The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The young man with the mustache and the business suit pulled up a chair and sat at one of the hospital tables the men in the warehouse used in their work. He closed his eyes and tried to think about what to do next, only barely managing to keep the anger he felt inside. His men were supposed to have investigated only. The orders he had given them were as unambiguous as he could make. He had done this not out of any great love for detail, though as an associate with the most influential law firm in the world he had an attorney’s appreciation for specifics. No, it hadn’t been that.

The Associate had made his orders explicit because he was dealing with morons.

Idiots, he thought, picking up the kidnapped doctor’s purse. Incompetents!

Colonists!

And now his “agents in the field” had compromised security in the worst way possible short of getting caught with a subject in public. It was inexcusably careless… and the fault lay totally at his feet. He had, after all, been the one who sent the idiots out in the first place. All they had had to do was track down a source of chronal disturbance in the city. The last thing he had wanted them to do was acquire a new subject. Especially this subject. He found the woman’s hospital I.D. card again.

Sandra Pitzler, M.D. Chief of Oncology. A cancer expert.

A prominent person, in other words, with lots of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, and the ties to society all those things brought. Dr. Pitzler had credit cards, a bank card, even a membership card to a local video store. It would be next to impossible to make this woman disappear without someone noticing. The Associate threw the cards on the table in disgust.

Holding the doctor’s wallet, he pulled out a picture of a young girl. She was a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. She had dark hair and was very nice looking. She had to be Pitzler’s daughter, with, of course, all kinds of friends and society links herself.

With a sudden grimace, the Associate threw the empty purse across the room.

Stupid idiots! He couldn’t understand why their Client employed them. Between cloning errors, genetic redundancies, and the isolated learning environment they gestated in, they couldn’t get it through their skulls why they had to be circumspect. This wasn’t any damn Colony. This was Chicago!

They had to act secretly and carefully. His Firm issued hunting licenses to only a few locations on the globe, each place’s criteria based on its availability of subjects and its lack of professional record keeping. Eastern Europe was the best spot lately. Not only were the countries there prime recruiting grounds, with hundreds of women every day wanting to leave home and make better lives for themselves, the governments were full of easily exploitable corruption and mismanagement. The Firm could make anybody disappear from that part of the world. Hell, most of the time, they had the girls do the work themselves.

Sighing, the Associate got up and slowly retrieved Dr. Pitzler’s purse. The Partners liked some parts of Asia for their licensing, too, Bangkok especially. Only a handful of permits were ever allowed in the United States, and then only to long-established and reliable Agencies. Even in a nation where all were fed and nearly everybody grew up healthy and strong, thousands of people still vanished every month. The vast majority did so without any help from them. Runaways, young teenage girls looking for adventure… it was easy, if you were discreet. So why did these Colonist morons have to go and grab a physician then? The head of an entire hospital department, too, and at that hospital?

He felt like strangling the three idiots with his bare hands.

The problem was that Dr. Pitzler was more than just recognizable. She would be missed, and soon. She lived and was employed, too, in the Firm’s own base city of operations, and that was just a little too close for comfort. All that was bad enough. What made it worse was the chronal disturbance, which was beginning to look more and more like a deliberate act of sabotage. The Colonists had tracked down a source of the interference to Pitzler’s hospital… and if in grabbing the doctor those incompetents hadn’t alerted whomever was causing the problem, going back now and trying to cover their tracks would.

The young attorney glanced at the couch where he had put the two he immobilized. They were slumped in a pile. He was tempted to drag them out to Lake Michigan and throw them in.

What am I going to do? he asked himself. His poor choice of agents—his own damn fault, with no one else to blame—had put his Client’s interests in jeopardy. The thought filled him with dread.

If the Partners found out, he would be screwed, literally.

The chronal disturbance was affecting business. Acquisitions were backing up and arriving through conventional—and therefore risky—means of transport, from boats and trucks to the trunks of cars. If he didn’t get the projectors working again within city limits, it was only a matter of time before some cop or customs official looked where he shouldn’t and the whole operation got exposed. If that happened, the first person the Partners would blame would be him.

If he could get rid of the disturbance, even open a small hole in it for an hour or two, he could get rid of the stock in the vault and bring in better personnel. Then he could fix the problem with Pitzler and leave it all nice and tidy for when the Firm asked him about it. He would go back to the hospital himself today, like he should have gone in the first place.

Meanwhile, that still left the doctor to consider.

The Associate began putting Pitzler’s things back into her handbag. Returning her to her old life now was out of the question. The Colonists had already downloaded the bitch with a first-stage slaving program. She would already be experiencing a need to obey others, gender specific to men, coupled with a slight increase in her sexual drive. There was no way to remove such encodings from someone’s mind once they were in, at least not without inflicting severe neurological damage. He paused thoughtfully and looked at Pitzler’s driver’s license. She was in her late thirties. She was a brunette. She had a good figure. She worked out, too, he saw. She had a membership card to a local gym.

