The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A voice spoke over the intercom. “Rose? Your nine-thirty appointment is here.”

The young attorney touched a control on her desk. “Thank you, Charlotte.” She paused, one finger held over the button. The nail was exquisitely manicured and painted a deep, dark red. “Was there anything else, dear?”

The attorney imagined her assistant sitting on the edge of her seat in the outer room. Her voice had been a dead giveaway. Rose took an educated guess. “Is it Mr. Gordon?” she asked.

There was noticeable relief in the pretty secretary’s tone when she replied.

“Yes, Rose. He… he’s already on his way to the meeting, Rose.”

Rose nodded and released the control. She should have known, even before Charlotte spoke.

Oh, Martin, she thought, with mild contempt. You should have waited longer. You should have let our visitors become anxious for our arrival. Impression was everything. By going to see them at once, and by extension forcing her now to do the same, the Firm would lose face. They would be seen as catering, weak, and eager to please. It was a small loss of prestige, true, and it would likely have no effect on the negotiations, but it might have had. The thing was, Martin would never notice the mistake. He was too blunt of a man to notice, a fatal flaw in an attorney.

On the other hand, Rose was often glad her colleague cut so many corners. It would make crushing him all so much easier when she got around to it.

Tongue clicking silently in disapproval, this the only outward sign of her displeasure, Rose got up and walked round her desk. By the time she was at the door her customary slight and winsome smile was back. She paused at the mirror. Rose had practiced her smile assiduously, knowing the impact it had on men. She was a beautiful woman, and, deep in their hearts, she knew men were afraid of beautiful women like her, ones that were as powerful as they, as intelligent and capable. It was an advantage, then, the perfect, knowing smile. It disarmed them. Her makeup too had been selected equally for impression’s sake, achieving perfectly the right pale shade to flawlessly complement her above-the-shoulders dark hair and porcelain-fine complexion. Her lipstick and shadow had been applied with a surgical level of care by her live-in expert, as it was applied every day. The results were stunning.

She stepped out of her office.

“This may take longer than I had anticipated. Reschedule my other appointments this morning.”

“Yes, Rose,” Charlotte said, her eyes downcast, long lashes fluttering prettily.

The young attorney left and walked down the Firm’s hall to the meeting room. She wore a dark blue power business suit. The shoulders were padded, and the skirt was cut to show precisely the right amount of leg at a more or less knee level. Rose wore, as always, stockings, never pantyhose. As she walked, other attorneys and employees of the old and established firm of Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx stepped out of her way. A junior Associate working at his desk failed to notice her approach until she was right beside him. When he did see her, he immediately jumped to his feet.

“Ms. Rose,” he managed, with only a small squeak. Rose was pleased by the reaction.

“Elliot,” she said, simple acknowledgment. Then, sweetly, she said, “I trust you’ll have the Wilkerson brief ready by tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to seeing your thoughts on their proposed merger.”

Elliot’s eyes widened like a deer’s facing onrushing headlights. She waited while he scrambled for something to say. She knew he was mentally canceling his plans for the evening and planning to work the whole night through. “Uh… yes, ma’am… absolutely.” He shuddered. “It’ll be ready for you first thing tomorrow.” He had turned a cheesy pale.

“Splendid.” Rose continued on her way. Behind her, Elliot sat down again and cursed her in a whisper the young Partner could only barely make out. She didn’t mind the vituperation, though. It was satisfying, actually. It was another indication of how soft he and really all men were. So long as they fulfilled their purpose, she was more than satisfied.

Then she forgot Elliot as, ahead and to the right, Rose saw Martin Gordon about to step into the meeting room. She gave him the “smile,” knowing he had seen her too. He stumbled into the half-open door and cursed under his breath.

“Rose,” Gordon said to her a moment later, through half-clenched teeth. He lifted her hand in greeting. She let him.

He despised her. And yet, if not for him, she wouldn’t be half the woman she was today.

“Martin,” she replied. “Shall we greet our guests?”

He muttered something. What weakness, she thought. They went in together.

Two men sat facing them at one end of the room’s central long table. The wall to their left was one entire window overlooking a thirty-story view of downtown Chicago. Opposite was another glass wall, this one facing the inner office. Both were made of one-way glass and were nearly unbreakable. The cost had been hugely expensive, though absolutely necessary for the folk the Firm dealt with.

Case in point: the Partnership’s guests this morning seemed more than ill at ease with their surroundings. They looked as if they were ready to explode. Their fingers drummed impatiently against the tabletop. They picked at the edges of their business suits. Their ties had long since been pulled into shapeless masses of cloth dangling from their necks. They were not happy campers.

The Firm’s “guests” were huge men. Both topped seven foot, at least, and were proportionately built. They looked not a little like professional wrestlers taken out of their more colorful stage costumes and put into elegant business clothes. The combination, in other words, was surreal. It was obvious neither had ever worn such clothing before. The long and hanging mustaches they sported only increased the sense that they didn’t belong here. The hair was handlebar length and of a fashion that had gone out of style on Earth sometime around the era of Vlad the Impaler. The men’s skin was tanned and lined, roughened by the sun. One of them had a healed scar over his left eyebrow. They were, in Rose’s estimation, deliberately barbaric, and, clearly, they would have been far more at ease on a pair of horses overlooking tundra than they were at this table in Chicago, with swords at their sides and leather armor adorning their bodies instead of Armante silk. As she approached the table, she scrutinized them carefully.

And as she examined them, so too did they the same with her.

She had recognized the look in their eyes the moment she walked through the door. It was a look Rose had become very familiar with these last few months working with the Firm, and she let them have it with her patented smile.

