The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Well?” Brent asked, smiling. “What do you say?”

Jane McKay blinked. What did she say? What could she say? It was an offer too good to be true! “Yes,” she told him, almost gasping. “Yes, of course I’ll be glad to take on that assignment. You—you did say all expenses paid?”

Brent, a handsome, tanned guy of thirty-seven, chuckled. “All expenses paid,” he said firmly. “If we’re going to promote the spa on our website, we have to know all about it. So it will be you and”—he glanced at a 3 x 5 card on his otherwise immaculate desk—“and Shawna Hartnell, the photographer. Know her?”

Jane shook her head. She was a writer for neuvoyageur.com, the Internet travel site, and to date she had written mostly intros and transition pages, never a travel report. This was the break she had been looking for—and what a break! “I’ve never run into Shawna,” Jane said.

“Well, have lunch with her today,” Brent advised. “She’s going to be your roommate for two weeks, and you’ll have to get along with her. One word of advice, though, since this is your first time out: Don’t tell Shawna what to photograph. Give her an idea of what your article will cover and trust her to do the rest. She won’t tell you what to write, you won’t tell her what to photograph. If you do that, you two will be like a pair of sisters.”

A little stirring of anxiety: Was Shawna one of those temperamental artists? Jane had known a couple in college, antsy, edgy, prone to fits of anger, followed by the sulks and the pouts. Not exactly the kind of people she’d want to live with. Well—two weeks was only two weeks! And, she told herself, at the busy Caribbean spa resort of RenuYou, she could always find ways of avoiding a grumpy companion.

Brent had made a quick call on his desk phone. He hung it up now and said, “All arranged. Shawna will meet you at your desk at noon. Take lunch somewhere—put it on the expense account, since you’re on assignment as of now—and get to know Shawna and share these with her.” He reached into a desk drawer and produced two fat, oversized manila envelopes and tossed them across. They landed on the side of the desk nearest Jane with two loud plops. “Okay, that’s the lot, I think. Your airline tickets, boat tickets, and spa reservations are in there, along with the brochures. The company got the usual discounts, of course, but remember we’re paying for a top-of-the-line experience, the kind that would appeal to the upscale market, so be sure to indulge yourselves to the fullest. Then come back and give us the benefit of what you learn.”

“Thanks,” Jane said with a grin, reaching for the heavy envelopes.

“Pack light,” he advised as she walked out of the office.

Shawna Hartnell was about twenty-five, roughly the same age as Jane, and at about five-eight, two inches taller and quite a bit skinnier. She had one of those androgynous figures, flat-chested and wiry as a teen-age boy’s. Her tanned face wore a splatter of freckles across the cheeks, and her hair was cut into a short, curly black helmet. She had ordered a Greek salad for lunch, and half of it remained on her plate as she leafed through the slick brochure, occasionally pausing to say, “Oh, my God!”

Jane had left her own envelope in her office. “What is it?” she asked, a fork loaded with chicken cordon bleu halfway to her mouth.

Shawna held the brochure up, open to a big double-paged spread. A horizontal photo dominated the spread, showing a curling wave with six surfers tracing white arcs on the surface of the rolling water. Other, smaller photos showed various activities: a beach volleyball game in progress, guys in Speedos and girls in thong bikinis all watching a volleyball as it sailed down toward earth; a group of women in mud baths, heads tilted back, all blissfully smiling; a couple in fins and swim masks snorkeling over a reef teeming with colorful fish. “Look at all this,” Shawna said. “I’m gonna come back with enough tropical-island photos to build a whole portfolio! And I can do better than this. See the blurring here? Slow exposure. The way I’d compensate is—”

Jane chuckled. Artist Shawna might be, and temperamental she might be, but she was also a ball of fire, all bounce and go and full of energy. Shawna turned another page and giggled. “Uh-oh! Did you see this bit about Half Moon Beach?”

“I haven’t had time to look at it,” Jane said.

Shawna held up the open brochure again. “Here,” she said, tapping a finger on a photo that took up about a quarter of the right-hand page.

