The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Lets be frank with one another, Mr. Avin,” the man seated across from Alistair spoke. “Let us not mince words. Your daughter is a slut.”

Alistair tried to leap across the desk at the BioTrust executive. He was held back by the pair of gorilla-faced goons the company created for security purposes. He struggled in their grip, but at no point was the outcome not predetermined. The executive waited until Alistair settled down enough to listen.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Avin, but facts are facts.”

The BioTrust man conducting the interview, for lack of a better word, looked barely past his nineteenth birthday: blond, fresh-faced, perfect teeth, perfect complexion. Appearances meant nothing, of course.

With BioTrust’s preventative aging technology, he could well have been pushing seventy. There was no way to tell anymore. Alistair himself looked and felt as if he were in his twenties.

The man hadn’t even given Alistair his name. The executive pressed a touch-sensitive pad on his side of the desk. A holographic solidoe image materialized between them. One of the ape-men went ooh.

“Veronique Emerald Avin,” the man said, as if Alistair could not recognize the beautiful image of his only daughter floating there. “Class-A citizen, born twenty-four years ago. Mother, Class-B, Geraldine Lorelei Ferreau, separated from husband after a four-year marriage contract was not renewed. Full legal custody was of course retained by yourself.” He paused. “Your daughter is still young. Her biological age is on par with her chronological.” The solidoe showed Alistair’s daughter at dinner at an expensive restaurant with a pair of girlfriends. The three of them were talking and laughing and eating.

The executive depressed another console. The image changed, drastically.

Alistair went red and had to restrained again, this time with greater force. The sight of his daughter in bed, squirming wantonly beneath some unknown man’s lovemaking, eyes closed and her legs crossed above the fellow’s buttocks, was quite beyond any man’s capacity to take.

The executive adding sound to the display only made it worse.

“Ohhhh,” Alistair heard his daughter moan. “Aiiiiihhhh! Ayyh! Yes! God . . yes . . Spank me! Yesss . . . YESSSSS!!!!”

“Stop it,” he begged. He kept his eyes closed firmly. “For God’s sake, stop it!”

“Of course,” the executive said. But instead of dismissing the image, he merely froze it in place, which in a way was worse. When he opened his eyes, Alistair could still see his daughter caught in mid-fuck.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said to the BioTrust manager.

“You’ll never have the chance. We’re never going to meet again, Mr. Avin. That’s why it’s important now not to hold anything back.” The devilishly young man used his console again. Alistair prepared himself for another freakish show, but this time the solidoe only showed his daughter on a busy street walking with one of the women she had been eating out with. Both of them were holding packages and laughing. The image froze again. The executive focused in on the other woman, a bright auburn beauty.

Alistair had never seen her before. Then again, he hardly knew any of his daughter’s friends.

“For the past eight months, your daughter has been purchasing hits of a designer sex-mutagen called ‘Flood’ from this woman. Her name is Priscilla Harrington.”

No, Alistair thought. Please no. His Veronique was taking Flood!? Alistair felt his stomach go hard.

“You are no doubt aware of the true purpose behind BioTrust’s marketing of Flood and similar agents.”

Naturally. Alistair worked for BioTrust, too. Everyone in that room either worked for or belonged to that company. And Flood? Yes, damn well he knew all about Flood! He had, after all, been on the experimental team that produced the drug!

Not long after their introduction by BioTrust, Unlimited, the corporate partner of the Republic of America, the demand for mind-controlled sex slaves, especially female sex slaves, had far outdistanced the available supply. Prices rose, but this had little effect on the market. When legitimate sources for new dollygirls, suckfuck girls, biosluts, and so on began to dry out—there were only so many criminals, rebels, or Class-C Citizens in financial straits—the company had eventually turned to other means.

From the beginning, a small but significant percentage of Class-B and even Class-A women had expressed a certain “curiosity” about what the lives of BioTrust’s sex slaves were really like. A lot of women wanted to know—and feel—at least a portion of the same lust and reaction to physical pleasure.

This curiosity led to the secret marketing of drugs designed to mimic the hormonal experiences of real pleasure slaves. Under their influence, a woman’s orgasms were amplified greatly, as were their natural sexual appetites. Furthermore, the more one used the drugs, the better they worked. Naturally, many, if not most, of the women who experimented with these drugs became thoroughly addicted to them.

