The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Slavers

Chapter Four

The man with the sparkling metal band on his forehead gazed upon the Associate with utter devotion. His eyes glowed with carnal craving. His face was flush with heated emotion. Uncomfortable with such rabid scrutiny, though, leastwise from another man, the young attorney decided to end the session early.

“I want you to dismiss Dr. Pitzler and her daughter from your mind,” he told the hospital engineer sitting across from him. “They are unimportant to you. They have always been unimportant to you. You remember them, but their disappearance doesn’t interest you in the slightest. It is unimportant. The last you heard, the doctor ran off with her boyfriend. That is all. It’s unimportant.”

The engineer, a man named Carl Godding, nodded comically at the instruction. His head bobbed up and down like a yo-yo. He was desperately eager to please the magnificent specimen of glorious manhood standing in front of him. “Yes. Yes, sir. Please, sir, let me…”

“Shut up,” the Associate said, looking sheepishly at the Colonist agent working behind them. He needn’t have bothered. His accomplice was absorbed in his examination of the hospital E.B.R room’s Varian accelerator.

“Listen to me,” the attorney went on. “After two days, you can let people back into the lab. Until then you will use your authority to keep everyone out. You will not enter the lab yourself. Do you understand?”

Godding nodded dumbly. His mind had been opened wide by the compellor, as wide as his eyes were staring up at the Associate as though he were a god. A compellor worked by tapping into its subject’s sexual desires. Any instruction given while under its influence was reinforced with the same level of interest a person usually gave his or her sex life, which is to say, quite a bit of interest. The Client-made devices were ideal for planting long-term suggestions in people. On the other hand, if compellor-backed orders were mismanaged, it could cause erotic compulsive feedback resulting in all sorts of nasty effects—psychotic behavior, murder sprees, suicides, and so on. But the Associate wasn’t worried. When he first came to work for the Firm, he received extensive training in compellor-backed hypnosis. He was an expert now. Satisfied for the moment—he might still have to come back and compel someone on staff he had missed—the young man reached out and peeled the metal band from Godding’s forehead. The engineer’s face lost its look of love and devotion and grew confused.

A moment later Godding shook his head and stood up. The Associate steadied him on his feet and pointed him in the direction of the door. The hospital engineer stumbled off, obeying the instructions now inserted deeply in his subconscious. Once outside in the hallway he recovered his internal balance.

He left the E.B.R. room without looking back.

The Associate put the Band-Aid-sized strip in his pocket.

Carl Godding had been the umpteenth worker at the hospital he had had to use the device on. Amazing though it seemed, he was actually tired of people looking at him in absolute lust and attention. The effect was only temporary, of course, which rendered compellor use valueless as a slave-training technique—it tended to limit thought too much, which wasn’t good unless one liked fucking braindead idiots—but the embedded instructions would stay long enough to cover the Colonists’ tracks.

God, they had been stupid grabbing the Pitzler bitch here! The Associate had suggested to all the important people on staff that the doctor and her daughter were unworthy of attention. Making them forget about the pair in their entirety, he knew, would have been counterproductive. Such a total amnesia would have been as glaring a warning sign as not doing anything at all. It would have drawn attention, and if there was anything the Partners frowned upon, it was attention. As did, of course, their Client. Having the staff simply not pay the doctor and her soon-to-be-enslaved daughter any attention was best.

The Associate sighed. He had a headache. After a moment, he glanced again at the Colonist working on the Varian. Why didn’t you use a compellor on Pitzler? he thought. This predicament could have been avoided if you had used some common sense.

He rubbed his head in the same place he had been attaching compellors all day. He had gotten to the security staff that morning and compelled the guards to ignore the two of them while they worked. The Associate was conscious of how vulnerable he and the Colonist were at the hospital, which was probably why he had such a headache in the first place. He felt like they were being watched. He was not a field agent, and he hated being in the field. At least he had gotten to Pitzler’s daughter and compelled her. His earlier opinions about her had been confirmed. She would make a good slave.

Maybe when this was over, he could have both the mother and the daughter.

