The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Reclaiming the Slut

By Genomodder

The man placed a stack of bills into the dark haired girl’s purse and opened the car door for her.

“Its all up to you. I think you know what needs to happen, and how huge the benefits will be.”

“Enough money to pay off my school loans?”

“At least,” the forty something man said beneath his mirrored sunglasses. “Enough to start a whole new life, potentially.”

The slender, lithe young woman regarded his comments, evaluating her options. It would all be so easy...

“I’ll get back to you with the final details, but let’s plan on this happening. Say, eighty percent sure.”

He nodded, lips together. “I’ll get the paperwork started and alert the lab to prep for one incoming. We can work out the rest of the details upon delivery. You know how to contact us at the appropriate time, yes?”

“Okay,” the girl replied, nodding, a nauseous knot of betrayal forming in her stomach as she fingered the blood money. “Thanks for the advance.”

“It’s the least we can do for someone as helpful as yourself,” he purred, a smug grin crossing his visage.

As the car pulled away, the girl again experienced a wave of uncertainty, of disloyalty, of treason. Would she really do this? Was the money worth it? She barely felt her legs trudging down the street towards her best friends house, an unusual weight in her normally smallish purse.

* * *

Samantha’s face bore its now usual scowl, the expression ruining her normally smiling, beautiful face. Beautiful because, well, she didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

She sat atop the bathroom stool, in a house that felt alien to her now, so strange that she fought to remember it. Her parent’s house, where they raised her. Yes, that. She had sat there how many times? For how many years? Samantha struggled to recall the view that must have greeted her back then, the real her, yet the memories emerged so painfully slowly, like drops squeezed through a strainer. Not this...

The basketball sized tits and erect nipples. The glittering platinum hair changing color with the light, multicolored streaky hues of pinks and purples, red and pale blues. The puffy full cock sucking lips stained permanently red, along with her nails. The Nordic supermodel’s face. The flat tummy. The large heart shaped ass. The long lathe turned legs that seemed to go on forever and ever. The dainty, sculpted feet that only seemed to fit into high heels, no ultra high heels. Stilettos. Fuck me pumps that altered her gait, pushing her massive bolt ons out further, prouder.

The total package. The full deal. The total slut.

Slut. Yes, her body screamed it. Slut. Whore. Fucktoy. That remained inescapable. Only the mental changes hadn’t quite been completed before her rescue from the dollhouse, from the factory where poor unfortunates were processed after their “acquisitions.” Kidnaping was more accurate, each girl quietly seized and transported to the dollhouse to be mindwiped and genomodded into a perfectly servile sexual creature.

Samantha’s physical processing was all but complete when federal agents raided the dollhouse, located deep within the bowels of a slut factory, an illegal annex to an otherwise quite legal place of business. Transforming the ill-fortuned and forsaken into mind controlled sex machines was all quite proper and profitable if done properly lawfully, and the laws were quite strict about the methodology; they couldn’t enslave just anyone. Naturally, the demand for fresh slave flesh outstripped the supply over the years, leading to the development of illicit dollhouses, another revenue stream for profit conscious executives—as Samantha learned to her detriment.

A few might have cared about her, a Class B citizen. Fewer still the Cs and Ds captured and remade to serve on their knees and backs for the rest of their uselives. However, the dollhouse committed the cardinal sin of enslaving several Class As, and that particular social and political class did not brook its wives, sisters, sons, and daughters being kidnaped and enslaved. When the authorities cared to investigate, results would usually occur quite quickly.

She recalled the movie theater, the darkness of the parking structure, but little else. Snippets of naked flesh on an assembly line crossed her radically edited mind, fuck training memories, sometimes cock sucking on the male studs, and other memories too erotic and dirty for the average innocent young thing to even consider occasionally assaulted her. The cock sucking memories always left her mouth tasting salty and thirsty, the fuck training her openings wet and incredibly moist, leaking even. Her “rescue” had come just hours her captors destroyed the final vestiges of the Samantha Who Had Been, leaving behind the simple stupid slut. She resided in this alien, strange body, yet remained largely unable to fully control it. Little things turned her on.

The near slut picked up a hair dryer, wondering just how far up her snatch it would travel. The door knob generated thoughts of rubbing her clit all over it. The simple act of lathering herself up in the shower became nearly unbearable as her supple, hypersensitive skin triggered the most extreme sexual pleasures.