This was not looked upon as a disadvantage by the manufacturers, all subsidiaries of BioTrust. It was intentional. What was generally not known about the drugs was how similar they were to the more intensive drug regiment used to create real biosluts. In other words, while the mimic drugs took longer, their effects were virtually the same. Flood was only the latest in a string of related mutagen agents.

“When she first started using Flood, Veronique took care to cut the mutagen to reduce any lasting effects.” The executive’s holodisplay separated, the image of his daughter’s friend sliding to Alistair’s right while a biochemical index of Veronique’s blood popped up. “Ms. Harrington has been keeping track, you see, testing your daughter’s DNA at regular intervals. For the last five months, Veronique’s been taking the full dose each time, and at escalating rates. Your daughter is an addict.”

“Bastard,” Alistair whispered.

“What’s more,” the man said, either not hearing Alistair’s epithet or judiciously ignoring it, “the inevitable changes have begun.” He adjusted the solidoe, zooming out from Harrington and onto Veronique.

The light in the display changed. The street scene behind Alistair’s daughter disappeared. So did the people surrounding her. So did, too, the clothes she was wearing. Alistair’s guts clenched again.

With the advances made in surveillance technologies, it no longer made any difference what anybody wore nowadays. With the right equipment, anybody could be stripped naked by a peepercam.

His daughter, shown naked, was beautiful. The executive zoomed in on his daughter’s thigh. Barely visible against her otherwise porcelain complexion, a bluish-green spot appeared to be surfacing.

“This is, as you no doubt can recognize, what is known colloquially as a ‘slave spot.’” Alistair did, in fact, recognize it as one. He put a hand to his eyes and wept.

The beauty mark looked a little like the spots cows had had before they all went extinct. The BioTrust ‘slave spot’ was a trademarked genetic indicator. Zebra stripes, tiger marks, cow spots: their purpose, aside from the purely aesthetic, was to brand BioTrust’s living commodities as commodities.

By law, any female possessing slave spots on her skin was a piece of property.

The executive showed Alistair another beauty spot forming on his daughter’s left hip above her ass. Her skin overall, under close examination, was also starting to take on the distinctively smooth and artificial sheen of a genetically engineered bioslut.

“As you can clearly see, she is nearly at the tipping point, Mr. Avin. In addition to the physical changes, your daughter’s sexual appetites have increased dramatically. She engages in sex everyday. Moreover, according to our reports, she can no longer achieve orgasm without ‘flooding,’ as I believe they call it.”

She needed the drug to climax. It was a bad sign.

“Stop it, please.”

“She has five current lovers,” the executive went on, “none of them aware of the others. But that won’t last. She’s been getting sloppy. Her needs are growing too fast. The sex she has been engaged in has grown progressively robust. In order to satisfy her increasing desire to submit to a male, the use of bondage equipment, bridle gags, leather crops, and so on has become de rigueur. Hardly a day goes by when she is not on her back getting fucked. I also understand she has enormous talent for fellatio.”

Alistair’s head was throbbing.

“She will eventually be caught out. Either one of her lovers will discover his rival and compare notes with him, or the slave spots and other alterations to her pigmentation will deepen enough to be noticed, or she will overdose finally and wake up once and for all a legal bioslut. Her blood chemistry is almost at the legal limit as it is. Her sexual enslavement is all but inevitable at this point.”

“No,” Alistair said. He shook his head. “I can . . I can get her into a rehab. We can get her DNA clean of the mutagens.”

“Look at her chemical profile more closely, Mr. Avin.” Alistair did, reluctantly. He shuddered. “At this point, even a full telomeric purging would have only limited success, and she likely would not survive the procedure. But say she could be recertified 100% human.” Alistair shuddered again. His darling daughter was no longer pure human. A significant portion of her DNA, read by any bioanalyzer in the country, in the world! would now show her part-slave!

“Do you honestly think she could go back?” the BioTrust manager asked him. “She’s experienced, in part, mind you, but enough, true pleasure-slave ecstasy. Her neural pathways will have already began rewiring themselves for more. When she looks at a man now, what do you imagine she thinks about?”