“Sir,” the Colonist agent said, drawing the attorney’s attention. The rotund clone was staring into the accelerator’s open hatch. “I have located a foreign component. This is what is causing the drain.”

The Colonist held up a scanning device that beeped and chirped at the Associate merrily. It stung his aching head. Like most Client technology, the tool was small, gadget-like, and looked like a seamless combination of metal and plastic. It looked less built than it had been grown.

The Associate stepped up to the Varian.

“Where?”

The agent shook his head. “I can not see it, but it is definitely right here.”

He pointed to a mass of electronic components. The insides of the linear accelerator were complex, and the Associate had no technical training. He understood enough from his interview of Godding to grasp what the machine did, though. It was used in radiation therapy.

“It’s definitely causing the drain?” he asked. “It’s not just an ordinary malfunction?”

The Colonist shook his head. A dozen or more machines in the Chicago area dealing with radiation—in hospitals and university labs mostly—were on the blink currently. They were all being drained of power, and somehow this drain was causing interference with the Firm’s projector relay equipment. It was the reason he had sent the Colonist agents out in the first place. Stupid bastards, the young attorney thought again.

“Can you hold your projector up, sir?” the Colonist asked him. “I want to run a scan with it operating. Perhaps we can direct the energy back to the source of the drain.”

The Associate looked at him askance. “Is that safe? We don’t know what that thing’s doing in there.”

“Projectors are out all over your city, sir. Aim your projector at the machine with a neutral setting. Nothing should happen.”

The Associate was skeptical but did as the foreigner requested. He reached into his pocket and took out his personal projector. It too was a Client invention—their most important invention in the Associate’s opinion—and it fit in his hand like a streamlined metallic football with a handle. “Like this?”

He pointed the handheld device at the linear accelerator.

“Yes, sir.” The Colonist was absorbed in his scanner’s readings. “Try it now.”

The Associate did. The projector made a fizzing noise. Nothing else happened. If the tool had worked, the Associate could have sent the accelerator, using the projector’s own internal power supply, to anywhere on the Earth’s surface. By tapping into the special relay equipment maintained at the Firm’s offices, which could only be done there in Chicago, the Varian could have been sent literally anywhere in the universe.

That the projectors weren’t working, either way, was slowing business down to a crawl.

“What happened?” the Associate asked. “Do you want me to try it again?”

“Wait a moment, sir.” The Colonist put the scanner down and took out his own useless projector. He laid the second device directly into the open hatch. “I am going to use the scanner and my projector to set up a connection. I think that the object in the machine is in a chronal pocket… that is, sir, it is out of phase with our local time-space.”

He began making adjustments to his equipment. “If it is, we can pull it out using your projector.”

“Wait a minute,” the Associate said, backing up a step. “Do you know what you’re doing, really?” He could only imagine what a mistake using a projector might look like. Visions of Cronenberg’s The Fly danced through his head.

The Colonist looked up at him. “Trust me, sir. I know what I am doing.”

Like all the vatbreds from his Colony, the man spoke in a dead monotone. The Associate let out a brief laugh, and the extraterrestrial looked at him wounded.

The attorney turned around and paced for a moment, thinking. Maybe he should let the guy work. After all, what choice did he have? He had to find out what was causing the interference.

“Please, sir. This will work. I guarantee it.”

The Associate stared at the man for a moment, rationalized to himself that this was the smartest of the three he had sent out, and nodded finally. He had to find out something soon anyway. When the Colonist was ready, the Associate took a deep breath, aimed his projector at the Varian again, and fired. His expression was that of a man putting his last quarter into a slot machine.

He should have had more confidence.

Unlike the previous experiment, the results this time around were much more dramatic.

First, a glowing field of light emerged from the open hatch of the linear accelerator. A beam of ghostly radiance shot out and floated across the tile ceiling. Where this light touched, the tiled sections shimmered slightly and evaporated. The Associate began to curse loudly. Before he could shut off the beam, though, a glowing, translucent sphere about three inches in diameter materialized over the hatch and fell into the Colonist’s outstretched palm, exactly as he had planned.