Samantha stared at the alien, unreal reflection. A strange erotic young woman stared back, mimicking her every move, even her scowl which remained difficult to maintain, her face an almost eternal smile. She hated her. Hated her looks, her purpose, her function. Hated the fact that a real slut would be able to control the sexual heat, while she could not. She envied them that.

“Bad night?”

Samantha looked up: Ginny, her best friend since grade school, the only person she trusted within her little feminine prison, all pink and girly on the recommendation of the court appointed psych who had warned her parents that their daughter might be permanently damaged, forever remade into a stupid, vapid trollop. Gee, really? They paid him how much to arrive at that conclusion? Nevertheless, her parents had complied, filling her room with all manner of girly goodness: pink sheets, stuffed animals, bright floral patterns, teen and fashion magazines, cosmetics, the list went on. The theory was that the dollmasters had already transformed her into a bland, stupid fucktoy, so a fucktoy’s environment would be more soothing, more natural than the bedroom of a smart college student majoring in geology. Anything else might distract her further, causing unnecessary grief and mental confusion.

Asshole.

She missed her barely remembered rock collection and the detritus of her past life. The sexy clothes and girlishness surrounding her made her fearful, frightened of a relapse into soothing stupidity. Even if she couldn’t really read, having smart peoples’ books around reminded her of the past, a past she desperately wishes to reconnect with. She hoped Ginny brought some with her, even a child’s picture book which was probably at the limit of her understanding.

“Bad night?” she asked again.

“Yeah,” Samantha nodded. “A bad night,” remembering her sodden pussy and the erotic dreams of service, of cock sucking, of nonstop fucking. Her nipples tingled at the thought.

“Look, do you want to go out? We can slip out. I can call a friend with a car and—“

“No, not outside,” Samantha panicked. “I can’t go out there,” she sniveled, terrified of being kidnaped again, disappearing into a brothel as its newest employee, or of being recognized by someone who knew the old her.

“I’m not really in the mood to meet anyone, right now.”

Ginny sat down atop another stool, her arm around Samantha’s perfect creamy shoulder. Samantha shivered at the touch, doing her best to ignore the arousal her friend’s innocent touch caused, her nipples perking up yet again, loins warming.

“Afraid?”

Samantha nodded, “Of a lot of things.”

“Look, you haven’t been outside since you got home. Isn’t it time? I mean, a short walk. No one is going to notice.”

Samantha fearfully shook her head, knowing the meager limits of control over this hypersexed body. They’d discussed it before, Samantha filling her friend in on the discussions with her parents, the psychs, the authorities, even the court appointed sex trainers who vainly attempted to educate the near slut to contain her voracious needs. Some mild mind control later and she could at least last a few hours before masturbating herself to oblivion.

“I’ll go outside when the trial starts,” Samantha sniffled.

“You don’t have to testify, do you?” Ginny already knew the answer, but talking, any talking, often calmed her bestie.

“No,” Samantha mumbled. “I’m ‘evidence,’” a venomous sting attached to the term.

And, so she was. The authorities would parade her and the other whores in front of the court, their stories would be told, and then what? Life as a toy? Sue the company that ran the dollhouse? How long would that take? She’d remain bottled up within her pink feminine prison ’til then, terrified of leaving, never aging, barely legal and eternally libidinous. Eternally.

“Your folks asked me over to watch you while they’re at the hearing.”

“I know,” the stunner replied. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Aunt Margery, I really don’t.”

Ginny smiled, “Hey, Alpha Tau forever, right?”

Samantha nodded, remembering fragments of the academic sorority the pair had enrolled in at the local college.

“Let’s get you up.”

“Do we have to?” Samantha asked plaintively, in her best little girl’s voice.

The thin brunette’s look answered the question, and served as an implicit command, which Samantha’s still partly processed mind could not resist.

Ginny helped her friend to her feet, clad only in a short cotton bathrobe. Yes, short, reaching to just thigh level, its deep plunging neckline leaving little to the imagination.

“You’ve showered, then?”

Samantha nodded.

Slut Samantha.

The voice quaked through her, a remnant of the invasive conditioning and brainwashing her once impressive meat brain had undergone. A man’s voice, a strong and commanding voice.

All free women should become sluts.

The dollhouse taught this mantra, this truth to its products. Once they believed it utterly, no amount of convincing would bend them back towards freedom. Freedom would become a meaningless word for them. They would live for slavery.

Samantha heard these and similar statements whenever Ginny or another trusted person dressed her, touched her sensitive skin, a million tiny points of eroticism reminding her of her body’s true purpose.