It would be a shame to waste her now, he thought, seeing that she’s partially programmed and all.

And, all things considered, she wasn’t that far outside of their normal acquisition categories. A little old, maybe, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed where she was going. He and his last agent—the Colonist idiot was hanging around somewhere in back—would complete the doctor’s encoding and go. It had been several hours. The first download should have finished processing by now. She would be ready for shipment by the time they got back and, hopefully, had a window open to an offworld Base. No fuss, no muss. He put the card back in the purse, then glanced again at the two on the couch.

I wonder how much vatbred slaves like these two would go for? He was sure their Client would agree to any reasonable compensation. Musing on the idea, he stepped to the office window and told his man what they were going to do.

As he waited for the Colonist to get his keys, the Associate decided for completeness’ sake he should probably enslave Pitzler’s daughter, too, despite the risks involved. Judging by her picture, she was within normal acquisition standards, his own, anyway. Even without processing, she would make someone a lovely piece of property.

Sandra was dreaming. She hoped she was dreaming, anyway.

The truth of the matter was that she wasn’t sure. It was a very vivid dream, if it was a dream, the most realistic she had ever had. She saw herself in a circle of light shining down on her from above. Pitch darkness surrounded this circle, making her think of the spotlights used in stage shows. She seemed to be on stage somewhere. Voices shouted in the darkness, all of them speaking in the same liquidy voices she associated with her captors. It was almost comprehensible, this vague burble, like a radio station one notch away from its proper frequency. They were cheering her. Or booing her. She couldn’t tell.

A bed lay in the middle of the circle of light, and she herself lay on that bed, tied to it in a spread-eagle position, her wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts by strong metal chains.

A man was on top of her. He was raping her, and the crowd was urging him on.

But was it rape? She wasn’t sure. Sandra again prayed she was dreaming.

The doctor enjoyed two perspectives of the scene. One was a disembodied view, a ghostly view, looking down as if from the source of the light. She could see the man’s buttocks flex as he pushed into her, over and over, his back arching, his thick muscular arms stretching and supporting his magnificent weight. Her other view, though, was personal, from within the body in chains, looking up into her Master’s face and watching him smile as he used her for his pleasure.

Both point of views made her cry out in enforced ecstasy.

She cried out in the same way she had been forced to cry during her earlier assault, her rape, when the pleasures she had felt threatened to so totally overwhelm and transform her. Anything that felt that good had to be bad. Anything that felt that good had to be addicting. She moaned in ecstatic response to this dream man’s touch, writhing helplessly beneath his breathless kisses. She could feel him inside her, dominating her so completely, so fulfillingly. She had to ask herself the question again: Was this rape?

She was nothing but a slut if it wasn’t, for she watched her hips rise to meet his wantonly, burning in absolute need. She was chained, but she was using him as much as she herself was used. The figure on the bed wanted him—ached for him—and she was getting him, all right, again and again.

Sandra hoped it was but a dream. She felt like she was going mad.

As she slept, the doctor twisted on the floor of her cell, squirming. Her hips rose up and down in invisible reaction to her fantasy lover. Heavy sweat pooled on her skin and dampened her hair. Her hands rose to caress her breasts and squeeze them as they needed to be squeezed and played with… the way she needed to be played with.

The dream was horrible, yet thrillingly attractive. It was repulsive and degrading, yet the most erotic fantasy Sandra had ever had. Her pussy moistened. Juices dripped onto the floor beneath her. Her skin tingled, and she moaned.

Around her, the other captured girls slept or watched. Many squirmed and moaned themselves, lost within their own lewd fantasies. Others watched the doctor gyrate before them and trembled in sympathetic response. All of them were on their knees with their legs spread and their sex exposed.

A heavy musk filled the air. The room simmered in tropical heat.

The door to the cell opened abruptly, and light from the office shown in with a harsh glare. The girls who had been awake cried out as one as they shaded their eyes. Sandra woke roughly with the others, gasping, not knowing where she was at first. She could still feel her dream man’s tongue on her nipples and the iron manacles on her wrists.

“On your knees, slaves!” The women shuffled to obey, quickly, eagerly.

They assembled in lines as best they could with the space available, knees spread and hands on thighs. They thrust their breasts out, as if for inspection… or caressing, which most of them desperately wanted. Lips were bitten in frustration.

Sandra looked up, slowly, and saw the kidnappers’ businessman leader from before, the one who had reprimanded the others. He was speaking in the same fluid syllables she had heard earlier, only now she understood them perfectly.

“Hurry up, you sluts!” he shouted.

