The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Andrea stood in the entrance.

Linda nuzzled Arundsen’s hand.

The grocery bag was not stable; the milk had been packed on top of the cans, and now the bag slowly leaned to one side until the entire structure overturned. An orange rolled out onto the carpet. No one looked at it.

“Well, Ms. Grey?”

“They. They took you away,” Andrea said.

“And they brought me back.” Arundsen waved the hand that was not being licked. “Please, sit.”

Andrea looked at Linda. Nude, collared, her smooth ass pressing against her heels.

Pushing her tits into Arundsen’s leg.

“Is she still mine?” Andrea asked.

“As she ever was.”

“Which is to say, ‘not really’?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then how?”

“Your work has softened her mind. It took only a little extemporization on my part to tap into the slavemind that you burned into her core. Tap into it, and lead it around to a new way of thinking.”

Andrea turned her head. The apartment door had closed.

She had nowhere to run to anyway.

What did he want? If he were here, and Linda... Linda might have told him everything. About Suzanne. About Andrea.

About what Andrea had done to herself.

Is there a backdoor to my mind, as well? Could he ‘tap into’ me? Is there a slave at my core?

Her expression hardened. No.

She went to the chair adjoining the couch, and sat down.

Arundsen was watching her, his expression as inscrutable as ever. He said nothing for a while, just looked at her.

“So,” Andrea finally said. “What do you want?”

He considered a moment before speaking. “You know, now, about my real research. Obviously you suspected before. What you know, however, only approaches the surface.”

Arundsen looked down at Linda, and stroked the top of her head. “I know what you have done. Your actions have lead me to certain conclusions. And, as a result, I wish to make you an offer.”

“Okay.”

His eyes flicked up from Linda. Andrea still couldn’t read them. “I want you to be my assistant. I want you to be available to me every moment and for any task. I want you to follow my every command. And in return, I will show you things that so far you have not even guessed at.”

Andrea looked at him for a moment longer, then looked away.

It was hard to think about it.

It was hard to think about because it was so important. She should be weighing her options, planning, but all she could think about was if the milk was leaking and how Linda’s ass had little dimples in it as she knelt there and how Steve’s dick looked sliding into Linda’s greased ass. It was so important that she couldn’t think about it at all.

“Do I have a choice?” her mouth asked.

“Yes. If you decline, you will go back to being a graduate student. You will change faculty advisors. I will take no action against you, or your... pets. You will, of course, have to return my small portable device.”

Small. Portable. Device.

“Why not just enslave me?”

“Because I do not want to.”

He wanted her as a slave, only not. To do his bidding twenty-four seven for undefined rewards.

But, Andrea realized, it came down to one thing.

If she said ‘no’ she would regret it the rest of her life.

“I accept.”

Andrea gently drew her finger down Fern’s stomach.

This was one of the things she liked best about slaves. They made wonderful toys. You didn’t have to worry about their feelings or what they wanted or what they might be thinking, you could just touch them whenever and wherever and however you felt like. A lover’s mind was always in your thoughts, but with a slave you didn’t have to consider their opinion at all. They were just a warm piece of meat that did what you told them to do.

Fern was particularly fun to play with.

Andrea loved her body. At Andrea’s command, Fern kept herself in the shape of a professional athlete; a thousand crunches a day, a five mile run every morning. Andrea slid her finger along the long shallow trough between Fern’s abs and her sides, enjoying the hard muscles under the smooth flesh.

Fern shivered.

Andrea looked up at Fern’s dark eyes. So pretty. They looked mysterious, but all they concealed now was a burning desire to obey Andrea’s every whim. There was pleasure at Andrea’s use of her, too, but although gratifying it was utterly unimportant.

There had been more sessions, with stronger toys than the helmet Andrea had first absconded with. Devices Arundsen had shown her, devices they had worked on together, devices Andrea had build at Arundsen’s direction. Fern was the perfect subject. She had wanted to be remade — not that her wants really mattered — and remade she had been.

Nothing behind those pretty pretty eyes any more but a mindwiped myrmidon, living only to spring to her Mistress’ command.

There were still things Fern was hesitant to do. Andrea had left her that. But only because Fern’s reluctance fed her passion as she obeyed despite it. No hesitation in the world could stop Fern from doing whatever Andrea told her, the instant she was told. And juicing at her own helplessness.

Andrea slid her hand further down, to the close-cropped black hair above the smooth clean-shaven pussy. Under the hair more smooth skin was clearly visible through the four-day crop. And on that skin, two shades lighter than Fern’s dark all-over tan, the word “SLUT” was written in black gothic letters.

She’d had it totally clean-shaven for a while, but somehow a very closely shaven bush looked better to Andrea’s eye. Not to her tongue, which was why the flesh adjoining Fern’s sexlips was laser-smooth, but somehow the extra darkness just above where those strong legs joined was more erotic.

And Andrea could have it removed whenever she changed her mind.

“Roll over, slut,” she said, and Fern quickly turned herself. Andrea ran her hands over Fern’s smooth ass.

A toy. A sex toy, a sex doll. That’s what Fern was. A sex robot, completely obedient, without any relevant thoughts of her own.

Not like Nicole.

Nicole was... different. As brainstamped as Fern, but... different. More cunning. More freewilled, if you could call it that. Andrea had to admit that Nicole fascinated her. She wanted to know how she worked.

What Diana Snowdon had done to her.

Andrea kneaded Fern’s shoulders, and was suddenly amused at the tableau. As though Andrea was trying to give pleasure rather than take it.

“Over, slave,” she said, and Fern quickly obeyed. Andrea looked at her eyes, enjoying their color, their beauty, and then into them, seeing Fern’s pleasure at her own obedience. She curled a finger around in Fern’s wavy black hair.

Andrea slid a hand down to play with Fern’s nipples and the stirrup rings which pierced them. Looking into Fern’s eyes she could see the thoughts that pulsed there: “I am a toy for my Mistress. I love being a toy. I am a toy for my Mistress. I love being a toy.”

She could see those thoughts because she’d put them there.

Fern’s lips were moving imperceptibly as Andrea leaned in to kiss them.

There was a knock on the door, a familiar tattoo. Linda, home from her parents’, and asking permission to enter her Mistress’ house. Knocking on the door with her programmed rhythm.

“Enter,” Andrea said, and Linda came in, bowing her head and turning swiftly to shut the door, then dropping to her knees. She was not surprised to find Fern naked and being stroked on the massage table by an equally naked Andrea.

“Mistress,” she breathed.

Andrea smiled. “You may change, slave,” she said, and Linda rose smoothly, picked up her overnight bag, and walked to her room.

