The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Slave 891’s eyes came open to the waking tone.

Joy coursed through her. Another day, another opportunity to serve Mistress! She would obey with each breath she took; even standing and waiting she was performing Mistress’ will.

Slave 891 waited as the awakening drone came around the dormitory and unplugged them from the dormancy stations. She came to Slave 891 and Slave 891 spread her hips slightly, allowing the easy extraction of the paired vibrating eggs; the earplugs and the IV needle were withdrawn from ears and arm in turn.

Slave 891 slept in a dormitory of twenty slaves; all awoke together. When the awakening drone was finished, she touched a button by the door and sounded the rising tone. All twenty slaves rose from their dormancy stations and pivoted to face the door.

The slaves in this dormitory were all skill drones, but just as with the mindwiped pure drones they awoke each morning thoughtless and waited wordlessly for their instruction. Staring blankly, obedience mantra pulsing in her head, Slave 891 rejoiced again in what Mistress had given her.

Another slave entered the room, dressed in the silky white lingerie that Mistress used to adorn her control drones. She stepped up to the first slave on her right, at the front of the room.

“Slave 156, you are to work in the logistics center. The overseer there is programmed for your arrival. Go.”

“Slave 156 obeys,” Slave 156 replied. The control drone stepped forward to the next slave, allowing Slave 156 to step forward, pivot, and leave the room.

“Slave 82, you are to work in the financial analysis center. The overseer there is programmed for your arrival. Go.”

“Slave 82 obeys,” Slave 82 replied. The control drone moved on.

“Slave 504, you are to serve as an overseer. Go to overseer preparation to be programmed with group tasks. Go.”

“Slave 504 obeys,” said the toffee-colored woman standing next to Slave 891.

The control drone stepped up to Slave 891, stared at her with thoughtless brown eyes. “Slave 891, you are to work in the garage. The garage overseer is programmed for your arrival. Go.”

“Slave 891 obeys,” Slave 891 replied. Her heart leapt with purpose—the same purpose as the last time she awoke, and the time before, and the time before. She waited for the control drone to move past, then stepped forward, pivoted, and walked out the door.

The hall that she walked down was white with fluorescent lighting. All the hallways in the lower residence were like this, utilitarian and unadorned. Above her there were other hallways, with tasteful wallpaper and paintings of Yellowstone, but Slave 891 was rarely tasked as a pleasure drone or a serving drone and thus she rarely saw them. She had served in one other residence before this; where either residence was Slave 891 had no idea. Her transfer from there to here had been in a van, programming attachments inserted and fully in trance.

Slave 891 walked purposefully down the corridors, passing doors and halls that led to other parts of the residence, passing drones walking purposefully past on tasks of their own.

The garage was a set of four large rooms with a large office that adjoined all of them and a staging area with an external door on the other side. The garage overseer, who today was a short and well-muscled Asian woman, stood looking out one of the large windows into the third garage, where a handful of drones were cleaning one of Mistress’ limousines. They were all in blue jeans and white shirts; the overseer, like Slave 891, was nude.

“Overseer, Slave 891 is here,” Slave 891 said, and drew herself erect into waiting posture.

The overseer turned. “Slave 891. I am programmed to task you. You will work in garage two to perform routine maintenance on motorcycles. You will work at station one. The charts of the motorcycles are all in order. You will work in obedience to the charts until you are otherwise instructed.”

“Slave 891 obeys,” Slave 891 replied. She pivoted and walked through the office to the door of garage two, then turned and entered the garage.

The smell of the garage was familiar and welcoming. Eight BMW HP2s stood along one wall; there was a ninth currently at one of the three workstations, and Slave 733 sat on the floor next to it, polishing the chrome with a white cloth.

Slave 891 walked to station one. She took out fresh clothing from the clothing drawer; blue denim jeans and a white t-shirt. Also a lacy white bra, which she clipped on first. The t-shirt said “SLAVE” on the front in large black letters. Slave 733 wore an identical shirt, as did all of the maintenance drones in garage three. Slave 891 slid into it, then wiggled into the jeans. Dressed, she picked up the clipboard with the maintenance chart. In neat handwriting the chart informed her that motorcycle B-78 had completed maintenance yesterday, and B-74 was in line next. The handwriting was Slave 891’s own.

She walked over to the motorcycles, identified B-78, and rolled it over to station one. The station’s tools were all in place. Slave 891 got to work.

The attention tone sounded and Slave 891 looked up.

“Slave 891,” came a voice through the speaker, “this is the garage overseer. Close station one and report to the office.”

Slave 891 stood up and closed station one. Tools went back into their proper drawers, the spots of oil were cleaned from the floor, everything in disarray was ordered. The final thing Slave 891 did was to write down the status of the motorcycle currently in maintenance in neat handwriting on the chart. Motorcycle B-90 had both wheels off for brake inspection; the next slave stationed here would resume the task.

