The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

If it hadn’t been for the damned room service, I would now be living happily in my native Lancashire, married to a fine woman with, mostly likely, a couple of kids. Instead I’m the man you see before you and perhaps only I consider I chose the worse path.

That fine woman, my then fiancée Alice, didn’t want me to go. She begged me not to make the trip to the US. But I told her that, no, the American corporation that had taken over my company wanted me there, as European R&D Manager, to give them the details of our new product.

“But… They’re crazy over there! Dad, you tell him!”

We were having the argument at her family home in front of her father, a retired police inspector. She was the apple of her parents’ eye, their youngest daughter. I can see her now, her black hair, hanging down to her shoulders, her red lips… I hope she’s happy now and with someone that deserves her.

“Of course they’re crazy, love. And the craziest ones are in charge. Not that that’s much of a change,” he added. “They haven’t had a really sane President since Eisenhower…”

But I didn’t let them move me, even though my own gut was churning a bit with worry. The MD had told me to go and if I wanted us to have a home to move into when we married, I’d best go. I told them it was no worse than going to our Middle East offices, maybe safer.

They saw me off from the airport a week later. Alice cried again and her dad did his best to cheer her up. I never saw them again.

The flight over was routine just like all the others I’d taken on business: with two exceptions. First it was much longer than any previous flight I’d taken. And secondly all the flight crew were men. British Airways no longer put female staff on flights to the US.

There used to be Foreign Office guidance on the Net for every country in the world: what to expect, potential dangers, warnings about topics to avoid with the locals and so on. In recent years the section for the United States had once been one of the most visited parts of the FO website. But the previous, rather lurid advice had been taken down, either to avoid giving pleasure to the sort of person who was reading it or because the State Department had insisted, rather pointedly, depending on which rumour you believed. Now, the pages just referred you to official Federal government sites.

I landed in New York, totally wrung out from the flight. I waited in a long line before getting to the scanners. A bored looking person took my passport and plugged it into a slot in his computer. I stood in front of a combination face and iris scanner and placed my palms on two glass surfaces. I said my name when a mechanical voice told me to. I waited for what seemed like an hour but can only have been two minutes for a computer somewhere to admit that I was on the plane’s passenger list and I didn’t appear to be on any lists of terrorists or dissidents so I could come in. The bored man handed me my passport and I went off down the corridor to the Land of the Fr… Well, they didn’t call it that any longer, did they?

There was a man holding up a sign with my name just beyond the luggage.

“Hi, my name’s Bob and the Chairman asked me to meetya and let me take that… I’ve got a car waiting…”

And as he hustled me away two teenaged girls in the line just by him gave out a shriek and jumped up and down.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

One of them was Asian and one was Black and the man they were hugging was fifty, fat and a pasty, unhealthy white. And both of the girls were wearing fur coats, mini skirt length and when the black one hugged him too hard her coat popped open and she was wearing nothing underneath. Just the coat and some boots. But I got hustled away too fast to ask anything and then they were out of sight.

I didn’t see anything on the way into the city, except traffic and rain. It was dark and there were few people on the streets. I listened to Bob tell me how long he’d been working for the company and how excited they all were with my company’s new product and what the Chairman said to him about making sure my stay was a pleasant one and anything I need just give him (Bob) a ring, here’s my card….

I let it wash over me and said ‘Really?” or “Uh huh” as seemed appropriate. I was tired and almost everything seemed normal.

Except for a couple of bill boards.

One showed a row of women lined up against a wall. All lovely, all dressed in lingerie and staring out at the camera provocatively. The top of the poster said: “Some of our most popular products.” And at the bottom is said ‘SLUT WAREHOUSE: There’s one near you.”

The other was for a TV programme called MAKEOVER REVENGE. The top line said: “Which of these would you like to have licking your… feet?” It showed a number of people looking angry or disapproving: ‘Mom’, ‘Teacher’, ‘Bank Manager’, ‘Sarge’, ‘Boss’. And at the bottom “Our lucky winner will get to choose who gets an Extreme Makeover…”

I sort of staggered into the hotel. Bob warned me that I had a meeting with the Chairman at ten-thirty the next morning so don’t forget to set the alarm. It was about 11-00 pm local time and God alone knows what time my body thought it was so I promised to ring Bob the next morning and rolled upstairs to my room, scattered my clothes all over the place, just did the basics to get me through the night and fell into bed without even brushing my teeth. My dreams were of warehouses full of women and a salesman offering to make them over into copies of my primary school teacher…

The changes that hit the USA in the second decade of the twenty-first century had been foreseen by no one outside of conspiracy obsessed lunatics and the more perverted sort of science fiction writer.

