The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

10 — Mira Buys a Stud

The auction was held in a different location than the first, and naturally the merchandise was different; yet in practice it was the same event, with the same selection of biosluts and biostuds frozen in capsules. The only real difference was that this time Mira went with the intention of actually making a purchase.

Mira flew her safetycar to the Retreat and spent the night in a luxurious suite that was completely wasted on her. She employed none of the services. She didn’t even sleep. An exhilaration such as that which she had thought lost forever filled her. She wanted to own a slave. She wanted to buy a slave. Buying a slave would solve every one of her problems.

Mira could barely wait for the auction to start. She was among the initial attendants to arrive.

The question arose again, of course, as she was making her selections. Why had she never bought a slave before? She had gone to other auctions, after that first. She had dreamt of them.

Probably, admitting the truth to herself, it wasn’t so much that she wanted to own a slave in her dreams as she wanted to be one. She was realistic enough to admit that. Mira’s mental picture of an auction wasn’t so much buying as it was being sold. But this was reality. Maintaining the right balance to the account this time, Mira purchased a bald, virile biostud she spotted in one of the capsules. She bought him because he reminded her of the previous stud, Vincent. His flesh was purple-red, like a flower. His cock was enormous, and she couldn’t wait to have it, have him, inside her.

After the sale, his capsule lowered into the floor. Everything was arranged for Mira. It was an age of convenience to the elite. It couldn’t have been made more convenient, really, and Mira had been tempted to pay the staff a compliment, until, of course, she remembered that they were all slaves themselves. Mira flew home, and almost upon her arrival a shipping pod landed, and the staff brought her purchase indoors. “The love-matrix is programmed in, ma’am. All you have to do is call him by name and say, ‘Awake.’”

They left, and Mira was finally alone with her stud. She had had them bring “Vincent” (the same name she had chosen before . . . one slave or another, it made no difference) into her bedroom, and as she entered he stood there at attention, yet asleep; tall, purple, and masterful, albeit unconscious.

He was beautiful.

Mira wanted to fuck him. Better yet, she wanted him to fuck her.

He stood unmoving, eyes closed, deactivated. Mira’s dress slipped to the floor. With a careless movement of her foot, she kicked it to the side (a house microbot grabbed it and whisked it away). She was nude. Mira came up to the silent biostud and ran her hands first over his lean and chiseled stomach, relishing the masculine feel of him. Her touch traced along the hard chest, and for the first time in weeks Mira felt something inside her that mimicked actual desire. He was taller than her by more than a foot; his uber-masculinity had a corresponding influence on her frail and tiny femininity. His buttocks were tight and smooth. Mira fell to her knees beside him, stroking, petting. She pressed the side of her face to his asscheek, and her mouth opened and closed spasmodically in a silent gasp of pleasure. His organ, even in trance, was potent. Mira knelt before him. Delicately, as if afraid he might vanish if she pressed too hard, she licked his cock.

His synthetic flesh was electric beneath her tongue.

She had to have him.

Mira drew back but did not climb to her feet. This was something of a break in protocol. When one “activated” a bioslave, Mira knew, it was customary to do so while standing in front. This position facilitated the slave’s preliminary sight being the owner of said slave. The consequent effect would be twofold, in that, the bioslave’s love-matrix already having been customarily preset, the initial sight of his or her owner would be a powerful and dramatic one, filling the slave with sexual warmth and emotion, akin to awe and worship. The slave would see her Master standing before her as a god, and the programmed response would be for her to fall down upon her own knees in helpless worship; the play of these emotions—love, passion, worship—would plainly be visible on the slave’s face, naturally, and thus could be enjoyed by the new owner. It wasn’t right or healthy for a slave’s first sight of his mistress, Mira, in this case, to be kneeling before him. But she didn’t care.

“Vincent,” she called out. “Awake.”

The purple bioslave’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted in a long, drawn breath. His eyes, blank and purple, without will, resistance, or pupil, only helpless love and slave-devotion, opened.

They stared as if searching for something, his soulless eyes. Then Vincent’s gaze fell upon his owner, kneeling before him, and his whole face animated with artificial (yet profound) joy.

He shuddered. His knees quaked. He clearly wanted to go to his knees. But the sight before him prevented that instinctual reaction.

“Mistress,” Mira’s slave said, looking down at her. “I live to serve you.”

His voice was deep and baritone. He was beautiful.

“I want you to fuck me as if I were a slave,” Mira ordered him. “Rape me, Vincent. Please.”

The biostud didn’t even blink. “Yes, mistress. I love to serve you.”

