The Naked Woman
8
On the way to her sale, Natalie could appreciate the irony of her situation. At the time, she still possessed the mental capacity to do this.
She was not unaware that the ostensible reason for everything that had happened to her—as much as any motive could be applied to a series of events so outlandish, so otherworldly and strange—was that she had seen a naked slut on the street that no one else could. A naked slut very much now like her.
She had seen this naked woman; she had been noticed in this unavoidable seeing of her; and, so, she had been caught up by the same people who had undoubtedly done to her that which she had so recently suffered. Natalie wondered if she and that naked woman would ever one day meet.
Now, she was caught in the same situation, still in possession of her mind, for the time being, and her eyes wandered this way and that, looking for passersby and unable to keep from looking.
The reason for her fear: she didn’t want anybody else to be caught like her.
There were some who could see, she understood. While most of the “people” around her were blank and mannequin-like, and Natalie knew they could not perceive her; there were some she still saw as human, and by some weird reciprocity Natalie knew that if they tried—if they really, really tried—they would see her too. After all, she herself had done it.
Now, Natalie’s movements were guided. They were Leashed. All she could do was look at the, perhaps, one in a hundred men or women among the countless faceless mannequins around her, and pray, pray that none of them saw her, as she had once seen.
Her anxiety, for them (no longer for herself, for she had long since given up hope), fortunately, was not long in lasting.
Since she was unable to accurately judge neither distance nor duration, Natalie’s arrival at the stadium came as a terrific shock. Under other circumstances, she would have gasped in awe. Guided down bewildering streets beneath a glowing yet cold second sun, sensing the three gorgeous but mind-enslaved women walking in-step behind her, they turned a corner, and, suddenly, there it was, the auditorium, a fantastically huge structure sandwiched between a complex of unidentified buildings to every side. It was huge, and, like the golden statue she had observed in her earlier trip through the city, it was obvious from the start that the city planners, knowingly or unknowingly, their hands guided—Leashed?—by the Men for whom she now lusted, had built everything around this massive edifice.
It hadn’t been placed in the city. The city had been placed around it.
The impression it made on Natalie was like one might have had taking a leisurely stroll, expecting to see nothing unusual or sight-worthy and then unexpectedly coming across the Roman Coliseum. Imagine: not knowing one was even in Rome, and then coming across its huge Coliseum, or the size equivalent.
That was the impression the building had on Natalie’s daunted senses.
Nevertheless, such was the power of the Leash in her mind that she missed not a single step but instead casually walked toward this awe-inspiring sight. The crowds of blanked, ambulatory mannequins, and the one or two people Natalie still saw as people, thinned as the four doll-women made their way to its towering walls. There were countless doorways, but, unerringly, Natalie felt herself drawn to one specific entrance. It opened long before she reached it, and as if she had approached that way in every day of her life Natalie minced through it, her black high heels clicking on the hard marble beneath her.
Everything was so big. Everything was so glorious. Living in the city—living in the modern world, for that matter—one becomes accustomed to the general grunginess of things. Graffiti. Gum on the sidewalk. Pigeon crap. Even stray pieces of paper blown about by the wind, making everything look untidy. None of that was apparent in the magnificence of the auditorium. Its lofty ramparts gleamed with fresh paint. No cracks were visible in any of the large square marble tiles upon which she stepped, each at least—as far as her diminished ability to judge dimensions could indicate—twice her own size.
Everything was shiny. Polished. Natalie could see her reflection beneath her, see her huge boobs bounce enticingly as she began to high step, like a pony, knees raising high, heels tapping loudly as they fell back down, in perfect unison with the three sluts behind her, each single loud tap echoing in the general silence that had otherwise fallen upon them once they were inside. A high, vaulted ceiling, like the inside of a cathedral, rose above Natalie, and that ceiling glowed with the expense-be-damned gleam of refined gold inlaid into every sharp corner, into many intricate designs that she could not read.
The four women high-stepped through the middle of what, as soon as Natalie’s eyes fully took in the sights, a huge corridor, one large enough to race cars through, if one had been so inclined.