Sandra turned and looked around at the women. Utter adoration shown in their faces. The doctor was horrified, yet drawn by their positions, which were so submissive, so beautifully and perfectly feminine. She felt an urge to emulate them. Given a moment, she might have done so, but then the man in the business suit grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet.

“Come with me, doctor,” he said contemptuously. The look of scorn on his face was undeniable.

Sandra screamed in pain, terror… and anger, finally. She was suddenly and outrageously furious.

She was no slave! She was nobody’s bitch!

She turned and punched at the businessman. Her fingernails raked over his face. “Help me!” she yelled, though whether the cry was made to the women in the cell or to the world in general she didn’t know. “Help me!”

The man grunted and yelled for help himself, in English. The other kidnapper, the driver from the car, Sandra’s rapist, hurried to his side. Together they manhandled her out of the cell. None of the girls budged so much as an inch.

Sandra’s fist sailed out and caught one of the men in the jaw. There was a painful yelp. She heard her rapist say, “You should have used an immobilizer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get her to the table.” Sandra couldn’t tell if he spoke in English or the other language. The driver grabbed her legs, and they lifted her. She saw the cell door close.

“Help me!” Sandra screamed, and the head kidnapper slapped her, hard. “Shut up, bitch!”

One of the overhead lights flashed by. Sandra kicked and bucked, screamed again, and tried to get the two of them to drop her. Instead, they coarsely carried her to one of the hospital tables and dumped her down on it. The businessman held her by the wrists while Tweedle-Dummer strapped her legs down with thick canvas belts. Sandra spit in their faces. She saw a bruise forming on the businessman’s chin where she had clogged him.

“Bastards!” she cried. “You sonofabitches! Let me go!”

The man who had raped her remained impassive, as if he did something like this every day, but the young businessman looked a little shocked. He winced whenever Sandra’s voice rose, and he stayed well out of the way of her teeth. The driver finally managed to strap Sandra’s arms down completely, once at the wrists and a second time on her upper arms.

She was forced to lie flat, though she still bucked and attempted to resist. “You bastards! You bastards!”

The driver ignored her completely. “You should have used the immobilizer,” he repeated. He spoke in the pure liquid syllables of Language, which Sandra knew was the universal tongue. The other man wiped his face and felt his jaw.

“I‘ve never done this before. Just get the second-stage module, okay?”

“What are you going to do to me?” Sandra demanded, shouting.

The driver turned to her. Smoothly, he said, “We are going to finish making you a slave.”

No, Sandra thought. No. No!

Instinctively, she knew. She knew exactly what they meant. She struggled again, muscles bulging against the canvas. The thing they had used in the car—they were going to do it to her again!

“No, no!”

The driver reached down and got a strong grip on Sandra’s hair to hold her head steady.

“Help me put a gag in her mouth,” the businessman said, and an instant later Sandra felt a thick piece of rubber pushed between her lips. She was so surprised by the rapidity of the act that all she could do was swallow. Plus, for some reason, it felt very natural for her to want to swallow something—anything—given her by a man. It felt natural the same way being on her knees in the cell had felt natural.

The gag went in, and Sandra’s cries disappeared. She looked up at the two men, tears in her eyes.

Her position on the table was as obscene as the one from her dream. Her legs were spread, and her arms locked to the sides. Her mouth was stuffed open. She felt like a cheap lovedoll.

With this thought, a by-then familiar yet hideous warmth built up inside her pussy.

No, God, no, don’t let them do this to me! But the warmth she felt was impossible to deny.

The leader held up a metal tube, identical to the one from the car, and twisted it. There was a hum like before, and the end of the tube glowed dimly. Sandra’s eyes widened in fright. Somehow, it was worse facing this thing not being paralyzed, just bound and gagged this time. Somehow, the helplessness she felt was more intense.

It’s a slaving module, she recognized, and wondered how she knew its name.

She recalled the man’s words: We are going to finish making you a slave.

She tried to scream. Her teeth bit into the thick rubber instead. And, horribly, her arousal grew only more intense. The first device had turned her into a slut. What would this one do?

Sandra tried to twist her head, but the driver who had used her so well held it in his vise-like grip. The leader turned the device off, checked one final adjustment in its side, then pressed the clear-sided end to the center of Sandra’s forehead.

There was humming. Once again the doctor’s universe exploded in a white detonation of nothingness.

The light was everything. It was the universe.

Sandra the individual disappeared. Sandra the individual shattered like a pane of glass, and the pieces of that individual were swept up in a hurricane of blinding light. All sensation of body disappeared. All sensation of self as a living, breathing human being vanished. There was only an endless, humming white light. Sandra fell into the light.

She became the light.

No thought. No being. No nothingness.

Just white light filling the empty void at the center of a shattered infinity.