“No.” But he knew.

“She’ll think about being fucked by him, that’s what. Every man for the rest of her life: she’ll relate to him as a prospective sex slave. Out of rehab, she would be back on Flood within a week, or, just as likely, she would do something deliberately to get herself enslaved, such as walking into a zoner bar unescorted or tagging a municipal building and confessing.”

Alistair kept thinking, My darling daughter, my darling daughter. How could he have missed the signs? But then, reflecting, he never really had spent much time with Veronique. He was a busy man; weeks would go by during which he barely saw her. She had her own apartment in the house.

When, in fact, had been the last time he’d seen her in person and not over the phone?

A vivid memory surfaced: he had been reading in the study, going over some company reports, and Veronique had strolled in wearing a flimsy bathrobe. A very short and flimsy one. He had only barely looked up at her, and then only because he noticed she’d been looking at him strangely.

Had that been . . . lust in his baby’s eyes? She had run off before he could say anything.

He had said something to her once, not then but later, remarking how she shouldn’t be walking around the house half-naked like that all the time. And her boobs. Hadn’t he really, in the back of his mind, noticed that his daughter’s boobs were getting bigger? Had he deliberately ignored it?

The manager turned off the solidoes.

“You should know, Mr. Avin. We did not target Veronique. As you are well aware, that is not company policy.” This was true. BioTrust preferred to purchase from the state and let the Republic do all legal confiscating of formerly free individuals. As for the notoriously unpicky processing lines in the factories, where just about any woman could be added to an assembly line and no one would question the matter, that was, nonetheless, a passive, and therefore plausibly deniable, acceptance of goods.

“This is not to say that she wasn’t, however, deliberately targeted.”

Alistair looked up. “What?”

“By Ms. Harrington,” the manager said. “Ms. Harrington is a licensed pusher. At the same time, while most of her income does come from selling drugs and mutagens to other women within her social set, she has a lucrative sideline in selling her former clients to others, in particular, to Brothelworld, Inc.”

A solidoe image popped up. The Brothelworld was an international conglomerate taking advantage of the rise and newfound prominence of slave-based entertainment that had occurred over the last few decades, originally inspired by BioTrust’s lines of sexual servitors. The company operated a string of amusement parks around the world catering to the international elite’s growing taste for dominance.

“As we have been able to determine, Ms. Harrington’s usual procedure goes like this: she supplies eroticizing mutagens to her so-called ‘friends,’ gradually increases the dosages to tip them over the legal limit, and then, arranging to have herself present at the time so she can claim initial property rights”—for once a woman passed the official limit of mutagens in her system she was legally the property of the first Class-A citizen to file claim on her—“she thereupon sells her ‘friend’ to the Brothelworld.

“Having analyzed Veronique’s blood ourselves, we predict that, left on her own, she would tip over into legal slavery sometime in the next two to three months, if not caught out prior by any of her lovers. Ms. Harrington, though, I believe, from the information we’ve received, intends to sell her off shortly, within the next week, in fact. She has made promises to the Brothelworld that would be in her best interests to keep, to wit: supplying three fresh biosluts, all general XTC models suitable for further modification.”

The man smiled. “Ms. Harrington already has the first two. She’s primed Veronique to be the third.”

This was a nightmare. Just twenty minutes ago, Alistair had been working in his lab. A messenger had come in and requested his presence on level four. Now his life was in shambles.

I made Flood! he accused himself. It’s my fault. My fault! Worse, he was a hypocrite: like all senior VPs at BioTrust, he made frequent use of dollygirls and the other sexual slavetoys the company produced. It was a perk of his position. He felt sick.

His daughter could well end up a slave in the very recreation centers he so often frequented!

“Why are you telling me this?” Alistair at last pleaded.

The manager smiled. It was not an evil grin or a sarcastic smirk. It appeared to be a genuine indication of commiseration. “Because we want to help, Mr. Avin. BioTrust cares for its employees.”

Alistair just looked at the man.