Large windows were set high in the walls above, but for some reason they only let in the light of the cold sun, and its weird radiance set everything, including herself, in faerie light.
At last, Natalie felt the Leash holding onto her mind make a change, and with a suddenness that surprised her she executed a perfect right-face at one open archway and stepped through it into a much smaller chamber, though one no less decorated with polished finery. The room was filled with girls.
Girls, just like her.
She couldn’t count how many there were. Aside from herself, Gloria, Kate, and the unnamed fourth girl, there were dozens of other girls in attendance, all of them, like herself, blown-up and transformed into eroticized living sexdolls. Natalie saw that the sluttified women were segregated by group, and what was immediately disconcerting was that she was obviously intended to be in one of those groups!
She shivered, seeing her place clearly now in the scheme of things.
Natalie had had long opportunity to examine herself back in the apartment, to see the changes wrought in her body, her super-sized bosom, her puffy blow-job lips, her augmented genitalia, and constantly burning sex drive. She had been changed from—in her own opinion, anyway—a moderately good-looking, short-haired brunette—a little mousy, maybe, but basically pretty—to a painfully beautiful, buxom blond bombshell, the kind of pornstar-idealization of women that men lusted after. Her hair, bound now into two long and bleached pigtails, fell down to her tiny, hourglass waist, and due to the high heels she had to now more or less perpetually endure she was at least six inches taller than she had been before her capture. She had, in other words, been rendered all but indistinguishable from her prior self. The former her had been, in a sense, “drowned” in this uber-blond, highly sexualized new version of herself. That had been a terrible thing to have to see and acknowledge, but over her time in the apartment she had, if not grown pleased with these changes, at least had grown partially used to them.
Other things had been on her mind back at the apartment house when Natalie had seen the two other girls transformed as she had been transformed.
“Tommy,” her Master! Gloria’s story: she had been distracted, and so while she had intellectually come to terms that the three of them—four, if one counted the naked slut she had seen so long ago—were all but identical in appearance, a triplet (or quadruple) set of Heidi-of-the-Swiss Alps living fuckdolls, emotionally Natalie hadn’t fully processed that fact yet.
The stable, for lack of a better word, she found herself in was therefore a significant wake-up call.
They’re . . they’re just like me! Natalie thought, stunned, eyes popping out of her head. They’re all just like me!
Or, rather, more truthfully, she was like them . . . had been turned into one of them!
Natalie figured there had to be over two dozen virtual clones of herself standing in a group in the middle of the large room. There were many other such groups scattered here and there, each of a different female type, and the image that came to Natalie’s mind was of the clothing racks one saw in department stores, the merchandise displayed out in the open for passersby to mingle through and browse.
There was a group of bald, plasticized black women, for instance, not a few paces away from Natalie, each woman gleaming and nude, patiently waiting in stiletto heels, hands dangling lazily at their sides, ditzy smiles on their soft bimbo faces.
Natalie saw at once that both Gloria and Kate were a perfect match to their set. It was as if—no, surely that was the case—they had been transformed into sexualized specimens of a specific type, a specific model: the Black Plastic Doll model or the African-American Nude Barbie or something.
They had been molded!
They had been reshaped according to some standardized design, and whatever they had been before had been, well, erased, made over into another man’s sick pattern, their individuality wiped out in its entirety. I can’t tell them apart, Natalie thought. If either Gloria or Kate were put in with that group, and she didn’t keep track of them with her gaze, she would never have been able to distinguish them.
There were at least a dozen of the African-American Plastic Beauties, Natalie counted. There were at least as many Swiss Alps Girls like she had been turned into, standing in their own segregated flock, and the chill that went through Natalie’s spine was profound.
Put among that group, she too would have been indistinguishable from any of the others.
Seeing them all bunched up like that was fundamentally corrosive to one’s sense of identity. Natalie could feel the loss of identity. The thing that marks human beings as human beings is that they are each unique. Yes, there are natural look-alikes; there are also professional imitators; in her old life Natalie had seen comedians on late night pretending to be the president, famous actors, and so on . . . but that wasn’t the same as this! Not by a long shot!