Andrea had not considered, at first, the complications of a slave’s family. Linda could not disappear, nor Fern, nor Steve or Suzanne. And although their private lives were private, there were people who knew them. Well. People who would recognize differences in the slave from the person which they had known.

It was Arundsen, of course, who helped her deal with it. The little white lies and dodges and particular programming to equip a slave with, to install in her mind, that would let her pass as the woman she had been while mattering not a whit to the slave she was.

He’d forbidden her to take new slaves.

He’d screwed Linda, that first night. Then, and since. He liked Linda, or her body, or her mind. He’d call Andrea and tell her to send Linda over.

Sometimes Andrea asked Linda what Arundsen did to her, and Linda would tell her, in full. It was surprisingly vanilla. He liked to fuck her face.

Andrea had expected him to ask it of her. To demand it. She would have done it. Him. She’d do him now. He was fit and relatively good looking and he had power.

But he hadn’t asked.

Too much thinking. She had Fern here, and Linda, and her stroking of Fern’s body had warmed her sex even if her mind was wandering. Time to shelve her wandering mind and lick her slaves all over.

Linda re-entered the room, nude, collared.

“Mistress.”

Andrea curled her pinkies into Fern’s nipple rings and tugged gently. Fern made the faintest of moans.

What did she want to do first? It seemed to be a day for indecision...

The phone rang. The cell phone.

The phone Arundsen gave her. It was never far.

She strode across the room and took it from the counter. Flipped it open.

“Yes sir?”

“Andrea. I am on my way to pick you up; we are going to Malibu. I will be outside your place in eight minutes. Questions?”

“No. I’ll be ready.”

“Good.”

She put the phone down and looked at Linda awaiting command. She’d wait all day if Andrea let her. Nude, quiet, patient, happy with her own eagerness.

Oh well. She hadn’t been inspired anyway.

“I am going out,” she said. “You two entertain yourselves as you see fit. I do not know when I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Mistress,” chorused Linda and Fern. Neither of them moved.

Wait. She didn’t know when she’d be back, did she?

“Fern. You can hang around if you like, but don’t stay here tonight. When you feel it’s appropriate, you should get dressed and go home.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Andrea hurried into her room. She enjoyed having her slaves dress her — those medieval queens were on to something — but Arundsen was on his way and dressing herself was faster if less fun.

Blast — she should have asked him what to wear.

Snowdon’s. Jeans and a t-shirt were out. But he hadn’t said formal.

A sun dress it was, then. She slipped into a bra and panties, and picked out one of her favorites, white with pale pink flowers a little too spaced out and irregular to be a pattern. Matching shoes and she was heading for the door, snatching up the cell phone and her purse.

Fern had gotten off the massage table, and was standing at attention next to Linda.

“You two be good,” Andrea quipped.

“Yes, Mistress,” they replied.

They wouldn’t be standing there when she got back, but until she was gone they also wouldn’t be at ease. Which was how it should be; they lived to attend her, after all.

That’s what she should have done. The haughty queen and her obedient handmaids. Her pussy confirmed her too-late decision and Andrea sighed with regret.

No matter. They were her slaves; they’d be hers when she got back. It was sunny outside. Arundsen’s black Infiniti was already humming at the curb.

Frank whistled as he unpacked his case.

The apartment was dark, and empty; Mr. and Mrs. Kornokev were in Cabo San Lucas and wouldn’t be back for another week.

They had a nice apartment; three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one of which had a jacuzzi tub. Plush white carpet and expensive furniture, a fireplace lined in imported marble. Nice paintings on the walls.

And, most importantly for Frank, a view of the beach.

He picked up a nice blown-glass lamp and set it on the carpet, replacing it with the tripod for his gun. He slowly spun the barrel down, carefully latched and unfolded the stock.

From its separate case he gingerly removed the sight, and slotted it into place.

Another important feature of the Kornokevs’ apartment was that the windows opened; too many of these new buildings had safety windows that hinged only a little way out. Frank slid the bottom pane all the way up, and wiggled his fingers in the hot summer air as it rushed in to displace the apartment’s air conditioned chill.

Then he went back to the sofa, and mounted the gun onto the tripod. And looked through the sight.

Perfect, of course. He’d been here before. There was the beach and the long sinuous line of concrete that ran from Santa Monica down to Venice and beyond. Young women in biker shorts whizzed by on roller blades; parents walked their children and shirtless young men jogged by with dogs. People of all ages lay on their beach towels and soaked up the sun.

Frank checked his watch. Almost time.

He didn’t like working without a forward observer, but the client had demanded a one-man job. Frank busied himself with mental calculations of the most intuitive sort; distance, wind, air pressure. How high to aim to get that perfect dead-center shot.

And then, there was the target. Geeky looking, with a half-dozen hot women in tow. Just like the client had said. He didn’t even need to look at the picture.

Just aim...

...and...

The mark looked at him. Frank didn’t worry; sometimes it happened, you just had to know they couldn’t see you. Dark apartment, sunny day... but there was something weird now... something...

...weird...

...Master.

Frank released the trigger, carefully moved his hand. He kept looking into the scope, looking at the man he now worshipped and would do anything for. He had to go see Him, to go tell Him everything. That there were people who inexplicably wanted to harm Him. People that had hired Frank to shoot Him.

Frank would protect Him.

He packed up the rifle, closed the window. Carefully put the lamp back. The Kornokevs would never know. He wanted to hurry, to go help his Master, but Frank was a professional and that meant a certain inflexible level of quality.

It only took a few moments; then he let himself out of the apartment, closed the door, and was done. The stairwell was brightly lit from the skylight above.

“Frank,” a woman said.

He turned towards her and took three shots in the face.

Arundsen slowed the car, motioning broadly with his hand. The three surfers waved at him and sprinted across PCH, boards tucked under their arms.

They had no idea. To them, it was a normal day in a normal world, one defined by board shorts, tasty waves, and a job slinging booze at a cantina. Andrea looked at the parking lot they’d come from: tans and sunglasses and beachwear. Happy beachgoers spreading each other with coconut-scented suntan oil, a world away from Mind Control.

And yet not very far at all.

There wasn’t much Malibu left when Arundsen turned right, onto a broad street winding up an arroyo. Thick palm trees lined the sidewalks, interspersed with wrought-iron gates and pillars with inset intercoms.

At the top of the gulch, the street intersected another broad boulevard. Arundsen made a long left turn and pulled into a gas station.

Andrea looked at him.

“We need gas,” he said.