“I’m quite serious. As I mentioned earlier, your daughter is only twenty-four years old. With the passage of the Revised Parental Ownership Act raising the boundary age from twenty-one to twenty-five, your daughter is still legally bound to you. You still have rights over her person.” The executive leaned back in his chair and put his palms together with a light clap. “You can sell her to us.”

Alistair wasn’t sure he heard the man correctly. “What?” he said sharply. One of the apes put a hand on his shoulder. “What possible good would that do!?”

“A great deal, Mr. Avin. Look at it this way. One way or another, your daughter is going to end up as someone’s sex toy.”

Alistair snarled. “But if you sell her to BioTrust, we can make of her a premium dollygirl. As a dollygirl, Veronique would retain her memory, her basic personality, all the important things that make her the person she is now. We can ensure as well that she went to a good owner who would take care of her.

“On the other hand,” the man continued, “her slavery with the Brothelworld would almost certainly entail a memory purge and/or level of physical modification that would remove all trace of your daughter’s persona. She could be reduced to an automated suckfuck girl, for instance, or be installed as a common bedolly. Chimera—animal phenotypes—are becoming a popular feature in some Brothelworld establishments. Your daughter could therefore be spliced with any number of lower species, making of her a kittenwhore, ponyslut, pig trollop, and so on. I’m sure that that isn’t something you would desire.”

“I didn’t want any of this, you sick son of a bitch!” Alistair’s head kept throbbing. If he had been his true age, he would have suffered a heart attack by now, he was sure.

“The other advantage in selling your daughter to the company is what it would entail for Ms. Harrington,” the BioTrust executive added. At no point had he looked alarmed or offended by anything Alistair had said to him. “Ms. Harrington has a contract with the Brothelworld. If she failed to deliver your daughter by her contract’s due date, she would be in default.” He paused to let that sink in.

“Ms. Harrington’s lifestyle has forced her to accumulate a great deal of debt, Mr. Avin. I can only speculate as to her own unconscious desires in running such a risk. Regardless, this, combined with the defaulting of her contract, would most likely compel the Brothelworld to take lawful action against her.”

The notion suddenly clicked in Alistair’s mind. “They’d sue her,” he said slowly. “If she lost, she’d end up . . . a bioslut herself!”

“Indeed, Mr. Avin. And we would hire the best attorneys to ensure that she did lose. So, again, sir, look at it this way. If you were to sell Veronique to BioTrust, she would become a dollygirl, which is the best of all the available choices, if I may be permitted that tiny boast of our company’s line.

“She would be sold to an owner whom we would ensure would take the proper care of her.

“Best of all, the woman who got your little girl hooked on the sex drugs that turned her into a slavewhore would herself end up a slavewhore for the company she intended to sell your daughter to.”

The man clapped his hands again softly. “Or there is the alternative. The Brothelworld for your daughter, and Ms. Harrington not only goes free, she makes a tidy profit on your daughter’s ass.” He shook his head. “Myself, I think it’s an easy choice to make.”

He got up. The door behind him slid open. The enforcers stood to either side of Alistair to prevent him from raising. The executive went to the door.

“I’ll leave you now, sir. The computer has all the pertinent files and copious records of your daughter’s activities, DNA profiles, etc. When you come to a decision, let us know.” He pointed at an intercom. “We’ll take care of things from there.” He made a tiny salute to Alistair. “Goodbye, sir. And whatever decision you make, please know that personally I wish you only the best.”

He turned, stopped, turned again slightly. “I have a daughter myself,” he said. And then he was gone.

For a long time Alistair just sat there. The two enforcers left after about five minutes after determining he wasn’t going to attempt suicide or anything stupid like that. He didn’t look through any of the files.

He sat there for a long time, thinking.

When Alistair finally made his decision, he knew it was the right one.

Although the defendant was only a Class-C citizen, she was entitled to a fair trial. The drugs in her system were there only to ensure her complete honesty and forthcoming.

“State your full name and assigned place of residence.”

“Angela Lee Foster. I am a tenant of City Block 42 of Greater Los Angeles.”

“State your citizen code.”

“You people call me a Class-C citizen.”

“Do not hedge. Regardless of your personal beliefs, state your citizen code.”

“I . . am a Class-C citizen.” Lee pulled fruitlessly on the restraints holding her to the interrogation chair.

