The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Love You in Latex

Disclaimer: This is an adult narrative, involving fantasies of explicit sexual activity. If you are under age or are offended by such material, don’t read it. The story is my intellectual property; you may download it for your own amusement, but do not repost it on any site that charges uses for the privilege of reading the story.

mc mf ft rb

1

“I don’t care about the pre-nup. I want what’s coming to me.” Shayla Westley’s beautiful face was set in vindictive lines.

Manda Tumner, Attorney-at-Law, sometimes wished she had not decided to specialize in divorce cases. Oh, sure, she didn’t deal with matters of life and death (so many capital cases these days), and most of the time she prided herself on getting a fair shake for a wife whose husband was treating her unfairly, but then–well, sometimes the Shayla Westleys of the world came along. Still, a client is a client. “You’ve only been married for four years,” she pointed out tactfully. “You’re twenty-six, he’s what, forty-one. And before your marriage you were a . . . dancer in a club. I’m not sure you could legitimately claim that you actively helped your husband make all the money that’s rolled in over the past four years.”

“I’m not a scientist,” Shayla said decisively. “I’m not even very smart, okay? But Richard chose to marry me. Now he’s got a patent on this OVP technology, and he’s patented Living Latex. He’s made like billions dollars since we married, and I want my half!”

Manda said gently, “The federal government did away with community-property laws in the Marriage Amendment of 2012. In order to vacate the prenuptial agreement, I’d have to be able to argue that you somehow helped Dr. Westley in his work or show some serious act of bad faith on his part.”

Shayla’s icy blue eyes gleamed. She leaned forward. “He cheated!” she said.

“Adultery is the prime act of bad–”

“I don’t mean that! He didn’t invent the Overplus Unit or Living Latex! How about that?”

Manda felt older than her thirty years, felt that she was like a teacher in an overprivileged high school. “I’m not sure that would help,” she said. Damn, if Westley had just slept with another woman–real woman, of course, not a robot, they didn’t count–the Amendment that specified marriage could only be between a man and a woman had made it much more difficult to obtain a divorce. Except in cases of adultery. Well, forget that, this was a non-actionableform of cheating. Then, out of curiosity, she asked, “Exactly how did Dr. Westley cheat?”

“Alien technology!” Shayla said triumphantly. “He reverse-engineered from the probe that landed in that Latin American country fifteen years ago. Nobody else even believed in it, everyone said it was space debris or a meteor, but he went down there, made agreements with the government, and got out with those components before the country went through its revolution.”

“Alien . . . technology,” Manda said, wondering whether Shayla were certifiable. She sighed. “All right, Mrs. Westley. I’ll see what I can do. Do I have your permission to negotiate with your husband?”

“Negotiate? Can’t you just stick it to him in court? I want to see him squirm.”

A good lawyer never expressed contempt for her client. Forcing a neutral expression, Manda asked, “Would you rather see him squirm or see his signature on a check for a few million dollars?”

Shayla bit her lip. “When you put it that way . . . . ”

* * *

When her client had left her, on impulse Manda called and asked that the building’s robotics division send up a unit to do some work for her. It came five minutes later, a silvery humanoid form, sexless, nude, its features regular as those on a mannequin, its eerie eyes a soft, textured dusky-gray, without whites, pupils, or irises, just almond-shaped, unblinking windows. The unit’s designation, GMDT-10, was embossed on its forehead.

“What were you before?” Manda asked it.

“Mistress, this unit was a felon convicted of three counts of first-degree homicide before the transformation.”

“Can you show me what you looked like then?”

The whole frame shimmered, seemed to fog and reform. Standing impassively on the other side of the desk was a middle-aged, somewhat exotic-looking man, dark-skinned, balding, dressed in white shirt and jeans. Only the eyes showed that he was not human, not any longer. Without the silver sheen surrounding them, they glowed a soft yellow.

“That’s enough,” Manda said, and the unit returned to its former state. She asked, “Do you resent your change?”

“This unit is incapable of human feelings, Mistress.” The lips did not move. The voice was produced through a synthesizer. “The court ordered the transformation. It is preferable to death.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“Mistress, that is what I accept.”

She made up some small tasks, the unit performed them, and then it left her alone. She went to the window and looked down on Central Avenue, five stories below. Half the vehicles were gliding along without gasoline or fossil fuels of any kind, powered by Dr.Westley’s OVP units, power plants the size of an old-fashioned book–well, an unabridged dictionary, anyway–and requiring only air and a gallon of water for an estimated ten years of operation. Nobody knew for sure. So far none of the units had ever required refueling. The robots had the same source of power, scaled down and placed into the chest cavities where the lungs and hearts had once been.