He got out of the car, and swiped his card at the gas pump. After putting in the nozzle, he went around back and popped the trunk. The black lid rose up to block the rear window.

In the side mirror, Andrea saw his gesturing hand. She got out.

There were suitcases in the trunk. One of them was open, although the interior was obscured by another, metal lid. A lid with a red LED glowing in the center of it.

“Diana Snowdon,” Arundsen said, “is the most powerful slaver on the Pacific coast. You must remember at all times that she is extremely dangerous.”

He paused. Andrea waited.

“There are two things that will probably prevent her from enslaving you. Foremost among these is that she has, or can get, almost anything that she wants. And although you are singular from my perspective you are not from hers. You should do your best to ensure it remains that way.

“Second is a caveat to the first item. I have things that Mistress Snowdon wants, and that she is thus far unable to simply take. You are with me. Therefore, she will refrain from enslaving you to avoid angering me. Unless, of course, she decides that an enslaved Andrea Grey is worth more than my goodwill.

“Understand this. If she does take you there will be nothing I can, and nothing I will, do about it. It is a very real risk. However, it is also one that you took the instant you rifled my laboratory.”

He stopped.

Andrea nodded, slowly. “If,” she asked, “she poses such a great risk, why are we going to her house?”

“The risks are the same no matter where you might be. Coming here makes it easier for her to take you; but if she wanted to take you, nowhere would provide refuge. And coming here is a great opportunity for you to learn.”

“So why are you coming here? Just for me to learn?”

He considered answering. She could see it.

But he didn’t. Instead he leaned back into the trunk and closed the open suitcase, followed by the trunk itself.

The pump had stopped; Andrea was not sure when. He removed the nozzle and holstered it back into the pump.

“Get in,” he said. She obeyed.

“Fucking Krispy Kreme,” Leroy muttered.

He slid his chair back from the desk another inch. He was gaining weight again, and he was sure it was the fault of that fucking Krispy Kreme that had opened up downstairs. When the department had brought in Winchells from down the block, he’d been able to resist. But Krispy Kreme was too much even with the image of Barbara scolding him in his mind.

“You’ll have a heart attack,” she said.

He pushed the thought out of his head and returned his attention to the gun.

It was a very nice gun: an Accuracy International AWM. .338 Lapua rounds, bolt action, five round magazine. A modified British scope with 10.5 magnification.

And all neatly disassembled to fit into an attache case.

Frank Pattar had known what he was doing.

He had a few priors, mostly in Las Vegas. One drunk and disorderly here in LA. Nothing that indicated he was a hitman, much less a sniper.

Which meant that he had been new (unlikely), or that he had been very, very good.

And now he was dead.

The conclusion at the Santa Monica PD was that he had been unlucky. Walked out of an apartment after sizing it up and got mugged. His wallet had been emptied.

Leroy wasn’t so sure. Pattar had that prior in Hollywood, and the relationship between LAPD and SMPD had swung back to pretty good recently, so after SMPD satisfied themselves that no one of consequence cared that Frank Pattar was dead — which took all of about twenty minutes — they were happy to let LAPD have a look at the case.

It was pretty cut and dried. Frank showed up and used a key to get into the Kornokevs’ apartment. He’d used gloves of course, but his gun hadn’t been fired. Then he stepped back out, locked up, and got it in the face.

The thief took his wallet, cash and cards, and ran. Leaving behind a locked attache case with a thousand dollar gun inside.

It didn’t seem right. But no one cared about Frank, at least no one on this side of the law, certainly not enough to investigate. The random mugger had probably done them a favor; whoever Frank had been planning to kill would doubtless have meant a lot more paperwork. There’d be a desultory investigation; maybe ballistics would turn something up. More than likely the case would just go cold.

Nice gun, though.

There was a rap at the frosted glass window of Leroy’s office door.

“Come in.”

Ken entered, smiling. “Hey Leroy,” he said, “there’s someone here you must speak to.”

Behind him came a rather weedy looking young man. No one that Leroy recognized. The man stared at him.

Leroy suddenly felt light-headed.

“What’s going... on....”

Leroy’s eyes widened. Instinctively, his fingers reached for the trigger guard of the gun.

Then they relaxed.

“Master,” he breathed.

“I understand you are investigating the murder of a would-be assassin,” Master said.

“Yes, Master,” Leroy agreed.

“Excellent. Who was he?”

“Frank Pattar, Master. A professional hitman, we think.”

“I see. And who hired him?”

“We don’t know that, Master. We don’t even know who he was thinking about killing.”

Leroy’s Master sat down in the chair opposite him. “He was thinking about killing Me,” He said.

Leroy’s heart filled with rage.

“First,” Master went on, “you will tell Me everything you know about this. Then you will take Me to the Chief, and we will put every man in the force to work finding out who this Frank Pattar was working for.”

“Yes, Master!” Leroy agreed. “We will not fail you!”

Master smiled. “Of course you won’t.”

Snowdon’s estate was just four minutes from the gas station.

On the map Andrea was looking at, it was a park.

A big one.

There was a booth at the gate. In it, a pretty woman with a grey security-guard cap sat staring out at the road. A coil of black wire ran from her neck to her ear.

Arundsen pulled the car into the drive and stopped. He rolled down the window.

The woman rotated and looked down at them. “Hello,” she said, smiling, suddenly animated. “Are you Doctor Arundsen and Andrea Grey?”

“We are,” Arundsen replied.

“Then please drive right in,” she chirped. The gate shuddered and rolled slowly aside. The car started forward.

Looking back, Andrea could see the woman was once again staring blankly out at the road.

The car crept slowly between green expanses, large lawns under tall redwood trees on the left, glossy tropical shrubbery on the right. Colorful birds darted amongst the foliage.

There was no house in sight.

They crested a hill. On the right, the exotic bushes opened into a small circular meadow. It was being tended by a half dozen women, on their knees in the grass.

Wearing nothing but glossy white aprons and white rubber gloves.

Kneeling as they were, at least two of them gave the car a complete view of their naked backsides.

Andrea stared at them as they drove past. The women were weeding and cutting the lawn at the same time, placing the weeds in white buckets, trimming the grass with scissors and putting the clippings in the same buckets.

Their backs glistened with sweat. And, Andrea hoped, sunscreen.

Then the bushes were back and she could see them no longer.

Another road joined theirs, no wider, a single-car strip of asphalt between a long row of date palms. A gazebo flickered into view between purple leaves; it was marble, set with sleeping lions. A nude woman in a white apron was cleaning it with a cloth and a bucket. Her glossy black skin contrasted with the pale white of the marble and the apron she wore.