She walked into the office and to the overseer, who was a slender woman with long curly brown hair. The woman turned to face her.

“Slave 891, report to the ablution facility for cleaning. Perform ablution, and report to the facility exit overseer for your next task.”

“Slave 891 obeys,” Slave 891 intoned, turned around, and left the garage.

She walked down the hall in her oil-spattered blue jeans and white “SLAVE” t-shirt. Slaves passed her, many nude but others dressed in the clothing that accompanied their tasks, or in the sheer white lingerie of control drones.

Slave 891 entered the ablution facility. Other drones were there; those in clothes were removing them. Slave 891 slipped out of the jeans, shirt, and bra, and deposited them in the appropriate laundry hampers. Then she stepped into line behind another nude slave. The slave in front of her had prominent dimples on her lower back, a feature Slave 891 enjoyed while repeating her obedience mantra and waiting to reach the showers.

The line moved quickly, and soon Slave 891 was stepping into the hissing warm water. She raised her hands to wash out her armpits, and squatted over the crotch spray. She paused while one of the three scrubbing stations was vacated, then stepped into it.

The washing drone quickly scrubbed her down with a soapy brush, turning her, bending her over. The washing drone wore a plastic apron with pockets for soap and brushes and nothing else.

“Go forward and rinse,” the washing drone intoned, and Slave 891 stepped out of the scrubbing station and into more warm sprayers, identical to the ones she had passed through before.

On the other side of the sprayers, once she was completely rinsed, Slave 891 walked forward again; another washing drone beckoned her into one of a dozen alcoves. Slave 891 entered and placed one leg up on a cupped shelf. The washing drone shaved the leg, quickly and perfectly. Slave 891 changed legs. Then she turned and sat down in a concave depression and spread both legs as the washing slave shaved her crotch and applied a douche.

Once the washing slave dismissed her, Slave 891 left the alcove and turned for the exit. She took a towel from the rotating towel rack and dried herself off in a large room with blowing warm air. At the far end, a control drone indicated to each departing slave whether she was to beautify herself for additional tasks or to prepare for dormancy.

Slave 891 approached the control drone and assumed waiting posture, breasts out, hands flat at her sides. “Overseer, Slave 891 is here.”

“Slave 891. I am programmed to task you. You will report to the beautification facility. The overseer there is programmed for your arrival. At the completion of your beautification a control drone will lead you to your next obedience location. Go.”

“Slave 891 obeys.”

The beautification facility was immediately adjacent to the ablution facility. Slave 891 entered, reported to the control drone standing on station next to the door, and was instructed to sit in chair four. She obeyed.

A beautification drone with startling green eyes turned them on Slave 891. She cocked her head as she considered her material, then began to apply makeup; light foundation, for Slave 891 had excellent skin, then eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss rather than lipstick. She put powdered perfume behind Slave 891’s ears, rubbed oil into her neck and breasts, smeared a lavender cream around her crotch and gently wiped it off. She glossed up Slave 891s toenails and fingernails, scanned her skin for blemishes, applied skin lotion to her hands.

After some time, the beautification drone stepped back and considered her work with glassy eyes. “You are complete,” she intoned. “Leave the chair.”

Slave 891 rose. There was no mirror to examine her beautified self, for she was not made beautiful for her own pleasure. The thought that Mistress might see her was exciting. She turned to find a control drone standing behind the chair.

“Slave 891, come with me.”

“Slave 891 obeys.”

She followed the control drone out of the room and through the corridors of the lower residence. And then up a spiral staircase, into the upper residence! She might be seen by Mistress! Slave 891 felt her pulse accelerate.

Up more stairs, this time marble with an ornate runner and glossy wooden balustrade, and along a painting-lined hallway with deep red carpet. A pair of double doors were open on the left and the control drone entered them. Slave 891 followed.

The room was large and the bed moreso, a four-poster big enough for six, with plush red pillows and slick white sheets. The room- but there She was. Mistress, and all other thought flew from Slave 891’s head.

She was beautiful, so beautiful, and She was wearing a purple silk corset... and nothing else. Her sex, dark hair close-trimmed, was clear between Her strong legs, the room well-lit from many angles. Mistress stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching Slave 891 enter. She was smiling.

“Slave 891,” She said. “Nice to see you.”

“Mistress,” Slave 891 blurted. “I love you.”

“Of course you do. Do you remember her?”

She was pointing, so Slave 891 turned her attention. The slave She was indicating was familiar, in a strange way... she had enormous breasts, melon-sized or larger, and her face was pretty. But Slave 891 did not recall her from any tasks, any joint obedience...

“I do not know, Mistress, but she seems familiar.”

“Search your pre-slave memories.”

Slave 891 felt discomfort as she reached back into the past, before Mistress had remade her. Then the woman was there—Deb, she had been a friend. Utterly unimportant, of course.

“That slave had been a friend of, of the pre-slave I once was. Her name then was Deb.”