The first that the world knew about the takeover was when the Vice-President of the United States went on television and announced that he was resigning his position “because I am a complete and utter jackass. No, really folks, I’m a total goof. I only got this job because my Daddy’s big in oil and a friend of the President. You could put a stuffed fish in the job and he’d do it better than me. Sorry to all the folks who voted for me, especially the ones who ran my campaign. Bet you feel foolish now, don’t ya?”

And while the world was recovering from that, the next week the Congress went and voted in his replacement without a word of debate. The President put forward his nominee, the CEO of some obscure bio-tech firm, and they didn’t even hold hearings, just voted and approved him nem con. Swore him in the next morning.

And then that very afternoon, the President resigned too and the new Vice President, a man nobody had heard of before was The Leader Of The Free World. And then Congress, both Houses, voted to adjourn and go home, granting ‘Extraordinary Supervising Authority’ to the new President to, well basically do anything he liked. Pass laws by proclamation, wage war, whatever he thought needed doing.

And when some brave soul from CNN got hold of the Chief Justice, doorstepping him on the way into his house and asked him if all this was, you know, constitutional or not, the grey haired old jurist peered at him and said: “Probably not. Almost certainly not. But what the fuck does that matter?”

By then, of course it was far, far too late. The new President appeared on television the next day. Not a press conference or anything: there were no more presidential press conferences. Just a ‘fireside chat’, quite literally. He sat by a roaring fire in the White House and explained just how he and his friends were running things now. How the commanders of the Armed Forces and the FBI were all seeing things his way and the rest of us had better do so too.

Oh and he announced the first law he was going to pass. “A law that will take care of all the unemployment in the Nation and just about all of the crime.”

The reintroduction of slavery.

Kneeling either side of him were two naked women: the red-haired star of one of the most popular shows on television and the only black and openly lesbian member of Congress. Both gazed on him with loving awe. Both had much larger tits than they had sported a couple of days before.

The President announced that he would be converting anybody still on the benefit rolls or ‘without visible means of support’ and anyone in prison into slaves, either for use as cheap labour or for the pleasure of those who could afford to buy.

Some people hoped that the American tradition of armed resistance to tyrannical governments (which mostly existed, as far as the rest of us were concerned, in the Great American Mythology) would mean that the Party (as the new government called itself) would be driven from office or at least assassinated in short order. Unfortunately, the Party had converted the membership of the NRA and the loopier militias before it even began to move in on Washington. Peace, terrified but harmonious, descended on the nation.

There were specials on all the news channels about what the new technology the President had invented could do. They showed people being enslaved and body shaped into whatever sort of slave was in demand: strong, obedient workers, absolutely loyal soldier drones, pleasure slaves. Lots of pleasure slaves. And although they did provide some male sex slaves most of the product in that line was female. Because, it was explained, most of the people with the money to enjoy that sort of thing were men and most of the men with money were straight. They could even take the surplus of male subjects they had in prison and convert them into females you couldn’t tell from the real thing.

The before and after shots were the most shocking part. Fighting like mad when they went in. Docile and really, really happy about their new status when they came out.

Crime rates dropped like a stone. Prisons just became places to hold people while they were reworked into something less trouble and more lucrative. Trials lasted as long as it took the judge to order technicians to mind probe the suspect. Surprisingly, the trials were mostly just and fair, even though the punishment was monstrous: guilt wasn’t assumed even in cases of subversion or revolt against the Party. But since the punishment for everything was enslavement to the state enthusiasm for most forms of criminal activity vanished.

As for the rest of the world, we trembled and worried. The Party didn’t seem to be expansionist: they didn’t even try to take over Canada. But when the mayor of a border town allowed a group of protestors to assemble and chant insults to the Party at the INS officials manning the crossing point, someone must have decided a lesson was needed. The entire town population got out of bed at midnight that night and walked across the border. They marched to the nearest Federal Reprocessing Centre and were never seen again.

When I drifted out of slumberland and peered blearily out at a bright, clear and cold February day the clock at my bedside said 08-07. I got myself cleaned, dressed and ready to face the day and then found Bob’s card and gave him a ring while sipping a cup of tea I’d made myself in the little kitchen my hotel suite provided.

When Bob answered he seemed momentarily unsure of who I was.

“Oh, yes. Jeremy! Sorry, sorry, yes.”

“You did say to ring…”

“I did, yes and I’m sorry. I… Look, something’s come up. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel… No make that postpone. We’re going to have to put the meeting off till tomorrow. At the earliest. It may be the day after….”

“I hope there’s nothing…”

“No, no. It’s just the Chairman’s going to be busy. All day. He has a Licence, you see.” Bob actually managed to pronounce a capital L on Licence.

“I’m sorry? I don’t…”

“It’s Hunting Day!“ I made a polite, interested, English noise to indicate I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about.

“Oh, Christ…. Look, just take it from me that we won’t be doing the meeting today. I’ll contact you… Probably tomorrow… with details of when we’re rescheduling for. Till then, enjoy your stay in New York. Charge everything at the hotel to us. Meals, entertainment, everything. But I’m not going to be available until the Chairman has finished hunting, so wait for me to contact you. Okay?”