Ginny pulled the robe from her friend’s form, bountiful breasts bouncing free, easily E cups. No, double Es. Ginny gasped at the sight of the slut’s nude, perfect body. She always did, affected by her friend’s physical perfection.

“Hope you like the view,” Samantha muttered.

“Well, duh. Seriously, they are, um, impressive.”

Samantha could only glare at her. Ginny meant no harm, she realized, but then again she needed no reminders of her state. The insistent warmth beneath her legs handled that duty without any prodding.

Ginny produced a small shiny metallic pink tube top, more like a wide rubber band, and began working it over her friend’s shoulders. Meant as a bra, something no slut would ever willingly wear, the psychs hoped it would serve as a reminder of what free women wore, that a bra was an acceptable article of clothing. Samantha hated it. First, it wasn’t a bra. Second, the sensation of having her tits constrained within that tight fabric, covered up, upset her greatly. Little waves of nausea roiled her stomach.

Nudity is your natural state.

Another mantra, Sam’s head lolling in response as the statement blared through her mind. Apart from tiny nothings meant to enhance her looks and entice her users, no slut enjoyed being covered up. Having her tits captived within the wrap offended Samantha, a fact she despised, the horrors visited upon her making the whore within desire them to fall free, to bounce and jiggle without restraints. Clearly, the conditioning still held sway in large measure.

Ginny pulled and pushed the wrap’s fabric until it lay horizontal across those wonderful mounds, just covering the slut’s aureoles, and extending an inch above and below, engorged nipples pushing through. Samantha fought the urge to scream out in passion. Normal women’s breasts weren’t the emotional and sensual centers that those belonging to sluts and reconstructed women were. Men fixated upon them yet the average women derived more sexual pleasure from the little love spots buried deep within their brains. Not sluts. Their boobs were veritable sexual power centers, and Samantha’s were screaming out to be fondled, caressed and used, not caged.

“Slow down, sweetie. Deep breaths.”

Samantha obeyed, like she always obeyed direct commands from her superiors. Ginny was a free woman, while she was... Something else.

Ginny pulled something around her friend’s legs, something thin and minuscule. The floss thong snicked tightly about Samantha’s taut legs, sending little tremors of orgasmy goodness through her as its softness caressed her largely artificial flesh. No slut would object to such a microscopic piece of lingerie, especially since it would serve more as a prize for a master to rip asunder. Samantha shivered at the thought of a strong man, a MASTER dominating her, tearing her clothes and tiny nothings apart in his urgency to fuck her senseless. The shivering increased as Ginny pulled the thread deep up into her warm butt crack.

“There. What next?” her friend teased. They’d been through this many times before. She would likely always need help dressing and comporting herself. Only a few close female relatives and trusted friends were allowed to work this ritual, designed to help reintegrate the near-slut back into some sense of normalcy. Dress her up like a high class call girl, but not quite a slut. Make her wear free woman’s clothes, sexy clothes, the kind that even a conditioned slutbrain would dislike yet not immediately reject. Help her to slowly return to some level of normal behavior. Wean her from total nudity. Slowly, agonizingly slowly.

Ginny pushed her back down onto the stool, ordering her to extend her legs. Samantha instantly complied, knowing her friend’s next move. She stared raptly as rolls of hose snaked up her sculpted legs, their color a silvery pearl with flecks of purple, ending at mid thigh; ultra thin and revealing, so tight and stretchy that they barely existed at all, Samantha’s glittery skin still visible beneath.

“Wow. Looking hot.”

Samantha stared at her friend, that scowl returning through the almost orgasms. “Not funny. Really, not funny,” she announced dryly, regaining some emotional control.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the brunette agreed. “Just trying to get a smile or something from you. You seem really out of it today.”

“More than normal? You try being turned into a walking wet dream.”

“Hmmm.”

“Thought not.”

Ginny regarded her friend’s look and attire, deciding upon her next article of clothing. It was an act, of course. The psychs had already decided upon a series of outfits and looks, but Ginny acted the part of spontaneity quite well. A small red cocktail dress magically appeared in her hands.

“Ta da!”

“That? That’s so small!” Samantha protested, clearly fearing the tiny dress.

“Yep, but it’s sized for you, and it’s a free woman’s dress, so deal with it. You’re wearing it.”