Living Latex. The robots’ skin did have that sheen and flexibility, but it wasn’t really much like latex. More like quicksilver . . . except that it could change colors or conformations. If a robot could not reach something above its head, it could grow skinnier and taller, within limits. If it were told to masquerade as its old self, or as any other human, it could do so–as long as it wore very dark sunglasses, for it could not hide its glowing eyes. It could also not remove the brand on its forehead, though when the unit in her office had assumed its old human form that had not been as noticeable. Anyway, even if it could mask or destroy the brand, there were fingerprints..

So, she told herself, stick to business. Your client is married to the man who invented, or anyway created, the energy unit that is saving the country from the oil crisis. The man who discovered, or at least made available, the remarkable substance that transformed a living human into an automaton, giving the government an excellent, humane alternative to capital punishment, allowing the authorities to change murderers, drug dealers, rapists, subversives, the hopelessly deranged, into docile, useful devices. True, they were beginning to campaign transform the homeless, the undocumented aliens, and the embarrassments to the government as well–but only after a fair trial.

Okay, okay, to the case. Since marketing of the devices had begun, Westley had become the richest man in the country. Maybe it was fair that his wife share the wealth. No court in the land would grant her half the fortune, not in the political climate that prevailed, but twenty-five per cent might be a fair goal. And her thirty-three per cent of Shayla’s twenty-five per cent of several billion dollars would make her pretty well-off, too. Manda, not moving from the window, said aloud, “Telephone, please.”

“Ready.” The voice came from the phone on her desk, in speaker mode.

“Get me one of Richard Westley’s assistants. As close to him as possible.”

Soft music for a few seconds, and then: “Richard Westley Enterprises, automated response. How may I help you?”

“My name is Manda Tumner, of Geisler, McMain, Drexler, and Tumner. I am representing Shayla Lee Westley in her divorce action against Dr.Westley. I would like to set up an appointment to speak to Dr. Westley about the matter.”

“One moment.”

It passed, and then a man’s voice: “Westley here. What time is good for you, Ms Tumner?”

“Any time tomorrow after noon.”

“That’s not good for me. Unless you want to meet in the evening. Could we discuss this over dinner?”

“If you wish.”

“What time do you leave work?”

“Tomorrow? Just a moment.” Manda glanced at the clock and said, “Show tomorrow’s schedule.” The clock face vanished and a bulleted list appeared. Studying it, she said, “I can be free by five-thirty.”

“Then let’s say dinner at seven. I’ll make the arrangements and send a driver to pick you up. Where will you be, your apartment?”

“No, I’ll stay here in the office. I can catch up on some work.” She gave him the address, then ended the call.

She liked the sound of his voice: assured, confident, a good baritone. It would be a real pisser if it should turn out that she liked Dr. Richard Westley better than her own client. Not a deal-breaker, of course–she was a lawyer, and lawyers had their loyalties and their priorities. It was always good to pump yourself up against the opposition, to fill yourself with good old righteous indignation, but that wasn’t an absolute requirement. A good lawyer really didn’t have to like her client, not in a real sense.

Sincerity. If you could fake it, you were home free.

* * *

Dr. Richard Westley sat at his computer, activated the wireless connection that had been plugged into his cortex, and Sussed one Manda Tumner, Attorney. The firm itself had a Web presence, of course, and it even included images. On top of his desk, the holodisplay showed a foot-tall Manda Tumner, a very attractive young woman, dressed severely in business black. Her face was rather pale, her coppery hair was arranged in a stylish wave sweeping from her left to her right above two perfectly arched brows. She stood hipshot, right foot off to the side, left one facing straight ahead. Westley thought a command to check her record, and he found it impressive. She had an 82% success rate in representing her clients.

Well. He would have to take her seriously and try to show her exactly why Shayla had no claim on his fortunes. He often wondered why he had married Shayla in the first place. Midlife crisis or something, him floating high on the first cresting wave of prosperity after the successful introduction of the OVP powerplants in automobiles, ready to surf the next, higher wave of wealth as the Living Latex demonstrated its full potential. Now he had, perhaps, too much money, too much responsibility. Sometimes he thought of selling out, of moving somewhere, perhaps Australia, to enjoy life and to be free of the nagging doubts. The government, guided by the Randian wing of the conservative party, promised to spread the involuntary transformation of undesirable individuals into Living Latex bots. They could be so useful, for so little cost: ideal soldiers, ideal servants. They consumed virtually nothing, obeyed absolutely, and allowed the productive members of society (people with money) to be pampered and happy.