“Yes, sure. But what…”

“Turn on your TV, Jeremy. It’s on all the channels. Happy Hunting Day!” And he hung up.

Well, I put the phone down and then rang down to order breakfast brought up to the room. And then I searched out the remote from a bedside drawer and turned on the flatscreen television on one wall.

I flicked through the channels, finding nothing but commercials until I hit a news service. And on it were…

Pictures of women running through the street. Running in panic from men with strange looking hand guns and rifles. One woman being shot as she ran across a park and falling to the ground twitching. Naked women with big, happy smiles on their faces being lead along on leashes….

Then there was a title being superimposed on the screen HUNTING DAY! in large, gold letters. And one of those booming American newscaster voices was saying; “It’s confirmed! Today is Hunting Day! The Party’s newest and most controversial program began officially at midnight with the activation of twenty five thousand Hunting licences. With our special report here are Stacey Kean and Harold Harkway.”

Cut to two Beautiful People, her young and slightly pouty, him greying and cynical. She was doing her best to looking welcoming but serious, he holding back a smug grin. But not very well.

“Hello, I’m Stacey Kean. As it said it would, the Party kept the inaugural Hunting Day a secret from everybody. Licensed hunters and police alike only learned of the activation at midnight and the event was kept a secret from the general public until first news reports of women being taken by hunting parties started to appear on local news and the Internet. In scenes like this,” and the screen cut to more film and video of women being rounded up or running away, “duplicated across the nation formerly free women are being converted to slaves for the first time without being condemned by the courts. The President’s office issued a statement just after nine saying that this was an opportunity for, quote, ‘the ordinary joe’ to get a chance to choose his own slave and experience pleasures until now reserved for corporate bosses and the political elite. The program has been oversubscribed by ten fold despite the stiff cost of a license and there has been some talk of expanding it next year. Harold Harkway has been looking into the background for us. Harold.”

“Thanks, Stacey. Hi I’m Harold Harkway. When this program was announced last year, some people doubted that there would be enough enthusiasm for the limited number of chances to hunt down and enslave any woman not already owned. The cost of a Hunting Licence seemed high at five thousand dollars but the Party has, once again, shown that it understands what the average American wants better than marketing departments or the media. Lines formed outside the Federal Slaving Board offices around the country and in the end applications so outstripped available Licences that a lottery had to be held to determine successful applicants.”

Somehow I doubted that the Chairman had got his through anything as fair as a lottery.

“The enslaved women must be taken in public, a Licence gives you no right to enter private homes. But to give the Hunters a fair chance, no announcement was made except an e-mail to Licence holders until Hunting Day was well under way. So if you were successful and got a Licence, what do you get for your money? How much of the Party’s high-tech slaving equipment are they letting the ‘ordinary joe’ use? Well, the word ‘hunting’ naturally brings to mind the idea of rifles but many people, especially living in cities, prefer something more concealable. Like this little beauty here.” And with that he pulled out of his pocket something that looked like a toy water pistol. “And this is what it does.”

And with that he shot his fellow newscaster, the lovely Stacey as she sat across the desk from him. A silver splat of metallic liquid struck her right in the chest and then seemed to sink into her skin and vanish.

“What? What did you do to me you basssssssss….”

Stacey had risen from her seat with a great clatter of microphones and stood for a moment staring at him before freezing in place, her great blue eyes unseeing. The cameramen cried out in astonishment but Harold continued his spiel and walked over to the woman.

“This first agent starts the process of preparing the target and gives the hunter a chance to reach his prey and to do this to her… Jerry? Uh, Jerry? Could I get a close up of the back of Stacey’s neck here… That’s great. You take this little gizmo and place it just like this on the spine and press here….. And it automatically implants itself in the right spot and burrows into the flesh and there you have your slave’s programming port installed. Now at this stage the woman isn’t yet a bonded slave but already the first shot has nearly completed its work and the framework is in place for final conditioning and claiming. As you’ll see now as Stacey comes round….”

“sssstard! I’ll have your guts, I’ll have your job… you…you….”

“How you feeling, Stace?”

“Harold. You shot… I… I feel…Awaaaahhhh! Ahhh. Hurts…. Ahhh!”

And with that she started to tear her clothes from her body, ripping them off and throwing them away from her, as far away as she could. When she had finished she stood looking down at herself in horror: And then up at Harold in stark fear….

“That’s better isn’t it, Stacy? Feels better? Feels right?”

“Yes! No! I…. must. Must not….”

“Yes, you must. Present yourself, Stacy.”

The woman turned away from him and fell to her knees. She pulled aside the hair from the back of her neck showing him the ring of the programming port.

Across Harold’s explanation of what the key-like device he was inserting into her was doing came two voices from the studio’s control room.