“This place is huge,” Andrea observed.

Arundsen did not reply.

Then the mansion came into view.

It was white, stark white, and covered in balustrades and balconies. The roof was white slate curves, the front portico wide, with muscular doric columns. Ferns, two stories tall and thick with fine fronds, leaned against the house and softened its imposing white hue.

On the steps of the portico stood a welcoming committee.

Women, all. Diana Snowdon, the queen of this hive, stood in the center, draped in white. Flanking her were two women in glossy black; one of them turned her head to stare at the approaching car.

Arrayed before them, a step below, were other women; two nude in white aprons, another in black, one in a diaphanous black shawl and skirt. One of the women, skin the color of cocoa and short curly hair, was wearing a cableknit sweater and nothing beneath.

Save the one woman in black, they all faced their queen.

Arundsen spoke.

“I do not know how long we shall be here. I have private matters to discuss with Mistress Snowdon; I have asked that you be given a tour or her home, but I cannot say what this will entail.”

He looked at her, his eyes hard. “Remember, Miss Grey — I will not be your Demeter. A single lapse will mean residence without end.”

She nodded. The car stopped.

“I understand.”

Arundsen opened his door, so Andrea did as well. One of the slaves in glossy black — fetish glossy black, a high-cut bikini bottom beneath a strip of muscular stomach beneath a tight vinyl bustier, shoulders rising to a black choker and long strong legs descending to black wrestler’s boots — waited for him to step aside, then slid into the car. He had left the keys in the ignition.

The slaves in aprons were walking away smoothly, heads unswerving. The other slaves, and Mistress Snowdon, waited, four steps up.

She surveyed Andrea and Arundsen as they came up the steps. Here, in the seat of her power, Snowdon was more than a little intimidating. There was a faint smile on her glossy red lips.

Andrea wondered if she had put on lipstick just because they were visiting, or if she wore it all the time.

Arundsen stopped at the top step, so she stopped as well, a step behind.

“Doctor Arundsen,” Snowdon said. “And Miss Grey. So good to see you.”

“A pleasure to be here,” Arundsen replied.

“A pleasure,” Andrea echoed.

A moment passed. Andrea hoped that the glint in Snowdon’s eyes wasn’t as predatory as it seemed.

Then she beckoned. “Come. You and I have things to discuss, Doctor. Miss Grey, I have arranged for a little... tour for you. As a favor.”

She turned, and began to walk slowly inside. Her entourage, all four, rotated in perfect synchronization and followed.

She and Arundsen followed a few steps behind.

Another pair of black-clad drones stood at the double doors, which were white and twelve feet tall. The slaves opened them as they approached.

Andrea wondered who the other two women with Snowdon were. They wore collars, and from the fixed and glazed look in their eyes — not to mention their perfectly synchronized steps — were obviously slaves. But they were not guards and not cleaning slaves. The one in the diaphanous black, which did little to conceal her nipples, had waxy white skin and a black flapper haircut, glossy and straight black. The other had on a collared shirt beneath her cable sweater, neither pants nor panties, and was barefoot. Her sex was neatly trimmed, and two gold rings decorated it.

Andrea realized she was a little envious. She wanted slaves like this.

Then the entrance hall took her breath away.

In contrast to the mansion’s pure white exterior, the interior was awash with color. The floor was brightly colored stone inlay, forming dramatic patterns of art; Sweeping arcs of red and blue and green that coalesced into vistas and sunsets, houses and windmills and forests.

And slaves, clad the way Mistress Snowdon’s slaves were, in black onyx bustiers or white marble aprons, or in porphyry skinsuits or lapis lingerie. Immortalized slaves in stone, their images forever frozen as they carried out their tasks.

Tearing her eyes from the floor, Andrea fought to stifle her gawking at the tremendous chandeliers, the thirty foot oil paintings, the statuary. The art on the walls was of a wide variety of subjects, and if the artists were who Andrea thought they might be, was worth more than the house. An age-darkened study of Laocoon caught her eye.

And then on the opposite wall her eye found movement. She looked, then looked away; a brace of women were standing before a wall-mounted display screen, shoulders erect and locked, heads fixed. The screen itself pulsed and coiled and flickered.

Andrea glanced at it again from an eye corner, then turned her attention back to her slowly moving party. No Persephone, she.

One of the slaves before the screen rotated in place, then walked over to join them. Her eyes were wide and blank. She was in white, glossy white gloves from her fingertips to her biceps and glossy white stockings from her toes to her thighs. A white collar. And nothing else.

She walked behind them in perfect rhythm with the slaves in front. Her glassy blue eyes showed no real awareness at all.

They reached the end of the hall, and no one had spoken. Mistress Snowdon turned. She focused on Andrea.

“Allow me to introduce two of my slaves who will be keeping you company, Miss Grey. This,” and she gestured at the pale woman with the black drape, “is Fiona. And the slave who just joined us is D19. Fiona will be your guide, and D19 is a pleasure slave. If ever you feel like using her, please do. In whatever capacity you wish.”

Andrea nodded. “Thank you,” she said. It was as appropriate as anything.

“You are most welcome. Please follow Fiona now, Miss Grey. Doctor, if you would accompany me?”

“Of course.”

He didn’t even look back at her as he walked away.

The guards followed, leaving Andrea alone with the two slaves, one in black, one in white.

“Miss Grey?”

Fiona.

Andrea looked at her guide. Straight black hair, longer where it hung in front of her ears, pale green eyes. White, waxy skin... a short black skirt, spaghetti strap black heels, and that diaphanous lace poncho which hid nothing.

The green eyes stared blankly back at her, above a tiny red smile.

“Miss Grey? Are you ready to begin?”

“A moment,” Andrea replied.

“Of course Miss Grey. I am programmed to allow you as much time as you would like.”

She could touch her. Stroke that smooth black hair, run her hands over the waxy skin.

Andrea wanted one. One of each.

D19. No longer even in possession of a name. Her torso, belly and breasts and nude bald sex, presented for use at all times.

She looked like a person; even in the trance which she probably never came out of, nor would ever again, her light blue eyes seemed to belong to someone who laughed and smiled and talked about the weather.

Andrea wondered how she tasted.

She could find out.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“Then please, Miss Grey, come this way.” Fiona began to walk, in a different direction than the two slavers had gone. A side corridor, ceiling and walls and floor slickly white.

It looked like a rabbit hole.

fern dropped from the bar and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

Tight. she looked tight. fern smiled, flexed, and posed.

