The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

ISLAND OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS

(Disclaimer: adult material, don’t read if you’re a minor, don’t try this at home. This is the third part of a trilogy. Parts one and two are already posted on this archive.)

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Part 4

The second conditioning session began precisely on schedule. But it lasted far longer than usual, due to the stubborn mental resistance by Robyn. Again and again the EKG would spike on the screen, showing her dogged, desperate resistance to the flood of images bombarding her mind. Max paced the tile floor as the clinicians switched from one program to another, chipping away at her mental defenses, teaching her brain to accept the new role prepared for her by the staff psychologists, all experts in the black arts of mind control. Max watched her, strapped securely in the “dentist chair”, writhing and twisting in silent struggle as the physical sensors and sensation stimulants played in harmony over her body, teaching it to respond slavishly to every touch and command. And every lesson in obedience was reinforced by the rhythmic thrusting of the mechanical dildo, driving home the lesson that compliance brought pleasure.

At the end of the second session, they unbuckled the straps and pulled her limp form from her bonds. The aroma of sweat and her own sweet of arousal mingled in the room. One by one the sensors were detached from her body. Her eyelids fluttered, and Max saw recognition as their eyes met. Her eyes flickered in recognition. “Hello, Max,” she said, her voice thick. “So, how. . . how’m I doing?”

“You’re doing fine, Ms. Dorset. You’ve held out longer than any of our other subjects. But don’t worry, you will come around eventually.” Her lips curled in a sardonic smile before her head lolled back out of exhaustion. Max snapped a command and the clinicians quickly placed her gently on a gurney for washing and rest in the recovery room.

Max said to the chief clinician, “Let’s start her physical conditioning.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the buxom dark-haired beauty. Her white medical outfit clung tightly to her curvaceous body. She had been a registered nurse in her prior life before coming to the island as a vacation to forget the misery of a breakup with her boyfriend. Max had been equally impressed with both her good looks and her medical background. She had been flattered to receive an invitation to dinner with the director, up on the “house on the hill,” as the guests called the out-of-bounds compound that overlooked the island resort. The sedative in the wine had gone straight to her head, and she was whisked off to begin her mental conditioning that night. She now served as Max’s chief clinician.

“If I may say so, Sir, she’s already in pretty good shape,” said the clinician.

“Yes, that’s the problem. The woman looks like she spends every evening at the gym. Frankly, I think our client finds that a little intimidating. We need to soften her up, make her more feminine. After all, she’s going straight to the client, so she has to be perfect right out of the gate.” Usually, the LoveDolls were put through a stint as dancers in a club on the mainland as a kind of graduation from the island’s mind-conditioning program. There the girls could be showcased to prospective buyers. This also allowed fine-tuning behavior or appearance based on their performance at the club.

“Mmm, yes, Sir, I see what you mean. We can start with a high carbohydrate diet, muscle relaxants, and an exercise program directed more on toning than on strength-training. Then body-shaping injections. Does the client have any particular preferences along those lines?”

“It’s in the file.” By the way, how are the twins progressing?”

The chief clinician said with evident pride, “We have never had better subjects. Take a look, sir.” She flicked on two of the monitors against the wall.

In one of the monitors, one of the twins was straddling a mechanical training dildo built into a padded bench on the floor. Max could see she was jacked-in, the wires leading from behind the jack inserted at the base of her skull to the computer console outside the field of view. From the way she gyrated wildly up and down the training dildo, Max knew her mind was being saturated with pleasure-stimuli of unimaginable potency. The girl’s lithe body twisted and writhed, her abominable muscles flexing as she clenched and released the dildo with every pelvic thrust. Her breasts—already ballooned to enormous size by repeated silicon treatments—bounced in sensuous tandem as she whipped her long hair back and forth.

“Neocortex responses?” asked Max.

“Almost instantaneous, Sir. No resistance whatsoever. Already her neural pathways are hardwired into constant sexual craving.”

“Cognition?”

“Her independent thought processes have almost entirely disappeared.” Said the chief clinician. “Not that she apparently had that many in the first place.”

Max nodded. “And the other?” The clinician obligingly switched channels. The image on the screen flickered, then was replaced by a shot of the other twin. This one was one hands and kneels, her round buttocks held high in the air, while a dildo extended from a machine to pummel deep inside her from behind. Max smiled in satisfaction as he observed how the captive girl thrust herself backwards to give greater penetration to the dildo pistoning back and forth in her pussy. It was like she could not get enough of it. Her hair fell over her face from her exertions, but an ecstatic toss of her head flipped the curls over her forehead, and revealed eyes shut and a mouth smiling in absolute pleasure. She even ran her tongue over her lips as if savoring each ravishing thrust of the dildo.