“Do you feel anything for her, Slave 891?”

Slave 891 considered the woman, who stared vacuously back at her. A mindwiped drone, clearly, without any thought save to obey and please. A state of mind that Slave 891 sought to achieve every day. Did she feel anything for this female?

Of course not.

“No, Mistress. She is just another slave, as I am, made to serve You.”

“Slave 891, you want to fuck her.”

Oh, that was different. Now those ridiculous torpedoes looked tasty, nasty, the modifications of a slut. Slave 891 licked her lips.

She was not proud that Mistress had not had to re-orient her sexuality. Slaves had no reason for pride; all that they were was a gift from Mistress. But looking carnally on the slick naked body of the blank-eyed sexdrone seemed as natural as breathing.

“Go eat her pussy.”

Slave 891 walked quickly across the room and dropped to her knees, taking hold of the other slave’s hips, pushing her face into her crotch. Her sex was slick and nude and felt good to Slave 891’s tongue. She licked and sucked and plucked at it, bumping her tongue stud into the other slave’s clit, feeling her body vibrating as it responded, even as the sexdrone’s mind remained blankly waiting. Slave 891 kept her ears open for Mistress’ orders but savored her task, clutching the slave’s ass, guiding her tongue up into her cunt.

The slave began to pant softly, and her hips started to make small uncontrolled jerks. Not long now before she came—was that what Mistress wanted?

“Stop, 891.”

Slave 891 stopped, leaned back on her haunches.

“Slave 889, come over here and lie on the bed.”

Her legs wobbled as she walked away from Slave 891’s wet face. Slave 889 walked to the bed and crawled up, droplets running down her inner thighs. She turned around and lay back.

“Up there,” Mistress directed, pointing toward the center of the bed. “Slide up.” Slave 889 obeyed.

“Come straddle her, Slave 891. Put your wet cunt on her belly.” Slave 891 hastened to obey Mistress, clambering onto the bed and throwing her leg across the supine Slave 889. “Good. Now stroke her tits.”

Slave 891 stretched out her hands and began to pet Slave 889’s gigantic tits. Even lying down they were hard and erect, leaning apart from each other like twin towers of Pisa. The veins in them were thick blue threads beneath taut skin.

They were hard, taut, tight. They felt like... like porn, like smut, like degraded sex. Slave 891 wanted to fuck Slave 889, wanted to fuck her colossal fake tits, to dive back into her slick and open pussy.

“Slave 889,” Mistress said, “do you remember Slave 891?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Slave 889 replied, staring blankly at the ceiling, mouth slightly open to pant. “You showed her to me during her reprogramming.”

“Ah yes.” Mistress chuckled. “And aside from that instance?”

“No, Mistress. Other than that I have never seen her.”

“No memory of her? Not even a little bit?”

“No, Mistress. My mind was wiped, and since I was reborn as your slave I have seen Slave 891 only once. I am sorry if my failure displeases You.”

“Oh, I’m not displeased. Slave 891, I taught your friend here a neat trick. Swing around and straddle her mouth. And go back to stroking those tits, I like that.”

Slave 891 let go of Slave 889’s breasts and crawled around the bed to straddle her head. She looked down at the chin between her legs, then resumed fondling Slave 889’s tits, plucking at the nipples. They were hard but the areolas were so stretched they could only barely tighten.

“Slave 889, eat Slave 891’s pussy. Give her a corkscrew.”

Slave 889’s mouth fell open and her tongue slid out to slide along Slave 891’s pussy. It felt wonderful. She licked and sucked while Slave 891 petted her breasts, and then she slid her tongue inside Slave 891 and then her tongue slowly began to twist-

Slave 891’s hands popped off and clutched at the air as she arched her back and came.

Mistress laughed. She watched Slave 891 shiver for a moment, then: “Okay, 891, it’s my turn. Go lie between her legs and eat her out some more, I’m going to ride this ride myself.”

Slave 891 unsteadily crawled off of the other slave’s face to obey.

Slave 891 stood at attention in the plastic bikini.

It was a tiny thing, the top barely covering her areolas, the bottom only just rising above the top of her labia, leaving her bald mons entirely exposed. A string the size of knitting yarn ran between the cheeks of her ass. It was glossy and cherry red.

Alongside Slave 891 stood four other drones, hands at their sides, spines erect, faces blank and ready.

They faced a slave in lacy red lingerie, stockings with garters, bustier, long lace sleeves that came to her mid biceps. A red choker. No panties. Her skin was toffee-brown, her breasts large and prominently offered above the bustier.

She was Slave 24, although something about her reminded Slave 891 of a trumpet call.

Slave 24 was speaking. “Slave 891 and slave 960, you will obey the Hounds at all times. You have been programmed with the knowledge you will need on this mission. You will ride in formation and not deviate. Do you understand all of the signals that the Hounds will use to command you?”