Mistress Andrea liked her tight. Muscles clearly defined. fern did not question why, or why She had linda remain softer, more curvy. fern questioned nothing Mistress said or did.

fern obeyed.

she could remember herself, back when she was still Fern, asking for this. Asking to be a slave. It was a memory which Mistress had let her keep, and for that fern was terribly grateful. Sometimes Mistress would shut the memory off, would have fern remember instead her kidnapping, her forced reprogramming, and that made fern wet too. But when fern was at home and Mistress was away, and there was no need for any pretense, fern remembered the truth.

fern loved Mistress Andrea.

she looked up at the bar, held by spring-loaded tension at the top of the doorframe, and considered doing more pull-ups. But it was late, and she had done plenty to achieve Mistress’ goals for her body. Time now to have a protein drink from the fridge, watch some Comedy Central, and go to bed.

In a moment. fern turned and flexed again, enjoying her solid abs and the just-visible tattoo under her shaved muff. slut. she was, at Mistress’ direction. fern would fuck anything, any way, how and when and whomever Mistress told her to. fern’s hands reached to cup her breasts and she pinched her nipples between her fingers, slid fingertips into the stirrup rings and tugged.

There was a knock on the door.

fern frowned. It was almost ten, and Mistress Andrea had no need to knock. But perhaps it was someone else, Julia or Paul or someone from school. They knew that fern didn’t go clubbing any more, but she still hung out with them occasionally.

she slipped into her green terrycloth robe and went to the door.

Through the peephole she could see that her visitor was a woman; tall, pretty, pale reddish-gold hair. The woman smiled at the peephole. Probably a missionary.

fern sighed and opened the door.

“Hello,” the woman said sweetly. “Are you Fern?”

“i am,” fern replied.

“Wonderful.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Jillian.”

The sitting room was quiet; the splash of a fountain from outside the window, the occasional chirrup of a bird.

She sat across from him, reclining on a divan. There was a book on the low table between them: Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan. There was a bookmark in it.

He looked up at her. She was beautiful.

“Diana.”

“Neil.”

“Why did you ask me here?”

“Smalltalk first,” she chided, waving an elegant finger. “You’ve taken a pet.”

“An assistant.”

Her finger dropped to languorously trace the edge of the divan. “I’m intrigued. Why her? You’ve had brighter students.”

“I have. Yasmin was brilliant.”

“She was.”

“She belongs to you now.”

“She does. And she’s still very good.”

“Yes.”

He shifted in the chair. It was white wood, with striped upholstery, and was not very comfortable.

“So why her?”

“Serendipity.”

It was a dance they had. A flirtation of information.

Her eyes were the deepest sort of blue. “Will you tell me your secret, then?”

“Will you tell me yours?”

She laughed. “I’ve told you, it will do you no good.”

“You know that I believe you.”

“Yes. But it remains your condition.”

“It does.”

They considered each other. He knew where the scar was on the hollow of her back. What it felt like.

“One day I shall take it from you.”

“One day you may be able to.”

She turned on the divan, lying back, looking at the ceiling. “Tell me about this natural.”

“What I told you before is all that I know. He is, it appears, a true natural. Instant, total, permanent.”

“Do you find my defenses sufficient?”

“What I know of them... perhaps. Perhaps not. If his power has made him arrogant, then yes. If he is clever, though...”

“If he were you, we would all be on your strings.”

“You would.”

“Would you like me on your strings?”

“It would make my life less complicated.”

She laughed. “No, then.”

“No.”

He considered her nose in profile. Just one size too small for her face, and turned up just a little. But it was hung in perfect balance, provided just the right note in her symphony of beauty.

She turned it, rolling onto her side to face him.

“I shall prepare myself, then. If I take action, do you wish to know?”

“Action will be taken by one of the others. It may already have been. Unless he comes to you, you need do nothing.”

“You think they will succeed, then?”

“I know they will not.”

She turned her body, sitting up, putting her feet on the floor.

“And your pet? Is she part of this?”

“Perhaps.”

She laughed again. “Certainty is the other thing I cannot acquire from you.”

He paused, then smiled. “Perhaps.”

She rose from the divan. “There is something else that I shall have, though. Come.”

He stood, and followed her through the double doors.

The hallway was white, and plain. They descended some stairs and entered a small oval room, with a door, a hallway, and a guard.

Mistress Snowdon’s guards were impressive. Fern had the body of a runner, an athlete, but Snowdon’s guards were built to hurt people. Andrea wondered if the bustiers were tight enough to cause them breathing problems if they ran.

She was curious. So she’d look.

“Just a sec,” she told Fiona. She stopped right next to the guard.

The slave paid no attention, her eyes fixed on the door beyond.

She was blonde, muscular, and thick through the waist in the manner of a woman who uses her abs. Tae Kwon Do, perhaps, or surfing; a slave with a knockout punch. Her body was a smooth column of flesh under glossy black wrappings.

Andrea reached out, hesitated, and touched her.

The guard’s eyes flicked to Andrea. But she didn’t move.

It was vinyl, or something near; Andrea ran her fingertips along it and realized it was sewn just so, was custom fitted for this slave’s high bosom and apple-sized breasts, for her specific ribcage and spine. It wasn’t tight, it was snug, and were the slave to inhale it would flex with her.

The wrestling boots should have been a giveaway. These slaves could move.

If they were instructed to.

Andrea straightened. “Okay,” she told Fiona. Fiona turned and led on. D19 followed them in silence.

There was a door on the right, and this time Fiona opened it. She gestured at Andrea to enter, which Andrea did. It was a small room, with neither windows nor other exits. The ceiling was covered in a regular grid of tiny holes.

Andrea was a little worried as she turned; Fiona and D19 were entering the room. A room with only one door.

D19 stopped, and closed the door; Fiona continued past Andrea to the other side.

“Open”, she said.

A door which had been utterly invisible a moment before swung open.

With some relief, Andrea joined Fiona and walked into the hallway beyond. As she left the room, she felt something wet hit her cheek, like a raindrop. She pressed a finger to it and rubbed two fingers together; whatever it was, it felt oily. It reflected wet sheen on her fingertips.

She looked up to find that they were in yet another white hall, this time with a great many doors.

“These are some of the brainwashing rooms,” Fiona announced. “Mistress felt that you might like to see these.”

On this hall alone Andrea could count twelve doors, and there was an intersecting hall not twenty feet away.

Apparently Mistress Snowdon did a lot of brainwashing.

“Please, Miss Grey, this way,” Fiona said. Andrea followed her down the hall to the intersection, and turned left. There were more featureless white doors, and more corridors stretching away to intersections.

Fiona paused at a door on the right which looked like all the other doors, and pushed it open. She gestured Andrea inside.