A bright light shown down upon her. Beyond the light was darkness. Her interrogators stood outside the circle. She could hear them but not see them.

She wore only a prison-issued slip, no underwear. There were strategic, and humiliating, gaps in the uniform design. Lee’s bare ass pressed against the chair’s surface.

“Angela Lee Foster, you have been charged with robbery in the first degree, conspiracy to commit robbery in the first degree, assault on a Class-B citizen, illegal possession and felony use of a category seven weapon, intimidation, intimidation through the use of a category seven weapon, and possession of a stolen XTC category slave. How do you plead?”

“My sister is not a possession!”

“State your plea.”

Lee resisted as much as she could. But she had to answer. “Not . . . guilty.”

“The defendant has entered a plea of not guilty,” a second voice spoke.

“Recorded.” A third voice. At no point had Lee been bothered with an attorney of her own. While she may have been entitled to a fair trial, as a Class-C tenant her privileges only went so far.

The first voice asked her to describe her criminal actions.

“I committed no criminal actions. I rescued my sister from you monsters.”

The plan had worked so perfectly. She had secured Annie in the sleepcell in the back of the moving truck, and they had been proceeding down to the docks when the police cruiser pulled them over. Lee told the autodriver to keep going, but the police override had kicked in, and she had no control.

After that, it had just been a matter of time before they found Annie.

“Your sister’s name was Brittney Ann Foster, a Class-C citizen and former tenant of City Block 42 of Greater Los Angeles?”

Lee grit her teeth. “Yes,” she gasped.

“Records show that three months ago a Brittney Ann Foster, Class-C citizen and tenant of City Block 42, was present during an illegal protest made against the City Manager’s Office. She was identified as a subversive and subsequently picked up during a tenant raid, found guilty of conspiracy to protest, and processed into an XTC bioslut, whereupon she was sold to a brothel in Block 44. Is that your remembrance of the events in question, Ms. Foster?”

She tried not to respond. Lee pulled on her restraints. The cords in her neck showed strain as she tried to keep the words in. “Is that your recollection, Ms. Foster?” she was asked again.

The strain was too much. “Yes,” she hissed. She felt immediate relief, a relief she knew would disappear the moment another question was posed. A thin tube ran into her left arm.

“Since you recall what happened, you must have understood at that time that your sister was no longer a Class-C citizen. She had become a slave, a legal possession of the brothel that whored her. Was that your understanding, Ms. Foster?”

Lee gasped. Her teeth hurt from the constant strain of holding them together. “Yes,” she hissed.

“So you had understanding that your sister was no longer a person but a possession.”

“Yes.”

“Speak up, please, Ms. Foster.”

“Yes! I understood Annie had been made a slave.”

“Furthermore, you had this understanding at the time you assaulted your former sister’s licensed pimp, Jeremy Phillips, a Class-B citizen, did you not, Ms. Foster?”

Lee closed her eyes. It was too hard to fight the impulse to answer everything. “Yes.” She should have shot him while she had had the chance.

“So, since you had this understanding, you knew at the time you assaulted Jeremy Phillips that taking possession of his slave without his permission was an illegal act, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“It was theft, was it not, Ms. Foster?”

“She was my sister.”

“It was theft, was it not, Ms. Foster?”

“. . . yes . . .”

“So you are guilty of the theft of Mr. Phillips’ slave. Is that not correct, Ms. Foster?”

“Yes.”

“Let the record reflect that the defendant has changed her plea to the charge of possession of a stolen XTC category slave to guilty.”

The second voice said, “So noted.”

“Now, Ms. Foster,” the first voice went on, “let’s talk about that assault on Mr. Phillips in more detail, shall we?” The questioning continued. It was a staple of contemporary American jurisprudence that all defendants eventually pled guilty to the charges made against them. This innovation saved both time and trouble as well as accusations of impropriety from the ACLU.

From an observation booth outside Lee’s perception, two individuals watched the proceeding. One was an attorney, the other a senior attendant of the medjail. Although both were in their forties, neither appeared any older than twenty.