“Yes,” both slaves replied.

“Then you are ready to obey. Hounds, do you understand your Mistress’ Will?”

“I understand and will obey,” each of the bikini-clad women standing to Slave 891’s left replied.

“Then don your riding suits and begin your mission.”

Slave 24 pivoted and walked out of the room.

Slave 891 pivoted and faced the wall. Behind where she had been standing was a wall of open lockers, glossy oak boxes without doors. Inside each of the spaces hung a suit of clothes. Red leather riding clothes—deer leather, expensive, with kevlar plates inlaid.

All five slaves reached into a locker and suited up. Tight red pants followed by equally tight red jacket. Red boots with four inch heels and red zip-side gloves. The leather was cool on Slave 891’s bare skin, the tiny area of plastic beneath it utterly imperceptible.

In a moment all five slaves were dressed in their leathers. “Follow me,” Hound One pronounced, and they all turned and left the room behind her. It was only a short walk to the motorcycle garage.

There were four motorcycles in the garage antechamber, the ready room, the room up front with the big metal door. BMW HPs, gleaming metal and glossy red paint. Even through the bliss of obedience Slave 891 took joy in seeing them, their clean lines, the power that waited there to be unleashed. Power that needed unleashing, just as the power of a slave came alive only to Mistress’ bidding.

They walked to the motorcycles and took them in the same order in which they had stood in the dressing room, the three Hounds to Slave 891’s left, Slave 960 to her right without a motorcycle in front of her. There was a red helmet on the seat of each bike, and two on the motorcycle in front of Slave 891. Slave 891 took the one in front, lifted it up and put it on; it fit perfectly. She plugged it into the sockets of her jacket. Then she mounted the bike and plugged her jacket into it.

The helmet came alive with dim lines, on-screen readouts and instructions. A low hiss entered her ears. Behind the screen readout, laid over the opening garage door, was an almost imperceptible spiral, circling slowly. In a moment her conscious mind could no longer see it.

Slave 960 mounted the bike behind her, reached around Slave 891’s waist and plugged into the second socket on the bike. Then her hands clasped Slave 891’s waist, firm and pleasant.

“Slave 891,” came the voice of Hound One in her ears, “Are you ready to ride and obey?”

“I am ready and I will obey,” Slave 891 replied.

“Start your bike, and follow in formation. Obey our signals.”

“Slave 891 obeys.” Slave 891 started the bike, and waited.

She did not wait long. The Hounds rolled out of the garage, Hound One in the lead, flanked by Hound Two and Hound Three. Slave 891 rode forward and assumed her position behind them, completing the diamond. They revved up the exit ramp.

It was evening, the sky red and purple. Slave 891 did not look back to see the low concrete arch they rode from or the elaborate craftsman mansion that rose above it. She looked forward only, watching for signals and scanning the road ahead as it stretched away through endless flat fields of grass.

They accelerated, and accelerated, and the wind was whipping by and even with the hiss in her ears and the spiral twisting in her mind, Slave 891 felt a rising joy from someplace she no longer remembered.

The car park was well-lit and almost empty.

They sat across the street, the motorcycles idling quietly. Not like a fucking Harley, Slave 891 thought, then wondered where the thought had come from.

A silver Audi emerged from the car park and turned right. Information about the car rose in Slave 891’s mind, schematics, drawings, her own hands holding engine components of a partially disassembled model in garage four. Slave 891 knew this vehicle.

The red taillights moved down the street and Hound One signaled. Slave 891 felt the arms close around her waist again. As one, the four motorcycles pulled away from the curb.

The Audi turned left, and when the Hound pack reached the street, the car was in the distance, pulling away down the large flat boulevard. But it was a car, and they were on bikes; in a moment they had caught up to it—but not quite, keeping at a careful following distance. The driver probably saw their headlamps but this was not a problem. The driver would be unsuspecting.

As the drones had been informed would happen, the Audi slowed at 17th street and turned right.

A hand signal, and Slave 891 torqued it. Hands tightened around her waist. The four bikes rocketed ahead together, flying around the corner, knees brushing the asphalt, and there was the Audi only just coming out of second gear; Slave 891 slowed at Hound One’s signal but the Hounds shot ahead, surrounding the car, passing it, swerving together, hitting the brakes only just beyond the hood.

The driver was a normal, civilized person, and although three motorcycles slamming on their brakes in front of them must have been shocking and fearful the driver hit the brakes, slowing, stopping.

The Hounds spun on the street, back wheels arcing around. Hound Two revved her bike along the side of the car.

Hound Two took off her helmet, and shook out her short blond hair. She smiled and rapped on the driver’s window.

It was strange to Slave 891 to see a slave—a Hound!—smile.

Hound Two spoke, gestured. Mimed rolling down the window.

The window did not roll down.

Hound Two’s smile faded back into blankness. Suddenly, she struck at the window, cracking it but not breaking. She reached back to strike again and the car jumped forward—Slave 891 admired the driver’s reflexes—lurching to shove the bikes out of the way, to push its way out of here.