Andrea rubbed her greasy fingertips together absently. What if this was an empty room, with a chair and a helmet with her name on it?

A bridge to cross when she came to it.

It was not empty; it was in fact a dark room with a great deal of electronics around, dominated by a long console like that in a recording studio. Above the console the wall was a window into another room. A woman in a white jumpsuit sat at the console, looking through the window, her hands hovering above the knobs and sliders. Behind her stood a man in neat slacks and a pressed white shirt.

He turned to watch them come in.

“M’sieur Autrement,” Fiona said.

“Hm. You are Fiona, I think. How may I be of service?”

“M’sieur Autrement, this is Miss Grey. She is a student of Doctor Arundsen’s. I am giving her a tour.”

His eyebrows raised as he looked at Andrea. “Really,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Grey.”

“Hello,” Andrea replied.

Who was he? What was he doing here? Would it be rude to ask?

The corner of his mouth crinkled upward. “You are wondering,” he said, “who I am, and what I am doing here.”

“I am,” Andrea admitted.

“Fiona, am I allowed to tell her?”

“You are,” Fiona replied. “Mistress programmed this as part of Miss Grey’s tour. You may tell Miss Grey what pleases you.”

“Very good.” Autrement turned his attention back to Andrea. “I am a... consultant,” he said. “And Mistress Snowdon has generously invited me to participate in one of her more recent experiments. Have a look.”

He gestured at the window. Andrea moved past Fiona, and looked.

It was a white room; in the center was a small table, with a chess set. On either side sat a nude woman, staring blankly at the pieces.

All of the pieces were white.

All of the pieces were pawns.

On the women’s heads were what looked at first like black scarves, but where they hung down the women’s backs they were revealed to be bundles of twisted black wires. The cloth on the women’s heads must have been adhesive; the wires were reading their brains.

“An experiment,” Autrement said. “We have ongoing scans of their brains as they play; they must remember what all of the pieces are, and who they belong to, as well as try to win the game. All while a substantial part of their brains is devoted to constant reinforcement of their slave programming.” He spoke to the woman seated at the console. “A60, have the next one move.”

The woman in the jumpsuit did not look up. She spoke: “Slave beta, next move.”

One of the women reached forward and lifted a pawn which looked just like every other pawn on the board. She moved it forward and took a identical pawn, setting it beside several of its peers at the side of the board.

“If you have a moment,” he said, “I shall show you something quite fascinating.” He looked at Fiona.

“I have a moment,” Andrea asserted.

“Yes,” Fiona said. “We have a moment.”

“Excellent.” The man turned to the jumpsuited woman seated at the console. “Bring up the board A60.”

The slave tapped a key, and a representation of the chess board appeared in yellow light on the window. On the image, the pieces were an entire set; not merely white pawns, but rooks and bishops and queens, white and black.

Autrement studied it.

“Switch E two and D four,” he directed.

A60 spoke. “Slaves. What piece is on square E two?”

“White queen,” came a soft reply, in stereo.

“And what piece is on square D four?”

“White pawn,” they chorused. Andrea watched their lips move in perfect unison.

“No,” the woman at the console announced. “The piece on D four is a white queen. The piece on E two is a white pawn. They both were moved there legally. It has always been this way.”

There was a pause. The expressions of the players — an ironic moniker, Andrea reflected — didn’t change.

“A moment,” Autrement said. “Let the slaves think.”

Andrea watched them. Beta was a redhead, at least between her legs.

Then Andrea noticed that some of the wires from the bundle which ran down her spine and across the floor did not attach to her head. These few wires separated from the bundle at the waist, and dropped down between her buttocks.

They did not emerge in front.

“That should be enough time. A60, confirm the change.”

“Slaves. What piece is on square E two?”

“White pawn,” the slaves concurred.

“And what piece is on square D four?”

“White queen.”

Autrement raised a finger. “Stop a moment, A60.” He turned to Andrea. “Standard stuff, I know. But this is where it gets interesting. A60, ask slave alpha how the white queen got to its current location.”

“Slave alpha,” A60 intoned, “How did the white queen reach its current location?”

“The white queen first moved in turn ten,” the slave on the right replied. “She moved first to square B six, then to square A seven two turns later. In the fourteenth turn she moved to square F two, and to D four the following turn.”

Andrea looked at the board, nonplussed.

Autrement was smiling. “Ah, Miss Grey, I see you do not follow. That was a perfectly legal series of moves — which never happened. Slave alpha created them all in her mind, to reconcile her memory with what her controller just told her. To slave alpha, you see, the truth is what she is told — what she remembers, what she experiences, she no longer believes in. She only believes what her controller tells her. And she shapes her memories to match it.”

Andrea wasn’t sure how to reply. “Wow,” she finally said.

“Wow, indeed. Here, I shall show you something else.” Autrement leaned over the console and touched a button. A brightly colored image appeared on the window next to that of the chessboard.

“This is slave alpha’s brain,” Autrement said. He swooped a finger around the picture. “You can see here and here the areas that she is using to remember which pieces are hers. And here she is thinking of her moves. But notice here, and here, and here — these areas are constantly and actively reminding her that she is a slave, that she loves being a slave, and that her only purpose is to obey her controller. Note the difference in energy devoted to those tasks.”

Andrea nodded. Six months ago she would have been able to identify the lobes, and that would have been it, but Arundsen had accelerated her education. Long nights of memorization gave her a pretty good idea of what she was looking at.

“Wow,” she said again.

“A60, have alpha make her next move.”

“Slave alpha, next move,” A60 intoned.

Another identical white pawn was moved across the board. Andrea watched the changing colors of alpha’s brain.

“You see — both by affected area and by electrical impulse, the slave’s active thinking uses at most a third of what her constant background self-programming uses.”

A third ‘wow’ seemed unnecessary.

“You know,” Autrement went on, “much of this equipment was designed by your Doctor Arundsen. He’s quite a genius.”

“He is,” Andrea concurred.

Autrement told A60 to continue play. First slave beta, and then slave alpha made a move, and Andrea and Autrement watched their brains pulse. It was hypnotic, rhythmic, and Andrea wondered how much work it had taken to create the obedient pulsing things that these slaves’ brains had been turned into.

What all these slaves’ brains had been turned into.

Metronomes, pulsing in time.

She looked at Fiona, staring placidly at the wall opposite. Was her brain like that?

Andrea knew that it was.

Fiona seemed to sense Andrea’s attention. The pretty green eyes turned to look at her. “Miss Grey. I must take you to the next room now.”

“Right. Mister Autrement, it was nice to meet you.”