This was almost complete uniformity.
This was losing one’s self in the crowd literally.
It was crushing, the sense of utter loss Natalie felt in seeing these all-but perfect clones of herself—No, not herself, she had been made into one of them!—and had not an exterior force—her Master’s Leash—held her in His Grip, she would have simply collapsed.
Natalie felt something integral inside her give way. I’m one of them. They’re me, and I’m them. I’m not me anymore. I’m them . . . them!
A bad enough mental impression. Making it worse were the other groups of nearly identical sexdolls, each, Natalie recognized, forming its own brand, its own label, its own designer credentials.
Beside the Swiss Alps Girls—perhaps for the contrast—were a gaggle of short Asian Geisha, a bevy of Jade Princesses, delicate of feature, delicate of limb, pale and perfect of skin tone, their carefully coiffured hair as midnight black as the keys on a piano. They each smiled prettily, mindlessly.
Next to them were a group of White Plastic Dollies, much like the black girls, the only difference between them being the color of their new skin.
Natalie couldn’t help but label the different groups in her head. There were the Red-Headed Sirens, the Vampire-Pale Goths, the Blond Cheerleaders (so-called in Natalie’s mind: they lacked clothing, and their hair, while bleached blond, was cut shorter than her own . . . Heidi’s own, that is), the Dark-Haired Coquettes, the Butch Bodybuilders, the Schoolgirls, the Indians . . . a whole panoply of types, in fact, and each of them representing a perfect sexual stereotype, a specific male-fantasy woman.
Natalie’s mind swam. She couldn’t count, but there had to be at least five hundred, six hundred women in that chamber.
And each of them was waiting, with baited breath, it was clear to see, eager for the cock of a Master!
The air reeked of sex. If lust hadn’t already been burned into her soul, the very atmosphere here would have stoked her up. Natalie’s nipples tightened painfully. Her moist slit grew only hotter and wetter.
A man approached the new arrivals, and with a shock, adding to her already bewildered state, Natalie recognized the little guy as the milquetoast accountant she had fucked on the subway.
I’m going to faint, she thought, and yet she could not.
The little guy came up to them, the bulge in his pants easily discernible, and she saw that she wasn’t mistaken, it was him, the same man she had fucked by remote control, and she was hot for him, as she was hot for any man now, and had she been free of her Master’s Leash she would have done him again, would have gone down on any man that presented himself to her, if only she could satisfy her lust.
Apparently, he did not recognize her (“Your reward,” she had told him. “I am your reward.”).
She didn’t recognize herself either.
“What’s this?” the accountant asked, and he took from Natalie the binder of her drawings she had made in the apartment. The tone of his voice indicated he wasn’t speaking to her, only himself.
He opened the binder and examined its contents. He nodded. He looked up at Natalie and smiled gently. It was a very different expression from the one he had had on his face when he was screaming, “Oh God, oh God!” as he came inside her. “You’re the one I was told about. The artist.”
He put the binder under his arm and reached into his pocket to take out a thin blue ribbon. He lifted Natalie’s wrist and tied it around. Then he made his way down the line to the other girls, doing the same for each. Natalie noticed then that all the women in the stable had ribbons around their wrists.
They’re some kind of color-coding, she thought. Before she could conjecture further, she felt the man spank her ass gently, prodding. “Your group is over there,” he said, pointing the way.
Twing! It was a different sensation than the Leash. She had to obey the instruction, but there was no direct control involved, no overt manipulation of her limbs or her body, only a milder manifestation of another’s will upon her own. Natalie left her group and walked over to join the Girls-From-The-Beautiful Swiss Alps! As she did, she noticed all of them were wearing red ribbons around their wrists.
She was the only blue ribbon.
It was a small difference, but at the moment it Natalie clung to it. It was the only indication of individuality she possessed.
A few seconds later the second Bleached Blond Slut From The House Next Door joined their gaggle. Her ribbon, like the others, was red. Natalie felt absurdly special. Then she started. Gloria!
