Mira: A Slave’s Story
17 — An Acquaintance Renewed
With her new practical attitude, Mira became more methodical concerning her addiction. It was a lifestyle choice; she adjusted her life to match the style she desired. The greatest of the changes she made was that she no longer bought raw O from pushers. It just wasn’t safe. Early on, she continued to enjoy access to Marlene’s house and her housecomp, following their “little accident.” Marlene had acquired, it seemed, and without telling Mira at the time, a reliable source of the refined erotic mutagen. After her disappearance, Mira simply took over this account.
She had the credits to burn. Rather than go out, she could have O delivered to her. She did the testing herself (or, rather, her housecomp did. It was so reliable.).
With that last need (or first, depending on one’s point of view) taken care of, there was hardly any motivation for Mira to leave her Estate. Her drugs were brought in. Her lovers were brought in (and then escorted out). She had her own sex slave. All her wants were satisfied. It is unfair to say that Mira became a hermit or a recluse—she still engaged passionately with people, with slaves, with various dildos and other vibrating implements—yet it was months before she did leave her mansion’s grounds again, and that was only in response to a mystery.
One day, the housecomp alerted Mira to an anonymous message. In itself, this was interesting. In the early days of electronic communication, anonymous messages were rife. By Mira’s time, network securities were near inviolable, and messages without origin weren’t accepted. Yet that was exactly what had occurred. The anonymity drew Mira’s attention.
The message was brief. The time and place for a particular slave auction was provided with this unilluminating addendum: “You will find there an item of interest, Ms. Lockard.”
Mira was initially concerned about who could have sent her the message. She was initially concerned about possible security breaches. But she was also interested in the idea of the auction itself. “An item of interest,” she said to herself.
So, against her better judgment, Mira went to this auction. And shortly after her arrival, upon looking at one of the biosluts offered for sale in a suspension tube, Mira discovered why she had been sent.
One of the slaves for sale was Marlene.
There were obvious physical differences, yet none of these were so drastic as to prevent Mira’s recognition of her old friend. The former Marlene stood silently in her display tube, motionless, her blank, pupil-less eyes open and staring at nothing, like all the other units up for sale.
Mira touched her own lips, astounded, unsure of any other feeling.
Marlene’s a bioslut, she thought. She’s been processed. It was amazing to see her. Where previously she had been suntanned, bronze and blond, Marlene’s skin had now been rendered in a clearly artificial gray-white tone, like mother-of-pearl. Dark pink or fuchsia slave-skin designs adorned her flesh, contrasting well with the overall paleness. There were tattoo-like circular rings around each nipple and her sex. Straight lines descended the middle of each arm and leg, their placement emphasizing the limbs’ attractive proportions more than if they had been left bare. Another circle of pink ringed Marlene’s face, with the bottom half of the design extending up to touch and therefore highlight her puffy lips, modeled in an identical color. Marlene’s breasts had been large before. Now, they were virtually watermelons, yet in spite of that exquisitely shaped and balanced.
Marlene’s a bioslave, Mira thought. There were other changes—big cocksucking lips, the reshaping of her labial folds, the overall glossy texture to her skin—but what drew Mira’s attention the most were her former friend’s eyes. Like the slave marks, they were dark pink in color, and utterly, utterly blank.
Mira found herself shivering. Pulses emanated from her sex in agonizingly pleasant, arousing waves.
Totally blank eyes. Eyes without soul. Eyes without mind. The eyes of a sex slave. The eyes of a pleasure unit . . . a biological sex machine. Marlene was now a sex toy. She was a walking sex doll.
Controlling herself only with difficulty, Mira asked about this slave’s provenance. A servitor told her.
“This unit was found being operated in an illicit brothel in the city. The preslut form had apparently been acquired by a street gang and converted, but the work was sloppy and hastily done. All she was really good for at the time was giving blowjobs and squeezing cocks. No imagination. There was a crackdown a few weeks ago on the gangs. Most of the members were rounded up and made into bioslaves themselves. Their previous properties, including this unit, were taken in and provided a full remodeling. You can rest assured, mistress, any previous problems that might have arisen with this unit due to her base origins have been completely ironed out. She wouldn’t be offered for sale otherwise.”
“Is . . is her memory intact?”
“Of her previous life, mistress? Absolutely not. She was given a complete mindwipe by the street gang, which was part of the problem. She has since received a complete XTC pleasure-unit downloading. I assure you, mistress, she can satisfy any desire. Would you like her programmed with some fictional past, for your enjoyment and amusement, mistress?”
Mira just shook her head, wonderingly.
There were questions in her mind. Who had sent her the message? How and why had Marlene ended up in a brothel? Was her old pusher a biostud now and sucking some rich elite’s cock? In the end, Mira found that she really didn’t care about any of the answers. She placed a bid on Marlene, and she put in enough credits that she was assured of the purchase.
