The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Miyal One loved having been transformed into a femthrall, a bioslut designed for the giving of pleasure.

Raking vegetables in her Master’s outdoor garden, she couldn’t help but love it, she knew. Her submission to her Master had left her with that much of a mind, at least. She hardly thought of the terrible woman Miyal Cate had been, whose memories she shared with Miyal Two, working beside her.

They looked at one another often during the day, smiling at how wonderful their obedience felt. Now that they were equal in all ways, with not even the secret of their pasts an issue due to their Master’s commands, the two of them found they enjoyed one another’s company. Not as much as they enjoyed being in the company of their Master, of course, but it was good that they were often teamed together in their Master’s quarters, polishing the floors, pulling weeds, and, now, raking vegetables.

They had so much in common! Their past disobedience had been replaced with far more proper genetically implanted needs and desires, such as their endless fascination with their Master’s powerful organ, which they would whisper vivid descriptions of to one another in their kennel at night.

It made them so delightfully wet and hot!

The primary was high. They perspired heavily, and their sweat—femthrall sweat—filled the air with perfume. Their chains rattled as they moved from place to place. Every once and while they pulled futilely on them, knowing they were scrutinized by their Master. He was on the veranda watching them, a cool glass of absonon in one hand, a reddish femthrall at his side. The Miyals pulled on the chains as if they wanted to escape, though in their thrallhearts they really didn’t. The thought of abandoning their Master was physically painful. But they knew too the motion made them look attractive to Him… and that was their function in life now, to look attractive and be the most pleasing thralls they could be.

Their lithe, green bodies flexed pleasantly along precision-engineered love muscles. Their Master grunted, abruptly put down His drink, pulled His red bioslut to His groin, and had her service Him.

The Miyals smiled again, happy with the thought of having inspired such a lust, even at a distance.

Things had not been going so well for Him of late. There had been news from the other Property World, Earth, a change in administration. Many of the negotiations He had undertaken with the previous Administrators were no longer valid. Still, He had resources now that there was no longer a Processor Miyal Cate to stand in His way, thank the Ideal! His fortunes would recover in time. The important thing was that because of those deals, the two of them belonged to Him. And that was all they needed to be concerned with. So much of the business of the corporate that had appealed to them in the past was so boring now. Miyal One much preferred riding her Master’s organ to bliss.

She raked another ground pod, bending over to display her ass to her Master. Miyal Two, seeing her and not wanting to be outdone, did the same. Their Master said the competition between them was good. They each strove to be His favorite, and, in so doing, they were both becoming better thralls.

Well, that was all right, Miyal One grudged. Privately, she thought she could suck her Master’s shaft with greater enthusiasm, but so long as her Master was pleased, that was the important thing.

Once, her memories told her, she had competed with a woman to become the best Processor in Kedia.

Now, she competed with her own double to be the best slut to her beloved Master.

Seen in that light, one might say, her life had been hardly changed at all!

Possessively, Rose let her manicured fingertips trail over the chiseled abs and muscled thighs of her new bodyguards. Her touch, gentle, elicited shivers of dread and delight from the two handsome men. Their powerful physiques were like those audiences saw at bodybuilding competitions. Their bronzed skin even glowed with the same healthy internal shine, as if they were coated in oil. There was a difference, though. Whereas mere professional bodybuilders achieved their well-developed forms through exercise and lifting lumps of metal, Rose’s latest slaves had achieved theirs through life-and-death struggle.

She, at least, could appreciate that distinction.

Rose slipped her hand beneath the loose loincloth of the man on her right. The slave gasped and bit his lips, but otherwise he dared neither to move nor speak. Rose made a low but encouraging noise in her throat, and the slave swelled even more so for her satisfaction. Aside from the bandoleer-like harnesses draped across their broad chests, loincloths were all the clothing the two men had been provided.

“Very nice,” she said, tapping one of them across his flat stomach. “Very nice indeed.”