These men—these barbarians so uncomfortable with where they were and what they wore—wanted to see her a slave.

They wanted to see her in chains and a collar, kneeling at their feet, naked or perhaps with some slip of a transparent slave cloth on, something open at the bottom and easily pushed to the side for convenient and immediate penetration. These men would like to enslave her, twist her mind with programmed instructions, chemical aphrodisiacs, or, if they were arrogant enough to believe it, the power of their own pricks inside her, making her climax for them uncontrollably, making her dark eyes tear and her full lips quiver with newly awakened and undisguised slave need, reducing her from a person to something little more than a living toy. That was what she saw in their eyes walking into that room.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Rose said innocently, sitting down. “Welcome to Chicago. I’m Rose, and this is my colleague, Mr. Gordon. We greet you on behalf of our Client and Partners.”

The barbarians, or “representatives,” from Molos looked at one another briefly. The one with the scar opened his mouth to say something, but his colleague silenced him with a stern look. He’s the one in charge, Rose observed.

“We…” the second barbarian grumbled and coughed. He cleared his throat. “We… want license. License to…”

He stopped, clearly searching for the right words. He gave up after a long moment and looked directly at Gordon. The next words out of his mouth were not in English. A layman would not have identified the sounds he made as words at all. They sounded rather like the kind of noise someone would make if he were drowning and water filled his lungs to the brim. They spilled out of the barbarian’s mouth in mushy gulps, each syllable its own separate and guttural slop.

“Of course,” Gordon said, translated from the similar set of syrupy-sounding splashes he made. They continued speaking in Language. “Whichever tongue you prefer.” He glanced at his Partner, and Rose could not miss the triumphant grin. She allowed him the moment. She knew it wouldn’t last.

The barbarian spoke.

“Pleasure-filled,” he said. “On favor of our Client, we acknowledge you. Our appellatives are Procurer Wahinan Met and Procurer Kal Skil. We are constituents of the Kedia Thrall Enterprise of the Eastern Corporate of Molos. Your cordiality has been most courteous.” He smiled in what probably he thought was a charming way, Rose saw.

“This is a lofty prospect equally for our two organizations,” Met went on, still smiling. “We foresee an extended prospect of collaboration connecting us. In recognition of this opening, I return your compliments and particulars with intense approbation. Salutations, to be sure, are extended to your utmost masculinity.”

Gordon blinked. “Uh… yes.”

Rose stifled a giggle, glancing out of the corner of her eye at her Partner. She could practically hear the thoughts in his head. Appellatives? Approbation? He was running through the rolodex in his mind comparing definitions. “Did you… have a nice trip?” he tried to start again, lamely in Rose’s opinion.

“The occurrence was noteworthy for its brevity and extreme consolation. Our appreciations are unlimited.”

The young attorney stared at the Molosians as if he hadn’t understood a word they said. He probably didn’t, now that Rose thought about it. Gordon hated doing homework. She let him flounder.

“Uh… you’re welcome,” he said. The attorney gestured half-heartedly toward the window. “I… er, hope the weather’s not too cold for you. Have you ever been to… er, Chicago before?”

The first Molosian—the one with the scar—shook his head. That gesture at least was a human universal.

“Negative. This is our primeval attendance to your sovereignty and municipality. It is an opportunity.”

“Your edifices are very high,” Wahinan Met went on. “It is like going afoot through a basin of steel and asphalt. You are favorable to live here.” He pointed to the building next door. “It feels as if we’re commuting across the firmament.”

“Is that so?” Gordon asked. “That’s… interesting.” He was frantically scratching out notes on a piece of paper.

As much as Rose would have enjoyed seeing her Partner struggle with the aliens’ diction, it was time for her to take over. She had known in advance the Molosians would look to Gordon first as the one in charge. He was the Firm’s male representative at this meeting, after all.

Next time, Martin, she thought, wait until I’m ready to go to a meeting.

“Confirmatory,” she said, in Language and in keeping with Molosian delivery. “Your corporate edifices are lower-built, in my comprehension, and hug the loam. Query: is Chicago analogous or wholly disparate to the Kedia municipality?”

Acknowledging her for the first time, reluctantly, she noted, Met turned his gaze from Gordon to Rose.

“Affirm,” he said, uncomfortable speaking to a foreign woman as an equal. “Your sovereignty is disparate. The people are manifold dissimilar… variegated. We are much more unvarying.”

He leaned forward. “Efficacious.”

Rose smiled. “Our sovereignty, referential, the United States, has a superior profile of migration than the corporates of Molos, which are constant but homogenous, in mutual assessment. We value superior assortment and miscellany.”

The barbarian nodded, another human universal. “Affirm. Your potency is variety. Ours is solidity.”

“We like it,” Rose said. She turned to Gordon. “Don’t you agree, Martin?” She smiled.

“Yes, we definitely like it.” She heard his knuckles crack under the desk.

The barbarian with the scar, Kal Skil, spoke up.

“I saw a fem in your facility. An annalist-thrall? Her hair was crimson, like a firmament with the luminary blazing.”

“You must mean my secretary, Charlotte,” Rose said, reverting to standard diction.

Skil gave his colleague a rueful expression. “We do not have such fems or such hues on Molos. It is exquisite.” Met nodded again. He plucked at his coat sleeves. “We want to parley traffic. An opportunity for trade.”

“She does have lovely hair, doesn’t she?” Rose said. “Well, I would miss her terribly, of course, but I’m sure something could be worked out.”

“This is an intention,” Kal Skil said, agreeing.

Gordon blinked confusedly, still obviously having a hard time keeping up with the conversation.