Samantha sighed, surrendering to the inevitable, her ingrained submissiveness taking over. Arms up, Ginny pulled the tiny dress up and over, its metallic threads shimmering with each movement. Pulling it over those mounds proved tough, as always, the hardest part of the process. They were just so huge that they got in the way of everything. Samantha’s panting didn’t help, either, seriously aroused as her friend adjusted the dress, over and around her tits. The fabric conformed perfectly, almost sprayed on, even to her bust’s under curve, obviously cut that way. The dress’ top lay just below a shiny pink script above the left breast: “Slut Simone,” her new name had her processing been completed. She hated it, but still responded to it. So deep was the brainwashing, the relentless conditioning, that it required serious effort to use her given name. Simone somehow seemed right, even normal, a slut’s name for a total slut. Well, not totally.

“Oh God, Oh God,” she moaned, legs quaking, threatening to give way.

“Easy there, almost done.”

Ginny smoothed the dress down last the waist, then stepped back to admire her work as Sam’s breathing slowed. Yes, sprayed on seemed totally appropriate. The dress clung to Sam’s curves, from the tiny spaghetti straps to the plunging neckline that left little to the imagination, allowing just a hint of the pink wrap to show through, past the waspy waist, ending at high thigh level, maybe in an inch or two below the crotch. It also barely concealed her dollhouse markings, corporate sigils lasered and genomodded into her flesh. A soaring swan flying over a sunrise within a circlet, the logo of Webster Pharmaceuticals and the defendant in her Kidnaping, adorned each outer shoulder, her butt cheeks, and outer ankles. Smaller markings within the circlets, all but invisible to the naked eye, denoted her model and series, chassis type, and serial number. These weren’t ugly green tattoos. Far from it. These markings shimmered in the light, suffusely visible yet far from overpowering, their colors complimenting the doll body’s flesh colors. Slut Simone was taught early on to adore her markings, proofs of slavery and servility. Samantha remained more than mildly transfixed by them.

“Last thing,” Ginny announced, pointing down.

Samantha growled in protest, but obeyed Ginny’s silent command without hesitation, as trained. One dainty foot, then the other slid within the transparent five inch stiletto heels raising her up to just a hair under six feet tall.

Both young women surveyed the vision in the mirror. Both gasped. Samantha in particular hated her. She was everything the formerly future scientist despised: the girl from prom whose parents paid for that extra special work allowing her to steal the football captain. The girl whose artificial tits got her on the cheerleading team, even though those tits were the only thing about her capable of keeping rhythm. The bitch who got that promotion or scholarship simply because she could afford to have her body turned into something really capable of putting out.

Fuck her.

“Hotness, Sam, total hotness.”

Samantha turned to her friend, angry again. “You know, you’re not helping,” came out, still in that silly girl’s voice that seemed incapable of displaying rage.

“Maybe not, maybe yes. Its all part of the treatment, isn’t it? Then its all good. Look, at least you’re not naked on your back somewhere. You’re here, and if the worst that happens is that you get to play dress up then count your blessings. You really should,” she added with a conspiratorial hush. Even without her slut modified brain’s training at voice pitch and intonation, useful for figuring out a client’s moans and yells and altering her sexual performance accordingly, the old Samantha could tell something was up.

“Why? What do you mean?”

Ginny hesitated.

“Spill it.”

Ginny walked the whore over to her bedside. “I want you sitting down, okay?”

“Okay,” Samantha replied, the floss’ rubbing causing little sparkles of pleasure, her tits rubbing within the dress and faux bra stimulating her further. God, she needed release. The pair sat next to each other, Ginny holding her friend’s hand, slowly caressing it.

“Two more girls went back.”

“Oh God, no!”

“It was on the news and your parents were talking about it just as I got here. Someone got to them and they just disappeared. They both left notes saying basically the same thing: they couldn’t take it as free women anymore, that they were meant to be sluts.”

“That makes,” Sam did some slow mental arithmetic, the ability to count past ten severely limited, “six that went back?”

“Close, eight. That’s why you have to have extra security. You can go out, but you have to call for guards. The prosecution can’t lose anymore—“

“Evidence,” Samantha cut her off. “I’m just evidence,” she sobbed, burying her head in her hands.

Ginny held her close, hugging her radically altered girlfriend. “No, you’re not. You’re a person. You’re still you. You just have to be really careful. Has anyone tried to get in?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Think. Have you had contact with anyone at all, anyone, other than your assigned helpers and your folks?”

The slut shook her head, boobs jiggling.