Jane took the brochure from her and glanced at the photo. Sunbathers on the beach, so what. Then she read the caption below the picture: Half Moon Beach, on the south side of the island, is a curving three-quarter-mile stretch of sugar-white sand and is specially set aside for our clothing-optional sun worshipers.”

Clothing-optional?

Squinting more closely, Jane realized that most of the reclining figures in the picture were in fact quite nude. The picture had been taken from a discreet distance, though, so you couldn’t make out any detail, just the pink and brown gleams of bare bodies on beach towels. “Ooh la la,” Jane murmured softly. That had been a saying of her grandmother’s. She felt the warmth of a blush spread itself across her face. She wasn’t a prude, she told herself. Not exactly.

“Going to take a swimsuit along?”

“I think I will,” Jane said drily, staring down at her plate. She tried to put a light, bantering note in her voice: “I’m a little squeamish about showing the goods to just anybody.”

“I dunno,” Shawna mused. “Maybe I’ll just take some thong bottoms. Might be fun to sunbathe there and have everyone wondering whether I’m a guy or a girl.”

“Shawna,” laughed Jane, choking on her water. She hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt.

Shawna put on a rueful, scrunched-up expression. “Well, I got no tits at all. You, you’re lucky, you’ve got a nice pair. I’ve got like a couple of pink marbles on a tan ironing board.”

“Umm—let’s not talk about our figures, okay?”

“But you—”

“Please,” added Jane, still not daring to look into the other woman’s eyes.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had, uh, issues and stuff.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose I’d really have the guts to go parading around bare-assed on a beach, anyway.”

“Take a swimsuit,” Jane advised, wanting to end the discussion. “This is a business trip.”

“I’m opening the photos now,” advised the voice on the other end of the line. “Blonde and a brunette, I see.”

“The blonde is Jane McKay,” Brent Wilder said. “What do you need?”

“Basic statistics: age, relations, relationships.”

Brent read from another note card: “Jane is twenty-four, has a B.A. in public relations and media writing. She’s worked for us for three years. Lives alone in an apartment she can just barely afford. What else? Height is five-six, weight one-twenty, good general health, allergic to penicillin derivatives. No close living relatives: father left home when she was a toddler, mother died when she was twelve, so her grandmother finished raising her. Granny died two years ago.”

“Cause of deaths?”

“Mother died after a car crash. Grandmother died of influenza and respiratory distress, says here. Age at death, seventy-two. Her father is still alive—he’s fifty and is in robust health, though Jane doesn’t know that. She hasn’t been in touch with him for over twenty years, doesn’t even know where he is. We had to track him down, quietly.”

“You have all the medical records?”

“Of course.” There were such things as privacy laws, but as far as Brent and his partner were concerned, they were written for other people. When you own a multi-billion dollar enterprise and are bored enough to try such things, acquiring confidential and even top-secret information is just a matter of how much you have to spend. “I’ve just faxed them to you.”

“Uh-huh, got them. Hang on for a minute . . . good . . . good . . . all in order. Nothing genetic or inherited, then. Very good. How about the other one, the brunette?”

“That’s the photographer, Shawna Hartnell. Twenty-five, certificates from the City Arts Institute, prize-winning photographer, so on and so on. Five-eight, one hundred and ten pounds. You’ve got her medical record as well.” Brent reached for another card and read off the figures. “She had a falling-out with her mother several years back. They don’t communicate. Her general health is good. Like Jane, Shawna dates on and off, nothing steady for the past couple of years. She’s . . . scrawnier than we’d like.”

“I can tell she doesn’t have much of a bust. Mm. Ran track in college, maybe that explains it. I’d say she’s underweight for her height, too. We can fix all that, just a matter of time and patience. You realize this will be a matter of some expense.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re prepared to pay, if the results are good.”

The voice on the other end mentioned a figure, a high one. “That’s apiece,” he said. “I’m afraid we don’t offer group discounts.”

“That’s fine,” Brent said without hesitation. “As long as you deliver the goods.”

“We’ll take care of that,” the voice said with a chuckle. “All right, I’m sending you an email with the coded deposit information. Use the key you already have to decode the message, then make the deposit transfer into our Cayman account.”