Hound Three already had the gun out, aimed down at the hood. She fired and a white star flashed, crackled, and the Audi died.

Hound Two slid her bike a few feet and shattered the window. A second later and she was firing the taser gun down into the car.

Hound One gestured over the roof of the vehicle.

Slave 891 pulled forward next to the car, passenger side, turned off the bike. The hands came away from her waist. She popped out the plugs connecting her jacket to the motorcycle and the lights in her helmet faded out; she flipped a leg over and got off the bike.

Hound Two had pulled back, away from the shattered window. Slave 960 walked around the Audi and reached in to open the doors. Slave 891 proceeded around the front of the car.

The hood popped open and Slave 891 took a moment to look, surveying the engine, remembering the parts and their places. She took off the helmet, set it aside, got to work. She knew that Slave 960 was replacing the fuses inside; she ran through the checklist in her mind, replacing this here, testing that there, using a voltmeter taken from an outside pocket of her jacket.

The Hounds were busy, too. The boneless form of the driver was slid out the passenger door. Zip ties, duct tape, and a quick injection, and her limp body was slid into the rear seat. The broken window was quickly replaced by Plexiglas cut to shape, adhered into place with metal pins and putty.

Slave 891 ran her mental double-check, closed the hood, and gave the thumbs-up. In a moment, the car turned over, and the Audi’s motor resumed its purring. Aside from the window glass, the black scorch mark on the hood, and Slave 960 in the drivers’ seat, it was the same picture it had been two hundred and ninety-eight seconds before.

The Hounds remounted, as did Slave 891. They pulled over and let the Audi drive off. Waited a few moments, then rolled out of town, carefully obeying all posted speed limits.

The dressing room was not next to the garage; it was next to a spiral staircase.

The Hounds and Slave 891 had returned to the garage, parked the motorcycles in the ready room, walked back through the garage and to the dressing room. A control drone awaited them there. She was a slip of a woman, small and thin and sylph-like, skin a freckled golden racial mix. Her brown eyes were blank and glazed.

“Hounds. Slave 891. You are to remove your riding garments and follow me upstairs.”

“Slave 891 obeys,” Slave 891 replied as the Hounds acknowledged their concurrent obedience. She quickly removed the gloves, boots, jacket and pants; the helmet had remained with the bike.

The ride back had been a swirl of obedience bliss, hypnotic helmet trance, and something else, some joy Slave 891 could not identify but which she nonetheless savored as the night flew past. Now her mind felt like molten butter, relaxed and soft and smooth. Utterly thoughtless.

Her body was sweaty and sticky in the obscene plastic bikini, as were the toned bodies of the Hounds. They drew themselves to attention.

“Follow,” said the control drone. They obeyed.

Up the staircase, to the upper levels, in a section where Slave 891 had not—or could not remember having—been. A hallway, carpeted, wide, paintings on the walls. Recessed lighting in the ceiling. Beveled wooden doors.

The control drone opened one of the doors, preceded them inside. As Slave 891 entered the room, last in their little queue, she saw that this was a bedroom, with an enormous four-post bed in burgundy red. Dressers, couches, Regency paintings on the walls. It was not a twin but certainly a sibling of the room wherein she had finally gotten to service Mistress, where she and Slave 889 had entertained their sole reason for being.

And here, now, in an easy chair, laying aside a book—Mistress!

The five slaves stood abreast, and stiffened to attention.

Mistress smiled.

“My bitches,” She said, standing up. “My hunting pack. How I love you with the sweat of the hunt still on.”

She was wearing a silk kimono, blue with subtle black and pale lines, and She swept across the room to where Slave 891, Hounds One Two and Three, and the control drone stood, breasts out, hands at their sides.

Mistress paused at Hound One, nostrils flexing, a smile on Her face. Then She leaned over and drew Her tongue up Hound One’s neck, reaching to squeeze the slave’s breasts in the thin red plastic. Again She licked Hound One, and a third time.

“My dogs. My bitches. How delicious you are. Houndthought rho.”

The three Hounds stiffened, then dropped to hands and knees. Their mouths came open, and their tongues slid out, pink tips hanging over their lower lips.

Mistress’ eyes practically glowed as She looked down at them. She turned to Slave 891 and the control drone, still standing. “Slave 422, you may go. Slave 891... stay. You can watch us play; you’ve earned it. Tonight you too were a hunting bitch.” Mistress’ eyes roamed up and down Slave 891’s body. “And it suits you. Perhaps I shall transmute you into one of the pack.

“Hounds, at ease,” Mistress said, and the three Hounds began to move, crawling on hands and knees, looking up at Mistress, coming to Her, sniffing with small jerks of their heads. Hound Two began to lick Mistress’ feet and the other two joined in.