“We require obtainment of an authorization to procure femthralls in your sovereignty,” Skil said. “We scrutinized a cartographic print. The western half of your sovereignty is commensurate to our needs.”

“We want to allocate immediate traffic,” Wahinan Met said, “with prospective trade opportunities for credit in unfolding generations.” He pounded heavily on the table for emphasis, startling Gordon. “Our Client is amenable, and the Kedia Thrall Enterprise is affluent and intensifying. This is an intention.”

Skil added, “A pledge would evidently benefit both our Clients, I’m undoubted.”

Rose absorbed this. They’re blunt, she thought. A simple people, though far from simple-minded.

She had been studying the Molosians for months since the Firm made her their Partner in charge of relations. They were an interesting, paradoxical people. Even their body language was off-key. It was confident and arrogant, yet vulnerable in confronting her femininity. They had serious gender issues on Molos. When she first started reading about them, Rose had pictured the Molosians as Vikings in spacesuits. She soon dismissed this categorization as too limiting. What the Molosians reminded her now most closely of were weekend motorcyclists. They were like the groups of corporate wanna-be’s who worked nine-to-five jobs through the week and put on their leather gang jackets and fired up their hogs every Saturday and Sunday. They were much more interested in being thought of as barbarians than actually being barbarians. Their society, she had decided, was a rough mixture of Wall Street and Attila the Hun.

The Molosians were also extremely patriarchal, with very defined roles for men and women, which was the reason the Firm had made her their liaison with them. Negotiating with women always put Molosians on the defensive. This was the first time Rose had actually met them, though.

“You want to procure exactly how many female slaves in the United States, gentlemen?” she asked.

“We have not yet settled a precise totality, Administrator Rose,” Skil said. “We have necessity for eight to ten dissimilar thralls, for cloning and heredity tailoring.”

“We would favor an unsettled pledge, if such is feasible,” the other added, “for a continuance not to exceed four to six sevendays.” They gazed at Rose and Gordon in an open and frank manner.

Eight to ten abducted women, Rose translated. Unsupervised access to U.S. soil, and over a four-week span.

This was on the face of it an absurd request. Even Agencies the Firm had dealt with for decades didn’t warrant that kind of freedom… and especially not in the United States, where even the disappearance of “average” citizens could attract unwanted notice. She knew Gordon, if he understood what the Molosians were asking for, would refuse them out of hand.

He practically fell out of his chair, therefore, when she said yes.

“Uh, Rose,” he said, catching her eye. “A word, please.”

Rose sighed in an irritated, put-out way, but she leaned over as Gordon did likewise. The overwrought attorney whispered in her ear.

“Are you crazy?” he asked bluntly, in English.

“I have authorization, Martin,” she whispered back. “Calm yourself. Nothing agreed to here today is outside of my purview.”

The scar-faced barbarian asked, “Is there a quandary? We are amenable to moderation.”

Gordon opened his mouth to say something, but Rose beat him to the punch. “There’s no problem at all,” she delicately slurped in fluidy Language. “We can have your license ready in a few days.”

The other barbarian, Wahinan Met, stood then.

“This is an admirable standing. We are pleasure-filled.”

The rest of the meeting was mere detail. In the end, the two extraterrestrials thanked Rose again and were escorted out by Firm Associates, no doubt to a place where they could use their projectors and return home. They said nothing to Gordon as they left, long since having totally dismissed him. The door closed behind them, and finally he and Rose were alone.

“I believe an explanation is in order,” he said, standing beside the table. Rose resumed her seat and began casually putting her papers in order. She looked unworried.

“There was no time to brief you,” she said. “The decision came down from the Senior Partner this morning.” She turned her head. “The Firm wants closer relations with Molos. Biotech is the wave of the future, and the Molosians are a hundred years ahead of us. Granting a few small requests now is good business, you must know that.”

Gordon laughed hysterically. “Small requests,” he shouted. “And what will happen when these biotech barbarians begin grabbing women and enslaving them in the streets, eh?! How much net profit will that make the Firm?”

Rose shrugged and stood up before answering.

“I’ve been assured they won’t do that,” she said. “In any event, it’s not my problem. It’s yours.”

Gordon stared at her, a horrible suspicion forming in his eyes.

Rose moved toward the door. “That’s why you were asked to attend this meeting, Martin. So you could get a head’s up on the situation.” She stopped with her hand on the knob and turned around. “I’m moving up to executive level. In my absence, we’re putting you in charge of all matters Molosian in the U.S.”

She smiled sweetly.

Gordon’s facial cast went unchanged, though inside Rose could tell he was seething. She had set him up. Not only had she won a promotion he clearly had wanted for himself—and the casual implication she had made of her relationship with the Executive Committee, those Partners who dealt most directly with the Client—but he had been handed what he now had to know was a tar baby. Of course the Molosians would do something stupid. They were barbarians, after all.

Wanna-be barbarians, she amended. Next time, Martin, show up for meetings on my schedule, not yours.

“Another decision from the Senior Partner?” he asked, buying time to think, and Rose grinned. “You’re certainly getting close to the Old Man. Turning into quite his lapdog, aren’t you, Rosalie?” She laughed and opened the door.

“Don’t be upset, Martin,” she said. “If you don’t want the responsibility, bring it up at the next Partners’ meeting. It’s a promotion, a real honor… but if you don’t want it, you don’t have to take it, you know.” Her eyes raked up and down his body. “I’m sure no one will mind too much. There are lots of services you could be doing for the Firm. Sweeping, cleaning, that sort of thing.”

Gordon’s face tightened. He took a savage step closer to her, his hands clenching furiously.

He stood half-a-foot taller than Rose. He was at least fifty pounds heavier. Rose didn’t flinch so much as a muscle. The last time the two of them fought, after all, she won.

“Have a nice day, Martin,” she said and walked out.

From her vantage point, on her knees at the side of the big attorney’s desk, Tiffany could just make out the lovely young lawyer as she stepped into the hallway. The invisible camera followed her as she returned to her office and spoke to her secretary. Rose looked like she was a very successful woman.

I used to be like that, Tiffany thought, and then winced at the inevitable queasiness a negative thought like that brought. Beside her, the Chief Slaver shifted his legs.

“Gordon’s an idiot,” Hulfgren, the Managing Partner, said to her Master. “But if he helps me get that slut properly enslaved, I swear I’ll promote him to a supervisory level.”

He angrily turned off the TV monitor. The three of them had watched the meeting in its entirety.

“He wouldn’t last,” the Chief Slaver said, yawning. They had gotten back early that morning, and it had been a late night to begin with. Tiffany fought a yawn herself. She stretched her back imperceptibly while putting her palms flat to the floor and relaxing her thighs. Spending so much on her knees had taught her things, not the least of which was to how gracefully prevent her muscles from cramping up.

“It’s the woman, Rose, I don’t understand. What have you got against her? Isn’t she the latest darling of our esteemed sponsor?”

Hulfgren snorted. Like Tiffany’s Owner, Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx’s Managing Partner was barrel-shaped, but while the Chief Slaver’s hair was red, Hulfgren’s was steel-gray. His fingers looked as if they had never touched a farm implement in his life.

“Our Client doesn’t care one way or the other, you know that,” Hulfgren said. “It hasn’t the capacity to care. It can’t focus its perceptions individually enough.” The Managing Partner leaned back in his leather chair and pointed at the blank screen.

“My perceptions, on the other hand, are very focused. That woman’s a menace. She’s too ambitious, you see, and, I’ll admit, too damned capable for her gender. She won’t be satisfied until she’s in the top seat. And that’s not going to happen.”

“Because you want that position yourself,” the Slaver said, nodding. “Okay, Gustavo, points taken.”

Tiffany listened to the conversation intently. It was her impression that the Chief Slaver—her magnificent, studly, godlike MAN of an Owner! (Goddammit, she thought, fighting nausea)—was fairly high up in the scheme of things at Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx. It was hard to tell sometimes. Her senses and memory were so horribly screwed over he might be the equivalent of a janitor for all she really knew. Still, if this was the Firm’s Managing Partner, the second-in-command, as it were, and the two of them were talking like friends, wouldn’t that confirm her opinion?

She couldn’t tell. Everything was so confusing now.

Tiffany’s Owner sighed deeply. Casually, one stubby hand reached out to scratch her hair, and Tiffany closed her eyes, automatically luxuriating in his touch. Bastard, she thought and fought vertigo. The plug in her brain punished her whenever she tried to be anything other than a submissive slave.

“I take it Gordon has a plan of some sort, but you don’t trust him being capable of handling it himself. You want my help somewhere along the line.” The Chief Slaver lifted his hand away to gesticulate the point. “How’d you know Gordon was planning to enslave the bitch anyway?”

“Gordon can’t take a piss without me knowing it,” Hulfgren said. “The man’s as transparent as a sheet of glass. Besides, you know their history.” The two men laughed with goatish humor.

Hulfgren was still chuckling as he rummaged through his desk. “Let me show you something.” The Managing Partner produced a video cassette. He put it in the VCR, and a moment later a black-and-white image showed up on the screen. Since no one had told Tiffany she couldn’t look, she did.

The screen showed an empty lobby at night. A caption in the lower right-hand corner identified the place as LoeserTech HQ, whatever that was. The time was earlier that morning.

“What is this?” the Chief Slaver asked. Hulfgren asked him to be patient.

On the monitor was what looked like an unhappy security guard. There was no sound on the tape, but Tiffany could almost make out the curses the man made from the way his lips moved. I can read lips? she thought. While she fought her automatic nausea, a new player arrived on screen, and suddenly the scene being played shifted from PG to NC-17. Watching the video soon had Tiffany squirming. Her sex went damp. Her nipples started to tingle. Her breathing became heavy. Her needs awoke.

“That’s… interesting,” her Owner said.

“It gets better,” Hulfgren said. “Let me speed it up.”

The “sex scene” ended, and for forty-five minutes nothing happened. Then, four figures—the naked girl, the two guards, and a man in a white coat—hurried through to the parking lot. The tape continued to run. Thirty minutes later then a second break-in was recorded. This one was even more unusual.

Hulfgren slowed the tape to play in real time. What it showed was this: one moment the lobby was completely empty, then, abruptly, with no warning, a great light source flared.

Projector effect, Tiffany recognized. When the glare went away, five figures who had not been there before suddenly were. They did not come in through the main entrance. They did not come in through the hallway. They appeared as if out of nowhere. Both Tiffany and the Slaver looked on intently. The video showed the five men searching LoeserTech but apparently not finding what they had been looking for. They were not burglars; they bypassed equipment cumulatively worth hundreds of thousands of dollars without even a glance. Three of the men wore uniforms of a type Tiffany had never seen before, similar to camouflage gear. The other two were naked. Their skin looked like it was covered in stripes, and they crouched on their hands and knees rather than stood. They sniffed the air as though they were dogs trying to pick up a scent. One of the soldier-types held them by a leash.

The party’s search was methodical and professional, in Tiffany’s opinion, but their competency was at odds with the long handlebar mustaches they wore. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the five men gathered in the main lobby again. One of them raised a projector. As expected, the screen filled with an overwhelming flash of light, and when it cleared they were gone.