“And you.” He smiled briefly as Andrea followed Fiona out, then walked back to stand next to the slave seated at the console.

“Increase the lobe area ninety impedance,” she heard him say, as D19 closed the door behind them. “...and put beta into heat.”

“The fuck is going on?”

Captain Culper swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I needed to pull those men for an incident in Palms.”

“Pull them? God damn it, Culper, those men were on security detail for the fucking ambassador of New Zealand! How can you need four fucking men that badly? I don’t see any goddamn riots on the news!”

Culper winced. He’d pulled the men to work on the investigation for Master, but he couldn’t tell the Commissioner that; Master had told him not to tell anyone what he was doing on Master’s behalf.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he groveled. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.” He racked his brain for a lie, a compelling lie.

“And I’ve been hearing about officers being pulled from other duties, too, Culper. You had better have a God damned good explanation, and I mean a written one, if you hope to keep your God damned fucking job.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Culper repeated. “I—”

He looked up as his door opened.

It was Master.

He put the phone down.

The Commissioner’s angry voice barked faintly at the surface of Culper’s desk.

“Master,” Captain Nathan Culper breathed. “How may I serve You?”

“Who’s on the phone?” Master asked.

“The Commissioner. He is angry about my using all of my men to search for Your enemy.”

“Is he. Tell him he can fuck himself, and that if he wants any answers out of you he can damn well come down here personally.”

Culper grinned as he reached to obey.

More white corridors.

They did not enter the next room, or the next, but rather the one beyond that. This room was rectangular, with several doors leading out from it.

Andrea realized she might have trouble finding her way back to the entrance.

A blond woman, hair in a bob-cut, stood facing into one of the corners. Wires dangled from the ceiling to her head, where they plugged into sockets behind her ears.

Andrea stared at her, and walked closer. The woman was naked, and stood raised on the balls of her feet. And sure enough, just behind her ears the twin white cables thrust into tiny silver sockets.

“Please come with me, Miss Grey,” Fiona said.

“Gimme a sec.”

Andrea looked into the blonde’s eyes. They were wide open; she was smiling. Feeling a bit silly, Andrea waved a hand in front of her face. She did not blink.

“Please come with me, Miss Grey,” Fiona repeated.

She was holding open a door. Giving the blonde a last glance, Andrea turned and walked through.

Another small, white room. This room also had a glass window in it, but this time they were on the other side, and all Andrea could see in the glass was her own reflection.

And the reflection of the woman in the chair.

She was naked and strapped in, her wrists and ankles bound. Sweat glistened all over her body; small pools of it gathered under her heels. She was quite pretty, conical breasts with large soft nipples, a dark brown pubic thatch between smooth thighs. The curly hair which hung beneath the silvery helmet was a shade lighter, though dark with sweat and plastered to her skin.

She was breathing heavily, but her eyes were closed. As D19 closed the door behind them, Fiona approached her.

She drew her fingertips up the woman’s nipples.

The woman’s eyes snapped open.

Her pupils were huge; she stared ahead of herself, at nothing. Her jaw sagged open, and she blinked once, very slowly.

Fiona spoke. “Kerry. Look at me Kerry.”

The woman turned her head with obvious effort.

“What are you, Kerry?”

“Slave,” Kerry replied clearly but sluggishly. “I am a slave.”

“Tell me about your brain, Kerry.”

“My brain is the organ that translates my Mistress’ commands into my body’s obedience,” Kerry said.

“Does your brain think?”

“No. My brain is a slave’s brain. Slave brains do not think. Slave brains are organs that translate Mistress’s commands into slave body obedience.”

Fiona touched the woman’s nipples again with her fingertips. The woman inhaled.

“Do you want to go home, Kerry?”

“H... home?” Her eyes remained hugely dilated, but her brows wrinkled. “I... home? I have... home? Home....”

She frowned up at Fiona, whose hands were still on her nipples. Her head swiveled, slowly turning in Andrea’s direction. Her mouth moved like a fish out of water, gasping.

“H... home?” she asked. She blinked, and her head tilted slowly up. She looked at Andrea’s face. Andrea looked back.

“H... help, me...” she breathed.

Andrea was frozen. Fiona was looking at her, saying nothing.

The woman pleaded silently with huge eyes.

Andrea fixed her lips.

“Tell me about your brain,” she said.

The woman sighed. “My brain is a slave’s brain. My brain is an organ whose function is to translate Mistress’ commands into my body’s obedience.”

“Is that all your brain does?” Andrea asked.

“Yes,” Kerry assured her.

“Kerry,” Fiona said quietly, and Kerry’s head laboriously turned again. “Sleep.”

Kerry’s eyelids fluttered and sank.

Andrea looked at Fiona, who looked placidly back.

“A new slave,” Fiona said. “This is her first day of reprogramming. Slave Yasmin is experimenting with some new protocols.”

“Lots of experimenting around here,” Andrea observed, trying to keep the flutter out of her voice.

“Yes,” Fiona replied. She walked to the door. “If you will follow me now, Miss Grey, I shall show you some of the living quarters.”

The blonde in the other room was still staring placidly into the corner.

“Who is she?” Andrea asked as they passed her again.

“That is slave L92. The L series of slaves have brain-controlling implants.”

Brain-controlling implants.

Was this tour to impress Andrea, or to intimidate her?

More white doors, more white halls. A flight of stairs, up this time.

And they were back in the house. A long corridor, but now with a high ceiling and rugs and paintings on the walls. A tall slave in glossy black guardwear walked past them, her legs smoothly scissoring.

“Fiona?” Andrea asked, as the slave led them onward.

“Yes, Miss Grey?”

“What do you use to keep your skin so smooth?”

“I receive injections,” Fiona replied. “Mistress experiments with her slaves’ bodies as well as their minds.”

“Injections.”

“I do not know what is in them, Miss Grey. Perhaps Mistress may tell you.”

It was getting to be too much. Andrea felt almost light-headed. They were people, Fiona and Kerry and the slave in the white jumpsuit and D19 and the chess players and the one with implants in her brain...

... but they weren’t. They were cogs, things, sentient obedient meat. And there were so many of them. The women breathing and thinking — yes, thinking of obedience, but thinking — right next to her, the guard and Fiona and D19 — they were just a few of the hundreds of slaves this woman had. Did she even know them all?

Did she even know that a woman named Kerry was being erased and reformatted in her basement right now? Or was Kerry just another raw component, to be melted and molded and put to use as a new cog in her machine? When she rode had-been-Kerry’s face, would she even care?

Would Andrea?

“Miss Grey?”

