The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Slavers in Pursuit

Chapter Eight

Martin had grown to detest the Firm’s Managing Partner.

In truth, his dislike had little to do with the fact he had been kept a prisoner in the man’s house for two weeks. Whatever else you could say about him, Hulfgren was a generous captor, or, at least, he was if you weren’t female. Martin hadn’t seen the Lady Miyal since their breakfast together. He suspected she was back on Molos now, undoubtedly facing a cool reception due to Hulfgren’s machinations.

He, on the other hand, had been given nearly the run of the entire mansion. After a week, Martin found out, contrary to his earlier worries, that he still was on Earth. Hulfgren’s mansion was somewhere in the Netherlands, not all that far from Amsterdam and the House, the clandestine brothel the Firm maintained for their more influential contacts. Martin had requested a visit, but Hulfgren had laughingly dismissed him. Therein lay the crux of his hatred. Hulfgren didn’t take Martin seriously. It was one thing to be outmaneuvered; it was quite another to have one’s nose rubbed in the fact, to be dismissed as nothing more than an amateur. Martin had spent months building his relationship with Met and Skil, keeping his contact with them secret, laying the groundwork for his scheme against Rose. To have all that dismissed, then, by Hulfgren as futile, and, worse, amateurish, was an insult to his hard work and intelligence. Too, Martin knew that was the real reason Hulfgren didn’t keep him locked up. He wasn’t considered enough of a threat. Without saying a word against him, Hulfgren snubbed him.

That he was planning to keep Rose for himself was only the icing on the cake.

The young attorney strolled through the huge house’s hallways, hands in pockets, glancing out the windows occasionally at the picturesque scenery. Some feet behind him, a rubber-clad Dewal followed, tracking Martin with sniper’s eyes. They weren’t always in sight, but at least one of Hulfgren’s three bodyguards always appeared whenever he was close to a window or outside door, not so subtly reminding him not to stray. He had the run of the mansion, but he was watched constantly.

Maybe that was the reason he was still unable to perform.

Despite the Managing Partner’s offer (or, as he sometimes thought, because of it, maybe he’s slipping something into my coffee!), despite all the lovely, compliant flesh at his disposal, Martin was still completely impotent. At times, he wished Hulfgren had put him in a cell somewhere, all alone.

Being surrounded by so many beautiful slaves, and unable to do anything about it, was a torture worthy of Dante.

He took a right at the next intersection, which took him back to the main hall. Martin pretended to look at the famous artworks. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Dewal had disappeared again.

He walked slowly. Including that morning, he had been in Hulfgren’s custody for twenty days. In all that time, there had been no word of Rose, Ira, or Molos. Time wasn’t always constant when traveling offworld, though. Martin knew from experience the temporal distortions long-range teleportation brought. Last year, he spent three weeks infiltrating Celestra’s extraterrestrial base and returned home to find that less than twenty-four hours had passed on Earth. The reverse could easily be going on here.

Still, Martin felt he was running out of time.

Hulfgren’s man, Ira Stein, the Firm’s Chief Slaver, could return at any moment with Rose, yet so far he hadn’t found anyway to turn the tables back in his favor. Martin had planned, but he always kept running into the same roadblocks. He couldn’t leave Hulfgren’s house, he couldn’t contact anybody outside, and nobody knew where he was.

There has to be a way, though, Martin thought, gazing blankly at a Monet. There has to be.

It was just a matter of having the right information at the right time at the right place.

The attorney continued his little stroll. He had never felt so utterly limp in his life, in mind or body.

Martin noticed another of Hulfgren’s half-dressed maids walking by on some errand. She was a cute little brunette. He didn’t recognize her, so he motioned for her to come over.

His dick twitched, but, as he knew from experience, that would be as far as it would go.

“How may this slave serve the master?” she said, lowering her eyes submissively. Her voice was a charming contralto. Martin lifted her chin with his hand. She shivered when she met his gaze, a tremble he knew was born partially of fear, awe of his manhood, and intense sexual desire.

“What is your name, girl?” He didn’t notice that he was biting his lips.