“When do you expect to suit them up?” asked Max, referring to the super-thin and form-molding suits that encased each of the finished LoveDolls.

“We have a fitting scheduled in three days, sir. For both.”

“Very well,” said Max.

Robyn was used to exercising herself to exhaustion in the brief, intense workouts she allowed herself as a company executive. When she next woke up in the recovery room, and was told she would be taken to physical conditioning, Robyn expected the worst. But her trainers showed extraordinary interest and care in her body, and they made it clear she would not be exercised hard. Stretching and flexibility—those were the order of the day. Her mind already compliant from hours of mental conditioning, Robyn allowed herself to be pushed and pulled and coaxed and massaged until she could flow easily from one position to another on the exercise mat.

She was shown special exercises to build up certain muscle groups and let others soften. Since the client made no specific demands as to her bust, her breasts remained as they were—pert and round. One day she did wake up from an especially long sleep to discover that her face had been subtly altered by touch-up plastic surgery; small crease in her cheek had been smoothed over, a cap placed over a chipped tooth, and they had done something with her eyelids to make her eyes look larger and more appealing.

Max would occasionally drop in on her training. One day he strolled into the exercise room to find her bent over an exercise horse between the two pommels. A clinician stood behind her, slathering a large dildo with some kind of lubricant, obviously in preparation for assaulting Robyn’s delicate puckered anal cavity.

“Good afternoon, Robyn,” said Max.

Robyn glanced around. She was supporting herself on her elbows, her legs spread to receive the insertion of the dildo. Her hair was pinned up and her body glistened with sweat. The fact that she was unshackled demonstrated the extend the conditioning had gone to tame her. “Oh, hello, Max,” she said. “You’ve caught me in a rather awkward position. Not sure Emily Post’s book on etiquette has the proper greeting for this kind of encounter.”

“I’ve looked at your progress reports, Robyn. We’re all quite pleased.”

“Who’s this we’, Max? I’m not pleased. I’m kind of pissed, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh?” asked Max with real concern on his face. “I hope the trainers are not working you too hard. They can be real zealots, I know.”

“They’re working me into the frigging mat, Max, as you damn well know.” She studied him out of the corner of her eyes, her backside arched to receive the dildo. “Can I ask you a question? Why not just dope me up and let your scummy clients have their way with me? Why go to all this trouble?”

“Our clients want more than a ragdoll or mannequin, Ms. Dorset,” replied Max. “Besides, drugs can be dangerous.”

“Nice of you to care,” said Robyn. “What if I just agreed to go quietly? You know, set me up with a nice gentlemen on a resort someplace, get me to sign whatever you need to turn over my business. Why go through all this psychological mumbo-jumbo? I’m sensible, I realize I’m in a fix, here. I’d make a deal with you. You can have whatever security you want. I’m rather fond of my mind, you see.”

Max walked around to the front of the exercise horse to keep Robyn from having to turn around. It was a courtesy, and besides, he did not want her to see the dildos in the lower rack that increased in size like gym dumbbells. He shook his head. “No, Ms. Dorset. You are far too clever. Even if you mean that now, sooner or later, you would figure out a way to escape. Especially with your future owner, that Mr. Charlesworth, who does not impress me as an overly-intelligent young man.”

“Yeah, I was going to talk to you about that, too. Can’t I have a say in who my owner might be? I’d settle for a movie star. Or even a Senator, as long as they don’t smoke.”

Max said gravely, “Sorry, Ms. Dorset, that’s not the way it works. It’s the clients that do the choosing, not the LoveDolls.”

Robyn cast an uneasy glance behind at the dildo-wielding clinician almost finished coating the smooth pointed cylinder in his hand. As if to put the thought out of her mind of things to come, Robyn tossed her head in the direction of the other LoveDolls-in-training—beautiful girls all, made even more so by the clinic’s beauty salon, and now being molded into docile, mind-emptied fuck-toys. One girl was riding a bucking saddle-shaped seat, her long hair tossing to and fro, as the pair of dildos attached to the seat ravished her ass and vagina with alternating thrusts. Another girl, this one blindfolded and kneeling with her hands cuffed behind her, learned to pleasure her trainer’s cock with only her tongue alone. Two more writhed and twisted together in a “69” position, learning how to entertain a future owner. Their trainer paced back and forth, rapping out instructions that he emphasized with the business end of a riding crop. Robyn looked back up at her captor.

“Tell me, Max, when you look around this room and see all these girls being transformed into your little bevy of sex slaves, what do you see? Inventory? Money in the bank? The fulfillment of some adolescent sex fantasy?”

