The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

2 — The Auction

It wasn’t what she had expected.

Centuries of pulp melodrama and exploitive cinema had given Mira an image born more of fantasy than reality. Modern slave auctions, it quickly became apparent, were no longer conducted in dirty warehouses by the waterfront. There was no auction barker on stage calling out bids while fondling the beautiful merchandise. There was no line of slaves in chains, naked and quivering in fright and drug-inspired sexual need. The real thing proved utterly mundane. Mira had been expecting spectacle. What she got was a sedate exhibit, more like attending a soirée held at a museum than the Arabesque fantasies she had had of centuries past. She was disappointed.

A footman met her at the door. She had arrived early.

“Good evening, mistress,” the attendant said, bowing and smiling, what shown of his plastic-like flesh gleaming beneath the house lights. He was dressed in a tuxedo top. The black short-shorts he wore underneath, however, revealed the defining bulge of his enhanced package.

“Please, proceed inside. Refreshments are being served by the staff. If you require anything, all you need do is ask.” He resumed his former posture, gazing at Mira with obvious attraction and appetite.

His was not a predatory look; it was the servile need of a toyboy requiring release. As was customary, Mira brushed her hand over the slave’s groin in passing, sending a pleasurable shiver throughout his entire body. He had fine legs and a great ass.

“Thank you, mistress,” the toyboy said, then turned his attention to the next well-dressed people coming up the steps. Mira entered the auction house.

The trappings were Pre-Republic, Pre-Collapse: a great wide open space, marble floor, golden-colored walls, and a gleaming crystal ceiling overhead, with a grand staircase leading upstairs and drawing rooms to each side. Everything was made to look hideously expensive and rare. The paintings on the walls were masterpieces, the chandeliers encrusted with diamonds. Yet diamonds were cheaply made today, and all the real artworks were in the hands of Corporate Lords. It was the style that counted, not the substance. Mira took a glass of champagne from a passing maid and drifted along with a group of other attendees into an adjoining chamber. Lavender tapestries covered the walls, with neat but functionless ropes hanging down at intervals. Delicate chamber music was playing in the background, just loud enough to be heard yet not enough to disturb conversation. At least a hundred well-heeled men and women milled about, talking, partaking of refreshments, and examining the lovely properties for sale.

“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre, mistress?” The French maids were classically clad in extremely short skirts—Mira could see this one’s white ruffled panties—and flashing bustiers, yet for all that their costumes, like that of the footmen in attendance, were deliberately conservative, all things being equal.

Mira waved her off. The maid said nothing, merely beamed her a dollygirl smile and went to wait on someone else. After taking one sip, she put her glass on another attendant’s tray as she passed.

The toyboys and dollygirls notwithstanding, this affair was not actually being run by the State. After some internal debate, Mira had put her name down on a list. In only a few short days her housecomp had informed her that she had been invited to an auction being held at a location nearby. Upon her arrival, there had been no need to show either I.D. or card. If she couldn’t have afforded what the auctioneers sold, she wouldn’t have been notified; if her invitation hadn’t been officially registered, the retina scanners wouldn’t have let her approach the building’s entrance (for that matter, her flying safetycar wouldn’t have been allowed to land anywhere near).

Mira didn’t recognize anybody in attendance, and for that she was glad. She could have invited a friend to accompany her, like Marlene, but she had wanted to do this on her own.

This was her first slave auction. She didn’t know if she was going to buy or not. Either way, she didn’t want the pressure of someone familiar beside her watching her every move.

She walked around the assorted rooms for a bit, then spotted an auction representative and went up to him. He was easy to make out: unlike the wealthy Corporates in their fanciful dresses and suits, the rep was clad in mere skintight business plastic. That is, he was clad like the slave he was. “When does the auction begin?” she asked.

“Is this your first time here, Mistress . . .”—he glanced down at his wrist-terminal—“Mistress Lockard?”

Mira nodded. “The auction has already begun. Final results will be conducted after midnight, mistress.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Please, if you would accompany me a moment, it would be my duty to explain.” The company rep escorted Mira to one of the man-sized, glass-like cylinders scattered throughout that room and the others. These had been, of course, the center of all attention at the gathering, and men and women had collected around them and moved on, talking and making polite witticisms as they went. The tubes were transparent and sealed at the top, each one raised minutely above the carpeted floor on a flush and circular platform. Inside each tube was a male or female sex slave, standing perfectly still, naked, their eyes open yet unseeing, their bodies as motionless as wax statues. Like everyone else, Mira had been drawn to these cylinders and examined their contents. The one the representative brought her to held a female sex slave. She was a pretty little thing, about Mira’s height but with hair that had been drawn back into a tight bun at the back of her head. The bun, in fact, looked absolutely fused to the back of her head, like it was a solid mass of plastic. In contrast, the girl’s eyes were white and featureless, soft, as blank on the outside as the mind reflected inside, Mira thought. The slave’s skin was a very pale shade bordering on the bluish-white, without visible pores yet decorated with wide, zebra-like slave stripes, these bands descending in attractive and eye-catching diagonal waves from left to right.