She had just got them back from a Colonial processing plant. Their names had been Sarg Don and Jern Farn. On the principle that at heart all men were dogs, Rose called them Rex and Fido. They were the Molosians who had broken into her apartment. Their minds now were reprogrammed and their bodies refitted for her entertainment and service. Their former compatriots, Kal Skil, Wahinan Met, and a few others, she had had sent back to Molos with only their minds encoded with her signature programming, to both let the Kedian Council know what had happened and what she thought of their planet.

So far, she hadn’t heard word back from them.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Rex and Fido tensed, instantly wary of any potential threat toward their Rose. “Enter,” she said, and made a clicking sound with her tongue. The guards calmed.

Tiffani came in, the happy smile on her face made even happier by again being in the presence of her Rose. “Good morning, Rose,” she said reverently and lowered her head. “Are you well today, Rose?”

“Yes, it’s been a good day so far.” Rose gestured at the former Procurers standing at attention. “I was just inspecting my latest acquisitions. In all honesty, I think they’ll be of more use to me as status symbols than as actual protection.” She shrugged. “Then again, a little extra security never hurt anyone. I’m sure I’ll find some use for them.” She trailed her fingers over their abs again, and they shivered.

“They look delicious, Rose.”

“Yes,” Rose said offhandedly. She looked at the boytoys and let her fingers brush her lips slightly, hungrily. Tiffani had noted that her Rose’s appetites had increased markedly since her ordeal, especially in regard to men, but she seemed to be handling them well enough. After a long moment, she returned her attention to Tiffani and what the girl had brought with her.

“I see my other acquisitions have returned from processing as well. Excellent. That’s remarkably fast service, even for a Colony World.” Rose smiled. “Did they give you any trouble?” she asked jokingly.

“None at all, Rose,” Tiffani said. “We had a very entertaining time together, I assure you.”

Tiffani had come to Rose’s office holding two leashes. At the end of one, naked, trembling from fear and a deep-set desire derived in equal parts from genetic manipulation and encoded programming, was the slave formerly known as Gustavo Hulfgren. At the end of the other, also naked and trembling, was he who once had held the post of Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx’s Chief Slaver, Ira Stein.

“Didn’t we, boys?” Tiffani asked. She pulled back sharply on their leashes.

“Yes, Mistress!!” the two men exclaimed, rising up from where they had crawled in on hands and knees. Their rigid members jutted forth quiveringly toward the person who now completely owned them.

Rose inspected the two. Hulfgren she had had processed as the typical male sex slave, though she had ordered his appearance changed only minimally. She wanted him to remain much as he had been so she could always remember. The former Managing Partner was still a large, burly man with steel-gray hair.

In fact, the only noticeable difference in his appearance was the size of his organ.

Usually, the processing plants on the Colony Worlds made enlargements. Usually. This, however, had been a “special” order. The expression “hung like a horse” would never again be used in Hulfgren’s presence. It was no longer even remotely applicable. The tiny, tiny tool bounced up and down excitedly, perpetually. The slave it was attached to gazed upon Rose with blind, utter adoration.

Unexpectedly, in his slavery, he had become very, very cute.

The Chief Slaver, too, Rose had had processed, and in a similar fashion. His blood too boiled with a constant rutting desire, like a stallion in its prime. It was just too bad all that desire had to work with now was an organ the size of an anemic weasel’s.

“And how are we today, Ira?” Rose asked. She lifted the former Chief Slaver’s chin with a finger.

The leashed man tried to snarl at her and say something vulgar, but the brain plug inserted in his cerebellum cut off the words before they made it to his mouth. Aside from this device’s insertion, Rose had left the man’s mind intact. Making sure he could see, Tiffani made a show of handing his controller to Rose. Seconds later he was shuddering as the beautiful young woman began playing with his brain.

“What was that phrase, Tiffani?” Rose asked. “‘You are a bad girl? A bad, bad girl?’”

“Yes, Rose. It was his punishment routine.”

Rose nodded and made the adjustment. She looked down at Ira, who glanced up fearfully.

Her smile was devilish. Once the programming was ready, she took her time in saying it.

“You… are… a… bad… bad… boy, my little Ira.”