She looked over at the group of Black Plastic Dolls, and as she had been scared what would happen, she could not distinguish either Gloria or Kate from the rest of the clones.
Natalie’s heart broke.
She hadn’t known Gloria long, but she had been the only person she had spoken to in so long. Her loss now was devastating. Making it worse was the nature of that loss: Natalie knew Gloria was there . . . but she couldn’t tell her apart from the others. Rendered anonymous in mind, rendered anonymous in body, the person Gloria had been was now . . . gone.
All that was left was a living sexdoll. An anonymous living sexdoll.
More women arrived in the stable, each representing a specific model type already present. The accountant met each and tied a ribbon around her wrist. Most received red ribbons; there were a few greens, and once Natalie saw a Bleached Blond Cheerleader receive another blue; but it was hard to keep track. Eventually, the arrivals stopped, and the accountant took a headcount before leaving.
The girls waited in silence. Natalie wanted so much to be fucked.
After God-knew-how-long, everyone in the chamber felt the pull of a Leash in her mind. Natalie stiffened even more so from the stance of patient expectation drilled into her, pivoted, and joined the line that formed in the back of the stable. Each brand took its own place in the line, with Natalie ending up heading the Heidi Girls. Without need for oral instruction whatsoever, they started filing out of the room, gradually making their way through a long corridor and then stopping in the middle of it.
Up ahead, Natalie could see a great flickering light. She could see a vast stage at the end of the line.
This is it, she thought.
As the girls took their psychic cues and walked out into the middle of that fantastically huge stage, Natalie was once more strongly reminded of Rome, of the ancient Coliseum. The impression that came to her was that of gladiators marching out onto the sands to die.
No such violence here, only violence of a milder, more subtle sort: a controlling sort.
At last, her own turn came up, and Natalie’s body obeyed the Leash tethered to her mind. She walked out through the huge archway and into the silent view of multitudes.
Literally, multitudes.
Russell Crowe, eat your heart out, some last vestige of humor rose from her subconscious, to be immediately stilled by the terror, lust, and awe of her surroundings. The auditorium was packed!
Her own heart seemed to stop for a second. Then the Leash, perhaps, started it anew.
A wave of neat blinding lust—of burning hot desire—surged through her as her senses perceived the countless Men! in row upon row of balconies. Their Cocks! Their Cocks! For a long time, all she could think about were the Cocks surrounding her. Natalie’s senses swam. She felt like the goldfish at the bottom of its bowl. The auditorium’s main stage was flat and circular. Open arches at ground level were spaced evenly about its rim, and from each naked figures stepped forth in long, straight lines.
She hadn’t yet noticed the obvious. She hadn’t yet noticed the others. But she would, in time.
The auditorium was domed. The ceiling was glass, or something as equally transparent. The cold sun shone redly through it, making everything glitter. Circular as well, this transparency met the solid, arching walls of golden marble that made up the Cyclopean sides of the stadium, smooth surfaces that glided seamlessly to its rim at the bottom. There were no seats, as such. Instead, spaced evenly along the curving upper surfaces, there were separate balconies, each a terrace projecting outward from an archway set behind it, and on each balcony were accommodations for people, and each was so filled.
For all the size and occupation, though, the environment of it was deathly silent. Not a peep could be heard throughout that vast open space.
But Natalie cared not.
Men! she thought, her burning lust eclipsing the magnificence of it all. Cocks! My Masters!!
Each of the balconies hosted a quiet gathering of Men in a variety of clothing.
Some were clad in formal business suits. Others were in t-shirts and jeans. But all were huge and glorious and manly!
Their Faces glowing with sexual power behind Their omnipresent mirrored sunglasses. What had to be thousands of hidden Eyes watched her every move, along with the moves of the hundreds of other women marched by Leash out into the stadium’s center. Women . . . and, for the first time noticing, others!
Not Men.
Just . . . men. Obviously augmented men, as all the women had been augmented, but just men.
Male slaves, Natalie realized. They take men prisoners too. She had had no idea, hadn’t even given the notion ground in her head, and then wondered why.