The void began to close in after a hundred eternities—a million—and the pieces swirling in the center of that endless void shattered into even smaller fragments of personality. The universe filled up, light filling mind, spirit, self. Darkness spread into the light from around its edges, and she was rising… rising… rising… .

Sandra blinked as the module was pulled from her face.

A cold, circular impression was left on her forehead, just as before. The same electrical tingling was left in her skin. But something was different this time. She looked up at her captors (Masters), no longer struggling. Sandra’s urge to fight had gone. Her (Master) checked the module’s output meter while her other (Master?) slowly unstrapped her. She did not resist. When her arms were freed, she (the slave) merely rubbed her (slave’s) wrists where the straps had held.

Yes. Something was definitely different.

She felt odd. Not dizzy, but different. What’s so different? she wondered, looking around the room and trying to see the change. It was the same room she saw, but somehow it was not the same room. Had something been added? Something removed? The driver reached out and held her head still. As he did, something shifted inside at his touch. Some perception clicked into focus.

The gag came out with a slight, wet pop, and Sandra immediately breathed, “Thank you, Master.”

The liquid syllables of Language flowed from her mouth with perfect clarity and intonation.

A moment later Sandra gasped, realizing what she had just said, and how.

No, no, this slave didn’t say that, she thought, amazed. This slave didn’t just thank her Masters.

“Get her to her cell,” the businessman said. “Time’s wasting.”

The driver pulled on her arm. Sandra gasped again, this time in delight. The man’s—the Master’s—grip felt so good!

“Move slut. Back to your cage.” The slave’s pussy suddenly flamed.

Slut! The Master called this slave a slut! A terrible wave of passion seized Sandra, and she moaned.

An immense empty feeling opened up inside her loins. This neediness was similar to what she had felt earlier, only now it was much more intense. It was stronger. Deeper. Sandra cried out, in fear, pain, and ecstasy. At the same time, though, she obeyed the command given her instantly, showing not the slightest hesitation. She jumped onto the floor, and the driver had to hold her by the arm to keep her from falling to her knees. He walked Sandra back to her slave cell. She whimpered, and when he let her go at the cell door she did fall to her knees, and oh! that felt so good, so natural, so right to be on her knees in front of a man. The Master unlocked the vault’s padlock, and as he stood there the doctor’s eyes fixated on his magnificent cock. It bulged beneath his tight, oh so tight pants.

An overwhelming desire to submit came upon her. She suddenly, desperately, wanted this Master to use her again. What’s happening to this slave? she thought, dismayed. She sobbed.

He looked at her. “Position!” he commanded, and Sandra blushed, having forgotten her place. She knelt back on her heels. She spread her legs and put her hands on her thighs. She thrust out her breasts toward the Master, her nipples feeling like burning nuggets beneath his gaze. “Eyes down, slut,” he told her, not unkindly, she thought, and she obeyed.

He was right. It was a Master’s pleasure whether or not his slave looked upon his glory. She shuddered again. Strange and unfamiliar thoughts and feelings raced through her head.

The Master opened the door, and Sandra could hear the sluts inside straightening to position. The thought of their compliance—and of her own—thrilled her even more. The younger Master—the man in the business suit—came around in front of her while Tweedle-Dummer (Master) stepped back.

Abruptly, a hungry look in his eyes, the young Master pulled Sandra to her feet. She couldn’t understand how helpless she felt, yet so wonderful and good at the same time. The businessman laughed at her, watching the play of emotions across her face.

“Happier now, doctor?” he asked. Sandra could only squeal in mixed fear and delight. “You’ve caused me a big problem,” he said, in English. “I aim to collect.”

Sandra found herself wishing that he would, that this Master would stay and collect everything from her that she owed. Whatever he wanted, that he would only deign to use her.

A moment later, a shocked part of her said, No! They’ve done something to this slave’s mind! Fight it! Fight it! But when the young man—the Master—fondled her breasts, casually, all resistant thoughts disappeared in the pleasure of being handled. Her nipples felt like they were going to grow red-hot spikes. Juices dripped to the floor beneath her.

The man slapped Sandra’s ass, and a wave of pain-pleasure-ecstasy raced through her.

He laughed again, then faced the driver. “All right. I admit it. She’s good slave meat. But you still shouldn’t have grabbed her without my permission.”

“Yes,” the other Master said. He spoke in a flat monotone without contractions. “The car is waiting, sir.”

The Master holding Sandra grunted, then roughly pushed her backwards into the cell.

The women cooed and awed. One or two of them giggled. The door was slammed shut, and they were in near darkness again. Sandra twisted around and got back to her knees. She did not try to stand up. Her breathing was heavy, her body sweaty and musky. Her skin felt electrified, especially the skin on her slave’s ass, where the Master had paddled her.