“So, you’re staying really low key and unseen? Good. They’re afraid that the dollhouse is getting people close to you all to, um, turn you over to them. Be careful.”

That terrified Samantha. She was already so far gone, the thought of being kidnaped again and having them process her all the way...

“There aren’t many people I can trust. I love you, Ginny. Thank you so much.”

Her friend smiled, “You can always trust me. I would never, never do anything to harm you, Sam. Ever,” that sick feeling welling up in her gut once again.

The pair spent the day reading teen girl magazines, adjusting their make up, especially Sam’s, and talking about all manner of things. Not that she really needed much make up, her face already permanently marked and tinted with rosy, sexy hues. Boy talk naturally came up, with Samantha becoming rather hot and needy at the subject, so needy that she began hugging and lightly rubbing Ginny, not that she minded. Ginny actually enjoyed their playtime, as she’d admitted to an embarrassed Samantha after their first Sapphic episode; nothing dirty or verboten, just very touchy feely. The kissing sometimes went a tad overboard, admittedly.

“If you like that, you know what time it is, ’hon.”

Samantha nodded, the worst part of the day. As much as she hated her slut body, cursed it, dammit it just felt right. They’d really mindfucked her.

She allowed Ginny to fasten a device around her pretty head, a thin rubbery covering of straps and rubber, with a hard plastic arc moving from the nape of the neck to the forehead. Little metallic disks at the forehead and base of the spine snicked down on Samantha’s skin, magnetically conforming to similar disks buried within her. She’s become an advanced model, an Ultraslut Model 4000, and this form of conditioning had gone hand in hand with her model’s newest feature.

Samantha lay back on the bed, just as Ginny commanded. Her best friend, she would never disobey or disappoint her best friend, would she?

“Okay, ready to start the Emulator. Okay, ’hon?”

“Which program this time?”

“Hmmm. Number 10. Some household chores and cooking. Then Number 15, the sweet conversation with the boy next door one, I think.”

That relaxed Samantha a bit. Okay, so some hand holding, maybe some light to moderate kissing and petting, but little else, all designed to help her relate normally to others. No masters, mistresses, slaves, or other nastiness. Good. If she could contain herself sexually within the simulation dressed as she was, then there remained hope for her in the real world. Anyway, that was the idea.

“Good to go?”

Samantha nodded, dreading the future, as Ginny’s fingers went to a remote control button and -

Her mind buzzed white. She was in a white room. The room was white. Soothing whiteness. She was in a white room.

Above her, unseen Ginny paced around to the other side of the. “Almost time, babe, almost time.” Leaning over, an index finger began tracing lazy circles atop her friend’s left slut breast.

She was in a white room. The room was white. Her tits sparkled. The room was white. Her white room. The room was white. Her slut tits felt white. They buzzed. Her whore slut white room. Nipples sparkled.

The disjointed thoughts and feelings weren’t at all like before. Something was wrong! Ginny! Stop this, something is wrong! No answer. Couldn’t she see? No, her room wasn’t white. With tits. Her tits felt wonderful. Both tits in the white room. They buzzed. Only sluts lived in the white room. Someone was rubbing them. In the white room. All white. Her slut tits. No boy next door. Where? Not in the whiteness. She needed him. In the whiteness. Between her legs. So warm. Her pussy buzzed.

In the other place, Ginny hooked up a wire to the device Samantha wore, an old fashioned computer jack to ensure no wireless eavesdropping. Plugging the other end into a small black box inside her purse, Ginny entered several numerical commands, and turned the power button on.

The whiteness exploded. Her tits exploded. White. All white. Samantha had been here before, at the dollhouse. She remembered the feeling. This wasn’t right, wasn’t what the Emulator was supposed to do. It was meant to run simulations of everyday activities to reacquaint her with them, to make fixing breakfast normal, or vacuuming hum drum, or a normal date with a normal guy. Not whiteness. Not buzzing. In her brain.

Samantha tried to scream but nothing came out. Waves of dizziness overcame her, sucked through the whirlpool she fell into, passing someone else emerging from it.

Calm. Whiteness. Calm in the white room. She liked the white room.

Slut Simone looked up. She was on her knees, like a slut should be. A man, a MASTER stood above her, regarding her coolly, clinically. Slut Simone desperately needed to please him, the whiteness demanded it. There, at eye level, the prize. Slut Simone moved her lips to his zipper, her highly trained lips, tongue and teeth following their instruction set. In no time, it came free, magnificent and full. Slut Simone panted, caressing it softly with her oh so practiced tongue. The dance lasted for white time, all white, until it lowered far down the whore’s genetically softened and downy throat, massaging her Master’s massive cock until it shot rockets of creamy warmth down her gullet. Slut Simone gulped it down, all of it, her gag reflex totally excised.