And of course, the transforms were useful in other ways. A transform was a humanoid without distinction of sex. If a wealthy man or woman wanted an unmurmuring, agreeable sex partner, all he or she had to do was pony up enough money. Funny, but the sexual masters invariably wanted a gender match: most men wanted units that had begun as human females, most women wanted those that had originally been men. It made no practical difference. The Living Latex could adapt itself into either gender, and the units had no will to object to that, or to any perverse act. Sexual servants were not the main source of income for the robotics section, but it was far from an inconsequential sideline . . . .

The government. Get rid of inconvenient people by transforming them into Living Latex robots. He suppressed a chuckle. If he were as devoid of ethics as the government, dealing with an annoyance like an aggressive divorce lawyer would be so ridiculously easy.

Lai, one of the first transform units–she had been dying of inoperable brain cancer when she volunteered–stood in the corner of the office. She was in repose mode, a vaguely feminine human form all silver except for the eyes. Westley said, “Unit Lai. Activate.”

The eyes flickered with subtle light.

Westley said, “Jet black, please. Full feminine. Conformation six.”

Midnight bloomed in the silvery skin as the body changed shape. A second later, Lai stood in the same place, but now she looked like a woman who had been completely sealed in utterly black latex. The light gleamed on her large breasts, emphasizing their already erect nipples. Her crotch had altered too, now showing the split purse of her sex. Her eyes burned smoky red in this configuration.

“White now,” he said. “Be an angel.”

The black latex woman immediately frosted. She shrank a little in height, and from her back two great pinions unfolded. Now her eyes were almost black, gleaming in a pure white whipped-cream face. Her tits were smaller, but in the same proportion to her body as before. A medium length of platinum hair had appeared on her head, and it flickered with an auroral display: halo. Her face was sweetly smiling.

The amazing thing was that the wings worked. Lai could, if he ordered it, fly. Or she could wrap him in the wings, cocooning him while they made love so soft and tender that it indeed seemed like a blessing from an angel.

“Good,” he said. “Let me see you natural.”

The aurora turned pink and swept right down the body. A wretched-looking, skeletal woman stood before him now, her breasts and belly shriveled by the terrible treatments and the disease she had suffered. He felt a pang of sympathy for Lai, who had chosen this limited immortality over certain death.

“Be beautiful,” he said.

Another change: she became buxom again, proud-breasted, with the normal coloration of a healthy Caucasian woman. Her lips pouted, beautifully red; the head spouted with long, full auburn hair. She even sported a little landing-strip patch of pubic hair. In all details she looked human, a gorgeous nude woman wholly at ease with her nakedness, her expression compliant and expectant.

Except for the eyes. Robin’s-egg blue in this configuration, but still blank, still glowing. There was just nothing he could do with the eyes. “Lai,” he said, “are you still conscious of your identity?”

“I am Robitic Unit One,” she said in a heartbeakingly sweet voice. “I was made from the body of Lai Morten, and I possess her memories.”

“Do you have a consciousness of self as Lai?”

“The question is not one to which I can formulate an answer.”

“Are you . . . happy that you are so beautiful, that you can take so many forms?”

“If I please you, that is good.”

“Do you still enjoy the act of sex? Do you feel anything?”

“I react with simulations of human enjoyment. It fulfills me if I please a partner. Do you wish to use me sexually?”

“What would you like, Lai?”

“The question is not one to which I can formulate an answer.”

No. Because Lai was the first to be transformed, perhaps. His . . . techniques had been improved since then.

“Come to my bed,” he told her. Sex with robots was not, legally, sex at all, but a form of masturbation. That had been settled in court not long after the first sales of sexual slaves had been made. Sex with a robot could not be taken as grounds for divorce.

No wonder they were popular.

Since the unpleasantness with his wife had become so intense, Westley had moved into the apartment above the labs and offices of the business. Bed was a short elevator ride away.

For a few moments he lay playing with the unit. The textures were not quite those of a human female. The fragrances and piquancies were subtly different. But the enthusiasm was there, the softnesses and the acceptances, the springiness of hip, the spread of thighs, the welcoming heat were all real. As Westley plunged into her, as he felt himself being pampered and urged to orgasm, he wondered again. Her face was clenched in anticipation of ecstasy, teeth showing, cheeks inflamed. Only the eyes . . . no robotic unit could close its eyes. But the glowing eyes looked hungry, eager.

“Come with me,” Westley panted.

And the unit heaved beneath him, made gasping sounds, and cooed, “Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!”

Real or not? He could not tell. What did they feel? They had the memories of their former lives–were they the same person, or was it more like someone who had read a detailed biography of someone else?

“Stay with me,” he said, and the unit cuddled close, spooning him in the bed.

Was it still Lai?

That was a question, Westley reflected, to which he could not formulate an answer.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . .