The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

5 — Life at the Top

By the standards of her time, Mira was a wealthy woman. While she didn’t possess the almost unlimited resources of a Corporate Lord, she nonetheless did control enough to make her one of the world’s elite; and in a world where better than ninety-nine percent of all property was owned by less than one percent of the population, that meant something. Mira enjoyed privilege. She was well protected. She always had more than enough to eat and drink. Her medical care ensured her practical immortality. There was little she did not want and could not acquire.

Until recently, before starting to take the O, the typical day for Mira began in the late morning.

Sighing, the heiress would pull herself up in bed, bleary-eyed and blinking. “Good morning, Ms. Lockard.” The house’s computer always greeted her the same way. Next to the bed was a gray square cube. The top of this facilitator would open, and Mira’s breakfast would rise into position, within easy reaching distance. The smell of coffee was reviving.

After eating, Mira would climb out of bed and head toward the restroom. By the time she got back, the bed was always made, and the breakfast cleared away. Mira would take a long shower. Afterwards, while still in the stall, she would let the housecomp buffet her with sonics and air pressure, always providing the same perfectly calibrated massage to get her blood flowing. Feeling refreshed, skin tingling, Mira would then pad into her series of interconnected closets and pick out her look for the day. Often, this would take more than an hour, and, in a way, this activity was the most interesting, most engaging part of Mira’s routine. She had so much to choose from. There were dresses and costumes she had bought on whim and never worn. There were a few old favorites she had to use a calendar system to keep track of, to make sure she didn’t wear them twice within the same set of years. The computer rotated the outfit tracks on a random basis, offering both the new and the old within easy reach. It was almost fun. As she selected outfits, the housecomp would inform Mira of the day’s events and any newsworthy items of interest. There were usually very few. Mira’s financial estate largely took care of itself, and she was provided an allowance on a regular basis. After she had selected her look, Mira would sit at her makeup table and prepare a complementary style.

Physically, Mira appeared to be in her early twenties. She had short, dark hair and porcelain-fine skin. Her eyes were normally a flashing blue, but she often used contacts to change the color, as the mood struck. She preferred red lipstick but sometimes went with other colors as well.

The routine varied after leaving her suite. Mira lived on an Estate, a great, green and privately owned plot of land outside the regimented, gray Towers of the cities, owned by the Corporate Lords. Her mansion sat beside a constructed lake. On almost any given day, the waters were almost as blue as her natural eye color. Geese and a few swans made the lake a home. Mira herself lived alone. No gardeners beside tiny robots tended her land. No servants beside the housecomp tended to her physical needs. The trees, however, were carefully nurtured, the grass was always uniformly level, and the residence as a whole radiated serenity. Mira would sometimes take a walk about her grounds. There was a footpath designed for such scenic rambles, one that twisted in and around the lake and the main house. Sometimes Mira would just sit outside and gaze into the sky and listen to the housecomp talk about the world’s problems. There were riots and food shortages, conflicts between Corporate Lords, and other disagreeable events; but none of that awful stuff touched her, and she was glad, in an abstract sort of way. On occasion, Mira would try to take up a hobby. She had tried painting once, but she lacked talent. She wrote occasionally—she had even published—but the written word didn’t move her so much that she would want to take it up as a profession. She didn’t like pets. Most often, she would tell the housecomp to prepare her safetycar, and she would fly to one of the adjoining Retreats, where the elite of the Estates and the Towers gathered together socially.

There were no longer corporations. There were only Corporates, the children and heirs of the old companies. For the most part, they were second and third-generation descendants, either direct stockholders or merely inheritors of vast wealth, such as Mira. Childbirth was rare and, on the whole, no longer strictly necessary: Every morning while she was in the bathroom, Mira would place her hand on a scanning module. Occasionally, a pinprick for a blood sample would be taken, but usually the scan was enough. One of the great perks of the Estate elite was eternal youth, or at least “practical” eternal youth—Mira’s biomonitoring systems kept her in a precisely calibrated state of pristine health, and the treatments ensured she looked and felt half her real age. Unless she fell prey to accident or deliberate homicide, Mira had a virtual guarantee of life well into her two hundreds. Such were the aristocrats with whom Mira socialized: like herself, children who had never really needed to grow up, and for all practical purposes never would.