“Good girl,” a voice in the whiteness called, “Good girl.” Slut Simone smiled that stupid, retarded happy grin as she finished cleaning him, lapping up every last drop. She was a good girl, a good slut, like all free women should be. The buzzing in her head returned, white noise drowning out the screams and protestations of the other girl sharing Simone’s empty head, the girl who thought herself a free woman. Silly girl, Slut Simone thought, all free women should be sluts.

Whiteness. She was in a white room. A white room full of static, white static. On her hands and knees. Breasts rocking forward and back. On her knees felt right. So meaningless, barely existing at all. White goodness. She loved the whiteness, so soothing and calming. Her insecurities eased. Rocking forward and back, forward and back. Why? Oh, the Master pounding her from behind. The whiteness felt so unearthly wonderful. The cock felt wonderful. The way the cool air massaged her bolt ons with each thrust felt so, so slutlike. More whiteness. Slut whiteness.

Slut Simone’s ultracunt grasped the Master’s hard cock, a million tiny cilia clutching it, kneading and massaging it just as designed, the slut’s genetically precision designed opening operating as intended, delivering passion and pleasure to whomever’s cock occupied it. He moaned, “Good slut, good slut.” Slut Simone’s face beamed at the compliment, eager to serve her Lord and Master. Like a slut should. Her ultracunt pulsed with the compliment, massaging the Master’s huge member and providing just enough friction to arouse him further.

Somewhere deep inside, Samantha reviled at this, hated it, fought it, but her will power faded. It just felt so right to surrender, so become the toy in mind as well as body. Slut Simone smiled as the other girl’s yelps diminished, whiteness overcoming them. You’ll be a good slut!

The Master came, gallons of sticky wondrousness surging into her innards. She gasped, moaned, screamed! He filled her! He wouldn’t stop! Glory! Happiness! Joy! The slut felt true inner bliss as her Master orgasmed, her own feelings tangible yet secondary to his, her own pleasure merely a by product of serving him. He blessed her by using her.

Whiteness. All white and buzzing. Buzzing in her brain. Her brain was white.

Hands massaged her back and shoulders, smaller hands. A free woman’s hands. Not right, Slut Simone. The slave should pleasure the Master or Mistress, not the other way around. She turned to address her Mistress in the whiteness, but she turned away just out of view. The hands continued, grasping Simone’s massive rack, a finger exploring her leaking cunt.

“Serve me, slave.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Slut Simone answered, eyes downcast in a position of obeisance despite the momentary surprise at recognizing the Mistress’ voice.

Her Mistress sat at the end of a bed, a white bed. All white and buzzing. Like her slut brain. The whore slowly removed her Mistress’ panties, revealing a nice, moist pussy.

“Lick me out, slave.”

Slut Simone did just that, her practiced tongue playing all over the free woman’s sensitive clit and pussy lips. Her back arched, “Oohs” and “Ahhs,” panting from her excited mouth. Now, tongue inserted, Slut Simone delved deeper within her Goddess. More whiteness. More moans. Her juices salty and white, so tasty.

On her back. The Mistress on her back, Simone found herself straddling her torso. How? No matter, the whiteness educated her, only whiteness mattered. A double ended phallus. From where? All white and slick and hard miraculously appeared inside Slut Simone’s sopping ultracunt. The Mistress lubed up, clearly ready for insertion, for penetration. Simone guided it within, lowering herself down atop her deity. She screamed, white screams.

“Fuck me! Fuck me, bitch!”

“Yes, Mistress!”

Slut Simone began pumping, pistoning the huge phallus, bringing them both to ecstacy. Her own pleasure secondary to her Mistress’. She slowed to allow the less sexualized free woman to “catch up,” her body nowhere near as refined pleasure-wise as the whore’s, until the Mistress ordered her to speed up, to push harder, deeper.

Pump. Ram. Thrust. White. Buzz.

Tits jiggling, the Mistress stared raptly at those gigantic bosoms, her eyes just visible to the slut over their curvy white goodness. The diminishing part of Samantha thought she recognized those eyes, their soft green color with her last conscious thoughts. Who?

Whiteness. Pump. Thrust. Simone. Only Slut Simone.