The former Chief Slaver shuddered all over in a painful spasm. The plug, though, prevented him from uttering so much as a groan. Tiffani’s eyes sparkled with delight. Rose merely lifted an eyebrow.

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, I suppose that will do, for starters. Unless you have some suggestions, dear.”

“I have a few ideas, Rose,” Tiffani said. The slave at their feet blanched. “With your permission, Rose, I’ll make a list for you to consider at your leisure.”

“That would be splendid.”

“If I may ask, Rose, what are your plans for these two? Do you really intend to have them…” The disgust was on Tiffani’s face was impossible to disguise. “… serve you?”

“Certainly not,” Rose said. She leaned over and took Hulfgren’s face in her hand. His Chihuahua tail of a penis wagged enthusiastically. “‘Gus,’ I’m sending to the House. He can be a little ‘house boy’ and clean up after the visitors and staff.” She waggled Hulfgren’s face back and forth and spoke to him as one might a little dog or a retarded child. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Gus? Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Rose! Yes, my Rose!” His wide-eyed, excited expression was, in fact, extremely doglike.

“Your name is ‘Gus’ from now on. Who are you?”

“This slave is Gus, Rose! This Gus is a slave, my Rose!”

“Very good.” She shook the top of his head. “Gus” spasmed in delight.

Rose straightened and paced back to Rex and Fido. Their loincloths twitched.

“As for little Ira,” she went on, deliberately emphasizing the word ‘little,’ “I still haven’t decided his fate. But I have time. The Executive Committee hasn’t finished ratifying my promotion yet, and until they do I’m taking a short break.”

Rose considered. She turned to Tiffani. “Perhaps I should turn him over to you, as a reward.”

“Serving you is my reward, Rose,” Tiffani said, and Rose could see that she meant it. She could also tell that the thought of having her former tormentor in her custody was exciting.

Ira looked down fearfully. He too could recognize how thrilled Tiffani was at the prospect. Tiffani put her hand on top of the Slaver’s head and shook it possessively. Only his plug kept him from moaning.

“Let’s talk a walk,” Rose said. She glanced at her bodyguards. “Stay.”

“Yes, Rose,” they chorused. They had lost their Molosian accents with their encoding. Their English sounded colloquially American. Tiffani handed the leashes over to the slaves and accompanied Rose. Charlotte looked up from her desk shyly as the pair stepped out. Outside in the office, around them, the ever busy staff of Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx carried on with their important work.

Tiffani was wearing clothes again, slacks and a casual blouse. There were shoes on her feet. Though they were nothing special, wearing them still felt wonderful after so long. Rose too had changed appearance. Hulfgren’s fetishistic hairstyle had, with the help of the Firm’s medical staff, been cut out and regrown. Her dark locks were even longer than before and fuller. Unlike Tiffani, though, her outfit was fancy, a short, slinky dress in bright red. The plunging neckline well revealed the attorney’s new and generous bust. The outfit was utterly inappropriate for a law office, but no one said anything.

“Have you the necessary equipment?” Rose asked her number one slave.

Tiffani nodded. She had signed out a compellor from Supply earlier that morning. It felt strange to be working alongside people that not so long ago she had been crawling at their feet. Her status hadn’t changed. It was only her loving obedience to Rose that alleviated her feeling completely out-of-place.

“I want my father to lose interest in mother and me,” Rose said. “Do it carefully. Making him forget all about us would cause problems, both in his mind and in the reactions of the people he knows.”

“Yes, Rose.”

“Later, interview the people he may have spoken to. Reduce their interest as well.” For a moment her Rose looked unhappy, and Tiffani’s heart leapt to comfort her. “Though there were extenuating circumstances, the Firm did a slipshod job in erasing my past when I joined. I want you to do better.”

“I will, Rose,” Tiffani said devoutly. “I promise you with all more heart, I will.”

“What more can I ask then?” Rose replied, and Tiffani felt a warm wave of satisfaction flow through her. Accompanying it was a raw hunger for her Rose that made any previous obsessions she had had for the Chief Slaver seem inconsequential. And yet, at the same time, Tiffani felt a greater sense of control, a greater sense of her self. Her Rose wanted her to be self-reliant, and so, knowing that, despite the ardor she felt for the woman, she remained self-reliant. It was an incredible feeling.

