She is...

She rubs her throat and stares defiantly back at you. Your strange, disarming courtesy, odd in the context of this wild, arid room, does not seem to confuse her. She speaks proudly, declaring, "I am Kerritan, Wild-walker. The Wind-walker is Marait, the Water-walker is Litessa, and the World-walker is Ura."

"Well, then, Kerritan, Wild-Walker. What a pleasant gift, to have you at my poor residence." Her eyes tighten slightly but she holds her ground. You snap your fingers and her sword appears in your hand. She recoils, seemingly more repulsed by its defection than by the threat it represents in your grasp. Gesturing with the sword, you point to the rock behind her. Fighting your compulsion, she curses as she slowly backs up to stand against the rock, facing you. Without her eyes ever leaving yours, her hands reach down and clasp her ankles in cuffs that are driven into the rock for precisely that purpose. Just as surely, she clasps one of her hands in a cuff at shoulder height, then places the other in a corresponding shackle on the opposite side and waits for you to lock it. You casually reach forward with the tip of her sword and caress her cheek, then flip the last latch, releasing her compulsion as you do. She instantly leaps forward, snarling at you, but restrained by the shackles to the rock. Still she continues to fight to reach you as if **** of the impossibly immovable weight holding her back, or the sword in your hand that would cut her down should she get free.

"Kerritan. Kerritan," you continue. "You are the Wild-Walker, fierce and free. I like that. You have always been one to go anywhere, do anything, challenge the impossible and overcome. You think I am one such challenge, don't you? I am not; you will not overcome. I am the harness that tames your wildness, the reins that shall guide your animal energy where I like. And you, who have never been controlled, never been broken, you will be broken, because you will be controlled. You will not merely be beaten, not merely held or bound or burned or drowned. You will be owned, body and soul, and you will come to understand that you truly want to be thus. The fire is a danger, unless it is tamed; the tiger is a hunter, until it has been hunted away, to be seen only in palace menageries and in paintings. You will be the jewel of my menagerie. No proud eagle, playful otter, or solid bear, you- you are the lion, and you will roar only at my will." She roars then, as if to punctuate your statement, a fierce, incoherent, animal sound. You twist your empty hand and she is silenced, until you twist it again, controlling her lips, forming words: "Yes, my master." She looks shocked at her own voice's betrayal, furthered when her body ceases its struggling and stands calmly against the rock. 

You drive the sword into the sandy ground and walk across to a dry, shattered stump. Reaching inside, you draw out a short, heavy, many-tailed whip. Her eyes widen momentarily, but then retreat behind their familiar mask of derisive confidence. They lose the mask when you casually walk up to her and tear off her vine-woven bra, all the clothing she wears above her navel. Her prodigious but not disproportionate bust hangs free, heavy, round breasts that glow in the morning light from the sun in the open eastern wall. Drawing it back, you strike across her breasts with all your ****.

A cry bursts from her lips, and again her expression turns to shock. She had tried to restrain that cry, but your power controls her now, not her own. Another sting from the whip and another cry, this one louder and more prolonged. You continue, lashing all over her breasts, stomach, shoulders, face, and legs. Her cries are increasingly frantic as she starts to lend her own weight to them from the frustration of being unable to control the least aspect of her own body. Your arm sweeps forward again and stops, and she cringes slightly in anticipation, gasping when she realizes what an uncharacteristic action it is. You release her compulsions momentarily and she lunges forward at you again, even more furious and uncontrolled than before. You take hold of her movements again, reaching forward and unlocking the shackle that holds her hand in place. She smiles sultrily, though her frantic, angry eyes betray her true feelings, and unlocks her other hand, then her feet. Her ankles and wrists are raw from straining at the cuffs, but she shows no discomfort as she sensually draws her hands up her glorious frame, showcasing her hips, abs, breasts, neck, and fiery red hair. She runs them back down her curves and slides off her sheer vine shorts, exposing her smooth, tan ass and shaved mound. Tantalizingly, it's just as tan as every other inch of her luscious body. You toss the whip aside and walk towards her.