The Mistress screamed as orgasms rocked her, screaming in unison with the slut, screaming her screams. Simone panted, just as the Mistress did. Another titanic orgasm easily a nine hundred on the scale, a scale that ultrasluts found all to easy to surpass. Her hands again tugged at Simone’s tits, electric sensations resulting. The Mistress felt it all, as if Slut Simone’s passions were being transferred to her.

“Do yourself, slut! Do us both!”

Simone obeyed without thinking, which she rarely did anyway. She moved all over the Mistress, ravishing her, then herself, toying with this, then that, bringing them both to orgasmic exhaustion. The show continued for hours, days even within the whiteness, where time possessed little meaning.

“What is your name, slut?”

The question confused the toy, her dueling personalities still inhabiting the same tiny stretch of mind, and her sexual duties far more immediate than answering questions. And yet, a free woman had asked so an answer must be given. She thought long and hard, as much as her considerably reduced brainpower allowed, until the only answer that made sense became clear.

“I am Slut Simone, Mistress! I am a Model 4000 Ultraslut! How may this slut serve?”

* * *

The bed finally stopped rocking, the young woman garbed in pink gasping for air. Her hands flew to her breasts, nipples erect and sore, then to her sodden, leaking pussy.

“Oh, God... Mistress Ginny?”

She looked around, left shoulder bumping something warm and soft.

“Mistress Ginny, how may this slut serve?” The slut quickly moved to a position of obeisance atop the bed, resting on her haunches, eyes and head downcast, hands resting atop her thighs.

Her former friend stirred, her own hands massaging her very active nipples.

“That. Was. Fucking. Amazing.”

Slut Simone did not answer. No question had been asked, and sluts did only what they were commanded.

“Did you feel that, slut?”

“Yes, Mistress, this slut felt orgasms, as it was designed,” Simone answered, beatific smile adorning her face.

“Wow, just fucking wow. I can see why they want you back. If you can perform like that in an Emulator, then I can only imagine what you’re like in real life. You must be one incredible fuck.”

“Thank you, Mistress, for your kind words.”

Slut Simone watched furtively as Mistress Ginny sat up and began slowly disconnecting the Emulator from her head, turning her head just here and there to assist, but offering no other movements. None had been ordered.

Whiteness. Buzzing. Lessening. Simone. Samantha. Which? The questions, the questions... The slut wasn’t sure. She felt like Simone, her pussy buzzing with the white noise, tits all aglow, desiring total nudity, yet a certain strangeness overcame her. A girl. Samantha. Slut Samantha? No, just Samantha.

More whiteness, then less, even less.

“Seriously, your pussy felt incredible all stuffed like that.”

“Thank you, Mistress?” A question? Was the free woman really her Mistress? Confusion. Less buzzing, less white noise.

Ginny stood up, stretching, her own nipples harder than they’d ever been, the sweet girl musk scent drifting from her pussy registering with the slut, who inhaled deeply, the aroma stimulating her even more. Heart racing, head lolling side to side, the two personas inside grappled for dominance. Less white noise, less, none. She looked up, eyes open.

She watched as Ginny disconnected a similar yet different device from around her head, lacking the disks since the wearer was clearly a free woman lacking the subdural transceivers, yet featuring some other alien attachment points. Her face registered some slight surprise as the free woman clicked off the little black device, different from the normal Emulator set up.

“You—you did this to me,” Slut Simone/Samantha drooled.

Ginny turned, grinning. “Yes, of course. Your friends wanted you back. You were quite expensive for them to acquire and process, and they expect their investments to pay dividends, sweetie.”

“Noooo,” Slut Simone/Samantha moaned, mostly Samantha.

“Yessss,” Ginny giggled, imitating the slut’s protestations.

“They got to you,” mostly Samantha slurred.

“Oh, they got to me a long, long time ago,” Ginny announced, walking towards her still kneeling friend. “Just maybe not the way you think.”

The Samantha/Simone stared back, unsure of what Ginny meant yet clearly sexualized and in need, engorged breasts straining through the wrap and the tight little red dress now stained with perspiration and leaking rose scented pussy juices.

“They wanted a slut. I’m giving them one.”

More Samantha’s face adopted a puzzled look.

“I had to know, Sam. I just had to know.”

Even Samantha’s reduced brain slowly understood.

“You have those incredible tits. You’re always in heat. And, here I am, in this green bean body. I want more.”

Samantha shook her head, “No, you don’t want this, Mist...” she caught herself.