Hulfgren turned off the tape. “Obviously they didn’t have a relay with them. They haven’t used ours, either. That means they’re still on the planet.” He took out the tape.

Tiffany’s Master pondered. “Is this part of Gordon’s plan?” he asked, and Hulfgren shook his head.

“It’s a separate matter, but one soon to be brought into association with our own. You see, that’s where you come in.” The Chief Slaver nodded thoughtfully. “If Gordon’s scheme doesn’t play out, you see, Rose’ll be alerted and on guard against further attempts. She’ll seek out the source of the problem. I know her. But with your help, I’ll be two steps ahead of her. She won’t see the real threat until it puts her in her rightful place at my feet.”

The Partner’s eyes snaked over to Tiffany. She shivered at the cold, misogynistic malevolence in them.

“Just like this lovely creature is at yours. Who was she, Ira? She’s gorgeous.”

The Chief Slaver smiled and leaned forward like an old fisherman asked about his latest catch.

“Oh, well, there’s a story there. She’s a Tiffany now, but, coincidentally…”

The rest of the conversation went dead in Tiffany’s ears. The plug in her brain simply wouldn’t allow her to understand any speech relating any information about her past. The two men’s words came out sounding in Tiffany’s ears like the adult in a Peanuts’ cartoon.

“And… so on… the… and then she…” were the only things she understood.

She wondered how long it had been since they had enslaved her. She had no way of knowing. Her time sense had been edited along with her memory, and she often experienced things out of sequence, like last night’s “I’m a whore” scenario. It might have been only days. It could have been weeks or even months. Whenever she tried to think about it seriously, her head spun and her stomach churned.

“My, my,” Hulfgren said finally, in her a way her programming interpreted as an end to the <forbidden knowlege>. She sighed. The Partner came around the side of the desk to get a closer look at her.

“Stand for the man, Tiffany,” her Master said.

“Yes, Master,” Tiffany whispered and stood. She was wearing a House uniform: a tight blue-and-black corset around the middle, which covered her hips and squeezed her waist into a tight, waspish figure; a pair of black silk stockings held up by garters; high-heeled pumps for the proper “Fuck me, I’m a slut” look; and nothing else. Tiffany’s pussy gleamed moistly under the Partner’s candid inspection—another hated bit of programming—and her uplifted nipples tensed uncomfortably, pushed up and spread by the whalebone stay in the corset’s frame. She was wearing her tinted long blond hair down today.

“A delicious prize,” the Managing Partner said and fingered Tiffany’s erect nipples. They, like the needy slit between her legs, had been delicately rouged and perfumed. The Partner bent his head over and tasted her work, his teeth pressing carefully against Tiffany’s sensitive flesh, his mouth sucking gently.

Tiffany moaned with unbidden desire, her training sessions in the House mixing with her damnably programmed brain to put her in a state of heat almost immediately.

She wanted to be fucked. Dammit, they had made it so she needed to be fucked!

Instead, Hulfgren straightened to his full height again and slowly circled her. “Don’t move,” he instructed her, so she didn’t… couldn’t. The Partner’s hands fondled her ass, and she closed her eyes and clenched her tongue between her teeth to prevent a total erotic breakdown. The men here liked having their sex slaves needy and desperate all the time, but, paradoxically, they wanted them to be fully in control at the same time. There was no way she could win.

They want an excuse to punish the slaves when we give in, she thought, fighting the burning passion now all but consuming her. Like we always do. The Chief Slaver, watched her struggle amusedly.

“You want my help, Gustavo,” he said, getting back to the original subject, “you’ve got it, of course.”

He paused, and the Managing Partner looked up from his examination—his delightful inspection, Tiffany was such a slut, she was so needy, and so on and on—to read the look on his face.

“But I don’t come cheap, my friend. I want licenses for my two high-profile subjects.”

Hulfgren rested one hand on Tiffany’s behind. It took all her willpower—little as that was—not to melt in his arms. “Ah, yes. The pop duo. I suppose we can arrange something in May… .”

“Now,” the Chief Slaver said, standing. “It’s now or nothing. You can give me the paperwork before I leave. Or would you like to use this Tiffany first?” He took her controller out of his pocket.

Hulfgren shrugged. “All right. Both. After all, why not?”

The Partner took the proffered device, and Tiffany surrendered to the inevitable, again.

Miyal could no longer wear any of the clothes she had brought.

The problem had nothing to do with their size or quality. They were the best. They were made of the finest syncloth available: smooth, satiny, dreadfully expensive but perfectly fitting, designed with special memory fabrics, in fact, which were capable of adjusting to almost any set of physical measurements. This was a useful trait among Miyal’s class, where one’s measurements could be changed as the mood struck. The Processor had clothing for all seasons, all climates, all eventualities, or so she had thought, long ago, when she first packed them. Nevertheless, she could no longer wear them. Any of them.

They itched.

They itched horribly, intolerably, whenever she even tried putting any of them on. And it wasn’t just the syncloth. By no means. It was all clothing. Even the native Earth garments she had acquired—the blue uniforms her new androthralls had been wearing, the “lawn-jar-ee” they stole for her from the mercantile complex (Shopping mall, the hateful thrallvoice inside her head reminded her)—all of them felt like they had acid mixed in with their threads.

Cursing in her native tongue, strange alien thoughts blasting through the back of her mind (Shopping mall. Car. Frederick’s of Hollywood. Lingerie), Miyal tore away the “pan-tees” she had been trying to endure and flung them viciously across the “moe-tell rhoom.”