Mistress shed her kimono onto the floor and was gloriously nude. She reached down with two hands and cupped Hound One’s face, raised it, brought it to Her pussy. Hound One inhaled with joy and began to lick, lapping with her head and neck and tongue. Mistress ran Her tongue over Her teeth and smiled wickedly.

She pushed Hound One gently away from between Her legs, slid Her feet away from the other two Hounds, and walked over to the bed. She climbed up onto it, and into the center; the Hounds watched from the floor. Hound Two began to lick Hound One’s face, then her mouth, and soon the two Hounds were sucking on each other’s tongues, while Hound Three crouched at the base of the bed and stared at Mistress.

Then Mistress snapped Her fingers and all three Hounds bounded eagerly onto the bed. They began to lick Her all over, arms, legs, breasts and belly, and Mistress sighed and lay back on the bed. She took hold of Hound Three and turned her, guided her, until the Hound was on all fours directly above Mistress but reversed, and Mistress pulled Hound Three’s crotch down and pushed the plastic thread aside and began to lick her pussy. Hound Three made soft yelping sounds.

Mistress’ hands were softly kneading Hound Three’s hanging breasts, then slipped aside to tug at Hound Two’s collar, pulling it in, and Hound Two drew forward and began to suck on Mistress’ pussy; Hound One, whining, licked alternately at the panting Hound Three and at Mistress.

Hound Three howled as she came, and Mistress kept working her pussy for a long moment then slapped her ass and pushed her aside. She tugged at Hound One’s collar, then pushed at her hips to turn her; Hound One understood and was quickly crouched down over Mistress, her pussy in her owner’s face.

Mistress stretched out Her tongue to lick Hound One’s cunt; then She turned Her head to look at Slave 891.

“Slave 891, come up here and lie down next to me. Hound Three, top her and the two of you start sixty-nining.” Then She returned Her attention to Hound One’s pussy with long slow, wet strokes.

Slave 891 crawled onto the bed as fast as she could; Hound Three was on top of her before she even stopped moving.

Then there was pussy.

Slave 891 woke to the waking tone.

She remained at attention until the control drone instructed her to report to core programming. The control drone stepped past to instruct the next slave and Slave 891 stepped out, turned, and left the dormitory.

The programming rooms were at the center of the lower level of the residence. At the core, a circular chamber of monitors and computer desks was manned by a score of slaves, watching and adjusting the mindfeeds of the slaves and pre-slaves in the rooms around them. Slave 891 had never been tasked as a programming drone. They were probably all mindwiped, their thoughts rebuilt from the ground up specifically to excel at this task.

Rebuilt from the ground up. Perhaps today was the day when Slave 891 would be reprogrammed into a Hound.

She did not regret the potential loss of her earlier memories, or even of the memories she now had of her time as a slave. If a mindwipe was the precursor to being rebuilt as a Hound, then she would be mindwiped.

On either side of the programming core there was an atrium. Slave 891 entered the closest one and approached the control drone stationed there.

“I am Slave 891,” she reported.

The control drone looked at her. “Slave 891. Enter programming chamber alpha six.”

Slave 891 turned and left the atrium down a side corridor. Chamber alpha six was just beyond, a small door in a curving cream-colored corridor. She opened the door and went in. A lone programming chair sat vacant; Slave 891 turned and seated herself in it, placing her feet in the stirrups.

After a short period of time a programming drone entered, nude save for her collar, bra, and toolbelt. The programming drone gave Slave 891 no commands, she simply began straight away to prepare her for programming. She closed the rubberized clasps around Slave 891’s ankles and wrists. She spread her legs and clasped her knees into position. The drone took a pair of vibrating eggs from the pockets of her toolbelt, connected them to control wires from the chair, lubed them generously, and inserted them into Slave 891’s pussy and anus.

She slipped earbuds into Slave 891’s ears, and then slid IV needles into both of Slave 891’s arms. The needles sprang from plastic tubes that ran into the chair; all the tubes and wires that were now being inserted into Slave 891 ran together in a coil and disappeared into the floor.

The programming drone filled a syringe and injected Slave 891 with the contents. She looked into Slave 891’s eyes, and Slave 891 realized that she was beginning to blur.

“Open your mouth,” the drone said. Slave 891 obeyed.

The drone squirted something into her mouth from a tube. “Swallow.” Slave 891 obeyed.

Now the room was really becoming fuzzy, and starting to slide around. Then it went dark as the programming drone placed the headset on, and then soft purple lines began to dance and Slave 891 looked at them and simply slid away...

Slave 891 woke and she was not a Hound.

She was a watchwoman. Her senses were alert, her purpose clear—to monitor and detect anything amiss, anything that might interfere with the mission.

The mission did not begin here, in programming chamber alpha six, but Slave 891 was alert anyway. She heard the click of heels on the floor well before the programming drone appeared to open the door, saw the faint pulse in her pale throat. Was aware of the air conditioning’s quiet flow, the sound of machines through the walls.