An assembly began to take place on the auditorium floor. As far as she could tell, there were an even number of openings at the ground level; as she took her own place, she observed an even number of naked men and women streamed out onto the cold marble.
The lines stayed in formation. Like some weird military parade, they assembled, the enslaved men in rows on one side, the enslaved women in rows on the other, each forming even squares and facing every direction, like the pictures of men fighting in Napoleonic battles did in paintings from that era (Natalie had hung out in many museums growing up).
The male prisoners were barefoot, completely naked. The only sound Natalie heard was the uniform tapping of the women in their black stilettos. Since every step came in uniform, it was like the beating of some monstrous heart, and for a few seconds it had made no impact on Natalie, much as the beating of her own heart most of the time.
The enslaved men. The male slaves: Natalie saw them, examined them as best she could. What had been done to the women had been done to them, though in obviously different ways.
They came in a variety of different forms, different brands. Pretty Boys and Bodybuilders, Shaved Giants and Hairy Dwarfs. Girly Men. Pretty Boys and Tough Guys. Yet whatever the model, like the women, their otherwise mindless gazes were filled with desperate longing, and their cocks—augmented penises of a countless assortment—were obscenely erect and throbbing.
But it was too hard a labor to drag her attention, such as it was, away from so many glorious Men!
Blonds, Dark Hair, even Red Hair! There were so many!
Superficially, the men and Men! resembled one another—some of the males slaves were as big and masculine, kind of, sort of (though Natalie noticed the great majority were, well, softer in appearance, their skin far too smooth and perfumed now to be taken as really mannish: boytoys, not real men), but there could be no mistaking the one from the glorious Other!
They were clearly male slaves. Boytoys, as complements for the fuckdolls.
But why? The thought triggered another, an epiphany of sorts, and with fresh eyes Natalie scanned the many, many balconies above.
They were, of course, filled with the Men, her Masters! . . . but They had been joined (They had always been there, in point of fact, to be accurate; she just hadn’t perceived Their Presence) by . . . Women.
Not just women, like herself, but Women!
Tall, beautiful, busty Women, clothed in a variety of styles, but, naturally, Their Eyes hidden behind the standard mirrored sunglasses.
Natalie felt a wave of insane jealousy.
Again, the thought had never occurred to her, perhaps because it was so obvious. There were the Men! but didn’t that mean there had to be Women! too? She tried to picture Them fucking one another, enjoying One Another, but the majesty of the image inundated her, made her dizzy and sick.
It also had the effect of even further diminishing herself in her own value.
They’re a Race, Natalie thought. She was sure few if any other person—any other slave—on the auditorium floor was having this thought, for she alone probably retained a mind. They’re a People.
Had They always been among them? Where had They come from?
Natalie found that she didn’t care.
She really didn’t. Her lust was greater than any casual curiosity. The sense of her own slavery was greater now, though, now that she knew there were Women! as well as the Men! her Masters. She had been turned into a sexual toy for a Man’s pleasure, that much she had already realized; but it had given her comfort, subconsciously, to dream that she, or another like her, would be the only women they might enjoy. With her knowledge now of the Women’s existence, Their Counterparts, knowing They must have Relations with One Another, Natalie knew she had been made even more so a mere toy.
The Women were beautiful. They were as wondrous in Their own way as the Men, though Natalie felt not the slightest sexual desire for Them, strangely enough, despite the lusts otherwise burning inside her.
But she?
In comparison, she was but a plaything . . . a toy . . . a momentary diversion, at best.
A pet and nothing more.
The realization fanned the flames of desire inside her. The way she was made to feel so low made her feel so hot! She was burning up! She needed to be fucked! She needed to fucked hard and right now!
Unfortunately, there were things to do first. It would be hours before she was properly fucked again.
Once everyone on that great stage were in place, a ceremony took place. It was very long, and it proceeded in utter silence. It took Natalie a long time to figure out what was happening. Arranged in blocks of the various subtypes represented, the Men and Women above the prospective slaves looked them over, gesturing occasionally, glancing at one another significantly—Natalie watched only the Men, she wanted to serve One of Them so badly—and however They communicated, They did so in a manner she could not discern. The effects on stage, in the auditorium itself, were gradual: a single man or woman would step out of his or her place and walk to an exit. That was all. At first, there were only fits and starts, individuals moving out of place; then the pace picked up, and gradually the blocks started to look very piecemeal as their components began to break up, the slaves moving away from them.
