finally give in to the depraved urges consuming me.

But he's not even looking at me. His eyes are fixed on a point over my shoulder.

I watch in stunned disbelief as Mom crawls past me, unsteadily padding over to J.C. like a dog going to her master. She’s not wearing her bra anymore. Her tits sway heavily beneath her.

I can only gape as she reaches J.C., nuzzling against his crotch with a moan of pure need. He tangles his fingers in her hair, gripping tight, and brings his other hand to the waistband of his pants.

With a swift tug, J.C. frees his cock from the confines of his pants. It springs forth, thick and hard, the swollen head already glistening with precum.

Mom lets out a **** whine at the sight, her tongue darting out to lap at the pearly bead of fluid. She takes him into her mouth without hesitation, her lips stretching obscenely around his girth as she tries to take as much of him as she can.

J.C. groans, his grip on her hair tightening. He guides her head, setting a relentless pace as he fucks her face. Mom gags and sputters around his cock, drool seeping from the corners of her stretched lips and dribbling down her chin. But she doesn't pull away. If anything, she seems to be trying to take him even deeper.

But I thought… but she said we were here for payload resistance… that Sarah and J.C. were feminists, that this system helped…

After what feels like an eternity, J.C. pulls her off his cock with a wet pop. Strands of saliva connect Mom's swollen lips to his shaft, breaking and falling onto her heaving chest.

"Master, did I please you?" Mom asks breathlessly, gazing up at him with glassy, worshipful eyes. "Can I taste your cum down my slutty throat?"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Master? Slutty throat? This can't be happening. This has to be a nightmare.

"Mom… what?" I manage to stammer out, my voice sounding weak and frightened to my own ears.

But Mom doesn't even spare me a glance. She's too busy nuzzling J.C.'s cock, rubbing her face against it like a cat seeking attention. He indulges her for a moment before gripping her hair and forcing her to look up at him.

"Not yet," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I have other plans for this load."

He looks over at me then, his eyes dark and hungry. I feel pinned beneath that gaze. So authoritarian, so predatory. So masculine.

Sarah wraps herself around me from behind, her tongue making me shiver as it teases my earlobe.

"Your mother is nothing more than a dumb Asian subby whore. After all her resistance, she crumbled like yet another weak-willed cunt. She’s sold you, Heather. You know what you were worth? What your price commanded? One. Single. Orgasm. That’s all."

"No," I whimper.

"Yes," Sarah says. "She’s a whore. Now, my question is… are you?"

I stare at my mother in shock, my mind reeling as her words sink in. "Mom! Stop! Tell me that's not true!"

But Mom just looks at me with glazed, unfocused eyes, J.C.'s thick cock stretching her cheek from inside her mouth. He smirks down at her, then glances over at me.

"****, take my cock out of your mouth and answer your daughter. Tell her how you feel about it."

Mom pulls back reluctantly, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft before breaking. She turns to face me, and I barely recognize the woman looking back at me. Her face is flushed, her hair a wild tangle, her chest heaving. She looks debauched, broken.

"I'm sorry, baby," she says. "He wouldn't let me cum. You don't know what it's like, at least not yet. I was so close. And Mistress told him about you, and I knew. I just knew he'd let me cum if I brought you to him."

Mistress?

As she’s talking, her fingers lazily play with her cunt. It takes me a few moments to realise she’s saying this in a matter-of-fact, almost detached way. Like she’s plainly pointing out a fact of life, as her fingers rub her clit. Fuck, she’s so wet…

“You sold me out? You sold me out, just to cum?” I ask in disbelief.

"I did! And it felt so amazing to offer him everything. And now, we'll belong to him forever, together. I've already thought of so many outfits for us to wear together while we please him."

This is not my mother. Not anymore.

She's been reduced to a mindless slut, shamelessly pleasuring herself at the feet of this man who calls himself her master. And she's offering me up to him like a piece of meat, all for the fleeting high of an orgasm.

I was so dumb not to see it. What I mistook for serenity was just the payload’s jaws snapping shut around her.

In this moment, I falter. I teeter on the edge of the cliff. If she couldn’t do it, how could I? If she betrayed me, who can I ever trust? If she’s given in, why shouldn’t I?

I want to scream, to cry, to lash out. I try to struggle against Sarah's grip on me, but my efforts feel feeble and half-hearted. Even as part of my mind screams that this is wrong, that I need to get away, another part whispers seductively, urging me to give in. To submit.

The payload's intrusive thoughts intensify, bombarding my mind with visions of kneeling at J.C.'s feet, offering my cunt to him like a bitch in heat… alongside my mother.

I weakly try to pull away from Sarah, but her arms only tighten around me, trapping me against her body. Her hands roam my curves possessively, squeezing and caressing.

Even if I did break free, where would I go? Towards the door and away from this nightmare? Or would I crawl to him like Mom did, **** to taste his cock, to feel his hands in my hair as he uses me?

God forgive me, I don't know anymore. I don't know what I want. What I need.

Despite the revulsion churning in my gut, I can't help but notice how soft and warm Sarah feels. How her honeyed voice seems to bypass my higher thought processes and slither straight into my hindbrain, where the payload is lurking already.

"It’s important to have a maternal role model in life," Sarah says. "Let your mother show you the way."

I shake my head weakly, trying to cling to my rapidly crumbling sense of self. "N-no, that's not Mom anymore. I'm more than a pet. I have value beyond being some man's-"

My words cut off in a strangled gasp as my mother crawls towards me, sauntering and swaying. She reaches out, her fingers skimming along my calf, up over my knee. I jerk in Sarah's grip but can't escape the maddening touch.