“Stupid tenant girl,” the attorney said. She gestured at the bound figure beyond the glass. “What did she hope to achieve? Did she honestly think she’d be able to smuggle her sister out of the country?” There were still a few states in the world that hadn’t readopted slavery to one degree or another. Not a lot, but a few.

The medjail attendant shrugged. He stole a surreptitious glance at his friend’s legs and backside. He thought she would make a good slave. Too bad she’s Class-A, he added mentally.

“BioTrust asked us to put a rush on this one,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Something about her having great resequencing potential. They ran her mitochondrial sequences and were impressed. They want to make her a dollygirl.”

“Really?” The attorney looked at Lee with a touch more respect. “Her sister received only a second-class resquencing, I gather. Maybe they had different mothers?”

The medjail attendant shrugged again. “She should be finished here in another twenty minutes or so. You want to stay and watch or have lunch?”

The attorney pressed her hand against the glass. What would it be like to be in that chair? she thought and shivered. She turned and found the attendant looking at her curiously. “Lunch,” she said.

As it turned out, the attendant was wrong.

It only took fifteen minutes for Lee to plead guilty to all charges.

“You promised us a third bioslut, Ms. Harrington.”

Priscilla licked her lips. They were suddenly dry. “It’s not my fault. The girl I was prepping got sold out from under me!”

“That isn’t our concern, Ms. Harrington. Your contract stipulates delivery of three biosluts by today’s date. We have received only two.” The Brothelworld representative glanced significantly at his watch.

“It’s 11:55. You will officially be in default of your contract in five minutes. Less than that, really.”

“That’s not my fault either! You’re the ones who grabbed me and held me here all day! You haven’t given me the opportunity to pick you up another slut.” Priscilla eyed carefully the corporate security guards standing to either side of the exit.

“We apologize for that, Ms. Harrington. There was a clerical error. We regret any inconvenience your stay with us these last few hours may have caused you. We trust the facilities in our employee lounge met with your approval?”

“You bastards! You did this deliberately. You kept me here all day so I would bankrupt!” Damn Avin! His daughter had been so perfect! The slut was ripe, too, so on the cusp she might have spontaneously transformed with her next hit! Priscilla’s plan had been to give her an extra-strength Flood. That would have done the deed for sure. “I . . I could have found somebody.”

“You mean kidnap someone? That would be highly illegal, Ms. Harrington. The Brothelworld prides itself on following the letter of the law.”

“Bastards!” Even if she hadn’t been kept a virtual prisoner all day, she would have had a hard time finding another woman to replace Veronique. None of her other clients had anywhere near enough mutagens in their blood chemistry. Without a full processing facility at her disposal, a transforming cocoon and round-the-clock chemical cocktails, transforming any of them into biosluts would have taken days, even assuming she had enough Flood to do the trick. The secret to Priscilla’s success had been gradual addiction and the steadily escalating transformations that addiction brought. As for kidnapping a stranger, as the Brothelworld man had suggested, she had no expertise in that whatsoever!

With a fresh girl, she would have been starting from scratch anyway. Priscilla would have skipped town had she had the opportunity. Was that the real reason they had held her?

The Brothelworld representative looked at his watch again. “It’s 12:00, Ms. Harrington. You promised us a bioslut.”

Priscilla could say nothing. She was shaking.

“You were provided an advance on your contract.” He checked a plastic flimsy in his hand. “You owe us a considerable amount of money. Can you pay, Ms. Harrington?”

“I need a few days . . I can borrow the money.”

The gentleman spoke into a recorder. “Defaulting client cannot make good on the advance.” He then nodded at the guards. The two of them left the door and came to stand behind Priscilla.

“What . . what are you going to do?”

The representative tapped the flimsy again. “We’re expanding the booth baby wings of several of our complexes. Since you couldn’t deliver use a fresh bioslut, we’ll be one booth baby short now.”

The color absolutely drained from Priscilla’s face.

“No. No, you can’t.” She tried to get up, but the guards each put a hand on a shoulder. Booth babies were cheap rubberized coin-operated girls! They were among the lowest of the bioslave phenotypes!

“However,” the Brothelworld executive said, “there may be another solution.” And he glanced significantly into Priscilla’s eyes.

Once again, she tried to stand up. But at no point was the outcome already not predetermined.