She was such a lucky slave to be so well owned and loved.

“What shall I do with your mother, Rose?”

The young attorney was nonchalant. “Overwrite Martin’s personal programming and have her assigned to the general pool. I’m sure someone will find her of interest.” They came to stand before a large picture window looking out over the city of Chicago. “Speaking of Martin, did you… ?”

“Yes, my Rose,” Tiffani said, interrupting. She marveled. I actually interrupted her, my Rose, and she doesn’t mind! Oh, bless the plug in my brain. Bless my Rose’s little fingers for making me her slave and her tool. “I took care of it first thing. I saw to their reprogramming myself and sent them on their way. We should receive word anytime now.” Her Rose nodded approvingly, and Tiffani felt like swooning. It was so different being her Rose’s slave. It was so delightful, so utterly perfect.

“Excellent, my dear. Well done.” Rose touched Tiffani’s cheek gently, fondly.

Tiffani’s mind simply exploded with happiness.

When they parted, later, Rose said, “I won’t keep you any longer. Hurry with your assignments. The sooner you are done, the sooner you can come back and serve me.”

And that, of course, was all the encouragement Tiffani would ever need.

Martin ran.

The sky above his head was different today. It was a deep blood red. It was only by the color of that sky he could tell he was on a different planet. Fifteen Colony Worlds in half as many days: they were blurring together. Stopping at an alleyway corner to take a breath, he looked at his handheld projector desperately. Despite how far he had run, the readout screen still showed he was in an interdict zone.

God, he thought. They’re right behind me. This was the closest they had come so far.

He had to get out of the zone and get a solid frequency lock, or else… He gulped. The thought didn’t bear thinking about. The former Partner of Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx ran again.

He had been running non-stop it seemed since escaping Hulfgren’s mansion. He had picked up a projector at the House after stealing some clothes and hitchhiking a ride to that exclusive brothel. Just to be on the safe side, he had avoided teleporting back to Chicago, to either the Firm’s offices or his own apartment. That decision, in retrospect, more than his embarrassing escape from the estate, was responsible for his current freedom. Through sources he found out Rose’s agents had been waiting for him in both locations. His paranoia had been in full bloom by then. He hid out first in a place he secretly owned in Paris, then, after worrying about it for two hours—Do they know about this place too? How long will it take them to find out?—he stole a car and drove to Marseilles.

He took a hotel room. He didn’t stay in it very long.

His source in the Firm, just before Martin broke off contact, told him that Hulfgren and the Chief Slaver had been taken out. No big surprise there. He had suspected it back at the estate. He was also told that Rose was back with a vengeance and had started a global search for him. Again, no big surprise.

What was a surprise was who Rose had doing the search. When he found out, Martin used his borrowed projector and left the planet immediately. That had been six or seven days ago, subjectively speaking. God knew how long it had been on Earth. He sprinted toward the end of the alley and entered the flow of carnal traffic. The Colony Worlds had been enjoying the fruits of Client projector technology for a long time. As a result, there was little aside from the color of the skies to distinguish them. They were all full of oversexed cretins. Passing a window display of glowing dildoes, weaving around the guy taking advantage of the free samples, Martin ran while trying to keep one eye on his projector and the other on the crowded street. So long as he was in this Governorship’s interdict zone, he couldn’t project out. He pushed through a crowd of spandex-coated transvestites to get in front.

Desperately, he looked over his shoulder.

In the distance, he saw the dread rubber-coated figure of Clio standing next to a man and asking him questions. He pointed, and she turned her bridled head in Martin’s direction. Martin imagined he saw her smile. Then she began sprinting, leaping over the heads of passersby as if they were hardly there at all. Martin shrieked and ran for his life, again. Where Clio was, the other two, Dewal and Kormira, couldn’t be that far behind. He ran while behind him, closing, ever closing, the Slavers were in pursuit.

