The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

21 — Captured

Ostensibly, Mira had left her mansion still its owner. She returned to it an owned commodity.

Three biopolicemen were milling around in the foyer when she was brought back by the fourth. One of the men had the front of his pants opened, and Mira’s former slave Marlene was enthusiastically servicing him. Between sucks, she moaned in self-evident delight. Vincent was also on his knees, a little distance away, looking deprived.

“Gentlemen, I present to you the former Mira Lockard.” Mira’s captor drew her in from of him. The pulses from the tool in her pussy doubled and redoubled, guiding her actions. Pulse: walk this way. Pulse: now stand here. She had to obey. There was no choice. No choices at all.

“So this is her, eh?” One of the men stood in front of Mira. “Stand straighter, slut!” he barked at her, and the pulses compelled her. “Lift your tits.” This last instruction was almost unnecessary; Mira had done so instinctively, trying to make herself look more appealing to the men who might want to fuck her. Her blood was boiling: she needed them to fuck her.

“Identify yourself,” one of them told her. Something “clicked” inside her head, from the pulses in her neck and her cunt. She could speak again.

“I was Mira Lockard.” Whether the use of the past tense was her own choice or a compulsion from the device, she could not tell. Either way, it was true. Her legal status was no longer in doubt.

Two of them gathered around her. The first man grabbed her enormous bust and fondled her, rubbing his thumbs over Mira’s painfully engorged nipples. Her arousal only increased, and she moaned, begging, “Please, master.” The other man reached between her legs. “Oh, Master! Ohhhh!” She squirmed under their manipulations. Her two former slaves watched eagerly.

“Habitual O user?”

“Yeah. And a heavy one, too, by the look and feel of her. She’s practically a bioslave already, lacking only the surgery. You rarely see a preslave in so advanced a condition as this.”

“That’s because she was rich. She could afford the telomeric purges to maintain herself.” He took hold of Mira’s chin, forced her to look at him. “How many times a day did you O, whore?”

“Once or twice a day, master,” Mira replied, fear and need warring inside her. “Please, master! Please! I need it!”

“You need what, little whore?”

“I . . . I need you to . . . use me. Please, master . . masters . . . use me! I beg it!” Gone was any thought of dignity or propriety. Mira was so enflamed she could barely think straight.

“Go ahead, if you want to,” a third man, the man who had captured her in the grove, said. He was evidently their leader. “I’m going to look around.” He went off into another room. Clearly, he was going to loot the place. Marlene continued to service the oblivious fourth man.

“I rarely get the opportunity to fuck such rich pussy,” one of the two men before Mira said. “Yeah, usually we just get tenant sluts,” the other added. They pushed her down to the floor, not bothering to take her upstairs to her bedroom. One of them pulled the thong device out of her, and the pulses stopped. He stroked her labia. “Please, master!” the common slut on the floor begged.

They pulled their pants down. One of them played with her clit, and the shocking power of his attentions on her—the monstrously sensitive flesh she had managed to curse herself with—provoked a massive orgasm. She was still climaxing when he entered her and began using her.

It was torment. Heaven and hell, alike. Heaven, because the sensations were so incredibly intense, making any previous fucking cold in the comparison, making any pleasures experienced before a dim and dank memory. Hell for the same reason. The orgasm he inflicted upon her just wouldn’t stop. The pleasure kept building and building, her preslave body knowing itself used for the purpose genetic engineers had programmed into the slave DNA that had attached itself to her. She kept pushing herself onto his cock. She licked and kissed at him desperately, hungrily. She grinded her clitoris onto his organ, and lights exploded behind her eyes. He grabbed her tits, and she orgasmed, a hundredfold orgasm . . . a thousandfold!

When she had let herself be fucked by her lovers, under the influence of the O, Mira had enjoyed herself. She drew even more intense pleasure now; but there was no enjoyment, not in the ordinary sense. She had, perhaps, transcended mere enjoyment. Enjoyment implied thought, consent, a willful impulse. Mira had none of that. Her body squirmed, and her mind exploded, melting under the ecstatic onslaught. Enjoyment was only the smallest measurement of the scale upon which she now operated.

Most of Mira’s attention, of course, was directed at the man atop her, using her. She felt so completely, wonderfully helpless beneath him, with his cock inside her, riding her so delightfully.

He was a god. What he was doing to her was godlike. He was in total control of her. Why had she waited so long? If she could have gone back, she would have sold herself into slavery ages ago!

This man could make her do anything he wanted. He could elicit any reaction he wanted from her, any moan or spasm. She loved that. She clutched at him fervently, like the willing slave she now was. She was a slave. She wanted to be his slave. She looked up at her rapist in awe.

In worship. It was the best fuck she had ever received.

Yet, unbelievably, part of her did see beyond, and in this she saw Marlene and Vincent observing her rape, kneeling a few paces away. “You are doing so well, Mira,” Marlene told her, leaning forward. She was still licking cum from her lips. “You squirm well. Your pelvic reactions are well above the standard for a raw preslave. Your self-directed slave-training has clearly been a benefit to you.”

“You will make a lovely bioslut, Mira,” Vincent added. “You confirm all our expectations.” Both slaves were smiling and happy.

“Quiet you two,” the other of the policemen said, and both slaves put their heads down simultaneously, as if choreographed. The biocop stepped in front of Marlene and dropped his trousers. “Put your mouth to proper work, slut.”

“Yes, master,” Marlene gasped, and went to work pleasing him. Vincent continued to stare down, though from what Mira saw he looked envious. For that matter, Mira herself wanted to suck as well as fuck. She was thirsty for cum.

After they were done with her, both of them, each taking their turn, the men reinserted the controller-dildo inside Mira, making her jump and squirm and groan as the device once again took control over her limbs. The pulses, she thought, climaxing . . . not wildly, as before, but in controlled bursts that guided her every action.

Marlene and Vincent begged to be allowed to speak to her. Permission was granted, brusquely.

“Goodbye, Mira,” Vincent told her and kissed her on the mouth. He used a lot of tongue. “If we meet again, you will likely not remember. You are going to be processed now. You will make an excellent bioslut. You have already demonstrated great sluttish potential. Your use of O has well conditioned you. You are already a fine genetic slut, Mira. Be proud of that.” He stepped back to allow Marlene to approach. She, too, kissed Mira passionately, using tongue.

“Goodbye, Mira. I do not remember being the Marlene that you knew. I am Marlene the slave. Soon, you will only be Mira the slave. I hope that the genetic designers allow you to keep your memory. I want you to remember the bliss you have surrendered to. It will make you a better bioslut, I predict.” She shrugged, obviously not really caring. “Or perhaps not. In any case, you will be made a perfect slave. You will service cocks well with your mouth and pussy.”

“Unless she is sold to a woman,” Vincent said.

“Yes. Unless she is sold to a woman. Then you will become very proficient at pussy licking, as I am proficient. Goodbye, Mira. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mira,” Vincent said.

* * *

The four men were a team. Their sole job was to collect “preslaves,” women who had, through their own drug use, set themselves up for slavery. When Mira was put into the back of their van, there were already nearly a dozen females sitting in rows, thonged and prepared. It wasn’t a long trip to their destination.

The biosluts-to-be climbed out and were marched into an anonymous white building. Mira didn’t recognize anything. After a few minutes it became apparent, though, that they had been taken to some sort of warehouse for pre-resequenced sluts.

The man—one of the two who had fucked her earlier—had the preslave girls line up facing him. Mira was second from the end. After a moment he did something to the girl next to her—she couldn’t turn her head to see—and then he was standing before her.

He pointed the remote control in his hand. Unable to control herself, Mira tilted her head up. Her green rosebud of a mouth opened wide. In his other hand, the man held a syringe-like device, like something Mira might have expected to find either in a gourmet kitchen or a medical treatment room, with a long tube connected to it and stretching behind him. It also reminded Mira of an antique gasoline hose, when vehicles had still employed gasoline.

The man raised the syringe and stuck it down Mira’s open mouth.

She didn’t make a sound. She couldn’t. The device was ridged, and after one good hard thrust it fit neatly in the suckhole provided. That’s all her mouth was now, she was beginning to realize (and appreciate): a cumhole. A second later Mira felt a substance like jelly fill her mouth and throat.

She couldn’t choke: her gag reflex had changed. It kept the path clear and unobstructed, her tongue recessed. The thick, pulpy substance was tasteless, like the blandest applesauce ever produced.

The man pumped enough in to fill her up and then withdrew the syringe. Automatically, Mira’s mouth closed, and her head resumed its previous position, staring straight ahead.

The jelly slid its way down her gullet, slowly. Mira realized what it was: slave nutrient, a biogel additive that served to clean and sterilize a slave’s mouth for fellatio. A full bioslut’s modifications already performed this function; but the gel added just a bit more protection. At the same time—waste not, want not—it provided all the food and energy any bioslut needed to stay alive and functional, with minimal waste products. Vincent and Marlene had lived on the stuff back at her mansion, lost forever now. Mira gulped several times, again automatically. The man was filling up the slut next to her. The slimy stuff worked its way out of Mira’s mouth and throat and into her stomach, where it lay, a solid mass inside her.

Slave nutrient was highly efficient. Mira knew she would need neither food nor water, even for days, the gel supply inside her breaking down incrementally to fulfill her body’s every dietary need. It was horrifying. It was disgusting. She wanted to vomit the gunk back up, but either as a function of the dildo or as a result of her transformation, she felt no nausea, and her gag reflex refused to engage.

The inside of her mouth tingled. It was the gel performing its sterilizing function. Mira had no idea what the effects, if any, of slave nutrient would be on preslaves. She didn’t want to find out.

After the man “fed” the slaves, he used the remote to direct them to the back of the warehouse. Lining the wall in the backroom was a series of semi-transparent pods, each looking a bit like an old-fashioned tanning booth standing on end. Mira knew all about the sex slave industry: as she had the slave nutrient, she recognized the pods as “stasis units,” devices where resequencing girls could be individually stored in suspended animation while the equipment inside robotically examined them for damage and disease and essentially gave them a “tune-up,” if such was required. In other words, they were medical cubicles for slaves. Mira was the last to go in one.

Please, God, stop this, she screamed mentally, to no avail. Part of her wanted this. Part of her hated this. The twin impulses—shame and absolute sexual freedom—warred inside her.

Directed by the accursed yet increasingly delightful device inside her, Mira stepped inside the booth and turned around to face front. The bottom of the booth was soft and rounded, as if she were standing on a series of rubber balls all pressed together. The back of the pod began to tilt backwards. Leveraged, Mira was tilted along with it until she was resting on her back at a nearly forty-five degree angle, arms at her sides, her boobs jutting forward. The balls at her feet tilted along with her, initially providing support. Simultaneously, the semi-transparent hemisphere that had been resting atop the pod slid down to cover the front, completely enclosing her. An internal light switched on. Please, Mira begged. But for what? To end, or to complete the process?

Outside, the man did something to the control panel, and Mira suddenly lost consciousness.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 22—“Processing”)