The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I-Toys

By William Lee

V—

I flashed my brand-new counterfeited Independent credentials at the desk and slid around its cool plastic surface through the open door into the back of the Raging Homo.

Moving amidst the bodies of fucking patrons, naked, wires dipping down from the ceiling to the back of necks—legal CATjacks—bodies locked in sexual carnage to a strobing set of retro laser lights and the retro pornos shining down on the crowd from the big screens, I made my way to Gurney’s cube.

The music was a pounding mix of retro rock and orchestral swells, all mixed into a cacophony that did little to mask the sounds of ecstasy—and did nothing to mask the smell of unwashed, sexual humans engaged in all manner of pleasurable acts.

Gurney had four women under his glass table, all working his naked and tattooed cock with their fingers, vibrators, and tongues. Their multicolored CATjacks moved down over his naked chest and undulated where they pierced the skin and entered their respective sockets.

“Hey, Gurney.” I shouted.

“Hommard!” He shouted back, “I’d stand, but . . . " He motioned to the four women servicing him and grinned.

“That’s a good deal,” I shouted, “we need to talk.”

“’Bout what?” He shouted back.

Catching my attention with really professional moaning, a woman in the booth beside me wearing Stim goggles—legal Stim—embraced three men who were pounding away at her pussy under the table.

“Business.” I shouted, thumbing that we should find a more private place. He saw that I was serious and dismounted from the harem of voluntary slaves—women who wanted his Stim coding because it was some of the best in the business. Period.

“What’s up?” He asked, wiping saliva from his crotch with a robe he pulled on over his shoulders as we made our way back to a Privycube.

“I’ll show you,” I said, entering an anonymous payment, letting a vacant Privycube slide open.

“It must be serious—you hate the Homo,” he said.

“It’s serious, alright.” I replied, settling down on the Privycube’s plastic couch. I could still smell the disinfectant that permeated the Privycube after its misty cleaning cycle, triggered when the door closed after the last—probably unsavory—clients left it empty.

I popped the Datasocket into the player and the stage illuminated with the I-toy’s schematics, overlaid on what had been Susan’s body.

“This—this is my problem,” I said as Gurney’s eyes grew wide and I saw the fascination ride across his face.

“That’s one sweet set-up,” Gurney said, “is this foreign?”

“I don’t know,” I said coyly, “I was hoping you could tell me more about where I could find another one.”

“It’s probably illegal,” he said, “it’s a Stim unit, right?”

“Almost,” I replied, “but it can reprotocol a CAT—by hardwiring it—and then alter the brain function.”

“Definitely illegal,” he said, reaching out a finger to touch the schematic’s lines. “Brilliant, really.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “brilliant. I’m being paid to stop the people who make these—kill the source. It’s called an Integrated Tool Y, or ‘I-toy’ and it’s fatal for the user.”

“What do you mean, fatal?” Gurney said, looking at me.

“Watch this.” I said, running the tape of Dross at six times speed, showing the hours and hours of uncontrollable masturbation.

“Wow,” Gurney said, “really powerful Stim. But it didn’t kill him.”

“No, it didn’t. But when an I-toy hijacks, it makes permanent Meat. No reprotocoling. Permanent. Good as dead.”

“So it’s Stim that’s permanent?” Gurney said, a tiny bit shaken. “They can’t undo what it does?”

“Nope,” I said.

“It’s brilliant, but fucking evil. I haven’t heard about anything like this. Not out there,” he motioned to the side of the Privycube, “in the Homo, anyway.”

“Chances are that if you’d heard about it you’d have used it already—and it would be using you, now.” I said.

“I see. Well, I’ll help you find out more about it,” he said, “do you need an analysis?”

“No. That’s been done. I have that for you.” I said, fishing out a second Datasocket and passing it to him.

“Okay. So then a simple trace?” He asked.

“Yes. But I need it immediately. And I’ll pay for that.” I said, looking at him looking at the Datasocket. “And this is really hot. I’m going to get killed or be permanent Meat if I don’t figure out what’s happening, quick.”

“I see,” he said, “I’ll work as quickly as I can. It isn’t going to be cheap, girl. In fact, I may want to borrow you to test some of my newest Stim instead of getting cash.” He grinned.

I didn’t think it was very funny. Once I plugged into his custom Stim he’d own my body until the Stim burned out—and I’d love every second of it. I’d be Meat—but privately owned. But Gurney was a good master and could be trusted. I wouldn’t do business with him otherwise—and I could think of worse things that would happen to me if I didn’t agree.

At least he always kept his cock and ass clean.

“Alright,” I said, “deal. Get me some really useful information, Gurney, and you can use me for a week—no, make it two weeks.” That should get his attention. Gurney loved it when I was his little Stim girl—on fire and ready to serve. I did suck a mean cock, after all, and nothing could really simulate that. Not yet.

He smiled. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll have the first information in a few hours. Wanna hang out here?”

“No,” I said, “I have another lead.”

“Be careful,” Gurney smirked, pushing open the Privycube’s hatch, “I want to fuck your ass when you’re high on my new Stim—nobody else gets that ass but me.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be back in a few hours. And, if anybody asks for me, you don’t know a thing.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Really, Gurney. And don’t let any strange Meat into your place—or you could end up sucking your own cock—and liking it.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” he joked, moving back into the Raging Homo’s arena of moving, consensually sexual flesh.

It wasn’t funny, so I didn’t reply, but just moved through the crowd of unseeing eyes, bodies locked in unwashed, addictive, CATjacked carnal lust with one another. The music beat on. Mist poured out through the retro laser lights to mix with the flailing, uncoordinated wash of limbs.

Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t an oncoming train.

Maybe.