The first dark stripe ran across the slut’s face, starting beneath her hairline near her left eye and flowing across her nose to her chin. She had extremely bright, red lips. A second stripe started at her neck and slid across her upper chest; a third emblazoned her left shoulder and her breast on that side; a fourth, a fifth, others, down to her pretty toes and feet, the skin of the one on the left rendered bluer than the one on the right. The design of the slave stripes made them look not like tattoos but rather like natural fluctuations in the skin’s pigment; nevertheless, they were of perfectly sharp and artificial dimensions.

The alternating bands of deeper blue over bluish-white skillfully served to complement the slut’s flesh rather than detract from it, enhancing her beauty while simultaneously identifying it as product. These stripes and spots were trademarked, after all. Their adornment made clear the girl was property, nothing more than an item of trade.

Lips and stripes aside, the only other contrasting color was the faint reddish tint about her cheeks, nipples, and pussy. The representative pointed out a semi-transparent panel set in the cylinder’s surface at eye level. Mira read numbers there. A digital clock face counted down to midnight.

“You make your bids here, mistress,” the rep told Mira, “by touching this panel. The housecomp scans your retina and fingerprint patterns and keeps track of them alongside your bank reserves. Each escalation in price is displayed. If you want to place a bid, all you need do is touch the panel . . .” and he demonstrated, tapping the air in front of the indicator, “like this, and it’s done.

“At the end of the evening the housecomp compares the number of bids and determines the final prices that were accumulated for each slave. If you should win the bidding on any particular property, you would be informed, mistress, either on the premises or via your housecomp, if you should leave early. At that point, you would have the choice of either accepting and paying the final purchase price, whereupon the property you had bid on would become yours; or turning it down, whereupon the patron with the second highest number of bids would be informed.”

The representative stepped back. “And that’s all there is to it, mistress. No fuss, and all privacy guaranteed. Upon drawing the cash from your account, your new sex slave would be delivered to your home by the next day . . . earlier, if you wished to have him or her imprinted upon you at once.”

Mira nodded acknowledgement—one did not thank slaves—and, armed with her new understanding, went out among the other patrons to examine each cylinder’s contents. There were ten booths per room, half studs, half sluts, and several rooms from which to make selections. But am I actually going to make a selection? Mira asked herself, and she didn’t have an answer. She felt warm inside her dress. Warm and moist.

Now that she knew what she was doing, what had initially proven unsatisfactory became an enjoyable evening after all. There was quite a diverse selection from which to choose, and Mira took her time, lingering before any cylinder the contents of which caught her eye. Most of the slaves represented were of the standard pleasure-unit variety, the most common type around the world, and shown here in an assortment of vivid colors (bluish-white, purple, yellowish-black, blue, green, hot pink) and pigments (tiger or zebra stripes, cattle or Dalmatian spots, cheetah, snake-print, even plain); but there were also specific models on display, including two rooms of chimeras—catgirls, doggy boys, piggy sluts, bunnies—and one room even full of all but indistinguishable rubbersluts, their flawless black skin making them look like full-sized rubber sexdollies, which, in a manner of speaking, they were.

No cream-of-the-crop, State-produced dollygirls or toyboys were open for sale, though, so their presence at the affair as maids and footmen could be considered a bit of a tease.

Inside their containers, the slaves stood as if frozen in time. “They are in suspension, mistress,” one of the half-tuxedo-clad toyboys informed her, when she asked. “They won’t be reactivated until a love-matrix has been prepared and programmed into their minds. While each slave enjoys a perpetual state of sexual readiness, the matrix ensures that that lucky stud or slut’s complete awe and devotion will be reserved exclusively for his or her future owner.”

Some caught Mira’s eyes more than others, and twice, breathing heavily, she tapped out bids, just one for each, though, almost as if she were making sure she wouldn’t win.

The first property Mira bid on was a greenish-blue stud. He was a leanly muscled sex slave, athletic without the over-exaggeration of a bodybuilder, yet broad-shouldered and with a delicious crop of short-trimmed curly hair on top of his head. His entire face was dark with a broad slave stripe, and the embellishment descended each shoulder and down his arms, almost as if he were wearing some kind of latex mask and gloves. His cock was large and scrumptious looking. His ass was shapely, and Mira wanted to touch it. Gazing into his container, she put her curled fist to her mouth and breathed heavily into it, shuddering with imagined pleasure. Her nipples were hard, and soon enough she had to go to the ladies’ rest room in order to touch herself, imagining herself in bed with that greenish-blue body atop hers and fucking her.

He has no name, Mira thought. None of them did. All the cylinders were without labels.

I’d call him . . . Vincent. Yes. Vincent. She punched in her bid, thinking to herself, If I owned you, I’d name you Vincent.

She bid on an equally handsome, purple-hued slave in another room. Like Vincent, this second stud had broad shoulders and a cock that had Mira all hot and wet just looking at (all the studs had been suspended with full erections, naturally). “Brutus,” as she called him, however, was entirely bald.

It was the baldness that did it for her. She wanted to lick his bare scalp, and the image was so clear in her head that she had to visit the lady’s room again.

With only two bids made, and only one for each, Mira wasn’t surprised she didn’t win. At the same time, she wasn’t dissatisfied after all with her first slave auction. She went home, O’ed-out, and masturbated until she lost consciousness, passing out with a great and exhausted grin on her face.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 3—“Put A Smiley Face On It!")