She felt like she was going to go “crah-zee.”

Her head ached from madly shifting vocabulary. Furious, she stormed into the ‘lavatory’ and slammed the ‘portal’ shut, failing to ‘note a consideration’ as she did how her ‘androthrall’ Darren ‘kindled’ enough from his ‘thralldaze’ to ‘clamber’ over the mattress ‘fabricweave,’ grab the flimsy ‘weavefabric,’ and ‘compress’ it to his ‘countenance.’

The situation Miyal found herself in was not something she had anticipated. Not at all.

She looked at herself in the room’s reflector (Mirror, she thought, in Brafford-English. This is a mirror), and it took all her considerable willpower not to slam her fist against it, shattering the lying image captured therein. I am not a femthrall, she thought. I am not a… a slave!

Yet, of course, a slave was what she saw. She couldn’t help it. She had seen too many of them—had produced too many of them—not to see what was plainly staring her in the face. Irresistibly, her eyes were drawn to the high, half-moon curves of her now supremely enlarged breasts and their perpetually swollen nipples, the emerald, velvet-soft skin glistening with delicately perfumed thrallsweat.

Miyal moaned, partially in confirmed fear of her new reality, but not a little too in part to her steadily increasing randiness, the deep-seated urge she felt inside her to be fucked, to be used, to have a man’s hands, or, better yet, a man’s tongue, trace her gloriously huge, fan-shaped clitoris, blooming flowerlike within her glistening, inviting vulva. Her fingers roamed down and parted her soft flesh. A sudden, mad desire rushed through her, and she saw herself, felt herself, on her knees before a man, straddling a man, the blood rising to the surface of her emerald flesh, her thrallflesh, and she was fucking… fucking… fucking… .

“NO!” she screamed. Pulling her trembling hands away, Miyal clutched the porcelain sink and reached for her medical case on the cabinet. She rummaged around inside and found the injector.

Checking quickly to make sure of its contents—woe unto her if she accidentally injected herself with more thrallextract—she pressed the metal cylinder to the inside of her throat and squeezed. A numbing coolness at once swept over her, dampening but not quite eradicating the fiery passions now constantly burning inside her. Shaking violently, Miyal let the injector fall from her fingers and turned on the tap.

She washed her green face with the cold liquid, desperately trying to hold on to her thoughts.

The encoding she had given herself earlier, the data she had taken from the mind of the “software engineer” she had thralled, was not helping settle her enflamed nerves. “I” before “e” except after “c,” she thought. What impertinent abstractions! Subjects and predicates. Nouns and verbs. Prepositions! Miyal closed her eyes, whispering unconsciously in English: “A surface conveyance is a car. A lavatory is a bathroom. A hospitality complex is a motel.”

She opened her eyes and looked up, hating the blank-eyed stare of the slave she saw.

“Reflector is mirror,” she reminded herself. “Washbasin is sink. Fornication is fucking.”

Pause. “A thrall is a slave.”

Even with the pharmaceutical (Drug, the inner English tutor inside her said), horribly, Miyal found she still needed a fornication… fucking… a good fuck.

Moaning, she turned and left the “bathroom.” Her thralls, the Darren, the Max, and the Neil, sat up and turned their total attention on her, thrallextract bubbling in their veins and clouding their eyes and minds.

“Ediyetr momikki… administer me,” she said to the slaves. “Serve me!”

The androthralls—male slaves—stared at her uncomprehendingly. Their pupilless, green-within-green eyes tracked her, though, as they always did, and their silly, stupid grins expanded hugely.

“Serve me, You!” she repeated, and the first she had thralled, the Max, leaped over. He was already naked, as was she, naturally. She could see he wanted her desperately. The combination of her thrallbody’s intoxicating scents and the thrallextract in his veins drove him to his knees before her. She joined him there, seeing his erect penis pulse in tune with his heartbeat.

She bent low and took him inside her mouth, unable, unwilling, to stop herself.

Miyal ran her tongue over the thrall’s shiny, engorged organ, licking, luxuriating in the simple, yet incredible taste. It had never been like this before. Simultaneously, she pressed the fingers of her right hand to the base of his stalk, squeezing violently, preventing him from ejaculating prematurely as he had done before. She wanted him to last longer this time.

The slave groaned in mixed agony and ecstasy. As he did, Miyal lifted her head up long enough to order her other servants to attend to her as well, and to “be expeditious about it!”

They did so at once, and Miyal’s gene-modified body sluttishly responded. The software engineer, the Neil Brafford, still wearing Miyal’s Client-made, silvery-plastic recorder about his brow, came up behind her and grabbed at her breasts. His fingers tightened around her emerald nipples and pinched painfully, sending rivulets of pleasure coursing through her. He lifted her up and pressed his bare body against her, his erection bumping joyfully against her trim ass.

The Max groaned again as he was forced into a more uncomfortable position, Miyal naturally refusing to let go of his handle as she was pulled to her feet. Once there, the Darren knelt down before her, between her and the Max, and gave sweet attention to Miyal’s pussy. As a group, the four of them twisted and squirmed for a few moments, then collapsed together onto the bed, its springs receiving a workout such as they had never received before.

Miyal felt one of her satiny legs lifted up. The Darren buried his face between her thighs, licking deeply inside her, taking as many earnest mouthfuls as he could and continue breathing. His tongue danced around her clitoris. He bit gently, though not too gently, at the delicate folds of her labia, bringing to surface a mere portion of the volcanic thralldesire imprinted into her genetic code. The Neil, meanwhile, forced his way up through her back passage, oozing himself in with steady, penetrating strokes of pleasure. The fullness of his organ inside her made Miyal cry out in rapture, her inherent thrallness reacting joyfully to the way her tight muscles stretched as she was so marvelously impaled. She would have screamed louder had she not resumed sucking on her Max’s organ. She played with the slave, drawing back with her teeth and her specially textured tongue, a tongue designed specifically for this purpose.