“Oh, I do, I really do. I even went to the Career Center at the college. Do you know how much a slut can earn? If I sign a long term contract, I’ll have enough in fifteen years to pay off my loans, buy a nice house, travel, you name it. If I re-up, it’ll only mean more moolah. Its all legal and protected. I had a lawyer check the contract. Let’s face it. What man would want this?” she indicated, pointing to her tiny chest and mousy face.

“N-no, you won’t be you.”

“Yes, I will. They’ll overlay a nice slut personality over the real me. She’ll be sexy and everything a whore should be. I won’t remember a thing, unless I want to, and I get to keep the body when my time is up. I’ve already told them I want to look just like you. You’re a stock template, so no problem there. Only I want bigger tits, like Fs or Gs.”

Samantha tried to get up, but her rubbery legs slowed her, and the position of obeisance simply felt right, like all things slut.

“Just stay like that,” Ginny ordered, and of course Samantha obeyed. “I don’t want you to move until I’m long gone and your parents come back. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the inner slut responded.

“I’ve already picked out a name. Curious? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. ‘Slut Zoe.’ I’ll have that name in nice script above my left breast, just like you, corporate logos on my shoulders and those other pretty places, just like you. I’ll be owned, or at least leased. Do you realize how hot that sounds? To be owned? Totally dominated? I never realized how hot the idea made me until you came home. The Emulator was the final straw. I had to know, Sam. I had to experience sex as a slut to see if it was all worthwhile. Even if I didn’t feel everything that you felt, I felt enough. I loved it!”

Samantha started to cry, afraid for her friend, knowing what horrors awaited her.

“Please, no, Mistress Ginny, I mean Ginny, don’t. No.”

“Too late. My ride is waiting, Sammy. Once I get in, there’s no going back. For the record, they really did want me to betray you, but I never would. I would never do that to my best friend,” she said softly, brushing several strands of platinum blonde hair from Samantha’s eyes. “We’re besties, forever,” she said, kissing her friend hard on the lips. “I only wish we could be slut sisters and fuck each other. Imagine how that would feel, two sluts fucking each other senseless?”

Samantha could. She’d done it enough in training, shuddering half in want and half in horror at the memories.

“Now, stay there. Don’t move ’til your parents get home,” Ginny repeated for emphasis. “That’s an order, slut. Obey your Mistress, slut,” she finished forcefully, her commanding tone overriding Samantha’s slowly returning will power.

“Yes, Mistress,” Samantha replied, her submissive side on full display.

“I hope we get to see each other again. Maybe at a reunion. Who knows, maybe you’ll rent me someday when you need a little girl time. Remember, ‘Slut Zoe,’ same model as you. Probably ‘Slut Zoe 24’ or close judging from what the sales rep said. Bye bye, ’hon. Its been fun.”

Ginny walked to the door, looking confident and self-aware. Stopping at the door, she announced, “All free women should be sluts, right?”

* * *

Ginny handed the man her purse containing the illegal Emulator parts, illegal because they could be used to addict unsuspecting women to sexual slavery. Ginny didn’t worry about that, though. She knew what she wanted, the Emulator serving as a welcome confirmation that she’d decided correctly.

Without a word, he handed her and pen and the legal documents, a notarized contract, control over her body, disclaimers, power of attorney. She signed them immediately, giving away her life with a flourish of black ink.

“Any problems?”

“No, none.”

“None, ‘master,’” the sunglassed man corrected her. “Might as well get in practice, recruit.”

“Right. No problems at all, master,” Ginny replied, the word making her heart skip a beat. “It was amazing.”

He started up the car, its electric generators whirring them up to speed along back roads towards the factory. Ginny drowsily watched the houses pass by, the trees, realizing that she wouldn’t see them for many years with her own eyes.

“Master?”

“What, recruit?”

“Will it hurt, Master?” she asked, her dizzy head resting on his shoulder. It felt so good to be near a man, a strong Master.

He turned to her, his expression unknowable beneath the mirrored glasses. “No, you’ll only feel pleasure after pleasure. Trust me.”

Ginny did trust him, the drugs surreptitiously administered to her already taking effect, ensuring she remained controllable, pliable, unable to dream about escape. She wanted to trust him, the man she trusted most of all, the man who would make her dreams come true. Escape would mean hurting his feelings, and Ginny would never ever do that. Sluts brought joy and happiness, not sorrow, the drug induced warmth between her legs already hinting at the future.