Like Vincent, her delivery was so quick, the pleasure unit was practically there at home before her. Like Vincent, she had been positioned in Mira’s bedroom, just waiting to be activated.
This time, she didn’t wait, unlike with Vincent. “Marlene,” she said, “awake.”
She had had her programmed with her old name. It seemed appropriate.
The girl’s blank eyes fluttered. The aesthetics of her redesign were interesting. The contrast between solid pink and the mother-of-pearl complexion almost made it seem as if her eyes were glowing, that when she opened them a literal furnace of sexual combustion was hidden beneath her skin.
One hand crept up to stroke her upper breasts. The other rested on a lifted thigh. Her legs shifted, one teasing forward, automatically posing, displaying her sleek, perfected, artificial beauty before her owner.
She released a delicate little gasp, upon seeing Mira, her owner. Gracefully, she slipped to her knees.
“Mistress,” she breathed. “I live to serve you.”
“You’re a bioslut, Marlene.”
“Yes, mistress. I am a bioslut. I am your bioslut.” Her voice was heavy with desire. Marlene lifted her massive bosom toward Mira and spread her thighs even wider, if possible.
“You’re a slave.” Mira was having difficulty breathing. Her heart was racing like an old-fashioned train (she knew about trains having lived out a fantasy with one of her lovers on something called the “Orient Express”). She was shaking.
“Yes, mistress,” Marlene said, quite abjectly, quite matter-of-factly. “I am a slave. I am your slave.”
She put face to the floor and crawled forward to kiss Mira’s feet. “Your slave Marlene begs to please her mistress.”
“Slut,” Mira said quietly, then, without knowing quite why, she spurned Marlene with her foot, kicking her away. The slave immediately went into a crouching position. “Forgive this slave for displeasing you, mistress,” she cried, terrified . . . not for herself, but that she had given offense to the one being about whom her entire universe was centered. “Marlene is sorry, mistress.”
Mira was still shaking. “You . . you addicted me to O,” she told the slave. “You did this to me. Why did you do this to me?” Where this rage was coming from, she had no idea.
“Marlene is sorry, mistress.” Likely, she had no idea what she was apologizing for, but she was apologizing nonetheless. Servility was resequenced into a bioslave’s very DNA.
The room darkened. Mira felt dizzy. She almost fell, but the new slave seeing her in distress rushed forward and caught her. “Mistress, are you all right?” Mira didn’t answer. The room was spinning.
Marlene put her on the bed and quickly undressed her.
She lay beside her and examined her, critically. “Mistress is faint,” she whispered. “Mistress is upset.”
She looked closer. Her voice hardened. “Mistress requires pleasure.” The bioslut touched Mira’s thighs. She inserted a hand between her legs and delicately parted them, opening Mira up for her exploration. Marlene lowered her face unto her.
Minutes later, Mira was screaming with bliss, her whole body rocking. “No! No!” she exclaimed, loving it.
“Marlene will stop if mistress desires her to stop,” the slave said, ceasing her work. A wave of need seized Mira. “No, don’t stop, please.”
“Marlene loves her mistress,” the slave said and resumed. “Your slave obeys.” The coupling lasted throughout the rest of the day, barring time for food, O, energy shots, and the lavatory for Mira.
Eventually, both sluts, the one enslaved, the other as yet not, wound down. Mira lay in her property’s arms, Marlene’s fingers still playing gently between her legs. Mira rested on her former friend’s fantastically large breasts. They were her pillows. “Did you ever truly like me,” Mira asked, “or was I just another game to you?” Despite the strenuous workout, she wasn’t at all tired.
“Marlene loves her mistress,” Marlene said, kissing her.
“I know, now. But what about then?”
“I have no memory of being anything other than your slave, mistress. I have always been your slave.”
“Not always,” Mira said. “Once you were my best friend.” She told the slave about what had happened. She told her about the O use.
“Yes, mistress. I recognized the effects of this drug as I gave you pleasure.” As she spoke, she continued to kiss Mira. She gently circled Mira’s nipples with her fingertips, wetting them occasionally with her lips. “You achieved a level 6 orgasm. Most humans can only achieve a level 5, at most.”
Level 6? “I don’t understand.” Mira had never heard such terms before.
“Human orgasms can be rated according to their pleasure intensity, duration, brainwave engagement, and other biological factors, mistress,” Marlene recited, for a moment sounding like a machine. “Nerve sensitivity and pleasure-center focus are enhanced in bioslaves, the better to addict them to lives of service. The superhuman ability to induce extreme, addicting pleasure in biosluts and biostuds is also frequently relished by owners, as this is ego-boosting and contributes to a feeling of godlike power.”
The blandness with which she related this critique of her elite class stung a bit. It spoke volumes as to how the Corporate Lords truly viewed their constituency.