He approached her, and Mira turned to provide him access (she liked being used like an animal). He put his hands on her waist and bent her over savagely, exactly the way she liked it. His magnificent cock skewered her. He took her up in his arms and . . . Mira screamed. Not in pleasure. Not at all!

“Stop, it hurts,” Mira squealed. “It’s not working. Stop.”

Vincent pulled away from her—out of her—as if she had been electrified. “I am so sorry, mistress,” he babbled. He went to his knees—for the first time in her presence—and then put his face to the floor. “I am so sorry I displeased you, mistress. I am your slave. I am your humble slave.” He knelt before her in a tight ball, convulsions spasming through at his failure.

Mira lay on the bed, legs spread, crying. “Why isn’t it working?” she wept. “Why isn’t it working?” She didn’t feel adequately raped. She had felt nothing, nothing but pain.

She got up and stood over Vincent. For a moment, she felt like kicking him. If she did so, she knew that in spite of his overwhelming strength and supposed mastery, he would cringe and cower like the slave he was, and grow sexually excited at the same time, for it would be mistress that was kicking him. But she didn’t. It wasn’t his fault (not that that would have made a difference: beating a slave was often recreational). It was hers.

She needed help.

* * *

Marlene arrived in her own safetycar. She greeted Mira as if she had only last spoken to her days ago instead of months.

“The problem is that you aren’t sensitive enough,” Marlene said. She had brought bags with her. “O withdrawal makes you super-hard and dry. But we can fix that. You can’t pretend to be a slave if you don’t look like a slave.”

“I have masks,” Mira said. “Bondage gear . . .”

“You’re thinking too small, darling.” Marlene peeled off the gloves she was wearing. “This is PaintO!”

Marlene’s hands were green. A bright, shiny green, as if they had been dipped in green ink. “It is a derivative of O,” the blond elite said, “only it’s not O.” She waved her hands up and down, a little bit, a little much.

“Are you deaf?” Mira said. “I’m not going to take any more of those pills.”

“Well, they would solve all the problems you’re having,” Marlene said, “but if you don’t want to, okay. We can work with that. This is the best next thing. There’re hardly any erotic mutagens in PaintO at all, only the tactile stimulators of O. It’s much safer.” She snorted, as if safety wasn’t anything that concerned her.

“Safer? You’re completely insane.” Yet Mira couldn’t help but salivate as she stared at her friend’s beautiful green hands. They looked so lovely, like the hands of a bioslut.

“You won’t dislike it,” Marlene said.

She went to her equipment case, and from it she pulled out a pair of spray cans.

“I’ll spray you down. This solution will simulate the standard bioslut gloss.” She smiled brightly. “It’s green, too!”

Mira sighed, appeared as if she were going to say something, then simply nodded, defeated. She breathed deeply, then stood with her back to her friend. She hadn’t bothered getting dressed again.

“Do it,” she said. A moment later she heard the hiss and felt the cold mist graze her skin.

She jumped: “Ooh!” she muttered, then grit her teeth. It was cold.

Marlene started near her shoulders in the middle of her back, then worked her way down, up and down, before moving to her ass. Mira shivered, partially from the chill of the spray, mostly from the way the PaintO made her feel: it was like being coated with liquid rubber.

It went on cold but quickly warmed up and drew in tight, molding to every curve and fold of her body.

Marlene did the back of her legs and then her arms. Closing her eyes, Mira turned slowly as her friend continued to work up and down and from side to side.

When she finished with the first can, she picked up the second and continued where she left off. When the spray hit Mira’s face, for a second it was like cold water. Then she felt the warmth and squeezing, as if her skin were changing, becoming a shell of itself . . . a mask. Oh my God, she thought. All along her back, from her heels to her shoulders, it felt like something warm was molding itself to her, pressing into her, shaping her. Her ass began to feel tighter, lifting, clenching without effort. When the spray worked over her breasts, a shudder went through her body. The effect was the same: as the chemical dried, it felt like a thin layer of plastic wrap was pressing into her flesh, growing tighter with each passing moment. Marlene giggled as she did Mira’s pussy last, and it was all Mira could do to keep from moaning like a slut.

She opened her eyes a couple of seconds after she finished. Marlene was breathing heavily.

Mira felt paradoxically wet all over yet dry, as if she were naked but at the same time covered from head to toe in latex. Her friend stared at her, not saying a word. Mira looked in the mirror in her bathroom.

“Wow,” she whispered, seeing herself as she might as a fully processed bioslut.

