The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira did not consider herself an unintelligent woman. Unlike Marlene, she felt she was fully conscious of the jeopardy she was placing herself in, going back on the O. Moreover, in the wake of her close calls, Mira believed she had developed the necessary emotional appreciation as well: the “threat” of slavery felt “real” to her. So she took precautions.

First, foremost, following each use of O she entered her house’s medical cubicle for a telomeric purge, spending at least half the next day in the cellular-rejuvenation baths. She tested her DNA regularly, ran comparisons with her ideal sequencing, and adjusted both her activities and the amount of mutagens she was ingesting. She quickly found her happy medium, a level of slave DNA/RNA in her system that returned life—and slave orgasms—to her yet was well below the legal threshold for slave confiscation.

The spots did not return on their own, though she often employed PaintO to place some on.

Back on the O, Mira began using Vincent the way both he and she needed to be used, like slaves. The combination of the drug, PaintO, and the skill and body of a genetically resequenced loveslave proved an intoxicating cocktail, and Mira spent many a night, and many a day, either squirming beneath Vincent or riding atop him, a ponylash in hand and encouraging his already impressive carnal techniques.

Yet it was her paid lovers that became once more the focus of Mira’s amatory activities. She dreamt about them in sweat-covered nights so steamy she often woke on account of spontaneous orgasm.

Recovering seven names from the housecomp was not at all difficult, nor was the arranging of a routine for their nightly duties. Again, Mira attempted a greater degree of prudence: she used the lovers more often but on a strict weekly schedule, to the extent that she had built seven small bungalows on her Estate for the singular purpose of meeting them. They arrived anonymously; they left the same way.

Mira thought of her lovers less as human beings, more as flavors, like flavors of ice cream. One could not live on vanilla alone. Whenever she felt the need for a particular taste, a particular kind of pleasure, the housecomp would make all the arrangements.

She approached him humbly, face turned down, hands clutched together in front of her. “I’m desperate, sir,” the whore said, in a low voice.

Ethan was clad in an elite business suit, carefully tailored to his frame (Mira had had it done). He was big and burly beneath the fine fabric—a pig wearing a suit. His hair was carefully trimmed, and shaven he looked very much like a Corporate overseer, belying his truer, humbler origins. He lifted Mira’s chin with one hand, forcing her to look him in the face.

“How much money do you need, whore?” he asked her sternly, and the thrill of humiliation passed through Mira’s privates like gasoline on fire.

“Five hundred credits, sir,” she said, “or my father will be forced to go back to the factory.”

She tried to sound appropriately poor and disgraced.

The Corporate overseer cum tenant-actor (he really was good in this role) undid the front of his pants.

“Suck me, bitch, and maybe, just maybe I’ll give you the money . . . as a loan.” He chuckled evilly. “You can pay me back in . . installments.” He gripped the back of the whore daughter’s head and forced her—forced Mira—to her knees.

O bubbled in Mira’s system. She went forward gratefully, licking the cock in front of her. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, feeling delightfully lower class.

The hand in her hair bunched even more tightly, painfully. “Do a better job than last time, whore, or your sisters too will be sold to pay your father’s debts.”

“I will, sir. I will.” Mira had no sisters, and her father was long gone. But it was fun to pretend otherwise.

“You can’t do this to me!” the captive Corporate screamed. “I demand you release me. Release me at once!” She squirmed, bound naked in tight ropes that stretched around her middle and between her legs and breasts. She was completely helpless, rolling around on the floor.

The paid lover, Ryan, stood over her. He nudged her with his toe. He, took, was naked. His body bore many scars, so unlike the nude flesh of the elites with whom Mira had once associated. “Be quiet,” he told her. “There is no one to hear you. You are mine now.”

“No! No, this can’t happen to me! I’m rich. I’m powerful. You can’t . . . you can’t seriously intend to sell me into slavery!”

“I can,” her pretend captor declared. “And I am. But before the others arrive . .”—Actually, there were no others—“. . I intend to indoctrinate you in your new lifestyle.” He hunkered down beside the helpless captive. “You had best start referring to me, and to all men, as ‘master,’ for soon that will be expected of you. And much, much more.”

“You’re . . you’re going to make me a slave girl?” Mira tried to sound shocked. It was hard when all she really felt was giddiness and profound sexual arousal.

He did not answer her. Instead, he put his hands on Mira and rolled her onto her back. Tied up, she was utterly unable to prevent him. He put his fingers beneath the rope passing over her pussy and lifted it slightly, to allow his penetration inside.

And then he proceeded to rape her.

It was beautiful. Everything she could have hoped for.

The jeweled loincloth between her legs—the only thing she wore—was expensive. She was not.

The slave’s bright green, resequenced flesh—or so she had almost managed to convince herself she had, with the generous usage of PaintO—may once have had value; but if value she had once had, that had disappeared with her embonding. Whether she had been a tenant girl or Corporate elite in her previous life, now she was but a nameless green, bespotted slave girl.

It made so wet to think about how valueless she was.

Mira knelt before Marquise, serving him his dinner silently, as a true slave would. Bright silk walls rustled in the artificial breeze around them. The tenant lover said nothing, too—his role demanded silence. Mira was trembling with need, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she could keep from spilling his drink or dropping a spoon as she handed it over. Her nipples were tight, her pussy was blazing; the O had her on the cusp of a climax, and if she failed in even the smallest of tasks in this scenario, Marquise had strict orders not to fuck her.