“The transfer will be made in the next ten minutes,” Brent said as the e-mail notice popped up on his computer screen. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

With an indulgent chuckle, the man on the other end of the line said, “Oh, you have no idea.”

Despite herself, Jane felt her excitement rising. It was all very well to decide to look at the trip as merely a career opportunity, a matter of business. It was quite another thing to wait at the gate for their flight, to be called up to the desk by an attendant and told, “We have room in First Class. Would you ladies like a free upgrade?” (Jane had been surprised into giggles; Shawna said, “Sure!")

It was the first time she had ever flown first class. It was—nice! While the plane was still loading, the flight attendant brought drinks (a coffee with cream and sugar for Jane, a Mimosa for Shawna). They had warm towels, they had gorgeous legroom, they had seatback TVs to watch entertainment programs or play games on. The flight to Miami was wonderful. In the Miami airport they had to change planes, this time to a small commuter craft that wasn’t nearly as nice as the big airliner, but then the flight was short, to a Caribbean port where they transferred to a boat, the Lucky Lady, along with ten other young women and a few young men, all of them chattering about Renu You, the deluxe spa. A tanned, lean man of forty in white shorts, shirt, and captain’s hat introduced himself as Captain Andy and told them the trip would last about two hours. “Water’s smooth today,” he said with a grin as white as his outfit. “But we’ve got a nice Caribbean swell going, so if anyone needs motion-sickness medication, you’d better let us know right now.”

About half of the passengers did, and Jane, just to be safe, raised her hand. She got a little round white pill and a cup of water, swallowed it, and hoped it would do the trick. She’d never been seasick before—but to tell the truth, she’d never been on the ocean before, either. The boat pulled out of the harbor at a sedate five knots, but once it was away from shore, the engines roared, the bow tilted back, and they started to skim. The passengers shrieked in delight. Jane bent her arm and clapped her straw hat firmly on her blonde head. Shawna laughed and said something, but her voice was lost in the shuddering growl of the engines. Jane smiled and nodded and felt salt spray on her lips.

Two hours and six minutes later, the engines cut back to a steady thrum. The captain came on the PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope we didn’t cause any permanent hearing loss back there! The Lucky Lady is going in for engine maintenance as soon as you disembark, so hopefully your trip back will be a little more pleasant. Okay, did everyone tag your luggage as we asked? Anyone have any untagged luggage? Anyone? Very good! You don’t have to worry about anything from here on out. Renu Yu is on Contentment Cay, a private island. The client-service staff will see that your luggage is delivered directly to your rooms. Here’s what’s going to happen: We’ll dock in about fifteen minutes, and the staff will meet you as you disembark. You’ll have a welcome party, with a free bar and then a wonderful meal, and I expect most of you will want to turn in early tonight to rest up from your trip. The fun begins tomorrow! You’re very lucky to be here, so for the rest of your stay, just relax, let your cares and your problems fade away, and put yourself entirely in our hands.”

“That wouldn’t be bad,” murmured Shawna. “He’s got big, strong hands!”

“Mm,” said Jane, hoping her noncommittal grunt sounded like agreement.

It went as smoothly as Captain Andy had promised. They stepped onto the dock in the golden light of a sinking Caribbean sun, to be greeted by tanned, smiling young women provocatively dressed in bikini tops and a kind of sarong-like skirt, slit all the way to the waist on the right side, in the Renu You colors of red and white. Everyone sauntered into the Aloha Plaza, an expansive gazebo-like building under which the air was pleasantly scented and surprisingly cool, and there young bartenders quickly, efficiently took orders. “What are you having?” Shawna asked Jane.

“I don’t know. What’s nonalcoholic?”

“Come on,” Shawna said. “You’re not on duty until tomorrow! Anyway, you’re going to want to tell the readers about real drinks.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Jane said softly.

Another girl, tanned and trim and black-haired, said, “Honey, get a wine spritzer.”

“Excuse me?” Jane asked, surprised.

The other girl laughed. “Hi. I’m Darla Woodall from Texas. I said have a wine spritzer. They’re mild and tasty, and you’ll fit right in. Back in college that’s how I started to learn how to drink.”