The question seemed to catch Max by surprise. He surveyed the room. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I suppose—works of art.”

The clinician held the dildo poised behind Robyn’s upraised ass, with an enquiring glance at Max. Max nodded. “I must get back to the office,” he said. “Do take care of yourself, my dear.”

“Ouch!” grunted Robyn as the dildo slid home. “Is this really necessary?” she gasped.

Max stopped at the door. “Of course. All of our dolls must be fully functional, with their owners having access to all, er, orifices. If we do it this way, gradually, you’ll be stretched enough to accommodate anything, but still tight enough to offer maximum pleasure to your owner. It’s a question of a proper fitting.”

“And here I took you for the sensitive type,” muttered Robyn as Max waved goodbye.

It was not long before the combination mental and physical conditioning began to take effect. Each day they brought her food to eat and slushy fruit beverages to drink. And each morning she would slip out of her loose-fitting robe and allow the clinicians to measure and pamper her, like the docile housepet she was becoming. Her thoughts became more fleeting and her memory faded be degrees. Every now and then she would feel a tremor of alarm at the things that were being done to her, but those episodes became less and less frequent and soon dissolved into a warm, cottony contentment with just doing what she was told. She lost all sense of time.

Then, one day, they fitted Robyn with a bodysuit.

Andre monitored the whole process personally, since he figured Max would take a personal interest in Robyn’s case. He woke that morning with a sense of excitement. Part of that excitement was physical, due to the way he woke up every morning: with one of his personal LoveDolls gently kissing his manhood beneath the covers. Among her other talents in the bedroom, he had implanted in her a precisioned sense of time. He loved being awoken gradually by her touch, and even though her lips were caressing him promptly at 7:00 every morning, it was often twenty minutes later that the fog of sleep was lifted with the realization that he was on the brink of his first morning orgasm, his cock fully sheathed between the soft, moist lips of his specialized alarm clock. His mind drifted as it usually did during such episodes, then he thought of Robyn’s scheduled step into the state of total subjugation. The idea aroused him either further, to the point where he pulled his LoveDoll from beneath the covers, pressed her on her back, and proceeded to fuck her with gusto. By the time he came inside her, with her arms around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist, he had blocked out most of the events of the day. He was into the shower and out the door in no time, while the LoveDoll drowsed away in Andre’s still heated bed.

Andre called the workout gym and rerouted Robyn to the clinic instead. Robyn recognized him immediately, as he was was busy in one corner fitting a new blade onto an old-fashioned razor. A cup of coffee and a remote control device had been laid on a side table. A female attendant instructed Robyn to take off her loose-fitting robe. The attendant, clippers in hand, proceeded to shave off all over her hair, leaving her bald and utterly devoid of a single follicle. Robyn stood as docile as a lamb being sheared. Only when they were finished was she pulled gently onto a sort of upraised stool. Andre approached, while one of the brain-washed clinic girls dutifully followed, bearing a tray with the razor and a heated lather dispenser.

“Bonjour, Robyn,” said the dashing Andre. He had a day’s stubble of beard himself, which only made him look more roguish and sexy to Robyn. For one mad moment, she thought he was going to shave himself in front of her nude form—yet another weird fetish from these demented kidnappers? she wondered. But, no, it was her own stubble Andre was stropping his razor for. He squeezed a jet of heated lather into his palm, then carefully dabbed it over her crotch. Robyn flinched at the touch, but against her wishes, the warm, sudsy lather actually felt good.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Ah, mademoiselle, for the bodysuit to fit perfectly, you must be all smooth, all over. First we shave you, then we apply a special ointment to go right to the roots. Be very still now, and let me do my work.” As if to illustrate the process, he applied the razor and expertly scraped a swathe at the top of the stubble on her bush. Robyn held her breath and tried to remain motionless.

“Ah, bon,” said Andre as he rinsed the razor in a bowel of hot water. Robyn felt herself relax. The man handled the razor with a surgeon’s touch. Robyn suspected he could also wield a knife with the same lethal precision.

Robyn said, “So how did you and Max hook up, Andre? What’s the story here?” It seemed ludicrous, but she found herself curious about these ruffians who seemed intent on processing her into a some rich man’s mannequin, and who went about their work with such ruthless professionalism.

“Max? Oh, Max is a very great man, Robyn. This whole island was his vision, long ago, even during the early days.”

“Is he your mafia boss, your partner in crime? What the deal between you two?”

“He’s my friend,” answered Andre simply. We bummed around Europe , did all sorts of trade together, stole some horses. You know how it is.” Robyn did not exactly know how it is, but she said nothing. “Move your leg a little bit there, won’t you? Ah, merci.” Scrape, scrape.