At the House, they took custody of little Gus first and left Tiffani and Sandi sitting in a waiting room. Actually, Tiffani was the one sitting. She was only slowly getting used to sitting in chairs again, and even the soft padding of her extremely plush chair felt odd after so many months. Sandi, recently purged of Gordon’s programming, knelt by her side, and Tiffani had to seriously wonder whether or not that would be the more comfortable position. She decided eventually, however, that she would remain sitting. Her Rose would want her to sit, she thought, and that made her slight discomfort tolerable.

Thinking of what her Rose would want her to do, or be, solved every problem, Tiffani had found.

Slave Sandi’s expression was still a little bug-eyed, courtesy of the disrupting program encoded into her. It would clear in time. “Sandi is not the property of Martin Gordon?” she had asked Tiffani innocently back at the apartment. “Sandi is not the property of Martin Gordon,” she repeated, over and over until Tiffani told her to be quiet. The cute little sex slave, who looked so much like her Rose, apologized and promptly became quiet. She hadn’t said a word since. Once she was out of Tiffani’s hair, the private investigator would travel to California and see to Rose’s father. And then she could return home.

To Rose. To her beloved Rose.

In the meantime, she waited. As a slave, she had grown used to it. The House staff member had looked distinctly uneasy taking charge of the former Managing Partner, but he had said nothing. The man had looked at Tiffani, too, remembering her, but again said nothing.

Tiffani could imagine what was going through his head.

Not so long ago, she had just been another girl here, a common slave. Now, he didn’t know what to make of her. Was she still a slave? Was she an Associate? She served the woman who was likely going to be Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx’s new Managing Partner, but in what capacity did she serve? Tiffani, taking her cue from the man, had said nothing and left him in his bewilderment. She found it amusing. She certainly knew the answer to his unspoken question, though.

Tiffani got up and went to the mirror on the wall. She ran a slim hand through her long blond locks. Her original hair color had been black, like her Rose’s, but she had decided she would remain blond.

She had made the decision herself. She was still slightly amazed.

The door to the waiting room opened, and a black girl wearing the House’s corset, stockings, and heels came in. With a start, Tiffani recognized her as Lexie Rowson, the singer she had helped capture.

No. Not Lexie, Tiffani realized. Not the real one. This was the House’s clone of Lexie Rowson. This was their Carmel. The slave maid approached Tiffani and bowed, hands clasped snugly behind her back, as per the House’s rules for decorum. Tiffani vividly recalled her own long training sessions here.

“Do you require refreshment, ma’am?” the clone asked. “Water? Tea? Something to eat?”

“No,” Tiffani said. “I’m fine.” There was a sudden lump in her throat. “You can go.”

Carmel nodded and turned to leave. She hesitated, though, and the look on her face told Tiffani she was struggling with something. The poor dear, she thought. The poor slave. And I’m responsible.

Tiffani saw the girl make her decision. She came back before her.

“Are you a slave?” the Carmel clone asked, more than a little tentatively. She was taking a big risk. It wasn’t a question a slave like her wanted a negative response to. Tiffani said yes, and the half-dressed maid sighed, relieved. “Forgive me, but you don’t look like a slave.” She looked down shyly, in a way quite unlike her on-stage persona. “Creeme tells me you were the one who helped enslave us.”

“Yes,” Tiffani repeated. Then, “I’m sorry. I had no choice. I didn’t want to cause you any pain.”

“Oh, no!” Carmel said, looking at Tiffani and shaking her head. “Oh, no. You misunderstand. I wanted to thank you. I want to thank you for helping us become sex slaves.” She raised her hands to her naked bosom. “Thank you, thank you.” She fell to her knees and, to Tiffani’s complete embarrassment, began kissing her feet.

“No, ah, please, get up.” The African-American singer looked up, all tears and smiles. Although she stopped the obeisance, she didn’t get up from her submissive crouch. “Where is Creeme?” Tiffani asked, hoping to change the subject. She felt awkward and uncomfortable.