“Thanks,” Jane said with a smile. “I’m Jane McKay, and this is Shawna Hartnell. Um. Are you ordering a wine spritzer?”

Darla laughed. “Not hardly, honey! Bourbon and branch water for me.”

Shawna asked for and got a Mojito, Darla got her Bourbon, and Jane got a white wine spritzer from a bartender who didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the order. She tasted it and found it delectable, both sweet and tart and bubbly on the tongue. As she, Shawna, and Darla talked, Jane learned that Darla was as fortunate as they were. “I work for an oil company—excuse me, an energy company,” she said with a wide Texas grin. “Last year my boss just about made a big ol’ hundred million dollar mistake, an’ I caught it. He paid for this trip as a way of sayin’ thanks.”

“Our company sent us, too,” Shawna said. “Hey, did you see the nude beach in the brochure?”

“Sure did,” Darla said. “Might check it out . . . if I can find a male-type guy whose equipment I’d like to scope out to go with me. Be like skinny-dipping at Barton Creek back home!”

Shawna laughed. “Jane’s never done that,” she said.

“Never went bare-ass swimmin’?” Darla asked in surprise. “You’re kiddin’ me. Not even in high school?”

Jane shook her head. “It just never . . . happened,” she said.

“Honey chile, you oughta try it. It’s great when you’re feelin’ kind of horny. Gets you all relaxed and loose and when you climb into the saddle, take it from me, it’s a wild ride!”

A bell chimed, and everyone turned around to see a smiling platinum-blonde woman at a microphone on a dais at the side of the gazebo opposite the bar. “Welcome,” she said in a clear, cheery voice. “Hi, everyone. Hi. My name is Wanda, and I’m sort of your den mother for your stay on the island. I’m your client relations rep, and if you need or want anything, you just come and see me. In a few moments I’m going to lead you to your rooms, where your luggage has already been delivered. Please take just a few moments to make sure you have all your belongings and that we haven’t made any mistakes. We want your stay with us to be as smooth as possible! Now, if any of you are tired from the trip—and I see one of our guests came all the way from Alaska! Who is that?”

A rangy young man waved. “Me. John Franklin.”

“Fantastic! I hope the climate shock isn’t too much for you!”

“Feels great!” John shot back.

“Well, I don’t know if John is all worn out or not, but if anyone wants to turn in, go right ahead. We have free movies on your high-def TVs, so you might want to check those out. Room service is available all night long. We will wake you up at seven o’clock, though, so be prepared for that! We’ve got a lot of fun activities beginning at eight-thirty, right after breakfast, tomorrow, and we’ll give you lunch and keep you busy until three-thirty in the afternoon. Then you’ll be on your own. A detailed schedule is available on Channel 1 on your TVs. Let us know if you forgot to pack anything at all, and we’ll either supply it or order it so it will come in on tomorrow’s boat. Enjoy yourselves, and in half an hour, I’ll show you all to your rooms.”

Despite the fact that she’d had only one weak drink, Jane began to feel a pleasantly weary buzz. She smiled a lot and laughed when Darla and Shawna, who seemed kindred spirits, laughed, though to tell the truth she couldn’t quite track their conversation. Then Wanda had them all come over to her. She passed out card keys to them all—the rooms didn’t seem to have numbers, but names instead, and Jane learned that she and Shawna were to stay in Bliss. Then they all followed Wanda down a winding paved pathway between aromatic tropical plants to a one-story building that looked like a Polynesian longhouse. The air-conditioning felt refreshing after the humid subtropical air outside. The corridor walls were papered in bright semi-abstract Polynesian designs, and to Jane’s tired feet the thickly carpeted floor felt as if it were gently undulating. Darla was in Ecstasy, paradoxically a single room. Next door was Bliss, and Jane and Shawna said goodnight to Wanda.

“Check it out,” Shawna said, her words slurred. “Two queen beds! I love the work station over there—you can set up your laptop.”

“Nice,” was all that Jane could muster.