She needed him to fuck her. But sometimes the denial of her needs was also important, for the threat inspired in her a devotion to the role she played that almost made her believe she was a true slave.

She handed him his next plate of food, eyes pleading with her Master. I’ll be good, those eyes said. I’ll be good, I promise, my Master.

Marquise took it from her and said nothing.

I must try to serve him perfectly, Mira thought. I must try harder.

The holography equipment in this bungalow, and the special effects in general, had been hideously expensive in the installation; but Mira was made of money, and the work she had demanded had been completed in only a few nights. What felt like real sand brushed between her toes. What felt like real sunlight shone down on her from the hidden lamps above. The “sky” was blue. The “waves” in the distance felt wet but really weren’t, and the sounds as they crested on the artificial shoreline were absolutely perfect.

If Mira squinted, she could see in the “distance” a pirate ship approaching, of a design her housecomp had informed her was from the seventeenth century. The vessel was getting closer and closer, and here she was, a helpless, nude “native girl,” soon to be subject to the whims and cock of a pirate lord. In truth, Caleb was only in the next room, awaiting his cue.

In a few minutes, the pirates would attack her “village,” her “family” would be assaulted, and she would be made a “slave,” so to appease the appetites of the pillagers.

Mira took the O tablet, relishing the taste and the first orgasm of the evening.

Those were the only real things there.

“What is your designation?”

“This rubberslut is designated as Unit 145.” She spoke in a monotone which she hoped a real rubberslut might have.

“What is your purpose?” Aziz asked. He stood nude above the bed. Mira lay spread-eagled beneath him, her gaze directed at the ceiling. Her breasts poked perkily upwards, courtesy of artificial youth, positioning, and liberal coatings of black, shiny PaintO.

“My purpose is to bring pleasure to my users.” Truth be told, real rubbersluts were mutes. Their voice boxes were removed in order to provide maximum space for deep-throating. Their tongues could extend almost a foot outside their mouths, and the space necessary for that had to come from somewhere. “This unit’s purpose is to bring master pleasure.”

Aziz gave her a lopsided grin.

“Prove it.” He put his knees onto the bed. His cock was huge, almost as big as Vincent’s. If resequenced into a biostud, Aziz would be a true monster. Mira was looking forward to sucking him. She couldn’t wait to have him inside her, monstrous length or not. He inched forward and with a practiced movement fell across her, holding his weight on his forearms.

“This unit obeys,” Mira said and reached up for him.

The PaintO made her flesh as black as polished rubber. She appeared to be made of latex, a literal rubber dolly. Her lips and pussy were painted red, doubly coated with PaintO. Aziz’s cock brushed against her folds, and Mira released a very un-rubberslutty moan.

Her lover was paid to ignore such lapses in character, however.

Rebecca put her face between Mira’s thighs. She was a truly skilled temptress, her expertise at cunnilingus simply amazing, and not for the first time did Mira wonder why the poor tenant girl hadn’t already been made a slave. It was almost beyond belief that the woman hadn’t already been picked up in a tenant sweep, her youth and beauty made the possessions of a Corporate who would pay good money for them. But, then, isn’t that what I’m doing? Mira thought, hissing in pleasure as the girl’s talented teeth and tongue performed their task. She’s servicing me.

Mira put her hands in Rebecca’s hair, drawing her in closer.

Perhaps I should pay someone to abduct her, Mira went on thinking. Have her processed so that she could serve me every night. Again, she hissed. The combination of Rebecca’s mouth and the O in her system was something she savored. Mira’s feet rested on the tenant’s back, her knees drawn up. She held onto the bedpost with both hands behind her. Her breasts were throbbing. Rebecca’s own hands gently stroked Mira’s thighs. “Oh my god,” Mira moaned aloud.

The tenant knew not to stop and ask questions. She would continue at her delightful task until Mira told her to halt. With the O, on occasion, Mira had had Rebecca service her for hours at a time. And never once a complaint. Such a sweetheart. So businesslike. The whore was paid very, very well.

I really should enslave her, Mira thought, and her eyelids flickered under the throes of yet another titanic orgasm.

Moving seductively, as she imagined any slave would under similar circumstances, Mira twirled for her audience of one. The top she had detached from her upper body floated for a moment between her outstretched fingers, and then she let it drop to the dance floor. She spun once more, lowering the front half of her body and shaking her ass at Kyle, who was naked and ready.

He grabbed her by the sides and slid up next to her. He pulled her upright and pressed closely into her back. His cock rested between her buttocks, and its presence had Mira’s heart thumping madly with desire. Kyle’s hands reached around front, fingers tilted inward to stroke Mira’s tummy, then reaching upward to cup her full breasts. Sweat covered the two of them. Sexual dancing was a strenuous activity, and the two of them had been going strong for hours. To increase her lover’s stamina, she had made him take O as well. The effect of O on a man was exactly what Mira had imagined it would be: an erection that just wouldn’t quit, that kept coming back after every ejaculation. Loads of semen that coated her face with delicious whiteness. The man would need medical attention afterwards, of course, but that was what the medical cubicle was for.

Once again, he turned Mira around to face him. His cock entered her as she clutched his back, her head tilting back in bliss. “Oh, take me, Master,” she moaned. “Take me, take me.”

And so he did.

So they all did, on their regular night of the week.