The Corporate class enjoyed many diversions. They had music and entertainments—concerts, holomovies, subscribed programs (“Smiley Face!”)—skillfully provided by tenant and estate-dwellers who were well-motivated (financially and otherwise) to provide stimulating compositions and topics of conversation. They danced. Their food was luxurious, the drugs they took the most hallucinogenic and distracting. They gambled away huge fortunes in casinos placed around the Retreats, and for this reason the Retreats themselves competed for the favor of the idle Corporates, each trying their uttermost to be the most fashionable, the most diverting. For fashion was the real ruler in their lives. The dresses the elite wore, the hairstyles they maintained, the number and quality of the rings on their fingers, all this and more seemed to change on a weekly basis. What was the hallmark of excellent taste one day would become absolutely horrid the next, and those Corporates who failed to keep up with the changes—who showed up for parties in the wrong color, or, heaven forbid, stripes! when stripes were so last week—could be ostracized. Because they were perpetually young and in the pink of health, and because there were no limits to their overly-indulged appetites, sex was also a common pastime. Sexually transmitted diseases were a thing of the past: if some were still around, though, and a physician—also a profession largely relegated to the past, for most medical services were performed by housecomps—was to chart the spread patterns of said diseases, they would form an intricate mosaic that would, eventually, include everyone on the Estates. Even before her use of O, Mira had long since lost track of the number of her bed partners. She had never married. Under the reign of the Corporate Lords, marriage would have meant the sharing of her Estate, and while there had been some interesting men, from time to time, Mira had never found one worthy enough to give up that much control over her life. The use of bioslaves too was frequent, in fact, almost de rigueur. Slaves were designed for pleasure, and the pleasures they could provide were boundless and great. They could be bought and sold, abused, traded, even discarded as whim dictated. And there were so many from which to choose, every fetish or interest indulged: black, rubber-skinned bioslaves, virtually anonymous in their facelessness; animal-based chimeras, from puppysluts to pigirls to even some rare avian crossbreeds, DNA-spliced from creatures largely extinct in the wild; living dolls, more plastic than flesh, yet still capable of exciting the flesh; biosluts and biostuds in a host of vibrant shades (in fact, almost every color in the spectrum save those found in nature; the artificiality of their appearance reinforced their status as property), in a host of different textures. And all, regardless of type, genetically resequenced for beauty (masculine or feminine) and sexual desirability; in constant sexual heat, so that their eagerness to serve would help both motivate and stimulate; and programmed for obedience . . . in fact, for complete and utter selflessness in regard to their owners and masters, whom they would worship as gods.

Young, perpetually healthy, and fabulously wealthy, the Corporates sometimes considered themselves gods. Admittedly, the power they wielded was by no means inconsiderable. Those who lived outside the Estates, and many on, but without the power or the money, lived in fear and hatred of the elite. The Corporate Lords ruled the world. Between them and the vast underclass was a buffer of highly trained, highly specialized bioslaves, constructs bred for war and security, in this case, though, and not pleasure.

The Corporates also lived their lives in-between.

Mira went to the parties. She played the silly games of fashion, though never winning to the extent that she became a trendsetter. She had friends with whom she spent time. She and Marlene, a pretty blond she knew, were frequent companions (it was Marlene who introduced Mira to O).

But there was something missing in Mira’s life, and she was intelligent enough to know it.

While she often spent her daylight hours and nights at the Retreats, Mira would come home not feeling satisfied. “Welcome home, Ms. Lockard,” the housecomp would greet her as she walked through the door, and Mira wouldn’t even nod in acknowledgement.

She would pause in the foyer, sometimes, and look at the shining marble floor, the white columns framing the entry into her house, the paintings on the wall, and she would sigh. On occasion, she spent so much time standing there the housecomp would query her. “Are you all right, Ms. Lockard? Would you like something to drink?” And she would shake her head and go up to her suite.

Life was perfect. Mira had wealth. She had privilege. She had power.

She was bored to tears.

And so she had turned to the O.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 6—“The Spots”)