“This slave has no name, master. She is a slave. Master Hulfgren commonly refers to her as ‘Jennifer,’ though, master.” She crossed her hands at the small of her back and lifted her bare breasts to Martin.

“Jennifer,” he said, in a near squeak. He released her chin and distractedly fondled her proffered bosom. The house slave moaned and shivered with her desperate arousal. “Are you a good lay, Jennifer?”

“Master Hulfgren has not been totally displeased with this slave’s training, master.” Her pussy, exposed by the blatancy of her degrading outfit, grew dewlike. “Should the master choose to use this slave, this slave will serve the master to the utmost of her ability.” Her painted lips parted gently, breathlessly.

Martin shuddered. “Who were you before you were a slave?” he asked.

“This slave has always been a slave, master.” He nodded. Clio, Dewal, and Kormira being the exceptions, the majority of Hulfgren’s staff, like most encoded slaves, had no memory of their previous lives. Martin had found out an interesting thing, though. After questioning Hulfgren about it one night, and following his answers up with the rubber sluts, who were all too willing to answer any question he put to them, submissive and stonewallish at the same time, Martin discovered that Hulfgren’s household slaves had an interesting trait in common. Like the former Lindsay Kent, they had all been highly successful women in a host of different but high-paying and influential positions. The Firm officially frowned on that sort of thing—it was easier and safer to acquire more common souls, runaways, drug addicts, foreigners in corrupt regimes, and so on—but Hulfgren had the pull to get what he wanted.

And what he wanted, as his personal slaves, were women who had been examples to others.

Colette, the juicy redheaded maid upstairs, had once upon a time been a wealthy stockbroker in a prestigious firm in New York. Danielle, one of the cooks, had, like his own slave, Sandi, been a prominent physician, a heart surgeon from London. And little Marjorie, who had served Hulfgren his breakfast more than two weeks ago, had been an esteemed professor of art history at Harvard.

Martin didn’t know any more than Jenni did what she had done before her acquisition, but he suspected that whatever it had been, she had been good at it and had earned a lot of money and respect. She would have been at the height of her career, the pinnacle of her success. Now, she was only a half-dressed, constantly randy, utterly submissive mindslut, her youth restored and her body modified to keep her in a perpetual state of arousal, as if her mental programming didn’t already ensure that.

She gazed worshipfully into Martin’s eyes, and he knew the only thing on her mind, such as it was, was how she could see to his pleasure. Martin understood completely why Hulfgren wanted Rose for his own. She was young, beautiful, successful… and female.

“How may this slave see to the master’s pleasure, master?” the pretty Jennifer spoke.

Oh, if only he could… Unbidden, Clio‘s words flashed through his mind again.

This slave would have crushed Master Gordon’s skull and spit in his face while he lay dying.

He felt rubber fingers on his face.

“Go away,” he said. “Just… just go away.” He pushed Jennifer away weakly.

“Yes, master,” the slave sighed, disappointedly. She looked like she was about to cry.

Martin felt exactly the same way.

He stalked away, leaving the slave in her heightened distress. Desperately, he tried to return his thoughts to how to escape this gilded prison. Hulfgren had been away for the last forty-eight hours, probably to take care of business back in Chicago. If only he could leave the estate or make a phone call. Running, he knew, was out of the question. The bionic rubber sluts could outrun a car.

Raising a weapon against one of them would be suicide.

And yet… Martin had noticed something dangling from one of the bodyguard’s belts, between the immobilizer and the projector. A small, thin box that clearly wasn’t Client-tech but didn’t look like something built on Earth, either. Despite all that, Martin thought he recognized the device.

Hanging from Clio’s belt, it might as well have been in Fort Knox for all the good it did him. Still, if it was what he thought it was, and the right opportunity arose… .

Martin schemed. He walked, and he schemed, and whenever he saw one of Hulfgren’s maids, he turned in the opposite direction.

* * *

“Cocaine. Heroin. Meth.” The Slaver, holding Tiffany’s controller in hand, took a long breath and tilted his head back, stretching his face out dramatically. “I’ve tried them all, and I’m here to tell you, none of them come close to the feeling you get having absolute control over another human being.”