“So do you both hate women, or what?”

Andre looked up in genuine surprise. “Hate women? But of course not! I adore women. That is why I have married so many.” In fact, Andre loved all women indiscriminately, and his affection for one was not diminished by his fondness for them all. He tapped her unrazored thigh. “Other side, please—oui, that’s better.” More foam. Robyn closed her eyes and almost purred with pleasure. She found herself doing that more and more these days, just taking time out to allow herself to feel the pleasure of the ministrations of her handlers.

“And has Max married many women? Or does he just keep a harem filled with the pick of the litter from the girls who are unlucky enough to fall into your clutches on this island?”

Andre shook his head. “You have it all wrong, Robyn. Max doesn’t do that sort of thing. I do, but I am French, after all. Max has never touched one of the LoveDolls. Not since his wife died.”

“His wife?

“She was a real beauty—I never met her, but Max showed me her picture once. Strong features, dark eyes—a lot like you, as a matter of fact. No matter how far our businesses took us over Europe, Max would always try to get home to her. Once we were taken into custody in Stuttgart—this is East Germany, now, before the wall came down in Berlin and we all became friends with those cochon, those pigs—anyhow the East German Stassi caught us smuggling across the border, and put us in jail.” He interrupted himself. “All done down there. Now, I do your head. Look down, please.” Robyn dutifully dipped her head. She felt his slender fingers layer her shaven skull with more hot lather.

“So what happened?” asked Robyn.

“So there we are sitting in jail, cinder block walls. Somebody groaning in pain down the corridor from a beating, and all Max can talk about his getting home to his wife in time for their anniversary. I have never missed her birthday, and I will not start now. She expects me to come,’ he says, all very proper you see. Moi, I am not so worried about celebrating anniversaries, I am more concerned with the Stassi interrogation in the morning. They were checking their police records while we were sitting in jail, and it was only a matter of time before they realized we had been guests of their little pension, their hotel, before. But Max, all he can think about is not missing his anniversary with his wife. So you know what we did? We broke out. Max figured out a way to trick the Stassi guards, very serious boys, you know, but we did it anyway.” She felt the hard, sharp edge of the razor slide over her skull. Andre worked around her ears with care.

“What happened, then?” asked Robyn. “I thought you said she died young.”

Andre talked on, caught up in his own story. Robyn caught a wisp of his eue de cologne, the fresh scent tickling her nose.

“Well, we get back across the border to Austria, with the shirts on our backs and nothing more, and I tell Max, look, I’ve been hearing you talk about his wife, this magnifique wife that even the East German secret police cannot stop you from seeing. Let me come and meet her. He tells me no, it is a family affair. That is fine with me, we are friend, but we both have our own secrets, naturally.”

“Naturally,” said Robyn.

“Your legs now. We must do your legs.” Robyn obligingly rested her legs on a stool that the clinician shoved under her feet. Andre lathered her, and made deft, swift strokes down her calf. She marveled at the speed and confidence he showed with the rapid scrapings—such control! She could not help but run a hand over the top of her head, which was now as smooth as a billiard ball. She could even feel the slight indention and healed-over scar from the surgery they had done at the clinic a long time ago. Seemed like a long time ago, at least. Then she focused again on Andre, as he resumed his tale.

“We arrive in Vienna, he says he is going for a walk. But I do not like him going alone, you see, he had certain enemies in Vienna, former business partners who tried to cheat him once and paid dearly for it.” Andre held up the razor meaningfully. “These are the kind of jackals that shoot you in the back, you know? So I follow him. Have you ever been to Vienna, Robyn?”

“No. Never been to Europe, ever.”

“See Paris first. At any rate, in Vienna there is a cemetery not far from the Bahnhof, the train station. We get off the express train, and Max goes to shops outside of the station and starts walking up the hill toward this cemetary, with something in his hand. I follow. Where is this guy going, I ask myself. Other leg, now, if you please.” Robyn crossed her other leg over. “So Max walks into the cemetary. I follow him like a shadow. What about the big anniversary night, I wonder. This guys goes over the wall in an East German prison, bullets zipping over our heads, the dogs barking below, the whole scene, you know?—this guy does all that to stop by a graveyard? Is it a drop, a pickup, a meeting place? Now I am very curious.”

Robyn had forgotten her own predicament, so absorbed she was in the story the French abductor was telling her. “So what happened then?” she asked.

“Max stopped by a grave, a simple stone. Then I see what he has in his hand—flowers! This is unimaginable, don’t you agree? I hear him say something in German, then after a while he leaves, marching back down to the station like he’s going off to war again. I stay behind, and when he is down past the gate, I come up to read the stone, by the moonlight. I move the flowers, and there is the name of his wife, and the year of her death—five years ago.”