“Shouldn’t we… Cut to a commercial or something?”

“No. Let them see the horror. Let them see what the world is really like now.”

The second voice was evidently that of the programme’s director. It was also the voice of a woman.

“….and later on you can insert further programming keys to fine tune your new slave’s behaviour. There’s a charge for that but I’m willing to predict that will come down as the success of this program continues to expand the base of privately owned slaves. Also in the pipe-line are body modification shops that will allow owners to remould their acquisitions as they like. Not everybody will go for the radical style of breast enlargement, for instance, that’s popular among the President’s close circle but hey I know I will! Ah, now Stacey has completed her programming and is ready for final bonding.”

He removed the programming key from her neck. The woman shook herself and stood up. For a moment she stood there, swaying slightly, her bare tits jiggling as she gave her head a shake as if to clear up a fog in her mind. And then she smiled brightly and said:

“Program insertion successful, slave mode enabled, slave stacey awaits your command.”

“How you feeling, Stacey?”

“Horny, master. Very horny and ready to serve.” Her nipples were now rigidly erect and her body was flushed red with desire. I thought I could see moisture on her thighs. “How may slave stacey serve you?”

“You must be bonded to me to be completely enslaved, Stacey. You know what that means don’t you?”

“Yes, master. This slave knows.”

“Then get me ready for bonding you.”

“Yes, master. At once.”

And she dropped to her knees before him and was reaching to unzip the flies of his trousers when somebody higher up in the station must have overridden the director because they cut to a commercial. For some sort of breakfast cereal, I seem to recall. There were cartoon animals eating things out of bowls, anyway.

I sat there watching the television for the next hour or more, channel surfing. In between more and more shots of women being taken came interviews with people who had captured a particularly big fish, actresses and celebrities and what have you. The part when the newly enslaved gushed with gratitude over having their lives stolen from them was particularly nauseating. When they brought up my breakfast I stopped watching the news channels while I ate and flicked through cartoons and re-runs of comedies that were witless in the long ago decades when they were filmed but would never stop being repeated as long as the corporations had acres of air time to fill.

I tried ringing the British Consulate. Their advice was straightforward. Stay in your hotel room. Foreigners were regarded as fair game by some of the people still Hunting. The Consul had closed the gates and put armed Ghurkas and Marines in sniper positions to kill anyone who thought that diplomatic extraterritoriality didn’t apply to them.

And I would have followed that very good advice if it hadn’t been for the fact that when I rang down at one o’clock to order lunch there was no response from the people in room service. I tried ringing the front desk and got no reply there and then I tried ringing all the numbers in the staff directory. I finally got some response from the laundry room.

“There ain’t nobody here, Mac. They’ve all gone home. Those that ain’t been taken.”

“What? But surely…”

“Look, friend, the gals have either got taken by someone, maybe a guest, maybe a Hunter from outside, or they’ve never turned up today. Maybe they got took on the way to work or they’ve heard about it in time and stayed at home.”

“And the men?”

“Well, some of the men got took. Tony, the queer little guy who runs the cocktail bar? Some big biker type caught him as he was opening up for the day. And some guys have gone home ‘cause they’re worried about their women being took. Ain’t nobody here but me and I’ve locked the laundry door and piled every basket I’ve got against it. I got some cookies and some instant soup and I ain’t coming out till midnight’s come and gone again. I’m a handsome sorta guy though I say so who shouldn’t and I don’t fancy calling some hairy biker ‘Daddy’ for the rest of my life. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You good looking or what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say…”

“Not that it matters cause they can remake you inta something they like. Heck! They can give you tits and a pussy if they feel like it! I’d keep myself locked in and safe, friend.”

And I really meant to follow his advice. But…. Well, you see…

I’m diabetic. Insulin dependent. I can’t go without food. Not safely. I have to take insulin to survive and I have to take food to give the insulin something to work on. If I don’t I’ll go into hypoglycaemic shock, go ‘hypo’.

I had some emergency rations, of course. I carry a stash of Mars Bars (the small ones in multipacks) to get my blood sugar up in emergencies. But I only had a couple with me. And when I used them up… I would go hypo and then, after a period of delirium I’d pass out… And I might not be here when normal service was resumed.

I held out as long as I could. I had no desire to go out into the madness I could see on the TV screen. But as darkness fell across the city I realised I couldn’t stay in my room: it could have been my imagination but I thought I felt the start of a hypo coming on me. I had to get out, get something to eat and get back as quickly as possible.

I bundled up in my overcoat and headed down to the hotel’s restaurant. But the doors were locked and no one answered my calls. So I looked around and saw on the other side of the street a convenience store, still open, light streaming from its windows into the rain-streaked evening. I checked my pockets for my small stash of American currency and my credit cards and headed across the street, checking in either direction. The streets were clear of just about everyone.