“Yes, Master,” Tiffany said, blinking back tears. She had finished their packing and dressed according to the Chief Slaver’s directions. The tight, restricting clothing enflamed her appetites.

She was about to be used. Still, this was such an everyday occurrence to her now, it didn’t take her mind off of the important thing.

I’m on a different planet, she thought, still wrestling with the idea. She could tell she was on another planet. The gravity, for a start, was definitely different. She was heavier. The air, too, on Molos, was clearer, the sun was brighter, and the people she had seen all deliciously virile and potent, so much so Tiffany had felt a mad need to squirm before every one of them she had seen and beg to be fucked.

Even the Molosian women inspired this desire. Everyone here looked like a handsome athlete or a beautiful movie star. It was hard for her to think about anything other than sex, the plug in her brain feeding her desires constantly, keeping her in an unremitting heat. Nonetheless, with practice, Tiffany could still hold a few coherent thoughts in her head, and the realization that she was no longer on Earth, that she was actually, physically, on another planet, had her in a state akin to shock.

I’m on a different planet, she thought again, and shivered despite the heavy leather.

How had this happened to her? How could she have ended up in this ridiculous, outlandish position, a sex slave on another planet? Tiffany relentlessly probed her memory, yet every time she felt herself closing on an answer, she ran into the hard and impenetrable wall of <forbidden knowledge>.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

Adding to her consternation, of course, was that no one bothered to tell slaves like her what was going on. The fight in the hotel room back in Chicago? Not a clue. Why they were on Molos? Tiffany had only the vaguest of ideas. She knew it involved the enslavement of that pretty lawyer from the Firm, but that was all. Eventually, they had been escorted to a very lavish, semi-circular chamber with a sunken bath, two floors, and a bed large enough to sleep a dozen people. Tiffany suspected it, and she, were about to receive a very thorough workout. Even on another planet, all he can think about is sex.

She, at least, had an excuse. There was no plug in his head making him so randy.

“I’ve been meaning to try this program for a while,” the Chief Slaver said. “No time like the present, eh?”

“Whatever you say, Master.” God, can we just get this over with, please? she thought. Had she been able to look upon the situation dispassionately, Tiffany would have said her Master was mad.

“Ready?” the burly man asked Tiffany. He didn’t wait for a response. He pointed the controller at her.

The slave experienced a moment of intense vertigo. The Molosian suite shimmered like a head-induced mirage. For a timeless instant the girl knew only disorientation. Then, suddenly, her life became clear again, crystal clear, and she found herself confronting a pale and puny worm who deserved nothing less than total and complete humiliation. Tiffany’s tightly gloved hands immediately clenched around her whip. She was outraged they would send her—her!—such an utterly pathetic specimen.

“You sonfabitch,” she yelled at the fat, redheaded worm before her. “Get on your knees, vermin!”

The slug put up his hands. “Hey, wait a minute. I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m…”

Lady Tiffany’s whip cracked.

“I don’t care who you think you are!” she screamed at him. She strode forward, her patent-leather, thigh-high boots gleaming like dark mirrors. She grabbed the puny insect by the face and twisted his head up. “When I give you a command, worm, obey it! Now, GET ON YOUR KNEES!”

Trembling like a little boy, the burly man wilted in the face of Tiffany’s fury. She pushed the slug to the carpet and stood over him like the Leather Queen from Hell, her black leather and latex corset stretched tightly over a curvy figure. She tossed the whip to one side. She didn’t need it for this puny pussyboy. Instead, she brought her stilettoed heel up and set it firmly on the back of the maggot’s neck.

She pressed his face to the floor. He was already breathing hard.

Not as hard as he was going to be breathing, though.

“I don’t… please, I don’t…”

“Quiet, fuckhead,” Lady Tiffany said.

She lifted her boot and circled him, hemming him in, forcing him with slight kicks into a smaller and smaller ball. “Did you really think you could get away with it? That someone wouldn’t catch on?”

She stopped in front of him.

“Well… DID YOU?!!”