Robyn swallowed hard. “What did he say?”

“Excuse moi?”

“At the grave, you said he said something, Andre. What did he say?”

“Oh. It was”—he paused, as if wanting to get the words exactly right—“Happy Anniversary, beloved. Thank you for watching over me—as I should have watched over you.’” Andre tossed the razor back onto the tray and took a towel from a rack and washed the remaining lather from Robyn.

“What do you suppose he meant by that?” she asked.

Andre gave a great Gallic shrug. “Who knows? He keeps a lot to himself—a very private man. I have the feeling that he was not always the way he is now—that a chill had entered his heart. But enough of my little story. We have much yet to do with you.” He patted her shoulder with genuine affection.

Robyn decided to take a chance. She glanced right and left, making sure they were alone. “How about helping me get out of here?” she asked quietly.

Andre threw back his head and laughed. “Moi? Ah, this brings to mind another story. When Napoleon was Emperor of the French, a madman rushed up to him and said I am in love with Josephine, the Empress!’ Napoleon replied, Then you have picked the wrong man to confide in, sir.’” He laughed. “I am not the man to help you escape, Robyn. I adore you too much to let you go. You will fetch a fine price for us, and Max has given his word to deliver a suitably conditioned LoveDoll in his contract with that man Charlesworth. Max is a man of honor. He would never go back on his word. And I would never go back on my friendship with Max. I like you, mon amie, but do not ask the impossible.”

Robyn bristled. “Well, when you begin to convert me into one of your LoveDolls, don’t expect any cooperation from me!” she snapped.

Andre raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Begin to convert you? My dear, you are already converted! What we do from now on is just—” he searched for the right word—“ah, yes, just packaging.”

“Already converted? I don’t feel any different!”

“Of course not, you sweet innocent. That is part of the programming.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Robyn. “You’re going to find I’m tougher than your other empty-headed little girls here, God help them. Go ahead, try to make me sing and dance,”

“No? Perhaps a small demonstration would convince you,” said Andre, and he reached for the remote control device in his pocket. He winked at Robyn as his fingers danced with practiced ease over the tiny keyboard. He turned a chair backwards, and sat in it with his arms casually resting on the back.

Robyn steeled herself to remain motionless. She felt nothing at first. A faint buzz passed through her head. Then a tingling seemed to spread over her skin, and she sensed her heart picking up its pace, her breath becoming shallow. Still, she kept her eyes locked on Andre, who was now leaning back in his chair with a benign smile.

I’ll wipe that smug look off his face, thought Robyn. But it was becoming hard to ignore the warmth spread between her legs. Centering. Centering. Oh, my, she thought. . .

Robyn looked down, and could see her breasts rising and falling rapidly with each breath. Involuntarily, her hands strayed down to her now-smooth pussy, and she felt the blush of embarrassment as she realized that Andre knew exactly what she was doing. She kept her hands away from the pulsing heat of her loins as long as she could, then surrendered to her need, plunged her fingers into her pussy to relieve the pleasure-ache. A wave of almost physical sexual craving passed through her body like an electrical shock. Andre took a sip of coffee and laced his fingers across the back of his chair. Such arrogance, thought Robyn. She jerked her fingers away, coated with her own juices. Then she groaned, and helplessly put them back again, pleasuring herself shamelessly, the scent of her sex wafting from her loins.

“Perhaps something a little more athletic,” suggested Andre, who carefully put his coffee aside to punch in a new code.

Another faint tickle in her brain, and suddenly Robyn felt an immediate, desperate hunger to have a man inside her, thrusting deep, ravishing her. Her nipples had swollen to painful erection. She looked up at Andre with eyes filled with sexual craving. Without even thinking about it, she felt her hips gyrating seductively, and her hands stroked her own flanks and sides and finally cupped her breasts, squeezing them hard—lessons her body had learned to arouse her future owner.

“All right,” she panted. “You’ve made your point.”

Andre gave her a maddingly charming smile. His held the remote between loose fingers—so much power over her, so casually held. He idly punched in some new codes.

Robyn felt herself rise to her feet and seductively walk toward him. She knelt at his feet. Her finger traced a path from the leg of his trousers toward his crotch.

“No, my pet,” said Andre. “You first have to ask.”

Another twist of a dial, and another wave of intense pleasure swept over Robyn. Her mind had blanked out everything but the desperate need to touch his cock, taste it, tease it—what have they done to her?! her mind screamed. But her body pressed close to his leg.

“May I . . . serve you, Sir?” she asked, her voice husky. She felt detached, like she was watching a videoclip of her own debasement.