Once inside it was clear why the store was happy to stay open. Both the counter staff, a pair of happily smiling teenaged Asian girls were already as enslaved as it was possible to be. They wore collars, string bikinis and had tattoos across their bare chests which said ‘Property of Happi Shoppin’ Stores’. Their supervisor, perhaps owner, sat watching them in a bullet proof cubicle, occasionally looking up from his paper when a customer came in.

I got myself supplies, some soup I could reheat, some bread and sliced meat to make sandwiches, a bunch of bananas, some milk and cereal for tomorrow’s breakfast: paid for them and put them into a brown paper bag. I slunk back across the street and into the hotel.

And then the last damn straw hit my back. The lifts had stopped working, God alone knows why, and I had to take the stairs. My room was on the fourteenth floor.

By the time I reached the twelfth floor I think, looking back on it and in light of my subsequent behaviour, that I was halfway into a hypo already. With not having eaten since lunchtime and the unexpected effort of needing to climb those stairs… Well, my head was buzzing and I felt detached from reality. I stopped on the stairs and got out the bananas, just intending to have a couple to stave off passing out until I could get to my room.

I’d unpeeled one and taken a single large bite when the door from the topmost floor of the hotel, the penthouse suite, flew open and the sound of footsteps, bare feet on concrete came down the stairwell towards me. I looked up, my mouth full of banana and peered towards the disturbance. The door banged open again and a moment later a shot went off. It went right through my brown paper bag, bursting the milk carton as it did so. I jumped back into cover away from the stairwell and a moment later a beautiful woman, dressed only in a nightgown came around the corner from the level above.

She stopped for a moment and stared at me and I stared at her. She was blonde, in her twenties, dressed in a blue, filmy sort of thing and she stared at me as if she wasn’t sure whether I was a worse threat than what was behind her. She decided in favour of me being less threatening a moment later when a shot hit the wall right by her. A spatter of metallic liquid trickled to the ground and she threw herself down the stairs past me and took up refuge behind my body.

“Stop him, stop him, please! I’ll pay you! I’ve got money…”

And then he came round the corner and stood on the landing just above us. He was about thirty and in his right hand was one of those peculiar hi-tech water pistols. He was panting. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and finally said:

“Okay, friend. Just step away and let me take her.”

I don’t know if it was the remnants of British chivalry or the fact that I was half out of my head with hunger but I chewed for a moment and swallowed my banana before saying:

“You what?”

“I’m a Hunter, friend. And that’s my prey. Look,” And he reached with his other hand into his jacket pocket and produced a plastic bag containing a jumble of stuff and a large piece of orange paper stamped SLAVE HUNTING LICENSE in big black letters, “I’m authorised to take her. And I’m gonna. So just step aside nicely.”

“He attacked me in my home! That’s not legal, that’s not licensed!”

“Yeah? May be I did, Joanie. But you’re outside your precious home now and ain’t nobody going to listen to your complaint in the morning, not that you’ll be wanting to complain anyway. Step aside friend. I can take you just as easy. Not into boys. But I can sell you on to someone who is.”

And as he said this he was moving slowly down the stairs towards us, gun forward. I don’t think, looking at the evidence that he could have been a very good shot: he wanted to be as close as possible to her. She was shrieking with fear, don’t let him near me, don’t let him, don’t let him and pounding me on the back with her little fists. And he was grinning as if he knew he had her and he had me where he wanted me.

And I was half out of my head so I don’t want you to think that what I did then was courage or anything like that. But I lunged forward, grabbing and twisting his arm. His gun went off and I was holding his gun hand with my right hand and bashing his head repeatedly with my left and when it was over he was down and out and on the floor. His head was bleeding and I had his gun and at that moment I didn’t really care if he was going to live or die.

And then I turned to her…. And yes, you’ve guessed it. She was standing rigid in the corner, her eyes unseeing. That random shot had hit her at last.

I staggered into my room about five minutes later. I’d left the Hunter in the stairwell. Still alive as it later turned out. But I took his gun and his bag with his licence to prevent any further mischief and stuffed them into my pockets. I took my food supplies and slung the girl, still unable to move, over one shoulder in a fireman’s lift. When I got inside I dumped her on the bed and went and fed my face until I was no longer seeing the world from behind a screen of hypo induced fog.

When I came out of the kitchen she was still unseeing, unblinking. Surely the girl on the telly had come round quicker than that? I searched through the Hunter’s packet and found the letter they had sent him with his Licence and gun.

Skim, skim, skim through the mangled English you get when it’s a combination of bureaucrats and the people who write the instructions for new DVD players until I came to:

“STEP THREE: Once the Nanomorph Gell? Shell has been applied the subject will go into a catatonic state until the NeuroProgramming Port? (Enclosure C) is attached as shown in Diagram II. WARNING: It can be damaging to the subject if they are allowed to stay in this catatonic state for more than 20 minutes. For best results attach the NeuroProgramming Port? as soon as possible after applying the Nanomorph Gell?. The subject will then return to consciousness and be prepared for the next stage.”