A thousand conflicting images passed through her mind’s eye: Her graduation from medical school… kneeling in front of a Master and providing him oral service… the birth of her beautiful daughter… her hospital… a slave’s barracks on some desolate training moon… a warm, delicious cock for her to swallow and make glorious love to… .

Shaking uncontrollably, Sandra leaned forward and vomited.

Her head felt like it was exploding. She felt hands—slave hands—on her neck and back trying to support her. She heard the reciprocal moans and tears of her fellow slaves; they knew what this slave was going through, as they had each gone through it themselves. Second-stage programming, Sandra thought. This… I… I am not a slave. I am not a slave.

But the thought had absolutely no strength to it.

The room spun wildly. One of the girls, the Russian slave, held Sandra’s head and pulled her into the crook of her arms. “Is the slave all right?” she asked tenderly.

“No, this… I mean, I, I’m…” and the room spun in the other direction.

Sandra didn’t know who she was. Slut, slave, Masters… the slavethink was burning inside her.

“This slave is Ilya,” the other girl said, referring to herself. Sandra understood her better. She knew neither one of them was speaking in Russian. They weren’t speaking English, either. The spoke Language, the tongue of their Masters.

“The dizziness will pass. Just bear with it. Go to sleep. The slave will feel better.”

No, Sandra thought. I’m not a slave. I’m not. I’m not.

But the words were without meaning, and she followed them into the dark abyss into which they fled.

The security guard wasn’t taking Rosalie seriously. She could tell from the look on his face.

“My mother always calls if she’s going to be late,” she said, for the third time. “Especially since she took over the department.” She emphasized the word, hoping her mom’s position here would motivate the man. “Always.”

The man sitting in front of her frowned. “I’m sorry, Ms. Pitzler,” he said. They were in the hospital’s security room. A half-dozen video screens showed views of white-tiled corridors and nurses going about their business. Another security guard sat nearby looking bored. “There isn’t a great deal we can do. If you’re worried,” and Rosalie fumed when he said this—Of course she was worried, that’s why she was there!—“I suggest you call the police.”

Rosalie looked at the clock on the wall. It was just after four. “You don’t understand!” she said, almost in tears. “I’ve tried the police! But they won’t do anything ‘cause it hasn’t been a full day yet. But it’s been hours.”

The stupid guard continued to sit there, looking at her blankly.

“The hospital left a message this morning asking where she was,” Rosalie said again. “They want to know too!”

“I know,” the guard said, “and I’ve talked to the Chief of Internal Medicine. He’s concerned. He’s very concerned. But until a report has been filed with the police, we can’t do anything here.”

He lowered his voice, making it suggestive. “Her car is still here. Perhaps she went off with… ,” and the man paused and looked Rosalie up and down, giving the teen a slow smile brimming with meaning. “… a boyfriend.”

The other guard in the room tried to suppress a goat-like snort and failed. The teenage girl gasped.

“You bastards,” Rosalie whispered, turned, and stormed out, too furious to speak.

The one guard called to her, but she didn’t stop, and he didn’t come after her. They really weren’t taking her mom’s disappearance seriously. Rosalie stalked down the administrative hallway, tears in her eyes. She was so scared.

She had gone to sleep after Shauna left last night and then to school first thing that morning. She hadn’t seen her mom, but she didn’t think anything of it, not then anyway. It wasn’t like they had never missed one another in their comings and goings before. Rosalie assumed her mother had either came and left or was still asleep when she left. She was the head of Oncology. She worked long hours. Only when Rosalie got home and played the hospital administrator’s messages on their answering machine did she realize her mother hadn’t come home at all.

Later, when she went to the hospital and saw her mom’s car was still in its assigned space, she freaked.

Something bad had happened to her. Rosalie could feel it.

Bastards. Hinting that her mother had left with some guy. Rosalie had spoken earlier to the bureaucrat who had left them the messages. Although he hadn’t said as much, he seemed to have the impression too that her mom had spent the night with someone, some man, and forgotten to call in. He had looked at Rosalie and given her the same deliberate grin as the guard had just done. A recently divorced woman, attractive, shacking up and forgetting to tell her daughter. Nothing to worry about.

Goddammit, she was a doctor, for Christ’s sake!

She was her mother! She’d never do that!

What’s wrong with these people? Rosalie thought. They all seemed to be in a daze. They weren’t seeing what was deadly obvious to her. Her mother was gone! She had disappeared!

What truly worried Rosalie was that her mother wasn’t answering her pager. She never went anywhere without it. Christ, no doctor did! Why wasn’t the hospital more concerned? Rosalie took the elevator down to the garage. She burst out when the doors slid open and bumped into a man trying to step in.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said and rushed past him, having a hard time keeping the tears from her eyes.

Anything could have happened to her mom. Anything.