Her fingers joining Sarah's in their exploration of my body. I gasp as she cups my breasts, tweaking my nipples through the thin fabric of my top.

Sarah's hand slides down my stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. I buck my hips involuntarily, grinding against her touch.

This is so wrong. She's a woman. And Mom… Mom is…

A moan slips past my lips as Sarah's fingers find my clit, rubbing in tight circles. Pleasure jolts through me, white-hot and undeniable.

I have a moment of startling clarity. I should be revolted by this, by my own mother groping me, by Sarah — a woman I don’t even know — groping me. I’m being betrayed to the mind control virus in my head. I’m being ****.

But instead, I just feel so gosh darn turned on.

Sarah's lips brush my ear.

"You should have known better than to trust a fellow woman. We’re all gender traitors, deep down. We’d do anything for cock."

Mom hums in agreement, leaning in to press sloppy kisses along my neck as her hands continue to knead my breasts.

I shake my head weakly, but even that small gesture of defiance feels like it takes monumental effort. It's getting harder and harder to think, to remember why I'm resisting.

J.C. watches us, a smirk playing at his lips, his cock jutting proudly from his pants. He strokes himself slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows my surrender is inevitable.

I try to tear my gaze away from J.C.'s cock, from the way his hand pumps up and down his thick shaft, but it's like my eyes are magnetized to the sight. Each languid stroke seems to send pulses of heat directly to my core, as if my sex is instinctually trying to synchronize itself with the cock before me.

This is wrong, so wrong. But it’s harder and harder to cling to that thought, when a stranger and my mother are **** me under J.C.’s eyes.

Performing lesbianism like a show, not for its own sake, but for the entertainment of the male gaze…

That thought alone sends my mind reeling, the payload latching onto it with all its might. Of course this is all for him. He’s a man. My resistance is laughable, pathetic. Just a futile attempt to deny my base nature as a woman.

Sarah's fingers slip under my shorts, pushing my panties aside to stroke my sex. I gasp, my hips bucking forward, seeking more of her touch even as revulsion twists in my gut. She circles my clit with knowing precision, each flick of her fingers sending small electric shocks up my spine.

"Mmm, she's dripping, Master. I think our little Catholic girl is enjoying her corruption more than she wants to admit."

A whimper escapes me at her words, shame and arousal bleeding together until I can't distinguish one from the other. Because she's right - my pussy is drenched, clenching hungrily around nothing, **** to be filled. By Sarah's fingers, by my own mother's… by J.C.'s magnificent cock.

God forgive me, I want it. Even as my mind screams in denial, my body betrays me, succumbing to the payload's insidious manipulation.

Mom's lips trail down my neck. "You're going to look so pretty kneeling at Master's feet with me. A matching set of obedient fucktoys, eager to serve."

The image sears itself into my brain - Mom and I naked and collared, gazing up at J.C. with glassy, worshipful eyes as we take turns sucking his cock. Debasing ourselves for his pleasure, for the honor of tasting his cum.

The payload hammers into my head, cracks forming in my firewall, the mental fortifications I've tried so hard to maintain. It floods my mind with visions of the future that awaits me if I keep resisting - a future where I end up collared and broken anyway, just by a different man. A cruel stranger who'll take me away from Mom.

At least this way, with J.C., Mom and I can be together. A matching set, united in our degradation. There's a twisted sort of comfort in that.

As if right on cue, he stands and strides over to me. As he does, he fishes his cock out of his pants, and my mouth waters. I stare at it, licking my lips, wondering what it would be like to have my lips around it…

Looking down at me, he caresses my face, and his hand is just so warm and big and strong. A hand made to grip a woman’s neck and hold her down while he fucks her.

I close my eyes… no, I shouldn’t do this… but I’m so spent, I have no more distance left to run…

Slowly, as if in a dream, I lean forward and open my mouth. Something leathery snaps closed around my neck, and my body shudders in endorphins and happy chemicals, but my mind is too laser-focused on what’s right in front of me to take conscious notice of that.

I open my mouth, and begin to suck.

***

J.C.

The payload is a thing of terrible beauty.

It seems like a thousand years ago that I was contracted to study this thing, all in hope of finding a way to revert its effects.

I’ve stopped pretending to myself that I still intend to do that.

I study it, sure. I’d like to understand it. To modify it, customize it. But not because I want it gone from the world. Not really, not deep in my lizard brain.

I’d like to understand the people behind it, too, though that is a task that exceeds my professional background. In some ways, I have to hope I’ll never find out, because I doubt drawing their attention would be a good idea. But ever since that… experiment with Sarah in public, I’ve been worrying about it at the back of my mind.

I shake my head. I’ve been doing too much thinking with my dick. Now I have four collared women and not a clue what I’m supposed to do with such a harem. I could call it mission creep, but it was just horniness. That’s bad enough…

But the worst part is that I’ve let the sex distract me from security. Which is why I’m spending my ostensible working time, now, looking for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary in my network and in the neighborhood.

And I don’t like what I’m seeing.

There are devices on my network that I don't recognize, that shouldn't be there. My first instinct is to dismiss it as a glitch or a false positive, but this isn’t the moment to take chances. I can't afford to ignore this.

It doesn't take long for me to figure out that the devices in question are a bunch of webcams, strategically placed throughout my vicinity.

Cold dread slithers down my spine as the implications sink in. Someone's been watching us.

Watching me.

TO BE CONTINUED