“Damn, I’m sleepy. I’m usually a night person, but—” Shawna yawned—“I guess the trip and all. Think I’ll poop out and turn in early.”

“Mm,” agreed Jane. “Me too.”

Shawna flopped onto the bed while Jane went to brush her teeth. Staring at her reflection—she had trouble coordinating enough to put the toothpaste on her brush—she heard Shawna call out, “Everything’s here, our bags, my cameras, your laptop and all. You hungry? Want some room service?”

“Too tired,” Jane said. She brushed her teeth in an unusually cursory fashion, dropped her brush unrinsed on the sink counter, and went back into the room, her head swimming. “Wine spritzer,” she murmured.

Shawna, fully dressed, lay on her back on the far bed, already asleep. Jane decided to get up early and hang up her clothes. Right now she needed her nightie. She found her carry-on, opened it, and stared into it, wondering why she had opened it. Oh, yes. She got the demure pink nightie out and put it on the foot of the bed. Then she struggled to undress, taking off everything but her panties. And when she had got that far, she fell straight onto the bed, asleep before she hit. The nightie fell off the bed and to the floor.

In a room of computers and monitors, Dr. Wanda Andrews smiled. “That one won’t be any trouble to undress,” she said. She was a woman of about fifty, though she had the enviable figure and the clear complexion of a college senior. She wore her platinum hair sensibly short, but just long enough to maintain a stylish wave. She leaned forward now, studying the closed-circuit monitors.

A technician glanced up at the display. A ceiling camera showed both Shawna and Jane, Shawna on her back and clothed, Jane sprawled face-down with just her panties on. “Are they all asleep?”

“Let me check the readings . . . yes. Tell the staff to begin the transfer.”

“How many this time? You haven’t told me.”

“Twelve women, six men. We just have to worry about the twelve girls.”

The technician, a male, chuckled. “I like those odds.”

“You would,” said Dr. Andrews with a smile. She paused a moment, feeling the sexy anticipation she always did when they were about to begin breaking in new recruits. Then she lifted a phone receiver and spoke the brief commands that would forever change Jane’s life.

By the time Jane, Shawna, and the others arrived on the laboratory level—actually the base level of the island, for virtually all of the topography had been razed, then reconstructed, as the labyrinthine subcorridors and workrooms were built, roofed, and covered over with replanted soil—they had already, to an extent, been processed. Their clothing had been removed; they had been injected with a powerful sedative, stronger than the mild soporific that had spiked their drinks; and they had been subject to an enema treatment. Messy but necessary. Next they had been thoroughly scrubbed head to toe, and their heads and pubic areas had been shaved smooth. The latter area was then treated with a depilatory preparation that would make the condition permanent; and finally the girls had been dipped and sprayed in a disinfectant solution. The room they had left and the huge elevator that took them down one level had been cleaner than the clean rooms used by NASA.

From the elevator, male techs wheeled the bald girls into the lab on gurneys. Along both sides of the lab and projecting from the far wall, reclining treatment chairs extended out on cantilevered support. With practiced ease, they transferred each subject to a treatment chair. This particular lab, geared for females, had space for twenty-five, though it had never been used to capacity. The treatment chairs, upholstered in red vinyl over memory foam, could be made to conform exactly to each subject’s height and proportions; Shawna’s was a few inches longer and a few inches narrower than Jane’s. The girls reclined, heads supported by cupped headrests, arms extended along the two arms of the treatment chair. The chair bifurcated at the hips, allowing the legs to be placed on separate supports. As the techs finished the simple task of loading the subjects into the chairs, a cadre of female slaves, well-programmed in their tasks, began to move along the line, repeating the same procedures with each subject.

The first slave efficiently and firmly strapped down the subjects’ arms and legs: biceps, elbows, wrists, upper thighs, ankles. A belt around the abdomen was left temporarily unfastened. A following slave unlocked the leg supports and spread them apart into a Y, opening the subject’s thighs and exposing her shaved privates. A curved sex stimulator plugged into an outlet under the seat, just beneath the vagina. If necessary, the leg supports were raised and extended until the subject’s anus as well as her vagina was revealed. The stimulator had a smaller butt plug and a rounded, five-inch long vaginal probe. The slave lubed both of these well and then slipped them in, first the anal, then the vaginal stimulator. Over the coming days, the anal plug would be replaced once every third day with a larger size. The top of the curved device provided plugs for the waist belt. The whole thing was tugged snug and tested, humming softly and making the unconscious girls gasp and writhe.