“No problem,” the man said. He was young and had a thin mustache. One side of his mouth was red, as if someone had slugged him recently. “My fault entirely.”

It wasn’t like her mom to not call. They were too close, especially following the divorce. Rosalie was even planning on staying at home after graduation and going to college that way, save money on her expenses. She and her mom were best friends. She always called when she was going to be late. Always. Rosalie couldn’t imagine waiting another ten or more hours to call the police, not when she knew in her heart something awful had happened.

She walked the underground lot to her car, a beaten-up old Bug her mom had bought her as a birthday present last year.

Her mom could be in a ditch somewhere, Rosalie thought, raped and murdered for all the hospital cared. It was their eyes. That’s what was so weird to her. Everyone she had talked to, from her mom’s assistant Annie to the security guard, had had the same glazed look in their eyes. Total indifference. They honestly didn’t seem to care.

Rosalie got to her car—she was so frazzled she almost walked past it—and stood there a second to dig her keys out of her purse. She dropped them and bent to pick them up again.

She didn’t see the shadow looming behind her until the person making it spoke.

“Rosalie Pitzler?”

Rosalie stood and turned, and suddenly she felt a cold sensation on her hand, as if someone had pressed a chilled piece of metal there. The next thing she knew she was falling to the garage floor, limp and unable to move.

The teen attempted to scream, but nothing came out. The man she had bumped into at the elevator was standing in front of her. He grabbed Rosalie’s shoulders as she fell and held her up. Rosalie slumped against her Bug, drooping like a wet cloth. Her mouth hung open in surprise. She was unable to close it or change in any way the look of shock on her face. She was totally paralyzed. A few paces away another man stood. He wasn’t looking at them but was keeping a watch out for others. He was short and pudgy and looked absurdly funny in a Drew Carrey-sort of way.

“Let’s talk inside, shall we?” the younger man holding Rosalie said.

He took the keys from her unresisting hand and, using one arm to hold her against the car, unlocked the driver’s side door. Rosalie began to fall again, and the man redoubled his grip on her. He folded the teen inside and pushed her past the wheel and into the passenger seat. Rosalie bumped her ass painfully against the stick shift, but she didn’t cry out.

Her voice was as dead as the rest of her. Nothing worked. Everything in her body was disconnected.

When her legs were inside with the rest of her, the man got in beside and closed the door.

Oh my God, I’m being carjacked, Rosalie thought, almost blind with terror. I’m being kidnapped! The man folded the teenager’s legs out of the way and settled in. He was breathing hard, a little panicked, it looked like, though Rosalie couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flagrantly roamed up and down her body. It was the same look the guard had given her. His eyes were glued to her breasts, and Rosalie saw the unnatural lust inside them. He’s going to rape me! she tried to scream. He’s going to hurt me! Oh, help, help!

The man rolled down the window and made a strange noise, like he was choking on vomit. Weirdly, though, Rosalie heard the guy outside repeat the noise back at him, as though they were communicating something to one another.

Turning to her again, the man with the mustache took a thin, flat band of metal out of his pocket. It looked like a Band-Aid made of aluminum. Reaching over, he parted Rosalie’s black hair out of the way and spread it across her forehead. She struggled to avoid his touch, but she remained as frozen as a statue. She was horror-struck, and the idea came to her that this man was connected with her mom’s disappearance. Had he kidnapped her mom!? Was he going to do the same with her?

The metal strip on Rosalie’s temple heated up. Within a few seconds it had the teen feeling warm all over. Warm… and good, surprisingly. Very, very good, actually.

Rosalie’s fears of being kidnapped and raped vanished.

Her fear of the strange young man beside her vanished.

All her fears vanished, in fact. She began to feel calm.

Calm… and nice… and good.

Rosalie’s world changed for the better. It was like a movie image sharpening into focus. Details popped out in vivid, earth-shattering colors. The dashboard grew cracks and lines the young girl had never noticed before. A spot on her windshield developed a definition that rivaled a painting by Michelangelo, and Rosalie thought, calmly, I should clean my windows more often. It’s a wonder I could see through all this dust earlier.

In the distance, she heard someone turn off his car alarm with a short beep. It sounded beautiful… so beautiful. And then Rosalie’s attention focused on the man sitting next to her… totally focused on him.

He was the most powerful, attractive man she had ever seen!

His eyes were so warm and lovely. His face was absolutely perfect!

Even his bruised chin was beautiful. His lips—those lips!—Rosalie could only imagine those lips kissing her mouth.

Kiss me, she begged inside her head, blushing deeply, suddenly incredibly warm all over… especially, especially, down there, in that secret spot no one but her had ever touched.

She desperately, abruptly wanted him to touch her there… to fill her there.