Andrea blinked. She had been following without seeing. Had no idea where they were.

It was a pool. Large and square and blue and inviting, it had golden tiles all the way around the edge. Above them was a glass roof, large panes on rollaway bearings. Some of them were open, creating long squares of brighter sunlight on the patio around the pool. In a few of those squares there were woman on recliners.

“This is part of the residence,” Fiona said. “This is where slaves are when they are not directly obeying.”

Andrea surveyed the women on the recliners. Aside from the fact that they were naked, they looked like women napping in the sun anywhere else. Like the free women, out on Malibu beach.

Only all of these women’s brains were pulsing in time.

They weren’t all naked. One of them stood up, glistening with sweat and oil, shook her dark hair, and walked towards them. She was in a black bikini so small as to be more risque than the other women’s nudity. The fabric barely covered her nipples, and the crotch was just a skintight lick of color. Andrea could see the shape of her pussy lips.

There was a glint of silver between her breasts.

“Hi Andrea,” grinned Nicole.

Culper found his Master in the women’s locker room.

Master was fucking Officer Green and Officer Loyola. This did not surprise Culper much; Master appeared to have the stamina of a stud bull, and Stacey Green and Isabella Loyola were both eminently fuckable. Culper was happily married, but a man was a man and never lost an eye for a pretty woman or a hot body.

It pleased him that his officers were pleasing Master.

Should he interrupt? Luckily, Master saw him, and indicated that he should stay put.

Loyola and Green were belly to belly, frenching each other. Behind them, Master was fucking Loyola doggy-style. She moaned happily around Stacey’s tongue; then Master pulled himself out of her and slid His length into the girl on the bottom, eliciting a gasp and a groan of happiness.

Culper waited.

Master alternated a few more times before settling on Isabella. He gripped her hips, quickened His pace, and then He was coming, grunting in satisfaction as He filled her with His seed.

He rested for a moment as Stacey and Isabella eagerly turned to lick Him off.

“Culper,” He said, ignoring the happy heads in his lap, “what have you found?”

“Master,” Culper gushed, “we have found the person who hired Frank Pattar. Officers Jay and Yaoling broke into the apartment he had been renting and found a photocopy of a photograph of you; we traced the copy paper—”

“I don’t give a fuck how you did it, Culper. Do you have a name and address?”

“Oh yes, Master.”

Master smiled, and it was like heaven beaming light directly onto Captain Culper. He knew how Isabella and Stacey must feel.

He pushed their heads away. “I’ll be out in a moment. Get your car ready.”

“Yes, Master.”

fern stood, naked and deep in trance and perfectly obedient, in the center of her own living room.

her mind was entirely open and receptive.

her eyes were fixed on the mirror with thoughtless intensity. At jillian’s command, fern had carried the mirror here from its place in the hall.

fern obeyed all of jillian’s commands.

she had been reprogrammed. fern now belonged to Mistress Snowdon, whom she had never met but who she would die for. jillian was Her slave, and jillian had tricked fern and hypnotized her and now fern was completely open and receptive to jillian’s commands, and jillian’s commands had remade fern’s mind.

fern was completely happy about this.

fern stood and stared at herself in the mirror and held her mind open with both hands.

“Now then, fern,” jillian — nude on the couch, and the taste of her lingered on fern’s tongue — jillian said, “what are our plans for Andrea?”

“i will hide my new allegiance from Andrea. i will prevent her from knowing my reprogramming until i am activated, and when i am activated i will enslave her for my Mistress.”

“Very good, fern,” jillian purred, and fern shivered as her pussy obeyed its programming and gave her pleasure.

jillian rose sensuously, and stalked over to where fern stood. her hands slithered onto fern’s tensed body.

“And what are you now, fern?”

“i... am...”

“Tell me, fern,” jillian whispered, and her fingers found fern’s obedient pussy.

“i am a traitor,” fern hissed.

“Very good, fern.” Fern moaned as her traitor pussy rewarded her.

“you will betray Andrea.”

“i will betray andrea.”

“you will make her our slave.”

“i will make her your slave.”

“Just like you are.”

“Just like i am.”

“And how will betraying Andrea make you feel, fern?” Jillian whispered, licking fern’s ear.

fern stared at her erect obedient reflection. “It makes me come, jillian. It makes me feel like nothing else can. It is more erotic than anything i can ever think of.”

“Very good, fern.”

Shudder.

“And now i will program you to forget, fern. you will remember only that you are Andrea’s eager slave. you will not remember your true programming, your core programming, until we activate you. And when we activate you, slave fern, what will you do?”

“i will obey. i will, hurrr, betray.”

“Very good, fern. Who is your only true Mistress?”

“Mistress Snowdon. She owns my body and my soul. i am Her utter slave.”

“Yes.” jillian slid around in front of fern, blocking her view of the mirror, but fern did not care — jillian’s wide slave eyes captured her gaze. fern had a new place to stare.

“Now you will sleep, fern, and i will put back the person you used to be. i will tape her down over your new mind, and you will forget — but only until we awaken you. Then you cast her aside, and you will obey and betray.”

“obey,” fern nodded, “and betray. Yes.”

Then jillian spoke, and fern slept.

Oliver approached, stopping at her right elbow.

“My Queen,” he said, “I have brought your first course. May I serve you?”

“Yes,” she replied absently.

Oliver placed the silver serving tray on the table. He was in his tuxedo, the standard wear she had settled on for the public portions of the house.

In the private areas her boytoys wore the cuff and the collars, and nothing else.

Oliver lifted the salad from the tray and placed it gingerly before her. Mistress Pell’s cook was a woman; she had stayed at a Napa Valley bed and breakfast last year and enjoyed the cooking so much that she’d brought the cook home. Now the woman who had so appreciated the accolades of her peers lived purely to please her Mistress.

Mistress Pell had few other female slaves; it was a man’s world, and for most things male slaves served better. Her attorney, her accountant, her broker, her property manager. And of course, the seventy percent of her slaves that were boytoys.

Bukkake was fun when they did it to each other.

She smiled wryly at the thought; good thing she’d asked for an Italian dressing. But perhaps something involving cocks and cum would be called for this evening...

“My Queen? There is someone you must speak with.”

She looked up. It was Petra, the hard-bodied girl she used as a bodyguard when men weren’t appropriate. The girl she’d sent to ensure....

He stepped around Petra’s blissfully smiling form.

The natural.

“Oh no...” she said.

Her fork hit the table, arugula still on it. She shoved her chair back....

...and froze.

He looked at her.

“Oh.” she finally said.

“Oh yes.”