Simultaneously, the Colonist’s scanning device, his projector (which the alien had carefully not had his hands on), and the Associate’s projector (which he did have his hands on) became wrapped in a similar brilliant, flickering radiance. A split-second later all three tools disappeared with a loud popping noise.

As did, of course, the Associate as well.

The young attorney disappeared with but the briefest look of surprise and fury visible on his face.

Pop!

Again, exactly as planned.

The Colonist, alone in the E.B.R. room now, smiled briefly. He did not know where he had sent the Firm’s man, nor did he particularly care. Presumably he would end up wherever the frequencies matching the device he had removed from the machine was generating. Having gotten rid of the arrogant Property-scum who had immobilized and beaten his Unit Brothers, he would retrieve the two of them from the warehouse, and together they would report everything to their Client. He ducked out of the way of some falling debris from the ceiling loosened by the projector beam.

That had been unexpected. If he had been standing just a little more to the left, he might have injured himself. The Colonist scratched his head and stared at the hole in the ceiling. He looked a little like the Coyote from the Roadrunner cartoons after a stick of dynamite had failed to go off. The alien would not have been familiar with this cultural reference, however. He had never seen a cartoon in his life.

“Ah, well,” he said, finally, shrugging and not giving a damn. It was this Property World’s problem, not his. He did examine the object he had summoned into physical existence, though, which he was still holding. It was cool to the touch, glasslike, and perfectly transparent.

It looked like a miniature crystal ball, which, in a manner of speaking, it was.

Again, the Colonist would not have understood the Earth reference.

He was getting ready to leave, and thinking about how he would blame everything on the missing Associate to his superiors, when he heard a buzzing in his left ear. Startled, the Colonist stopped, put two fingers to the side and slightly below that ear, and pressed. “Yes?” he said, to no one in particular.

Animated recognition filled his face.

“Yes, Bors, my Unit friend,” he said out loud. He paused, apparently listening to nothing. Then, to no one, he said, “Where is she now?”

Pause. Then, “Can you do anything for my… no? No, of course not. I understand, Supervisor.”

There was another pause. “Yes. My Parent Unit will be grateful. As will I. My Client, too.”

He listened. “Yes, you will still receive your percentage.”

Pause. “Celestra is coming back for the rest of her shipment? When?” The Colonist listened.

Finally, he said, “Go to this world’s Agency. I will meet you there.”

The Colonist listened for one more moment, then pressed his ear again to close the connection.

He left the E.B.R. room, and the hospital, in a great hurry. Everyone who saw him ignored him.

That was, after all, what they had been compelled to do.

* * *

Ilya, waiting in a line with other slaves, had never felt so completely aroused in her entire life.

Knees spread, her pussy exposed, breasts upturned for a convenient grope, the young Russian girl felt sick with frustrated desire. Her stomach churned madly. She squirmed. She twisted her body futilely, bending ever so slightly at the hips, raising first one leg and then the other, trying not to be noticed, for the slaves in line had been told not to move at all. But that order was next to impossible to obey, much as she wanted to please her Masters. The girls who had touched themselves—succumbed to their primal, enhanced feelings—were whipped, and Ilya did not want to be whipped.

Ilya was beginning to think, though, that the pain might be worth it, if only to gain a moment’s relief.

The void inside her slave’s cunt—cunt, not vagina, for Ilya couldn’t resist her slavethoughts and no longer tried—was remorseless: a swelling, throbbing pit of repressed carnal appetite, and it grew worse every time one of them, the Masters, passed by her, with their tight plastic uniforms flexing and her eyes glued to the bulges at their groins.

She felt so dreadfully empty.

She needed to wrap her slave’s cunt around some glorious dick, the way her friend Sandra, the slave Sandra, had done earlier. Ilya envied the American slave’s opportunity to service a Master. Before being moved along, the girls from the warehouse had heard the slave scream her passion, not once but several times, declaring herself a slave and a slut.

They had looked at one another and known—simply known—there was no going back to their old lives.