Meanwhile Dr. Andrews, the fiftyish lab director, began her inspection, giving orders that accompanying slaves heard and silently obeyed. She approached Shawna and felt her small breasts. “Full augmentation,” she ordered. “And the nipples will need enlargement, as well.” She tweaked one, squeezed it, tugged it. “Not much erectile response. Let’s enhance nerve endings by a factor of five for this one, and double erectile tissue. Augment the breasts to D-cup size. Suitably alter the back and shoulder muscles to carry the extra weight. Begin the helmet testing.” The slave rattled the instructions into a keyboard, and Dr. Andrews double-checked them in the display above the girl’s head, though there was no need. Slaves could not make mistakes.

All of the slaves dressed alike, in long white lab jackets that, despite their sterility, did nothing to hide the voluptuous breasts they covered. One of the slaves, a lovely girl of perhaps twenty-seven with the perfect, rosy-almond hue of the Hawaiian Islands and with long black hair, carefully fitted a device to Shawna’s chest. It looked like a lewd translucent plastic imitation of mammaries, complete with swollen areolas and projecting nipples, but it actually was a complex injection device. Each cup contained more than a thousand super-fine needles; through these would flow the microdroplets of the biochemical treatment that would enlarge Shawna’s breasts and make the nipples exquisitely sensitive and responsive to touch. Meanwhile yet another slave, a gorgeous young black woman, had fitted a pair of virtual-reality goggles around Shawna’s head and over her eyes. She was now lowering a sleek silver helmet to fit over the crown of Shawna’s head, down to the top of her goggles, and as far back as her mastoid areas behind both ears. Like the breast cups, the helmet had a staggeringly complex array of technology within it.

Dr. Andrews had moved on to the next table. With an extended index finger, she tapped at Jane’s left breast and saw it quiver. “Size is not bad, but we’ll firm them up. Might as well augment them to full D, too.” She tested the nipple. “Oh, we’ll certainly have to increase sensitivity here and boost erectile function. Augment to D-cup, usual muscular adjustments. Increase sensitivity by a factor of . . . ten. Let’s start with a tripling . . . no, a quadrupling of erectile function as well. I want her tanned, too. Entirely too pale. Next.”

As each girl was wired to the machines, the slave touched some controls on a pad. Beneath each chair a hatch opened, wider and longer than the chair that hovered above it, and from the opening rose an oval Plexiglas bathtub-like device, three-quarters full of a transparent pink gel. When the tub was in place, the chair tilted and lowered, dipping the girl’s nude body into the tank. The body-temperature plasma gel moved sluggishly, accepting the subject, flowing up the thighs, over the knees, up to the pussy concealed beneath the sex stimulator, over it, over the round abdomen, over the covered breasts, filling the plastic enhancement bodice completely, flowing over skin and puckered nipples. The chair rocked and adjusted until everything beneath the girl’s chin was submerged in the gel. The girls felt nothing consciously, but had they been awake, they would have enjoyed the sensation: the plasma gel tingled. It would bond with their skin over time, enhancing the subjects’ youthful appearance, making them wrinkle-proof for up to forty years. They were being bathed in a veritable Fountain of Youth, and in the coming days thicker mud-packs of the stuff, applied to their faces while they slept, would give them perfect complexions, permanently.

All these preliminaries took nearly two hours. Over the coming weeks that would be considerably shortened, as the alterations were locked into the computers and the devices functioned automatically.

At the end of the prep, Dr. Andrews sent the slaves back to their quarters and re-entered the command center. “All wired up?”

“Yes,” the young male tech said. He had just been thinking he would have liked to screw the Hawaiian slave. She looked so hot, even in the white lab clothing. Peel her out of that and. . . .

“Hello.”

Dr. Andrews had spoken not to him, but to a microphone.