“… no… no… I didn’t…”

“Shut the fuck up!” she roared at him. “Get on your back. Move, you piece of shit!”

The worm twisted over to one side until he was staring up at Lady Tiffany. She straddled him, bringing the edges of her spiked heels to within bare millimeters of his ears.

“Now strip. Take off your clothes.” Hurriedly the slug began fumbling at his buttons. Enraged, Tiffany bent down, hooked a finger covered in kid leather through his shirt, and ripped upwards, revealing a stretched white T-shirt. “I said strip! Do you think I have all day? MOVE!!!”

She stood up and again commenced circling him, pacing round and round the same way a tiger does its prey. She watched him take off his shirt and undershirt, then, hooting with effort and speed, his shoes, pants, and underwear. He was flabby and pale-skinned and hairy all over. He disgusted Tiffany.

It wasn’t his appearance, though. It was the fact that he was such a useless bug.

“Spread your legs, bug” she told him. “Get your hands behind your head.”

The bug complied. His organ thrust out at her like the pole on a ship’s prow.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” he told her, shaking, gazing up at Lady Tiffany as she stood between his legs. “I’m a good boy,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”

Tiffany’s beautiful face contorted in a snarl of rage. “Do you think I care? Don’t you know how meaningless you are to me?” Suddenly she jumped, and the man beneath her shrieked.

“TURN OVER!” she bellowed. “I WANT TO SEE YOUR ASS NOW!!”

“Oh God, oh god, oh god,” the little boy prayed. But he did as he was ordered.

Lady Tiffany again grabbed him by the face and pushed him down. “Lift up!” she ordered and struck him across his ass cheeks. She soon had him positioned the way she wanted: face on the floor, ass in the air. She kicked his ankles apart. First she ran her gloved fingers over the large, fleshy mounds facing her, then she began poking a finger inside him, slowly. “Oh, what a pathetic creature you are.”

“… yes… yes…”

“I didn’t hear you,” Tiffany said to him. “I called you a pathetic creature. You are, aren’t you?”

“… yes…”

“SPEAK UP!”

“Yes,” he said, but only a little louder, so Tiffany hooked her finger in his ass deeper and pulled.

“YES!” he screamed. “YES, I AM A PATHETIC LITTLE CREATURE!”

She smiled and removed her hand. “That’s much better.”

Looking around, she saw a wooden paddle dangling by the bedside. She picked it up and hefted it thoughtfully. “You deserve to be punished, don’t you?” When he hesitated a moment, she slapped his chubby ass.

“Yes, I deserve to be punished.”

“Because you’re a bad little boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am a bad little boy.” His whole body was quivering. Sweat covered him in a fine sheen.

Tiffany raised the paddle and took aim. “Every time I flog you, repeat that phrase.”

“Yes… yes, ma’am.”

She raised her arm over his upturned ass, waited, then brought it down in a whir of noise.

“Ohh…ahh!” the worm screamed. Tiffany struck him again.

“SAY IT!”

SLAP

“I am a bad little boy.”

SLAP

“I am a bad little boy! I am a bad little boy!”

His buttcheeks turned a bright red. They vibrated like a twin set of waterbeds.

SLAP SLAP SLAP

“I am a bad little boy! I am a very bad little boy!”

Indeed, the slug began crying like a little boy. Tiffany paddled the wretch over and over, methodically going over every inch of his ass. She quickly had him shaking and bouncing and climaxing in a helpless, rolling tempo that seemed to get the whole room bumping in sympathy. He jumped and squealed with each savage blow. The dominatrix paused once and brought the flat end of the paddle up between the man’s thighs, pressing down on first one, then the other of his fleshy sides. She made as if to insert the paddle inside him, and he screamed. His buttock had turned the same shade as a traffic stop sign.

SLAP SLAP SLAP

“I am a bad little boy. I am a bad little boy.” He was tiring out. Tiffany threw the paddle away, grabbed the pussyboy by his waist, and flipped him over on his back. He screamed again as his tenderized flesh bounced off the carpet.

Lady Tiffany straddled him, bringing her crotch to his upturned face. “Use your teeth, slime.”