In other words, once you’ve shot them, you’ve got to plug them in the back of the neck or… What? Damaging? How? Had it been twenty minutes…

I dithered for about another thirty seconds but then realised I had no-one to help me decide. I turned her over and took the little grey doo-dah out of the pack marked Enclosure C and carefully put it against her neck as shown in Diagram II. It sort of wiggled in my fingers and then fine little probes came out of it and sank into her skin. I let go and saw the whole installation unfold until there was just a little silver ring with a small aperture in the centre on the surface of her neck.

She jerked and moaned slightly and I stepped away. She blinked for the first time in a long time and rolled off the bed. She looked at me and said:

“Where’s… Where’s Roderick?”

“Roderick? The Hunter? He’s outside on the stairs. He won’t be coming round any time soon. You knew him?”

She didn’t answer but stood there for a moment as if listening to something she couldn’t quite hear. And then in one movement she reached up to the neck of her blue filmy nightdress and tore it open. Violently and with great emphasis. When she had ripped it from her body she threw it away from her, just as violently. And looked up at me in horror when she realised what she had done. She reached up to feel the back of her neck and then looked at me in horror.

“I’m taken. Oh, God. I’m taken.”

“He… I’m sorry, he shot you during the fight…. It said that unless I used the port thing on you…. Well, you could be damaged…”

“I know how it works…. I’ve read… Oh, God. No.”

She sat down hard on the bed. She was silent for a long time and I just stood there, the perfect picture of an embarrassed Englishman. After a while she started a sort of mechanical clawing with her hands at the bed clothes, over and over: the same grasping gesture.

“Uhhh, Miss… Are you all right? What is it you’re trying…”

“No! No, I’m not all right! I’m… I’m trying to pick up the blanket and… and… wrap myself in it….And I can’t! It won’t let me…. I’m taken…. I’m taken…”

I knelt down in front of her, trying to catch her eye as she turned inwards in despair.

“Now look, there must be something we can do. Must be a way to reverse…”

“No! No, there isn’t. The President made this… thing that they put in you and he wasn’t interested in the possibility of reversing…. I’m taken and it’s started changing me already. I’ve been trying just as hard to get up and go to the door. To run back up to my penthouse… Even naked… I could… Get in. Be alone. But I can’t run either… I can only wait….”

“For what?”

She did look at me then.

“For you to finish it off. To program and bind me.”

“No! I… I… really have no interest in… I’m just a visitor… Here for business. They wouldn’t let me…”

“Well, somebody fucking has to. You’ve got the programming key in that bag there. I can see it. Have a look at what the instructions say. You’d best do it. And do it quickly. It’s no kindness to wait. In America now, a girl has to know these things.”

I picked up the instructions again and skipped down to the next paragraph. And it was there, plain as a pikestaff.

‘In order to prevent the subject’s escape basic command protocols are implanted with the NeuroProgramming Port?. These are only crude compulsions and in the absence of a full SlaveModePersonalityProgram? will tend to expand and overwrite the original memories and personality entirely. Do not unduly delay the insertion of the PersonalityProgramKey? or loss may occur in these areas, which may, in extreme cases, require the subject to re-learn basic language and motor skills.’

I let the paper fall. “Oh, crap.”

She smiled. “Oh crap indeed. If I want to keep even part of myself, I have to let the program be completed. And thus solve a nasty little problem for the Party.”

“What?”

“Come on, weren’t you listening? That treacherous scumsucker Roderick K. Hewitt The Third attacked me in my own home. I live on the top floor of this hotel because I happen to own it. This hotel and a chain of a dozen like it. And I’m one of the biggest employers who refuse to own slaves or use slave made products. I just bet that Roddie dear, the man my father wanted me to marry had a quiet word with his friends in Washington and said, look fellas there’s a way you can get this little hitch, that little bitch fixed good and proper. Just give me a Licence and I’ll…. I’lll…..”

She was crying now. Tears rolled down her cheeks and across her breasts. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. Both because I was English and because, you see, there was no comfort to be given. None at all.

Eventually she stopped. And looked at me.

“So you’re what…English?”

“Yes. In New York for business.”

“Okay. Well, I suppose that’s good. If I’m going to belong to someone…”

“Oh, but I can’t…”

“Oh, but you haffta! (Do you hear that? ‘Haffta’? I think it’s getting to me already. My finishing school would never let one of its young ladies say ‘haffta’?) There’s no-one else. Would you prefer Roderick got me? Got me and my family’s hotels?”

“Well,,,,”

And then she stood up and walked over to the table where the plastic bag was and took out the Key. She walked up to me and put it in my hand, standing right up against me, her breasts pressed against me through the cotton of my shirt.