Just as she felt her own terrific orgasm start, she released her stranglehold on his penis. Long ropy strands of succulent sperm erupted inside her mouth, and Miyal swallowed it eagerly, devoured it with a mania that both awed and disgusted her. She let herself drown in his ejaculation. She wasted none of it, licking it from the corners of her mouth where it had spurted out, then fervently diving upon her toy’s depleted organ to get what was left. Minutes later, Miyal discarded the thrall as his exhaustion grew apparent. She pushed him away and gave herself over totally to the ministrations of the other two.

They lifted her to her feet. The Darren kissed her breasts and abdomen as the Neil did likewise in back. Their hands and lips traced the plumpness of her sex both fore and aft. They stood, and Miyal climaxed again as they mutually penetrated, thrusting in combined and delicious rhythms, reveling in the touch of their skin against her own. She sandwiched between them, eyes closed, gasping at the ceiling, lost in the dual sensations. Her thrallbody sent wave after wave of crushing pleasure through her enhanced nervous system. She surrendered to the pleasure utterly, grateful for the anti-aphrodisiac she had taken. Without it, the Processor would have been totally consumed, totally at the mercy of her own thralls.

Even as it was, Miyal was reduced to a spent and empty vessel.

She was going to absolutely kill the traitor who had dared do this awful thing to her!

The androthralls parted eventually, Miyal feebly kicking at them in order to make more room for herself on the bed. They crawled off and fell to the carpet with heavy thuds, their minds falling back into the narcotic thralldaze to which they were becoming accustomed. Miyal felt inklings of that half-conscious state in herself, to which it was innate, but she fought it, knowing she had to use this valuable, post-orgasmic time to think and plan her next move.

It frightened her that it took three androthralls and an anti-aphrodisiac to control her thrallbody’s monstrous appetites. She grew distracted too easily. The mere sight of males, and, to a lesser extent, females, made her dyed skin come obscenely alive, tingling madly for a touch, for the stroke of a hand… or a whip. The hormones her body produced kept her in a constant and heightened state of sexual combustibility. Her entire endorphin system had been reworked to make her more compliant, to feel pleasure in submission to another’s domination. It was more than addictive. Kedian thralls served because they had to… wanted to, desperately, with every yearning, needy fiber of their beings. Decades of heredity tailoring had perfected this current ideal. Miyal’s own work had contributed to it.

Oh, yes! She was going to kill the man who had done this to her. She would strangle him with his own intestines! The traitor, whoever he was, would suffer in ways that boggled the imagination and would form a new Kedian epic of pain. First, though, she was going to have to cure herself. That was her main problem.

It was not at all customary to reverse the kind of DNA resequencing she had been put through. Thralls lost all rights of citizenship whenever they became thralls. That was the law, common to all the Molosian Corporates, and thus she had had to leave her planet for this stinking place. Its medical sciences were primitive. There was no way she would be able to find a machinate here capable of undoing a complete enthralling. On the other hand, the nation-state she was in, this “United States of… California(?),” had a level of electronic expertise almost on par with Molos. Certainly it was as good as what many of the Colony Worlds had, barring Client-built devices, as always, which no one but the Clients themselves understood.

This level of expertise was vital. Breathing deeply, relishing her brief moment of post-fornication serenity, Miyal got up off the bed and went through her emergency kit again. It was lying on the floor near her. She had prepared it years before and packed it with all sorts of useful items, some Client-built, others Colonist, still others manufactured by her own Corporate, and hidden it in a safe place only she had known about, just in case. It paid to be prepared in her business.

There were many in Kedia, Miyal knew, who would have loved to make her their thrall. It had never occurred to her, though, that she would wake up a femthrall so unexpectedly.

Most of the contingencies which she had planned for now were simply unavailable. Staying in Kedia had been out of the question. Likewise, staying among the Colony Worlds would have been impossible. They too would have seen her as nothing more than a biomodified slave, which, technically, she grudged, she was. That left only the Property Worlds, and, of them, only this “Earth” had the necessary things she needed. Too, many of the items she had packed were no longer quite so useful as they had been. Clothes, for instance. Kedian thralls were designed to be allergic to cloth, even syncloth. The merest touch of normal fabric induced irritable sensations in them, a condition which, like their color-coding, instantly and irrevocably identified them as thralls. Owners who wanted their slaves decorated used specially prepared costumes… and Miyal had simply never bothered to pack any.

Miyal glanced at the scientist she had just finished enjoying.

She was fortunate. The electronics she would need had been easy to procure. But the skills to actually use them? Those would have to come from the Neil, which more than any other reason had been her motive for thralling him.

She crawled over to him—she enjoyed crawling on her hands and knees now, and she did it almost without thinking about it—and began fine tuning the touch-sensitive controls in the silvery-plastic band circling the top of his head. She had already used the recorder to make a neuroelectric copy of his language. She made adjustments now to do the same for his computer skills. The copy would be raw, nowhere near the sophistication she would have preferred, available only from the Clients themselves, but what could she do? She needed to know what her Neil knew… now.

Miyal’s head still swam with foreign grammar and syntax.

The precipitation in Spain plummets principally in the level loam, she thought in her own language, wondering what “Spain” was. A place, presumably. Then, in English, she whispered, “The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain.” That was better. Her skills were improving. She would need to know the Californian language in order to speak to the Californians. She would need it in order to blend in.