Oh, oh! she cried inside, orgasming wildly, though her body remained yet as still as stone.

The beautiful man waited a moment, then said, rather absurdly, Rosalie thought, “Don’t move.”

He took out and used another metal tool on her. He touched Rosalie’s hand with this small device, and, with a bright surge, the randy teen found herself moaning and shivering in his arms. She could move again! She flexed her limbs and gasped with pleasure.

Then she remembered the instruction given her and stopped. The man was so beautiful. He was so wonderful. She would do anything for him. Anything he wanted. At that moment, Rosalie didn’t know she had a mother, nor would she have cared if she were lying dead in front of her. She didn’t care about her moment of paralysis. She had forgotten it.

The only important thing—the only thing in her life—was this man and this man alone.

The teenager moaned again. The seat beneath her grew wet.

Rosalie’s dream man smiled at her. Him… smiling at her!

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, girl,” he said, and Rosalie bobbed her head up and down, blissfully.

Yes… yes, he was going to ask her a few questions. Whatever he asked of her, she would answer. She would do anything… anything for him.

“First, are you Rosalie Pitzler, the daughter of Sandra Pitzler?”

“Yes, yes,” Rosalie replied, dreamily. “I love you.”

“That’s good,” the wonderful man said, nodding, and the teen shivered again, crying out briefly but sharply. “But answer my questions from now on with as few words as possible. I know you love me. Do you understand?”

Rosalie understood. She understood completely. “Oh, oh yes,” she whispered. She loved him, and he knew it. Bliss. Sheer bliss.

The man asked Rosalie about her mother. He asked her about the police and hospital security. He asked her about any people she might have called. Rosalie, of course, held back nothing. She told him everything he wanted to know.

He asked if she and her mom lived alone. He asked if anybody would miss them if they went on a long trip somewhere.

The questions made Rosalie so hot. The man was so fantastic, so magnificent. Rosalie beamed him a beautiful smile.

“Who else have you talked to recently?”

“My teachers,” Rosalie said, happily. “My friends at school. And Shauna, last night.”

Rosalie’s dream man grew concerned. “When did you talk to Shauna, girl, exactly?” She told him. Did Shauna know anything was wrong? No, she went home in a cab around 11:30 last night.

Finally, the handsome man seemed satisfied. He paused for a minute, thinking. His brow furrowed in beautiful thought.

Rosalie loved the way the lines in her beautiful man’s face worked. He was such a wonderful man! So beautiful! He turned and made another gargling noise to his friend outside. There was an answering gurgle, and Rosalie’s companion seemed to think even harder. She spent her time waiting watching him, getting more and more wet beneath her panties.

She wished he would finish questioning her so he could fuck her. She wanted desperately to be fucked by this man. Thinking about being fucked, of course, made her even more hot and wet. Her nipples began to ache and swell, too.

The man came to a decision, she saw. He did it quickly. He must be so intelligent, Rosalie thought, dreamily. “This is what I want you to do.”

Okay, Rosalie thought, absolutely all attention. Whatever this man wanted, he would have. It was as simple as that.

“You won’t call the police again. You won’t call the hospital again. You’ll go home. You’ll call Shauna and anybody else you think will be worried if you happen to drop from sight for a few weeks. You’ll tell them everything’s fine and that the two of you are going away. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, absolutely, I understand.” Rosalie could have listened to this man give her orders forever.

“If anybody should ask about your mother, tell them the truth. Your mother was picked up by her boyfriend, and she just forgot to tell anybody. You don’t know this boyfriend’s name, but it doesn’t matter. Your mother sleeps around a lot and loses track of the time. She’s a real slut like that, and it happens all the time. Do you understand?”

Rosalie nodded. “Yes. Yes, I understand.” Her mom was such a slut. It was very like her to forget to call.

The dream man gave Rosalie further instructions. He told her to pack her and her mom’s clothes as if they were going away on a long trip. He told her what to tell the school about this sudden trip. He told her not to raise any alarms.

“In eight hours,” he went on, “I want you to take all those suitcases and drive to the address I give you.”

He gave her the street and number. It was a wonderful neighborhood, though Rosalie had never been there before. The man then told the teen to forget everything. He wanted her to do what he had ordered her to do as if she had thought of it herself. Rosalie didn’t want to forget the beautiful man telling her these lovely things, but she didn’t want to disobey him either, so she said that she would.

Almost immediately everything in her head became a little fuzzy.

“When you get to the warehouse,” he finished, and he smiled at her again. Oh, that smile! “We’ll take care of you.”

Oohh, Rosalie thought, and nearly creamed herself. I’ll be taken care of.

Whatever that meant, it sounded wonderful!