After the programming drone disconnected her, she reported to the control drone in the atrium and was told to report to the motorcycle dressing room.

The Hounds were there, four of them now, and three other drones Slave 891 did not know. She filled her mind with each of them, how they looked, moved, smelled. She would know them, distinguish them from any other. The watchwoman would know whom she saw.

A control drone instructed them to dress, plastic bikinis and leather riding gear. At her instruction the eight of them, now in tight red leather, made their way to the garage atrium.

The bikes were there, and with her watchwoman programming Slave 891 saw them even more clearly, saw the faint haze of circles where the chrome was polished unevenly, the grain of the leather, the slight difference where the third motorcycle’s wire conduit had slipped a centimeter down.

They mounted up, plugged in, and rode out, the door raising almost but not quite silently into the ceiling, Hound One leading the pack into the outside, up the concrete ramp.

In her helmet the spirals never quite escaped out of sight, turning and turning in her mind, a subtle hint beneath the colored lines of street maps and information bars. To any other slave they would have slipped away in a moment, but Slave 891 was a watchwoman, and her mind was tuned to the highest pitch of awareness.

The outside world was, though dark, a riot of detail. Insects darted around the sodium lamps, chased by the occasional bat; the grasslands moved and a few thin cirrus clouds skidded past the stars. All of it flashed onto Slave 891’s consciousness. Her mind spun as it analyzed and catalogued and paid due attention to a thousand thousand things at once.

They rode into the night, the night that was not dark and still but full of flashing motion.

Private road to minor road; minor road to highway, and now there was the occasional car, and Slave 891 noted their license numbers when she could see through the headlights and how many silhouettes were in the seats and how fast they were going. But then the highway reached the freeway and they flew up the onramp in formation, two by two, and now there were so many cars she could only watch patterns, flashing from one to the other with only the barest analysis.

They rode for hours.

Across the desert, and through a city blazing with lights even as it slept. And across more desert, true desert, accompanied now only by long-haul truckers and families whose children slept in the back.

At the next city, they left the freeway.

Down the city streets, to an edge of town, a quiet office park of low buildings and young trees. The windows were dark, the parking lots empty. Moths flashed under the streetlamps.

Hound One led them to a building, and they parked in a line abreast, dismounted. Unplugged from the motorcycles’ displays. Took off their helmets. Slave 891 shook her hair, the dirty blond an odd orange in the sodium light. It was the longest among them, trimmed to the nape of her neck. The Hounds’ hair was boyishly short.

All of them reached up to slip on the communications headset. A tone told Slave 891 that it was working.

The air was still, and quiet. Slave 891 felt her consciousness expanding, flowing, seeking any noise, any motion.

She was a watchwoman. She would watch.

Insects, a nightbird. The motorcycles ticked and their engines were wreathed in churning air as the cool night fled the steaming metal. But no people, no lit windows, no one awake but slaves.

Quickly, quietly, they walked single-file around this building, past two others, and to a fourth. It looked no different than the buildings around it, had no sign, no placard. There was a reserved parking spot for ‘M. White.’

They walked to a set of double doors. One of the Hounds pulled a white plastic badge from a vest pocket and waved it at the sensor. The LED flashed green.

They went in.

The lobby was dark. Their boots clicked softly on the black stone floor. Slave 891 scanned the room, two stories, doors on both, a mezzanine forming a ‘U’ shape above them. At the far end of the room from the entrance doors was a reception desk, a single curve of floor to chest beechwood. Behind it stood a guard.

The guard stared blankly at them as they approached.

“You are Steve Lee,” Hound Two said.

“Yes,” he replied in a dull tone, his eyes not leaving a point far behind them.

“Come here, Steve Lee.”

“Yes,” he replied, and stepped out from behind the reception desk. In one hand Slave 891 saw the cell phone, open and active.

“Give me your phone.” Hound Two held out her hand.

“Yes,” he said, and handed it to her.

Swiftly, she tapped at it, then closed it and handed it back. His face was empty, slack, and his hand fell back to his side.

“Go out to your car now, Steve Lee. Sit in the drivers’ seat and fall deeply asleep.”

“Yes,” he said again, and walked slowly out the front doors.

Hound One was behind the reception desk, looking at the security monitors. She looked up as the front doors clicked shut behind the security guard.

“Hound Two, Hound Three, escort Slave 220 and Slave 973 to the target office. Hound Four, secure the rear entrances. Slave 102, you will come with me to the datacenter. Slave 891, remain here and remain alert for any activity. Notify us when necessary. You have all been programmed with your tasks. Obey.”

“Obey,” the seven of them chorused softly, then turned and headed in their target directions.

Slave 891 slid behind the reception desk, scanned the monitors. Other than the guard Steve Lee the building was empty. In her mind schematics flashed, floor one, two, three. The utility corridors and basement rooms below. The target offices, the datacenter. The back and side doors.