She would need it, eventually, to get what she needed and leave this rock, find a machinate to reverse her resequencing, return to Molos, and crush whoever had done this to her!

As thoughts of vengeance filled her mind, Miyal began to feel excited, and she found herself staring at her Neil less as the tool he was and more like a real male, a man who needed, deserved, to be on top of her, using her. A heavy sensation filled her breasts. A growing longing returned between her thighs. Her tongue licked over lips which suddenly felt softer, plumper, and the Kedian constituent closed her eyes trying to will her desires away, futilely.

She knew they were unavoidable. She herself had designed many of the mood-altering chemicals currently in her system. That was the true horror and irony of it all. Cursing at the inevitability of her weakness, Miyal put her emergency tools down.

She picked up the Neil’s tool and put it to a proper use instead.

Martin Gordon’s return to his apartment was so abrupt and unexpected his girl wasn’t at her accustomed spot when he came in. To her credit, though, neither was he. The Partner materialized in the middle of his living room in a flash of incandescent light and loud noise, a blue-tinged aura of tachyons coruscating along his handheld projector.

Sandi rushed out of his bedroom and knelt before him, knees spread, head down, and her hands resting gently on her thighs. She was naked. “Master,” she breathed, her skin flush with embarrassment as well as from a deep sexual need. “Master, please forgive Sandi for not being ready for you.”

She began to cry, her tears marring the makeup Martin had her wear. Her short, dark hair framed a pretty face.

“Be silent,” Martin ordered and strode past her. Sensing his mood, Sandi bent forward and knelt with her face directly to the floor. She was very supple. Her lithe, though curvaceous body flowed as smoothly as any circus acrobat’s. Ignoring her, Martin went into his bedroom and immediately to his wall safe. The bed, he saw, was still unmade. The room itself was untidy. A sour grin broke out on his face. He really had caught Sandi unprepared this time.

Good, he thought, knowing how much that would hurt her, knowing she had failed in her duties to him. Her every thought was of his pleasure and well-being.

He had an excuse now to really give it to her this evening, and he would, hard. Not that he ever needed an excuse. He owned the bitch, body and soul. About a year ago, the girl, who had then been a doctor named Sandra Pitzler, stupidly got in the way of his agents while they were investigating an anomaly. They captured her, enslaved her, and, ultimately, turned her into the mewling slut she was today, just like he was going to do to her good-for-nothing-else daughter, Rosalie.

Martin’s face burned with humiliation. After the meeting, he had gone through all the contracts and agreements connected with his “promotion.” If the Molosians even sneezed wrong, he was going to end up taking the blame for it. If he refused the promotion, it would all but kill any hope for future advancement within the Firm. It was a brilliant trap. Rose had definitely screwed him good. He hadn’t seen it coming, either.

It was still hard for him to see Rose as his equal.

Rosalie Pitzler had gone looking for her mother after she vanished. By all rights, she should have joined her in slavery. Instead, through a weird chain of events, and by taking credit for his hard work, the bitch ended up a Partner in Martin’s Firm. But that was all going to change. Soon. Very, very soon.

He opened the safe and rummaged around inside. Amid stacks of bills and a number of gleaming, silvery tools, Martin picked up a device that looked like a miniature television set. A small screen sat in its front. Along one side was a row of small buttons and other controls. It looked extremely advanced, alien, in fact; in truth, it had been manufactured by a small security company in Israel. It wouldn’t be out on the market for another two or three more years, if that. Martin fiddled with the controls, and after a minute a long mustached face appeared on the screen. Its owner held the sister-set of the device Martin held, which the attorney had given him at their meeting—their real meeting—days earlier.

“You instilled in me mortification,” Martin said, his Molosian fluent in both diction and grammar. “Why did you assert that entreaty?”

“It was the pledge we sought,” Wahinan Met of the Kedia Thrall Enterprise replied. “We pressed the advantage, little knowing how simple its attainment would be.” He laughed. “This female irks you.”

“Affirm,” Martin said, grinding his teeth in shame. “How presently can you procure her, then?”

“By the attainment of the twenty-four span,” Met said. “The Procurers of Kedia are able and unfailing, Administrator Gordon. There will be no pitfall.” He paused. “You are forlorn. Our pledge is sound?”

Martin did not want to agree to Rose’s deal. It would put him in a horrible position if the Molosians fucked up and grabbed the wrong girl off the streets. But he didn’t see any alternative. He said yes.

“And the focus of our quest?” the Molosian asked, looking at Martin intently.

“Affirm,” he said. As far as he was concerned, the Procurers could search anywhere and take anyone they wanted back home with them, so long as he got what he wanted.

When he was done, Martin put the telescreen back in the safe.

He slapped his hands together. He thought of Rose—Rosalie—kneeling in front of him, naked and with her knees spread. The image warmed him considerably. “Sandi!” he yelled. “Get your ass in here.”

His sex slave hurried in and resumed a headfirst crouch before him. He laughed.

“Raise your head, slut,” he told her.

She did so, tears still staining her face. Though her chronological age approached forty, the former doctor’s body had been completely rejuvenated. She looked her own daughter’s age now, about twenty. They could have been twins, especially since he had had the slave doing her hair and face like Rosalie’s own these last few weeks. God! he was going to enjoy owning the two of them together.

“Turn around!” he snarled. “I told you to get your ass up here.”

The slave took the desired position, turning around and raising her haunches, gratefully. Martin pulled down his pants.

Rose had screwed him, most definitely, but he resolved to have the final screwing himself.