“Close your eyes and count to one hundred. When you get to a hundred, follow my orders as you’ve been instructed. Okay?” Rosalie said that was okay, and she closed her eyes and began counting, exactly as she had been told to. She felt her wonderful dream man’s perfect fingers at her forehead. She felt him remove the nice metal band she was wearing.

There was a moment of vertigo. The inside of the Bug spun crazily for a few moments, and the teen almost lost track of her counting. She thought she heard someone leave the car.

When she got to one hundred, she opened her eyes.

The garage rotated sickeningly, and Rosalie pressed her fingers to the middle of her forehead. All of a sudden she had a headache. She reached around for her keys and found them lying on the driver’s seat. She felt funny. She felt like that time she had drunk too much at Shauna’s party. Her mom had been so mad. Her mom had… . Mom! she remembered. Oh, she was so glad her mom was safe!

She had just forgotten to call!

“Thank God,” Rosalie whispered, then looked around and found she was sitting in her Bug’s passenger seat.

That was weird. Her ass hurt too, in addition to her head. She got out of the car, stood for a long moment to regain her balance, then went around to the driver’s side door. She was a little miffed at her mom for taking off with a guy last night—That was so like her!—but it had all turned out to be a misunderstanding. Mom just forgot to call home.

It wasn’t like it had never happened before. Her mom could be such a slut sometimes.

Rosalie got in and turned on the ignition and drove out of the garage.

I should go home, she decided abruptly. I need to make some calls. And pack. I’ve got to pack… for a trip.

She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care. She just had to pack.

As she drove out, she didn’t notice the two men standing a few yards away watching her. Rosalie was glad her mom was safe and she didn’t have to worry anymore. She was glad the problem was going to be taken care of. She was glad she was going to be taken care of.

Whatever that meant.

The Colonist did not bother trying to move off of the couch. He knew it would be no use.

An immobilizer affected all voluntary nerve impulses. It set up a neural charge inside the subject’s body, and while there that charge blocked all impulses from the brain that commanded motion. Or so he was given to understand. In truth, he did not really know how the device worked. It just did, the same way slaving modules, projectors, and all the other miracles the Clients gave them worked. He merely wished the couch he and his Brother had been put on was more comfortable.

He waited, impatiently, for his other Brother and that bastard Local Agent to return and free them.

Bastard Agent, he thought. He did not know why he was there. What did he expect us to do? That female had to be enslaved. They had not had any other choice. She would have raised an alarm at the medical facility. He noticed the Agent had not waited long to finish the slut’s programming.

Hypocrite, he thought. That is what he is. Punishing us for what he does himself. Besides, look at her! The… the—the Colonist fumbled with an unfamiliar word—doctor was beautiful.

She would make a fine slave.

He did not understand what all the commotion was about. She was just a female, after all. Merely an untapped slave potential. Back in his Home Colony, all the females were programmed with slave protocols: basic obedience, common household skills, and heightened sexuality. They should do that here, he thought. Save themselves trouble later. But no, he gets punished for doing something that was only natural. It was not fair. I mean, look, he continued to fume. He could do nothing else while immobilized. Look at how many there are here. So many females and males. The Colonist’s mind boggled. He could hardly believe the riches on this Property World going to waste. He felt the pressure of his Unit Brother against his back and wondered what his thoughts were.

They had been on that couch for hours.

He was going to lodge a complaint against the Agency when he got back to Base. What their Agent was doing had to be illegal. He did not have the authority to immobilize them. The thing that galled him the most was that they had been doing the Local Agency a favor by tracking down the tachyon field disrupting their transport. Their Client was going to hear about this.

I will see them in chains, the Colonist thought. I will have them encoded with the strictest, most humiliating slave programming I can find. They will have to beg permission in order to breathe by the time I am done.

The Colonist’s dark thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the warehouse door rising.

Finally, they are back, he thought bluntly. He would have sighed in relief had he still been capable. You had better release me now, you Property-scum. He waited for someone to enter the office. You had better.

He heard a large ground vehicle pull in and the big door closing. He waited. He could do nothing but. Minutes passed before he heard footsteps approaching.

Those sound like boots, he thought. That was funny. He did not remember anyone wearing boots before. He waited. Finally, the door swung open.

As it so happened, the person who entered was neither the Local Agent nor his Unit Brother. It was somebody else wearing the boots. He did recognize the person, though.

Had he been capable, the Colonist would have ran. He would have screamed. As it was, only his pupils could react.

They widened involuntarily as a tall shadow fell over him and his Brother.

“Ah, an unexpected bonus,” a slight, seductive, feminine voice spoke. A thin, rubber-coated finger reached down to brush the Colonist’s nose, then his pink chin and pale lips. The intruder—the poacher—laughed.

“You’ll both make splendid additions to my shipment.”

The Colonist wanted to scream. He wanted to run.

But, of course, he knew it was no use.

He was immobile.