Gently, in frightened awe, the bad little boy took Tiffany’s black-leather panties between his front teeth and pulled down. “Lick,” she told him. “Lick.”

He did. His tongue traced patterns over the bare surface of Tiffany’s mound and along the lips of her sex. She clutched him by the back of his head and pulled him closer, allowing him to penetrate deeply into her vulva and across her sensitive, engorged clit. As she felt her orgasm come, she pulled away, pushed on the worm’s chest with her gloved hands, and impaled herself on his still-erect member.

It was impossible to tell which was louder: his scream of pain or her cry of dominating pleasure.

Lady Tiffany took her time with her prey. She put the puny pussyboy who had brought her to this pathetic world through hours of excruciating pleasure and ecstatic torture. Finally, he gave her the safe word, and, not thinking, she handed him the octagonal device lying undisturbed on the gigantic bed.

Seconds later, a mere slavegirl was cooing and cuddling beside her beloved Master.

Tiffany’s head rested deliciously below his chin. “Oh, Master… Master,” Tiffany whispered. One of her Owner’s hands languorously cupped her buttock. The other delicately traced her fine, smooth, and leather-lined curves. She gently licked at her Master’s chest. He was so incredibly delicious.

Tiffany had never felt so well used. Even so, an eager burning was creeping back into her loins.

Her moment of satiety had been only that: a moment. She whimpered. Her appetites were soon once more fierce upon her. The plug was once more doing its job.

“I want you to know,” the Chief Slaver told Tiffany, his arms wrapped round her. “You did very well. You were completely open to the dom program. I’m proud of you.” The slave snuggled girlishly into his arm.

“Thank you, Master.”

“You were a little verbal, I think, in your domination, but that’s nothing further training won’t fix.”

“Yes, Master. Whatever you say, Master.” She cooed and licked at his chin. She now very much wanted—needed—to be used again. The feeling in her pussy had become a fire. Unless she did something, that fire would soon become an inferno. Tiffany hoped she could tempt her Owner into again using her. She deliberately rubbed her stone-like nipples against his chest. Instead of taking her, however, the Chief Slaver grimaced, as if in pain. Tiffany had only the vaguest of recollections why this might be so. When had she gotten dressed in leather? Had she really been holding a whip in her hand?

“Ouch. If you continue to improve like this, I think we’ll be able to sell you after all, Tiff. I already had some buyers in mind, you know, but I was waiting until you came around.”

“Yes, Master,” Tiffany whispered. “Thank you, Master.” She kissed her Owner deeply, enticingly.

All the same, as she set about convincing him to fuck her again, from the back of Tiffany’s mind other thoughts slowly occurred to her.

Memories started to click. Carmel and Creeme. The House. Molos.

I hate this man, Tiffany reflected, wonderingly. Vertigo rose within her. God, I so hate this man!

She was so used to this nauseating sensation, and fought against it so well, the Chief Slaver didn’t notice any change in his fucktoy’s ardor. Even as she kissed him, and he repositioned the slave on top of him, her damp sex held motionless above his burgeoning shaft, the tip lightly brushing her enflamed folds, Tiffany suddenly, astonishingly, raged against this raping bastard. She Hated Him! She Loathed Him!

She wanted to kill him!

She knew enough about the Slavers and the Firm to know how impossible a feeling like hers was supposed to be. Nevertheless, she felt anger to the very depths of her being. She had seen so many other slaves at the House, seen so many independent girls, girls like Carmel and Creeme, reduced to mere pets by the Firm. None of them expressed anything but love, lust, and devotion to the Slavers.

Why was she so different?

The Chief Slaver let Tiffany slip down a little more, then cruelly pulled back. Her pussy grasped at him like a desperately seeking mouth. Helplessly, Tiffany mewled and panted in newly ignited slave need.

“I’m going to make sure you go to a good home,” the Chief Slaver said, staring up into Tiffany’s yearning face. “Not for your benefit,” he added swiftly. “My reputation is at stake. I’ve spent more time training you than I have any other slave.”

“Thank you, Master,” Tiffany squealed. “Please, Master.”