“Maybe,” answered Andre nonchalantly, as if a beautiful woman was not kneeling submissively at his feet, begging him with her eyes as well as her voice.

“Please, Sir?” the plea seemed torn from her, as she struggled to maintain some control over her body. She bent her head forward, still maintaining eye contact, and pressed her lips in a kiss on his obvious erection in his pants. Andre’s slender fingers stroked her bald head, then reached down to tweak each of her nipples. Robyn arched her back in a spasm of amplified pleasure, and this time looked up with genuine longing with no more inhibitions.

“Please, Andre? Please? I’ll do anything you ask, I promise to be good. . .”

Andre slid his thump gently between her lips, and she sucked on it greedily, stroking it wetly with her tongue as if to show how much pleasure she could offer with something else to suck on.

“An, my dear Robyn,” said Andre with sigh, “I have the inclination to enjoy your charms, and certainly the right. But today—not the time.” He clicked the “off” button on the remote. The flood of sensation receded from Robyn like a disappearing tide. She shakily stood up. Then her hand swung at Andre. “You bastard!” she screamed.

Andre caught her wrist—he was amazingly fast, and pulled her back down to her knees. Robyn collapsed in tears, her head on his thigh, crying in anger and fear and frustration at losing control for the first time in her life. Andre allowed her to pound his thighs weakly with her fists, all the while murmuring comforting comments. “There, there, Robyn, you had to be shown. This is not a child’s game we’re playing here. Better you learn all this with me than with somebody less sympathetic. Just relax now, mon amie.” His hands gentled her, stroking her head tenderly.

“I’m going to get you for this,” sobbed Robyn. “You and that other bastard Max. You had no right to do this to me. . . no right at all.”

“Oh, I agree with you,” said Andre. “This is most unfortunate. a bad turn of the cards, no? But that is life, is it not?”

“And you shaved me and made me look ridiculous with no hair,” moaned Robyn.

Andre’s face brightened. “But my dear, that is something we are going to attend to. We will make you look more beautiful than you have ever looked in your life!”

Robyn looked up, her eyes all puffy and red-rimmed and tear-stains down her cheeks. “Really?” she sniffled.

“But of course! Trust me on this.” And he helped her to her feet. He shot a look to one of the clinicians, who brought tissues. While Robyn blew her nose and dabbed her eyes, Andre casually punched in the code to make her more docile and relaxed, and reduce her thinking abilities to a crawl. Andre chatted with her a bit more, then turned her over to the clinicians. “Your little adventure continues,” he said.

The clinicians applied a depilation salve that effectively dissolved the hair at the roots. By the time they were finished, not a stubble could be found on her whole body. She was scrubbed hard in a steaming shower by two clinicians, their water-slick breasts jiggling as they worked their brushes over Robyn’s pinkened skin.

Next they led her into a room whose walls seemed to consist of stacked bars of florescent light bulbs. They attached special goggles to her eyes and left her standing naked in the room. Somewhere a switch was thrown and the bulbs flashed with a searing intensity that Robyn could feel on her skin for just an instant. The door to the room opened, they removed the goggles, and Robyn noted how a fine, powdery ash seemed to filter down to the floor. Her brow furrowed. Did that come from me? she wondered.

Andre, standing outside the room, noticed her puzzlement. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That just vaporized the layer of dead skin cells on your body. Didn’t hurt, did it?” Robyn shook her head no. She found it strangely reassuring that he had been there—rather like both of them going through this ordeal together. Back to the shower, another scrubbing—this time hard enough to take the hide off, it seemed to Robyn. She walked through a tunnel with hot hair blowing from numerous vents. By the time she reached the far end, she was probably as clean and dry as she had even been before. But for what? she wondered.

The answer was not long in coming. She was told to stand still, arms outstretched, legs spread, as they coated her body with a creamy paste. “What’s that for?” asked Robyn. Her encounter with Andre’s remote seemed to have triggered the full conditoned response. The most concern she felt was a kind of idle curiosity what they were doing to her. After all, these people were all so nice to her (as she had been reminded ten thousand times with sensuous positive reinforcement of the thought).

“This is to hold your bodysuit in place,” said one of the clinicians. “Spread your legs a little more, dear. That’s better.” The cream felt cool to Robyn’s skin.

Another team of clinicians took over. They held in their hands a most remarkable garment: a weave of thin, delicate fibers, a gossamer fishnet of a bodysuit. They had her step into it, then delicately rolled it up over her cream-coated body, the way you would step into nylons. The clinicians took extraordinary care in the fitting. They spent long minutes gently pulling the sleeves over her arms, the garment gliding along her lubricated body, then each finger was slid into the glove-like extensions for her hands. Robyn closed her eyes as the hands of the clinicians smoothed the fabric over her body made toned and taut by the long hours of conditioning.