“Unmodified adult human males average levels 2 to 3 orgasmic pleasure, the higher score generally only achievable with the aid of a trained and genetically-engineered sex slave. Unmodified adult females likewise average levels 3 to 4. Mistress’ pleasure-receptivity is considerably higher than the norm.”
My slave orgasms, Mira thought, somewhat pleased. “How much higher?”
“Mistress is almost as sensitive as a slave.” Mira felt a peculiar mixture of pride, fear, and anger at this answer. “Mistress’ use of the mutagen has sensitized her nervous system in regard to pleasurable stimuli.” Marlene no longer spoke like Marlene. More so than her altered appearance, this informed Mira that the living fuckdoll in whose arms and legs she was held was no longer her friend. “Mistress needs pleasure, or she will suffer.”
“Suffer?”
“Yes. You were suffering pleasure withdrawal when you activated me, mistress.”
Mira blinked. “No, I wasn’t. That’s . . impossible. I . . I had sex last night.” A very lengthy session with Kyle, tied to a bed and fucked repeatedly over several hours while she was completely helpless.
Her skin was still tingling.
“Yes, mistress. But that was last night. Your condition is acute enough to require more frequent usage.” Usage!? Mira thought, outraged at first, then grudgingly accepted. Yes, she certainly had been well used last night. “Mistress’ combination of psychological dependency and physiological enhancement necessitates it.”
Mira shook her head. “No, that’s . . . wrong.” It was a violation of Corporate propriety to admit fault to the property, it was said. But Mira didn’t care. This bioslut at least resembled her friend. “I was only angry . . .” She sighed. “I got emotional because you were once my friend.”
“Yes, mistress. I understand. But those emotions were only the catalyst for the reaction you began to suffer. May I ask a question, mistress?”
Mira nodded, growing a little scared. “How often does mistress get fucked?”
Part of her resented the question. Part of her relished it. “Once or twice a day,” she admitted. Twice a day, really, at a minimum. More often three. That was counting both the attention she received from her lovers and the day-to-day attention she received from Victor.
Marlene shook her head. “That is not enough. Mistress enjoyed a level 6 orgasm. That is beyond ordinary dependency levels.” She lowered her face beside Mira’s ear. “I am so sorry, mistress, but it may be my fault as well. I was unaware of the extent of your addiction to O, and I may have brought you to a higher dependency plateau.” She sobbed a little, like a child.
Mira kissed her, feeling uncharacteristically forgiving. “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I must, mistress. It is your slave’s duty. You are dependent on sex now, mistress. You cannot live without sex.” Mira had come to the same conclusion some time ago; but to have it spoken aloud by another person—well, slave—was chilling.
And the weird thing was, this fear she felt . . . it was making her excited again. Mira felt herself growing wet and hot, despite the (because of) the chill.
“What will happen if I . . don’t?” She tried to sound casual.
“Sexual dependency is standard for bioslaves, mistress. It is more than acceptable for a bioslut to suffer from sexual neglect because she is a slave. It is often useful in controlling her, and it is frequently a source of amusement to owners. She will suffer, terribly, but her psychology is programmed for submissiveness, and her physiology is adapted to withstand the physical rigors of sex denial.
“Your physiology cannot, mistress. A level 6 sexual dependency can kill you, mistress.”
Mira sat bolt upright. “Kill me?”
“Yes, mistress. Without regular sexual usages at the levels to which you have adapted, your physical dependency will manifest in higher blood pressure, migraines, muscle fatigue, and insomnia, the symptoms of which will increase until your cardiovascular system is unable to cope.” Mira began shaking. “Mistress no doubt has access to a medical cubicle. Regular treatment can mitigate these symptoms, even permanently. But in addition there are psychological effects including frustration, moodiness, depression, and forgetfulness. These can kill as well when combined with the physical pressures.” Marlene held her tighter. “Mistress requires pleasure.”
These words had taken on a whole new meaning to Mira.
“Really?” It seemed to be true, actually. She was shaking; and was it her imagination, or was it getting a little harder to breathe? Damn it, why hadn’t Victor told this to me before? But, in thinking about it, she couldn’t blame him. Whenever she wasn’t using Victor—being used by him, rather—she usually told him to be quiet. He had been acting nervous around her lately.
She had thought it only his sexual dependency on her and dismissed it.
“Yes, mistress. Marlene is so sorry, mistress. The stress of this has triggered your dependency again.” She slipped out from underneath Mira and rolled on top of her. “Mistress needs this.”
And as she lowered her face onto Mira’s sex, Mira reflected that truer words had never been spoken.
Yet as she began to writhe under her slave’s eminently talented tongue and mouth, a part of her couldn’t help but speculate: level 6? What about level 7, or higher?
Everyone should have ambitions, after all.