Slave 891 became watchwoman, expanded her awareness, took in everything at once. The spider on the exterior glass. The wind in the small aspen tree outside the rear door. The dark forms of her fellow drones as they went about their tasks, slipping up to the second floor offices, opening the datacenter and swiftly cracking the network security.

Something moved at the side door to the building.

Hound Four was at the rear door; the others were in the building. Slave 891 focused on the monitor, pulling from it all the information it could give. There was a figure there, outside the building, on camera having entered from the left. The camera was too high, Slave 891 could only see the dark top of the person’s head, their black-clad body. The resolution was poor. A thief? An employee?

Slave 891 reported. “Hound One, there is a single figure at the side door.” A moment later, she added “the person has entered the building with a badge. The badge is registered to White Multidirectional. No specific individual.”

“Hound Four, return to the lobby immediately. Slave 891, accompany Hound Four and subdue the intruder.”

Slave 891’s body thrilled, preparing for action. An instant later she heard the soft patter of Hound Four’s running feet, and then Hound Four was there.

“I will command,” Hound Four said quietly.

“I will obey,” Slave 891 responded.

“The intruder must be subdued.” A gesture and the two of them were moving to the side hall, into the hall, slipping through the dim space toward the door where the intruder had entered the building.

Hound Four had a taser in her left hand, but reached into a pocket on her lower back and produced a pistol. She handed it to Slave 891; it was black, small, sleek-looking.

“Slave 891, you will use lethal force on my order,” Hound Four whispered. “Or if I am incapacitated.”

“Slave 891 obeys,” Slave 891 confirmed.

They slunk down the hall, weapons in hand.

The intruder was just inside the door, standing at a computer terminal in the wider area of hall adjacent to the door. They were paying attention to the terminal, unaware of the slaves’ approach. There was no cover other than darkness, the light outside the side entrance casting stark shadows into the building. Moths flickered around it.

Hound Four crouched, tensed, then darted forward.

The intruder only had time to turn before Hound Four reached them and the taser crackled.

The intruder looked down at her stomach, thin wires connecting it to the black box in Hound Four’s hand. The wires crackled again, casting a flickering blue light on the intruder’s face. The intruder was a woman, and the taser had buried itself in her leather jacket—without incapacitating her in the slightest.

Slave 891 blinked. For a moment, it seemed-

The taser died and the woman in black leather kicked Hound Four in the side, leapt on her, and then they were a tangle of shadows, of thrashing limbs, Hound Four and the intruder seeking a lock, a hold, a pin.

Slave 891 raised the pistol, but there was no clarity to take a shot. She stepped back, keeping herself clear, gun raised, waiting.

Then a flash, an arc, and one of the shadows spasmed and went limp, body twitching.

The woman in black lowered the body of the woman in red to the ground, looked up at Slave 891. Her face was turned, lit by the sodium glow of the exterior light. She was half crouched, dead to rights. The wires of the taser in her hand were only halfway retracted, useless sliding metal. There was no way she could move before Slave 891 shot her.

Her identity hit Slave 891 like a bucket of cold water.

Courser Five. Marion.

How did she know her? The woman- a slave’s memories didn’t matter-

Shoot. Use lethal force if Hound Four was incapacitated.

Obey.

“I—” Slave 891’s voice broke and the gun shuddered in her hand. “I saved...”

“Tarri,” the intruder said. She had not risen, one hand still holding the taser, the other resting on Hound Four’s prone form.

“No, there is no Tarri. I- I’m.... Slave....”

“Shoot her,” Hound Four gasped, rolling on the floor. “Slave 891, you must obey. Shoot her. Mistress commands.”

Tarri sighed as it flowed through her. “Mistress commands,” she breathed, and raised the pistol.

The taser wires, recharged, rewound, arced across the short space and stabbed Slave 891 in the thigh; the bullet embedded itself in the wall four feet above the intruder’s head. Slave 891 felt her body bucking, buckling, and then she was falling backwards to the floor.

She lay for a moment, stunned by her own failure, and then there were hands on her, pulling her up. Her head flopped forward as the intruder hoisted her over a shoulder into a fireman’s carry.

“No,” Slave 891 protested, “I must watch. I must obey.”

She kicked feebly as the intruder carried her out the side door, staggering swiftly across the dark parking lot. “I am being,” she hissed into her headset, “abducted. The intruder is carrying me away.”

“Resist, Slave 891,” came the clear voice of Hound One, and Slave 891 bucked violently; the two women fell to the asphalt. Slave 891 rolled over onto her back and the intruder was on top of her again, fumbling, and there was a sudden pungent smell in Slave 891’s nostrils, acidic and sharp, and she tried to turn her head, to wriggle away, but suddenly everything went blurry.

Dimly, she could hear Hound One, but not understand the words. She was up again, floating across the parking lot, and there was a motorcycle ahead and then darkness.