We’re being selected, it finally dawned on Natalie. We’re being chosen by our Masters!
The ones leaving the auditorium were the ones who had been deemed worthy of having an Owner! Once she realized that this was the case, Natalie began hoping for the Feel of the Leash in her mind directing her to go. She saw a girl suddenly stiffen in front of her and walk off, a look of joy in her face.
That could be me! she thought. She hoped it soon would be her.
By this time, she had acknowledged what had been done to her. She hated it; in the back of her mind she still even had hatred for these terrible people (People? . . . no, people!); but her body had been stoked so hotly, and she yearned to be raped again, to feel the joy of being mastered again.
She needed it. It was a terrible thing, to want to be raped, to want to be made a slave. But she needed it now, and so with each person leaving, leaving her behind, the furnace inside her only grew hotter.
Why won’t they pick me? she screamed inside her head. Pick me! Me! Was it because she still had a mind? Mindfuck me, too, she proclaimed.
Time no longer meant what it had to Natalie. She might have been standing there a few minutes or a few hours, and just as she was starting to feel like the last kid picked for the elementary school baseball game, it happened. Her body stiffened, she pivoted, and she began to make her way toward an exit.
I’m sold! I’m sold! The expression on her face was neutral. The state welling up inside her was anything but, an unholy mixture of relief, indignation, panic, and joy. She didn’t want to be a slave.
But she had been made a slave, and now she was going to be Someone’s—a Master’s—slave!
She had no idea what was going to happen next.
She had no idea how she was supposed to feel. Shame? Horror? Ecstasy? All seemed appropriate.
Regardless, Natalie’s Leashed body passed through the archway and down another corridor.
She passed several open chambers, her feet guiding her the way to go, and at length she came to a room and a Master and Mistress.
Natalie’s heart quickened.
The Man drew her attention, naturally, but being in front of the Woman, so close, made her feel even more acutely naked. They were a tall Pair, both Blond and Beautiful. He was not the same Blond she had seen before, the Man who had first seen her, but he was very similar, and similarly handsome and godlike. His Hair was long and luscious. He wore a business suit with a tie.
She was in an elegantly cut evening gown, with pearls in Her Hair. It was a shimmering blue. Both wore mirrored sunglasses, and not for the first time Natalie wished that she could see Their Eyes.
She wondered which One of Them owned her. She desperately hoped it was the Man.
They were tall. The Woman approached Natalie first, touching her face. Though she felt no sexual attraction toward her, Her Touch nonetheless sent electric thrills coursing through her veins.
The Woman tilted Her Head. “Yes, I Can See It,” She said. Her Accent was every bit as strange as a Man’s. “Her Artistic Talents Were Underutilized.”
“Indeed,” the Man said, and Natalie’s heart leaped. His Voice . . . It sounded so wonderful! She loved Him! “We Are Fortunate To Acquire Her. The Bidding Was Fierce.”
Bidding? What bidding? Had it been telepathic? Was that even possible?
There was so much she didn’t know. So much no one had bothered to explain to her.
The Woman pecked the man on the Cheek: a gesture so absurdly normal, so utterly pedestrian and couple-like, Natalie was thrown into complete shock. “She Will Make A Fine Addition To Our Stable.”
Fortunate!? They valued her!? Even more conflicting emotions passed through her. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be fuming mad. She had been raped! She had been kidnapped and mutilated!
She had been turned into a living fuckdoll by these . . these monsters!
But it was so hard to stay mad at Them. They were so beautiful, especially her Master! She had value in Their Estimation. It was the joyous feeling of being singled out and complimented for everything in her life, all at once. She had fared so well in Their Value, They had apparently purchased her.
The feeling this gave her, this sense of worth by Them . . . if it had been a drug, Natalie would have gladly grown addicted to it.