The Chief Slaver paused with the tip of his dick pressing into her.

“Oh, please, Master.” This was torture. How could she so need him, yet Hate Him! so much?

“It’s worth it, though,” the Chief Slaver said calmly, rhapsodizing. It was part of his pattern. “The connoisseurs market is superior. Let the Colonist masses satisfy their lusts with their bland, encoded sluts. The discriminating elite prefer slaves with flexibility and training.”

Slowly, very slowly, the Chief Slaver lowered Tiffany on top of him, pushing inside her. She just about screamed relief, reveling in her penetration. Automatically, she began rotating her hips, her training and her plug telling her what to do.

“Yes, Master.” It had been so cozy before. Now Tiffany felt as if another void had opened up inside her. A void in her memory, and, like her pussy, it needed to be filled. She needed to be filled.

“Please, Master,” she moaned.

“I think it’s important to be able to have a decent conversation with a woman, don’t you, Tiffany?”

She couldn’t respond. She was moaning with pleasure on the outside, screaming on the inside.

“You can’t have a decent talk with an encoded girl. It’s like talking to the furniture. Cookie-cutter personalities, the lot of them.”

The pleasure was too much. “Oh, please, Master! I’ll do anything, be anything for you… please!”

“See!” The Chief Slaver said, excited, still holding his fucktoy tightly. “That’s what I mean. ‘I’ll do anything.’ I. I. You know how much trouble it is getting an encoded slut to use proper pronouns?”

Laughing, the Chief Slaver lessened his grip. With a scream of pleasure, Tiffany skewered herself further. A monstrous, mind-blowing orgasm erupted inside her. The Molosian suite shook as though caught in an earthquake. Sperm roared up inside her, eliciting yet another ecstatic bolt of pleasure.

Tiffany straddled her Master and ground her hips on top of his. He groaned in pain and pleasure.

Had she really flogged the Chief Slaver earlier? She continued to question herself, even as she rotated her hips expertly and kept her pussy clenched. The memory was dim, like something she had done a million years ago. She wished she could remember it better. She wished she could remember anything better. If she could only remember who she was… who she had been… find the girl she had been.

Find the girl.

Find her.

Find her, please, <name forbidden>, the man sitting across from Tiffany begged.

The image flashed into her mind like a nova, the picture so clear, so exhaustive, the details burned their way into her consciousness. Tiffany gasped, and the Chief Slaver laughed, mistaking the nature of his toy’s exaltation. She continued to be fucked by him. At the same time, in her mind’s eye, the slave found herself in an office in midtown, Chicago, she was in her office! sitting on the other side of her desk, her desk! and looking in the face of the middle-aged, slightly balding man who wanted to hire her.

A slightly balding man who wanted to hire her… her!

My God, Tiffany thought. Oh my God, I’m remembering! I’m remembering!!

She squealed in ecstasy.

Find her, the man told Tiffany. Find them both. I don’t care if they’re alive or dead, but I have to find them. I have to know. The desperate hurt in his face matched the sorrowful pain in his voice.

That hurt was what finally convinced <YOUR NAME IS FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE!!> to take on the case. She <forbidden knowledge… Forbidden Knowledge… FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE!!!>.

The pain was indescribable. The memory blew apart like confetti on a windy day.

Tiffany screamed, and the Chief Slaver exulted in his ability to bring his slave to an overwhelming climax.

A few minutes later, Tiffany was dutifully helping her Master dress. Tiffany served him nude. At his command, she had shed her dominatrix costume. The proximity of his body to her utter nakedness savagely reignited her mind-controlled fervor. Her hands shook as she held one of his shirts. The Chief Slaver noticed as he put the garment on and grinned knowingly.

Bastard, she thought. Beneath the awful, mortifying arousal she felt, and mortifying it truly was, for she had just finished being quite thoroughly fucked, reduced to a mindless spasming vessel for her Master’s seed, and already she was hot and wet and so absolutely frustrated she felt she would die, simply die, if he, if anyone, didn’t soon use her again, over and over again, how was it possible to feel such a deep, intense desire without going mad? it was impossible, she was going mad! she would do anything to be fucked, she would let them do anything to her to be fucked, she would be completely, humbly obedient to their, to anyone’s, commands… beneath all that, the result of her plug, Tiffany somehow managed to sustain her hatred for the Chief Slaver. She didn’t know where she found the strength.