He studied a dozen screens, all showing vivid, sinuous green lines. Each screen spiked at the spoken word, which had been channeled to headphones built into the helmets.

“All responsive,” he said.

“Begin the program.”

He ran the initiation program, then verified that the helmets had succeeded in sending their micro-needles into each brain. The centers that controlled judgment and free will were temporarily deactivated, slaved to the system. Now the sedatives could wear off, and the girls would continue in twilight sleep. They would operate on a level just below consciousness for the next weeks as they were fed, exercised, toned, and altered. The smoothly sinuating sine lines jagged and jigged as more microneedles penetrated breasts and nipples. If necessary, some of these girls would later have an even more unsettling experience as their labia and clits were enhanced. But the tingling plasma gel soothed the pinprick stings and sped healing, and they would never have any memory of even slight discomfort, let alone pain.

Each subject’s breasts were being injected now with microdrops of the gel and with genetically-engineered human cells. The incoming cells were invisible to the body’s defenses against infection. They drifted into the breast tissue, attached themselves to the host, tapped into the nutrient supply, and became one with their host, indistinguishable from the girl’s own tissues. Then the new cells began their simple, pre-programmed task of multiplying. In some cases, and Shawna was one, some would even migrate all the way to the epithelium, where they would expand the skin encasing the new mammary growth, giving the swelling breasts a smooth, lovely covering of skin. Within twenty-four hours, Shawna’s bosom would be spectacular, as lewdly inviting as any porn star’s.

But the real changes, the astonishing ones, would be going on inside her head.

Jane was sure it was all a dream. She had that languid, floaty feeling that you get in some dreams, and the sense that someone invisible was there with her. Flashes of her past came to her, all enjoyable: the seaside, a birthday party, a dance. Something told her to open her eyes. They flickered open, the flew wide in shocked surprise. A—a cock was right in front of her face! A man’s engorged penis, a huge one, long, purple-capped.

I want to taste it.

Where did that come from? Jane certainly did not want to—to taste that—thing!

Suck it, honey. A man’s voice, a bedroom voice, a smoky suggestive baritone.

And her own thoughts answered him: A man loves a girl who gives good head. I want to suck it. I want to let him come in my mouth.

No. No I don’t. I don’t!

“Look at number seven, Doctor.”

Dr. Andrews punched a number into her keyboard, then glanced up at the high-density display, a closeup on Jane’s face. The girl’s lips were pressed together in a tight line, and within the rigid limits imposed by the helmet, she tried to twist away from the three-d image of the cock she saw in the goggles. “Resistant,” she said. She punched in six, and a closeup on Shawna showed her with her mouth open in a lascivious “O,” her tongue eagerly licking and lapping an imaginary penis. “Her friend is very willing, though. Have you isolated seven’s pleasure centers?”

“Yes.”

“Hit her with a . . . let’s say a three and let’s see what happens.”

It was—was pushing against her face. She could feel its hot, pliant flesh trying to force its way into her mouth, and she clamped her lips even more tightly—

Ahh! She shuddered. A jolting orgasm had hit her. She felt her pussy clamp down on—on something—was she being fucked? No—no, it was a dream, it was a dream, an erotic dream. And she wasn’t about to suck, to lick, no. . . .

“This one is going to take some real work,” Dr. Andrews said. “All right. Move on to the next test. We don’t want to build up any conflicts. We’ll break down her inhibitions gradually.”

As the tech ended the oral stimulation sequence, eleven of the subjects made little moues of contentment, licking imaginary cum from their lips. Only Jane relaxed without having once opened her mouth.

Now it—he—had laid his penis between her breasts, had pressed her breasts, her big, sensitive breasts, tight against his moving shaft, and he was fucking her—her tits, yes, fucking them!

Jane groaned. The physical sensation was . . . was nice, was . . . was

fucking great

s-stimulating, but not knowing the man, not knowing who dared to take these liberties—

But it was all a dream.

Just a dream.

The girls went through a whole battery of reaction tests. They rested, without knowing it; so did the staff. Dr. Andrews reported to her superior the next morning, expressing her satisfaction with eleven of the girls and her doubts about Jane.