The Man put His Fingers to Natalie’s temples. Even His measly Touch there enflamed her.
What are you going to do to me, my Master? she questioned inside her head, her last thought, and she was amazed to hear Him respond.
Purge You Of Unhappiness, Little One. So That You May Serve With Perfection, Without The Distractions of Thought Or Of Individuality. And then she felt pressure. Physically. Mentally.
And everything changed.
An image came to Natalie’s mind prior to its erasure. A childhood memory. As a girl, Natalie would stare at these puzzle papers full of lines and dots, and she would know, having been told by her teacher, that there was a picture of something inside those lines and dots. The picture of a dog, like little Flipper, or a bird, or a house, or something. And so she would strain and strain and look for the dog, bird, or whatever, and eventually the lines would resolve themselves, and Pow! there the picture would be, as clear as day, a pretty little house, maybe, and once seen it could not be unseen. Her mind had made the necessary connection. Her Master’s Purge was just like that. Clarity came to Natalie, of her place, of her status, of everything, and she was filled with a fantastic joy at the realization. It was one thing to see herself as a sexual toy, a living fuckdoll, and it was quite another to know that she was a fuckdoll, a slave, and always had been, that that had been her destiny all along. Once seen it could not be unseen.
The Pressure of her Master’s Presence in her mind lasted but a brief few seconds, but in those seconds Natalie was in sublime heaven. She was bathed in the waters of Paradise and reborn anew, clean and fresh and blank, to be filled with whatever slavethoughts her Master saw fit to put inside her.
Perfection: memories of childhood? Unnecessary. They vanished, never to be recalled again.
Rightness: thoughts of career, of freedom and independence? She was a slave. Pointless for one such as her. They vanished, never to be recalled again.
Pure Excellence: recollections of friends and relatives, recall of places and events in her past, the awareness of herself as a person with her own rights and responsibilities?
The only responsibility she had was to be pleasing. She was a slave. All but her slave responsibility vanished, never to be recalled again.
Precision: the necessity of the Leash to hold her mind and body in check? She had no mind. Her body belonged to her Master. She was a slave. The Leash vanished, never to be needed again.
Everything narrowed for the slave, as if the Pressure of her Master’s Hands on her head were squeezing the thoughts smaller and smaller into a tight little ball, until all that was left was her desire to please; the joy she would take in giving pleasure; the pleasure her specially-made slavebody could provide her; the provisions, movements, actions, and tasks she would need in order to serve. Everything else vanished.
Never to be recalled again.
Natalie knew then that she had become, at last, completely naked.
Naked: not in the sense of being merely unclothed but of being utterly defenseless, of being utterly exposed in the Sight and Mind of her Owners. They knew everything about her—They made sure of that by reducing everything there was about her to the basics. Love. Lust. Obedience. Service.
Naked, she wanted only to Love Them.
Naked, she would serve Their Lust as well as her own.
Naked, she would be Obedient and of Service, for whatever Service They so desired.
Natalie’s Master stood back, and Natalie lowered her head in submission. Words were no longer necessary to command her. Their Wishes were her every desire.
In the back of the room was an easel. Paints. Drawing materials. Natalie’s lust was unabated, but she had a task to perform, one that would please her Owners. They desired it, and so she desired it too.
The Master kissed Mistress on the Cheek, and then They turned to pose.
Natalie arranged the easel in front of Them and began to draw, lovingly, obediently rendering every line of Their Perfection. She knew she would be fucked by Master soon. But it was no longer her concern.
Even if He never fucked her, she would love Him and obey Him forever.
Nothing else mattered. At that moment, all she lived for was to draw Them, and so draw Them she did.
She would live to do anything They wanted, never thinking, only obeying . . . lustfully obeying.
She was Naked and pleased to be so.
Weeks after the fact, Cindy still missed Natalie. No one knew what had happened to her. Her apartment was empty, and she had given notice by telephone the day after she had had her fainting spell.
I hope she’s all right, she thought, on the way to work one morning. I hope that she’s happy. She was walking into the office building when something happened to catch her eye . . . .