Her skin looked like glossy green rubber. She looked as if she had been candied, dipped in molten sugar made from green apples and left to dry until a firm, plastic-like finish had formed. The spray was a quick drying solution: although the coating preserved its slick, glossy look—in fact, she appeared as if she were covered in baby oil—it was already “hard.” Mira felt pressure everywhere. Her boobs, since her accident super-large but nonetheless fully self-supporting, looked even faker than they had before. Glistening with “wetness,” they stuck out even further in front. She swung her chest from side to side, amazed at how well they held up, straight and firm. Mira opened and closed her fingers. She rubbed them against one another. It was, again, both, like she was wearing a pair of skintight gloves yet not. There was no diminishment whatsoever in her sense of touch. If anything, her skin felt even more alive now than it had been. She lifted her hands to her enormous green bust and stroked the stable yet delightfully soft flesh of herself.

“Unreal,” she muttered. It was the weirdest sensation. Weird but good. Her fingertips slid over her skin: smooth, absolutely smooth, like silk merged with rubber. But it wasn’t as if there wasn’t any purchase, any friction. No.

Every touch under the PaintO was amplified. It was like a million new nerve-endings had formed. She felt more naked than naked, yet simultaneously like she was wearing the softest combination of leather, lace, and latex.

Supposedly, this “imitation” gloss only provided a taste of the real thing. If so, Mira couldn’t conceive what the “real thing” must be like, if the sensation was really like this, especially coupled with a real bioslut’s ultra-enhanced erogenous zones. In combination with a hit of O . . . no, Mira thought. Just, no. Her nipples were hard, and they felt like they had been dipped in warm wax, and, truth be told, the combination even without the drug was making her as horny as hell; nonetheless, her arousal wasn’t so outside her experience that, as an experienced O user, she felt like it was out of her control. As a real sex slave, her need would have been.

Mira stroked her breasts, then ran her smooth—super smooth—hands over her tummy and thighs, then touched at the folds of herself, and pursed her lips in a soft, whispered reaction. The feeling this intimate touching produced was electrifying, simply electrifying. She could only speculate on what being fucked would be like in this living skintight coat of plastic.

She thought of Vincent and got wet. It has to work, she thought. She was so looking forward to this.

She brought her fingers up to her face. Her fingerprints, she saw under examination, were completely hidden under the PaintO.

Mira was conscious that Marlene was staring. She let her. She had long since stopped thinking of Marlene as a rival. She ran her hands over her arms, compulsively, relishing the sheer velvety feel of herself.

“What do you think?” she asked, finally. “Do I look the part?” In the mirror over her shoulder, Mira saw Marlene open her mouth, then, again, closed it without saying a word. She nodded, slowly. “You’ll need the contact lenses for the full effect.” She handed a small case to Mira.

They were small, green ovals. Putting them in was a snap. And once in place, they seemed to all but disappear.

With some effort, Mira stopped feeling herself up. She closed her eyes, lens in place, straightened, took a deep breath. She let it out, waited a second more, and only then did she gaze upon herself again.

Once more, she pursed her lips in an awed little whistle. A bioslut was staring back at her from the mirror. A slave . . . a genetically re-engineered sex slave, a bioslave, tall and busty, with bouncy black hair, an exaggerated hourglass figure, and a glossy, green, poreless finish, as if she actually were made of soft plastic . . . the slave she would be, if she had broken the law and been sentenced to dollification, or been caught up in a Tenant raid without her elite-status identification, or kidnapped off the street and transformed in an illegal bodyshop.

Green: everywhere she looked, she was green, like an apple picked fresh from the orchard. No, Mira thought. This is a more artificial green. The color was enticing, beautiful. It made her look not human, like an alien from some primitive television program. It enhanced every feature, brought her boobs out in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She didn’t look human anymore. The effect was made greater still when gazing upon her face. Her eyes were completely featureless, just a pair of flat green surfaces, without soul. She looked blank and beautiful.

A strange flutter passed through her stomach.

Mira noticed, a little uneasily, that she was smiling the bright, cheerful smile of the perfect bioslut, as if the whole world were her sexual invitation and adventure. She tried to stop, and it actually proved a little difficult. She licked her lips. Her pillowed lips (“cocksucker lips”) made the unconscious gesture like something carnal. Something the PaintO did to her face made assuming that dumb smile her natural expression: a dumb, bimboslut expression of sexual radiance and stupidity. Mira frowned for a second, then impishly stuck her tongue out at herself, and relaxed.

Her face resumed its default bimbo expression.

“Are you ready to get fucked?” Marlene asked, and Mira nodded eagerly.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 11—“Marlene”)