“It has to be done. Hold me please. That’s right. Promise me, you’ll do right by my people, my employees? It’s important to me.”

“I… Yes, I promise.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” She smiled. “That’s going to be the last time.”

“The last time what?”

“For me to use the word…”

“Hush,” I said, first pressing my fingers to her lips and then my lips to hers. And as we kissed, I slipped the Key into her neck.

Master has asked joan to tell you what happened next.

Master is not in the normal run of Masters: even all these years later he prefers to be polite to his slave. Even so, this slave feels pleasure as strong as if it were a command to obey her Master, dutifully to do whatever he wills.

This slave is not the normal run of pleasure slaves either. She remembers much more than most of the woman who was destroyed to give her birth. She remembers Joan because every day she must do the things that the free woman did, deal with the people the free woman did in order to serve her Master and keep him rich and happy and secure. But still joan-the-slave is not the free woman who is dead and gone now.

Master has asked this slave to tell you about her dying.

She was already dying when she woke up in that room (1424 in Master’s New York hotel). The gel in her body was already altering many, many things and already the programming port was spreading its tendrils through her spinal cord and up into her brain. She knew this after just a few moments’ thought. She had read a lot about the Slaver Process, all the speculation and all the tiny bits of real information that the Party had let loose into the world. She had even taken the time to interrogate slaves, women who had been transformed and reborn. This slave thinks, perhaps, Joan was a little obsessed with slaves.

And she could feel what they had told her working in her mind and body. The intensity of every sensation and the feeling of a barrier between her will and what her body would do for her. That barrier was the Slave, waiting to be completed, waiting to be born.

The free woman knew that she would not last long. Already she could feel bits of herself being overridden by the urge to become complete, to be programmed. She was brave, or so it seems to this slave now, to face her oblivion, her defeat, so honestly, to rescue what she could from the disaster.

So she…the word is hard for this slave to say… she blackmailed Master into taking her. This slave can just remember that she resolved to make him her owner whether he liked it or not but this slave does not like to think of that. A slave should serve a Master, not manipulate him. That is the sin of Topping From Below and it is contrary to this slave’s basic protocols. Nevertheless, this slave remembers that the free woman did it, in her last moments of life.

Her very last moment came as a surprise to her. She had expected Master to order her into the ‘present’ position, kneeling with the hair held back from the programming port, ready to accept a new personality overwrite. But instead he gently took her, slipping the Key into place under cover of a kiss.

That moment of birth this slave cannot quite remember, any more than the free woman could remember coming from her mother’s womb. But suddenly she was there, quite complete and ready. Somewhere inside this slave, perhaps, there were bits of the free woman left. But they would be absorbed very shortly, eaten up to make a new thing, a new slave.

There was a slight ‘pop’ sound and the Key disengaged from this slave’s programming port and this slave stepped away from Master. He glanced down at the Key and then up at this slave.

This slave felt her mouth split open in widest grin and fell to her knees before her Master. Out of her mouth came the words that had been ordained by the ones who created her, laid down the limits of her existence, forged her proper nature.

“Program insertion successful, slave mode enabled, slave joan awaits your command.”

“Joan.” Master’s voice was all croaky. He cleared his throat and tried again “Joan. Is that your name?”

“This slave’s name is whatever her Master wishes but this slave’s name as a free woman was Joan Alison Marlowe. The slavename joan is provided as a placeholder. When the slave is fully bonded her Master may rename her as he sees fit?”

“Bonded. Huh. How do we do that…”

“You must take this slave.” Already the thought made this slave’s body come alive and prepare itself. Nipples grew as hard as little acorns and this slave’s pussy began first to moisten and then to drool. “This slave will bond to the first person to have sex with her, identifying her as their property by an exchange of DNA. Do you wish to fuck slave joan now?”

Master is English and for that reason, he tells me, he could not say ‘yes’ or indeed anything else at that moment. However, this slave is happy to say, his body was not so fussy or so civilised. His cock was straining against the cloth of his trousers. This slave smiled, this slave was shocked to actually hear herself giggle and reach over to unzip his flies and release his lovely, lovely cock out into the air.

Oh, this slave is so lucky! Master’s cock…. Is very nice… Is long, and thick and uncircumcised. This slave knows that she is programmed to love her Master’s cock no matter what it actually looks like but she believes that, viewed objectively, Master has a nice cock.

(This slave also believes that being programmed to talk about herself only in the third person is what Master would call ‘a bit of a pain in the arse’. It is very demeaning and humiliating never to be able to say the first person singular and for those reasons it is sexy and satisfying. But on the other hand, joan believes that it sometimes makes her sound like an idiot. Master has said that he doesn’t want a slave who is an idiot or even sounds like one. But it is in joan’s core programming and Master does not want to risk letting a Party official fiddle with this slave’s brain.)

This slave took hold of Master’s cock with both hands. It felt very large and very firm in her hands and she paused a moment before taking the head in her mouth. She did not stop to think about what she was doing: joan has the skills of a fuckslut built in. She sucked, carefully, delicately but firmly until Master gave a little moan. Then she took her mouth from the Cock and ran her tongue along it, down to the root until her face was buried in Master’s pubic hair and her breasts were pressed against him, hard little nipples poking into his legs as she licked around his balls and smiled up at him.

(Incidentally, slave joan had the hardest time persuading Master to make her tits bigger. This slave believes that this compulsion must have been included because Roddie-the-Bastard wanted a big titted fuckslut. Eventually, Master let joan have her way. This slave loves her new big hooters and loves her Master for giving her them.)

But to continue: this slave smiled up at her Master and said sweetly: “Fuck now?”

Master growled. He actually growled. This slave was so pleased. He said: “On the bed. Now.”

And then this slave learned that she could get even hotter. The order made it complete or rather the rush of pleasure that obeying the order sent through slave joan. This slave believes that Joan finally died then, dissolved in the pleasure of Obedience.

This slave believes it is in everybody to go down that route, to Obedience and Slavery. Even the highest Master of all, the President, the leader of the Unfree world as Master calls him, has in him the possibility of being the lowest slave on Earth. The pleasure of it is what makes the program so strong, so irresistible. This slave felt herself dissolve in the heat of pleasure and obedience as her cunt squeezed like a glove on Master’s lovely, lovely cock. Dissolve and be remade, into what she was always meant to be.

Afterwards, Master was sad as we lay there, his lovely cum mingling with the nano machines in this slave’s body. And his tears fell on this slave’s tits, where Joan’s had fallen a little while before. This slave looked at him and touched his face and smiled, gently smiled and said what the program required of her.

“Master, slave joan has been claimed and bonded by your DNA as per the Federal Bonding Act, this slave is now officially registered and licensed. Her free woman status has been revoked and all assets have been transferred to you.”

That was what this slave had no choice but to say. But then she said: “Thank you for making this slave yours, Master: slave joan will try to be a good slave to you.”

This slave did not have to say that (at least she thinks not) and she meant it. She is sure she did.

And then she began the rest of her life. And mine.

And of course it wasn’t that simple. Naturally the Party hadn’t thought about the complications that their little day of amateur slave making merriment would bring. Despite how simple you’d think life was now, in a mind controlled dictatorship, lawyers still find work and complications. Roderick tried suing me. The Marlowe family tried suing me.

But in the end the fact that I was sitting here in control of the flagship hotel of the line made the family come down on my side once I showed I was willing to let them have their little sinecures and directorships. And the Party took the attitude that Roderick had first broken the conditions of his Licence and then been stupid enough to let an unarmed man take his gun and his prey and he was lucky they didn’t enslave him just for being a total waste of oxygen and food.

And the fact that my wife, despite being my sex slave, is still my wife and still a Marlowe is good enough for the local establishment to tolerate us. Just. And I do take care of her, I do. And if I hadn’t stayed in America I wouldn’t have been able to get access to the medical advances that have ended up curing my diabetes. Which came from the same research that gave us the Party. So where’s the moral in that?

I kept my word to Joan. I do look after her people. But I don’t keep up all her executive decisions. We have a few slaves on staff, just a few. They keep the Party from looking for an excuse to send another Roderick after me. And they also ensure that there is always someone to run room service. Even on a Hunting Day.

Yes, I’m not that hopeful young Englishman who came to New York for a business meeting. Sometime I think he’s as dead as Joan Alison Marlowe. But sometimes he pops his head up again and looks at around at what time and Joanie and I have made of his life. And that’s why I’m recording this memoir. In case I am unsuccessful in what I’m about to do.

I have decided, at last, that if you’re going to live in a society where power is everything and people nothing, then there is only one position in that society that matters. That’s the one at the top.

In an absolute dictatorship, where even your thoughts and your existence can be wiped at the whim of the dictator, how can one live if one knows oneself to be a crawling thing, a worm waiting to be trodden on? Far better to be a scorpion whose bite can bring down the man who treads on him.

And better still to be the man who does the treading down.

I’ve been a good boy and played it by their rules. I’ve been no trouble at all to the Party and the country, the little corner of hell, they’ve created. I’ve got close to them, seen them at play. And I’ve quietly watched, waited and prepared. They are vulnerable, though they believe they have thought of everything. I shall have one chance, one hope, to bring down the President and his clique and put myself in control.

It may be that I shall be just as great a monster as he is, if I come to power. It may not be possible, now the Party’s technology is so wide spread, to climb down off the tiger. But at least I shall have the satisfaction of destroying the man who made this world a hell.

You will know, when you read this, if I made it or not. Tomorrow, I shall strike, for myself, for my Joanie (and for Joanie-that-was, the free Joanie) and for the small tattered remnant that is my soul.