The Chief Slaver left the room a moment to use the toilet, and, outside the crushing masculinity of his presence, Tiffany finally managed to form a coherent thought other than Oh, please, PLEASE Master, Fuck Me, Fuck Your Slave!

What she thought was: I remembered something. That wasn’t an implanted memory, either. That was real. Tiffany’s hands clutched at her denuded sex. Her blood was boiling.

Forget that, she thought, pulling her hands away and shaking them. Concentrate!

She tried to picture that office in her mind again. Vertigo and nausea swelled up within her at the effort. Her foremind screamed, Forbidden Knowledge! Forbidden Knowledge! The door to the bathroom opened and the Chief Slaver walked in, and instantly Tiffany’s nipples hardened painfully, and her pussy throbbed with a blazing need. Nevertheless, drawing upon a strength she could barely comprehend, the office in her mind’s eye became clear to her. Tiffany saw the papers littering her desk. She saw the plants in the corner, watered every week by the service she employed.

Tiffany saw her filing cabinets, a little dusty perhaps, but all of them full of papers and files.

She looked up and saw her ceiling fan slowly rotating.

And across her desk sat her client, not a Client, but a client, a human client.

I want to hire you to locate my… my…

The image wavered like a heat-induced hallucination and faded away. Tiffany moaned, shook her head, looked up, and saw then that her Owner was looking at her expectantly.

She realized quickly he had said something to her, given her a command, and she had missed it. She merely stood there before the Chief Slaver, looking at him stupidly.

“Bad girl, Tiffany,” he said, looking stern. “You’re a bad, bad girl.”

The plug in her brain sent a signal to a pain receptor. Tiffany collapsed in agony. The phrase echoed through her skull. You’re a bad, bad girl. Tiffany dug her long nails into the palm of her hand, willing herself not to vomit. The Chief Slaver stood over her. There was a look of disgust on his face.

“Listen up, bad girl, next time I give you an order.” Tiffany mewled in pain. “Yes, I know how badly you want to be used. Well, get used to it, slut, because it’s never going to go away. You’re a slave.”

He kicked her in the side, not hard but hard enough to get her attention. The pity of it was, even that bare contact with her Master amplified Tiffany’s ardor for him. Her pussy flared anew with moist heat.

Bad girl, bad girl. Tiffany stared up at the Chief Slaver, trembling, like a supplicant before an angry god. “Remember,” he said, “your first duty is obedience, slave. Remember that. Obedience!”

“Yes, Master,” Tiffany wept.

He grunted. “With practice, you will learn to channel your desires better. Otherwise, you’re worthless to me. Who wants to own a custom-programmable slave that falls apart all the time, overcome by her need. I’ve taught you better than this, Tiffany.”

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

“I want you to clean this room, Tiffany. I want to see my face in every hard surface.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Don’t be a bad girl, again, Tiffany. Don’t.”

Tiffany winced as another agonizing bolt ran through her head. “No, Master. I’ll be a good girl from now on. I’ll be a good slave. Tiffany will be a good slave.”

She wept. He had her stand up for him. He stroked her nipples until they were molten beneath his fingers. And still, amazingly, she managed to hold onto her hate for him.

Even as he left, and the ache in her head was overshadowed by the lonely needs of her mind-controlled body, Tiffany managed to continue hating him. And so, even as she cleaned every millimeter of that suite the Molosians had given them, an already sparkling clean chamber due to the ardent attentions of the Kedians’ own slaves, no doubt, Tiffany thought, and she remembered, using the crystal-clear memory of her office, her office! as her start, the same way someone might toil at peeling away with her fingernails a tough and gummy label, laboring away at the corners until she had a piece to work with.

The memory of her office was her corner. She finally had a corner.

Tiffany did clean that suite to within an inch of its life.

But that was far from the only thing she did that afternoon. By no means. By no means.