“She shows no strong sexual desires at all,” she said. “The highest levels of inhibition that I’ve ever seen.”

“Did you try—”

“We tried everything,” Dr. Andrews said firmly. “Every heterosexual position, every lesbian one. She . . . tolerated them, at best, and flatly rejected some of them. She has an apparently insurmountable inhibition against any form of oral lovemaking, for example.”

“Then we’ll condition her,” the man said. “Don’t worry, Wanda.”

“Of course, but I’m not sure there won’t be a residue of her personality there. Such strong resistance is unusual. Remember the ones we had to break.”

“Those we use as slaves. But that was years ago, before our techniques were refined. That won’t happen. Make sure that she gets subliminals during every rest session, and make them intense. Keep the stimulator going twenty-two hours a day, not just for the sixteen-hour conditioning sessions. Increase the pleasure stimulation each session. Raise the threshold for orgasm each time. The key is to make her so constantly horny, so starved for stimulation, that the body takes over. It can be done. Believe me, it can be done.”

“Yes, sir.” Dr. Andrews reached for the files, stacked them. “It’s almost time to start today’s conditioning cycles. I’ll return to the work station, sir.”

“Mona,” the man said. Wanda’s name was not Mona, but when she heard the word, she froze. “Before that, you will give me a blowjob. A naked blowjob.”

Dr. Andrews’s face—a youthful, rosy-complexioned face for a woman of fifty—brightened immediately. She licked her red lips in eager anticipation. “Yes, sir. Shall I swallow your cum, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With quick, deft movements, Dr. Andrews stripped, not difficult since she wore absolutely no underwear—and yet her full breasts were as perky as a twenty-year-old’s, her pubic mound bare and pink as a teen’s. She knelt naked in front of her master’s chair, undid his belt and trousers, and began to suck his cock, her head bobbing as she mewed with pleasure. “Play with your tits,” the man suggested, and her hands began to run over and over her sensitive mounds, stretching, pulling, squeezing her own coral-pink nipples. His cock, already hard, grew even stiffer. “You may play with your pussy,” he said, nearly gasping. “Get yourself ready to come.”

One of her hands slipped between her legs, over her hairless mound, her fingers busily, insatiably at play. She deep-throated him, her gag reflex completely gone, taking him all the way in, so deeply that her lips and nose brushed his pubic hair. “Now just the head,” he said.

She pulled up, scarlet lips molding to the ridged shaft, finally holding just the engorged purple head of his cock in her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue lashing over its smooth slippery surface. She looked up at him, joy in her eyes as she saw how she was pleasing him. She came just from the thought that he liked this, and though with her mouth so fully occupied she could not cry out in release, her whole body quivered. With fingers still slippery from her own pussy juices, she cupped his swollen balls, caressed them, played with them, urged them to spill their load.

His shaft throbbed. She felt the drive of his seed up inside it, and then it gushed hot into her mouth. She swallowed greedily, sucking and licking, nibbling, her tongue flickering over his slit as if to tease out any last lingering drops. His cock began to go flaccid.

“Thank you. That was very good.”

“Unnggghhh . . . . " she writhed, coming again at his praise.

He smiled. “I think you deserve a little release. The IT tech who assists you . . . the young man, Harold is it?”

“Yesss . . . .”

“You may have sex with him during your breaks today.”

“Yes,” she said, her breathing slowly returning to normal.

He touched her cheek. “It is amusing, isn’t it, that Harold doesn’t know he’s been completely conditioned, that he will become your sex slave when you give him the command, and never remember the things you command him to do to please you.”

“Very amusing,” said Dr. Andrews with a smirk.

“Yes, indeed it is.” The man tucked his penis back inside his fly and zipped up. “Get dressed now. Quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

In less than a minute she was again the cool, self-possessed mistress of the laboratory. “You’ll succeed with number seven, Wanda,” her master said. “I have every confidence in you.”

At the sound of her own name, she relaxed, but her expression was the melting adoration of a thirteen-year-old with her first crush. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.” She smiled, not even realizing that her lips still glistened with his cum.