The last part was a hooded helmet that the clinicians pulled over her bald head. They fitted the apertures for the ears, eyes, nostrils and mouth that had been tailored to perfection. There were similar apertures for her anus and vagina. When she stood totally enclosed in the bodysuit, the clinicians went over her body again, making sure the suit molded every curve and contour of her body. She wondered vaguely why the clinicians—all such nice people—took such painstaking care to match each square inch of the bodysuit to a precise position on her body. Once they even got into an argument over the placing the clinging fabric across her tummy, following registration points that had been marked on her skin. But soon they settled their differences, and they next ran a kind of flexible heating pad over her body that melded the edges of the suit into a seamless, clinging whole. When they were finished, they stepped back to admire their handiwork. Robyn had never felt so much personal attention lavished on her, so impersonally administered The transparent mesh soon melded into the cream. Robyn felt enclosed in what felt like most delicate of silks, and she almost purred with it’s caressing suppleness.

Still mesmerized by the soothing smoothness of her new bodysuit, Robyn barely noticed as the attendants guided her to a strange machine in the center of the clinic. If Robyn’s mind had not been neutralized with steady conditioning sessions, she would have thought the machine looked like one of those old mediaeval iron maidens standing upright and waiting with its shell swung open. She stepped carefully inside, placing her legs and arms in the form-fitted hollows. When the clinicians were satisfied her body was precisely positioned to receive the bodysuit, then they stepped back and the halves of the bodypress closed slowly with a pneumatic hiss.

Robyn closed her eyes as the bodypress closed. She could not have moved a millimeter if she tried, even her fingers were spread out into perfectly shaped contours. Then thousands of tiny holes opened inside the shell to spray the special fixative polymers directly onto her meshed skin. Robyn felt a liquid warmth coat every inch of her body, from the top of her shaved head to the tip of her toes. She even felt the liquid penetrate deep inside every orifice, as she was held totally immobilized inside the bodypress. Almost immediately she felt the coating harden into a slick second skin that bonded with the gossamer mesh. The bodypress hissed again, the door swung open, and she stepped out like Venus arising from the seashell.

In the interim, Max had come in to join Andre. Max always insisted on inspecting the final product.

Robyn stood still as the attendants examined the coating as the two men looked on. She did not know it at the time, but polymer had already begun to bond gossamer mesh with her skin into an utterly soft, smooth and flawless second skin.

“How does it feel?” asked Max.

Robyn tried to organize her thoughts—it seemed to take more effort every day. She worked her mouth to make sure her lips were not sealed, then said, “It feels funny.” With her mental faculties reduced by Andre’s remote control, that was all she was able to express about the bizarre sense of psychological as well as physical enclosure that came with the suit. Her fingers tentatively stroked her tight abdomen.

Max nodded. “It looks very becoming on you. Not a blemish to be seen.”

Robyn experienced a tremor of pleasure at his approval. She began to feel a gentle pressure in some places, as the millions of strands of computer-coded fibers woven into the bodysuit began to tighten into pre-determined shapes—her thighs, stomach and buttocks in particular. The compression was gentle, but relentless. The micron-thick layer of silver material delineated every curve and ridge her body—her abdominals, her calves and biceps. She looked like a sculpture in pure silver. “It seems a little tight in some places,” she said, hoping not to sound critical. She knew it was important to say positive things and never to complain. The fact was, though, she felt a steady constriction around her waist and certain parts of her derriere. Other places, two pockets on her bust for example, seemed as loose-fitting as a comfortable t-shirt.

Max said, “Yes, I know. That mesh that was fitted around you before entering the bodypress—each of the strands have a tensile strength precisely calculated to contract to a certain size. The suit is woven from thousands of such threads, each one computer-designed to shrink steadily over time to a certain size. That mesh is now part of the polymer, which by now has molecularly bonded with your skin. In fact, the suit is still growing. The organic polymers that bind the suit to your skin are extending themselves molecule by molecule into every crease and orifice of your body. If you stop and think about it, your skin goes all the way around your body, inside and out. That is why the bodysuit has”—Max paused to remember the English word—“such integrity. The suit conserves heat, recycles water and waste, is next to impossible to scratch or penetrate—except on a molecular level; that is why, my dear, when the polymers extend through the inside of your body and coat your lungs, you will still be able to breathe.

Robyn looked at him uncertainly. So many big words!

Max noticed her confusion, and said, “Do not let it trouble you, Ms. Dorset. Let’s just say the suit is designed to mold you into a shape that will always make you look very beautiful.”