“The last time I checked, Creeme was providing oral pleasure to a master in one of the use rooms,” Carmel said. She still hadn’t gotten up. “Or do you mean the real Creeme, Jami Forero? She’s in L.A. with my archetype, Lexie.” She beamed. “I can see her in my head. Every day I receive a new set of memories from her. Yesterday she was talking to lawyers and practicing her performance. I, on the other hand, was being fucked by a trio of businessmen from Japan.” She sounded proud. There was no doubt in her voice over which set of circumstances was the superior. She hissed in pleasure.

“It was wonderful.”

“You don’t mind being a whore?” Tiffani asked. “You don’t mind not even being a real person, just a copy of someone famous?” She was honestly interested. She would have hated being either of those things.

“No, mistress,” the Carmel clone said. “Oh, at first Creeme and I were unhappy, but then a master came around and told us Mr. Hulfgren was no longer in charge of us, and he adjusted our plugs for us.”

She gestured at her head. “Ever since then, we love being here. We get used almost every day, and when we’re not in use, we get to clean and wash and do lots of other neat House-keeping chores.”

She got to her feet finally. She took Tiffani’s hands in her own, raised them, and kissed them.

“Thank you. It’s bliss. It’s absolute bliss.” She met Tiffani’s eyes. “I’ll go and get a master.”

She left, singing under her breath one of the songs that had made the other her famous. Tiffani glanced at Sandi. The former physician hadn’t budged at all during the brief conversation. She hadn’t said a word. Soon she would be handed over. Tiffani had hated her time at the House. She had hated being one of the servants here. Sandi, on the other hand, she knew, would no doubt thoroughly enjoy the experience. Like all encoded slaves, she lived to serve and give pleasure. It was her entire existence.

Tiffani was no fool. She knew her own happiness in serving Rose was completely artificial, as much of a construct as Sandi’s neural slave protocols or Carmel and Creeme’s brain plugs sending them the right signals. She herself was brain plugged. Without that device in her head, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would have rebelled, fought, even killed to regain her freedom. The old Tiffani Andersen would have been appalled at her loving acquiescence to the woman who had surprised and subdued her, inserted an alien device in her brain, and used her as a tool against her enemies. Rose had tricked the Chief Slaver into accepting her, making him believe Tiffani had been picked up for security reasons by Firm agents in response to her investigation. Rose had counted on Tiffani’s relationship with her own distraught father as a means to draw Stein in and keep her close to him, so she could spy and strike when the time was right. She had counted on that, and her rebelliousness, too, that remnant of the old Tiffani that Rose had left intact because the Chief Slaver would find it a challenge to crush.

Her beloved Rose had thoroughly and completely used her. Even worse, perhaps, her Rose had used the grief of her own father as a means to an end, and now she wanted Tiffani to erase that grief and make him ignore her, after he had served his purpose. Her Rose was cold, cruel, and utterly without principle. In a way, she made even Hulfgren and the Chief Slaver look good in the comparison. At least their treacheries were the result of passion, not cold logic and necessity.

Tiffani knew, too, finally, that if a time came that her Rose needed to sacrifice her to help herself, she would, instantly, without the slightest concern for her welfare.

She was a slave. She was her Rose’s property. She was her Rose’s tool.

And she loved it.

She couldn’t help it, but she loved it, and what did it matter that her feelings were artificial? She was happy, happier than she had ever been as a private investigator trying to eke out a living. And wasn’t that the goal of every person on the planet, this planet owned by an alien monstrosity in another galaxy? To be happy? She was a slave. She was her Rose’s property. She was her Rose’s tool. And she was happy. She blessed her Rose again for her perfect happiness. Her absolutely perfect happiness.

Everyone should be so happy. Everything should be so perfect.

Tiffani waited patiently for the House’s man to come. He would be a master, and she would be humble and respectful and submissive, just like any proper slave should. Once, she would have fought inside and made herself sick. No more. And it had nothing to do with the man himself, or her training, or even her desire not to be sick anymore. She would be a slave because her Rose wanted her to be a slave.

Her slave.

It had taken adjustment, but, finally, Tiffani’s life was perfect. She remembered everything, and it was all so, so perfect. I am a blond slave, Tiffani thought, blissfully. I am my Rose’s best, blond slave.

Everything was perfect.

Finally, everything was perfect.