Robyn smiled. That was the important thing, to look beautiful. It never occurred to her that her feelings and attitudes were all quite synthetic, a product of her mind-control conditioning.

“Would you like to see yourself?” he asked. She nodded eagerly. He beckoned, and a full-length mirror was rolled over by one of the attendants. Robyn stared at herself.

The mirror reflected back an amazing image. The translucent, shimmering material of the bodysuit clung to her body like it was sprayed on. With every follicle of hair removed from her body, the bodysuit made her skin utterly smooth, which highlighted each curve of her figure. The material covered every inch, from her eyelids to the shaven folds of her pussy. She could not suppress a vague feeling of pride with a touch of vanity at her new curvaceous form. The hard edges of her body had softened, become rounded in all the right places. She still had her runner’s legs, but the whip-cord muscles had been smoothed out. Her face had been sculpted and made over by degrees, so she could easily pass for a world-class runway model instead of the hard-driving executive she had been in her previous life. And having her head shaved as smooth as a billiard ball took away nothing from her beauty. Andre stepped forward with a small remote control in his hand; Robyn felt a thrill go through her when she saw the device was inscribed with her name. Andre pressed a button, and the color of her new skin shifted from fleshtones to metallic, so that Robyn shimmered like quicksilver over chrome. Another button—and the surface flickered into gleaming, shiny black. Max and Andre exchanged satisfied looks.

“How does it come off?” she asked wonderingly at this magical bodysuit, as her hands stroked its seamless contours.

“It doesn’t,” said Max.

“Never?”

“Never, my dear. It is, how do you say? Oh, yes—for keeps’.” He turned to the clinician in charge of outfits. “Heels,” he said. Somebody brought a stool in and a hand on Robyn’s shoulder guided her onto the seat. One of the assistants knelt at Robyn’s feet, and Robyn felt a detached admiration for the girl’s cleavage as the assistant leaned forward to slip each of Robyn’s feet in turn into high-heeled sandals, then closing the straps with a locking click. Robyn regarded the four-inch heels with a kind of detached curiosity. She never liked heels before. Flat-soled “sensible” walking shoes of modest style suited her executive style better, she always maintained. But now the sight of those heels gave her a thrill of anticipation—just think how sexy they would look on her!

At least that is what her mind told her, consciously unaware of what had been drilled into her thought patterns with hundreds of subliminal commands.

“Stand,” said the chief clinician.

Robyn pushed off from the stool, and stood teetering uncertainly on the unaccustomed height of the heels.

“Turn around.”

Robyn obligingly pirouetted, feeling the flow of her muscles against the encasing pressure of the bodysuit. Already her body was being compressed and molded by the gentle pressure of the bodysuit into a custom-designed shape.

The chief clinician glanced at Max, and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

Max returned an approving nod. “Good work,” he said to the clinician, regarding the enticingly encapsulated figure of Robyn, now balanced to a new height on the soaring high heels.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Schedule her for sexual technique training immediately.” His voice penetrated through the pleasant fog of compliance in Robyn’s mind, and she looked up. For a moment their eyes met. Then the clinicians were gently guiding her back to the training rooms. Max watched her tottering through the arch of the door, his eyes lingering on the last glimpse of her back long after she had gone.

Andre coughed behind him. “You are not, ah, getting too fond of the girl, are you, mon chef?” he asked.

“What gave you that idea,” growled Max, although he knew very well what his associate meant.

“The way you look at her,” replied Andre. He took out a packet of Gauloises Caporal cigarettes and extracted one with his slender fingers. “I am French, after all; I know the look. I don’t blame you at all for being taken with her. She is sans pareil, without equal. Why don’t you just keep her?”

“She is already under contract,” said Max.

“I know,” said Andre. “And I’ve read the file on the buyer. Quite a cretin, that one.”

Max said, “Yes, he is. But nobody ever said our clients had to be angels. And business is business. Our clients know that no law court in the world would ever enforce a bargain with us. Mutual trust is the glue that holds our operation together. If we ever go back on our word, then our networks would collapse overnight.”

Andre shrugged, took a pull on his cigarette.

Max said, as if to change the subject, “And what about those twins? Ready for shipment?”

Andre’s face brightened. “First thing tomorrow morning, mon chef. We are set for a fast run to the mainland on the hydrofoil, then on to the customer via chartered plane.”

“You brought the two girls along in record time, Andre. The client will be pleased.”

“Not to my credit, Max. Those two were natural-born bimbos,” said Andre with a smile. “They were halfway there before we ever got them. And please do not fret about the girl.” His hand swept over an unseen horizon. “The world is filled with girls. We will find you another.”

Not like this, thought Max to himself.