They were slaves. They were going to be used. And the sooner they were processed, the sooner they would be.

A shiny, crimson-clad guard stepped around the hallway corner.

“Next!” he yelled, and Ilya felt a thrilling pleasure in hearing his command. She bent forward and crawled ahead like an animal. The sleek and inviting ass of the slave in front swayed before Ilya’s eyes. They had nearly reached the front of the line. She saw a girl scramble around the plastic-edged corner. A Master stood there watching. He looked so terribly attractive. Ilya’s eyes were again drawn to the glorious bulge in his pants. Her mouth watered.

She moaned, dreading what she was turning into, yet looking forward to it as the same time. She spread her legs again and leaned back. She wondered what had happened to Sandra. She didn’t think the slave was in line with them.

“Next!” The slavegirl in front of Ilya bent forward and crawled around the corner. Ilya waited her turn, knees wide, her palms upright on her thighs, enduring her need as best she could. She heard a loud feminine gasp from out of sight around the corner. This sound was followed by a bizarre humming and several low and passionate grunts. The Russian slave trembled.

Finally, “Next!”

Ilya raised her head and crawled around the corner. The gleaming corridor ended just a few feet away, she saw. An open stall lay flat against the wall in front of her: a man-sized glass tube shaped like a rounded telephone booth. Hoses connected to the wall lay hanging and dripping on the inside of the enclosure. Ilya stiffened when she noticed how their ends were shaped. They looked like ringed and thickly ridged penises.

Ilya’s mouth went dry. Her longing for manly penetration and pleasure-use increased.

Two rubber-suited men, tools and hoses at the ready, were waiting for her. One of them roughly picked the Russian girl up—she gasped, luxuriating in the feel of masculine hands on her soft, slave body—and carried her to the tube. He was businesslike. He performed the action automatically and without unnecessary groping. Ilya may have been the hundredth or even thousandth girl he had handled that day. Once inside, Ilya’s arms were flipped over her head and slipped into a pair of manacles dangling from the ceiling. These were clicked shut, and Ilya hung suspended from them. Faint pain settled into her shoulders.

The other man approached with the hoses… the dildoes, some part of Ilya’s mind recognized. Casually, holding her belly still, the Master took the first dildo-device and thrust upward with it, inserting the tool deeply into Ilya’s pussy with the ease of long practice. Ilya sighed. Her hips twitched and swayed deliciously, and she tried to grind herself on his hand. Not permitting this delight, though, the man instead flipped the slave around in mid-air. She realized what was going to happen a scant moment before it did. Oh no, this slave, no the Master’s not going to… !

But he did. Casually, a second tube was roughly inserted up Ilya’s anal cavity. She felt sudden pressure and ripping pain. It felt like she was being torn in two! Uncontrollably, though, despite the vicious agony, the slave released another savage gasp of delight. The mixed pain and pleasure overcame her senses, and she hung there dangling dreamily.

The weight of both tubes snaking out of her slavebody felt so strange, though the feeling of being so utterly filled comforted her, even if they were inanimate tools and not a delicious pair of pricks!

The Masters stepped out of the booth and closed it. Ilya grit her teeth.

The hose up her ass dug into her flesh. Her body tried to reject it but was unable. The one up her cunt, though, felt a little more natural, though still decidedly cold. Ilya was so preoccupied with the conflicting pair of sensations she didn’t notice the guard outside push a button. A surge of power suddenly passed through Ilya, and she screamed.

The sound of the slave’s yell echoed inside the transparent enclosure. Her eyes widened. Her hands above her bound wrists twitched open and flailed madly. Her whole body arched, and her hair stood out on end. Electricity—electricity? she wasn’t sure—made Ilya’s skin tingle and her fingers shake uselessly. Simultaneous to this unexpected onslaught, a steaming spray of warm liquid shot out from above and beneath Ilya, drenching her in a brutal two-way shower. She hung as if in the middle of a thunder storm at sea, a tempest raging across an ocean surface.

The steam clouded her eyes and saturated every part of her. The power surge—Why wasn’t it electrocuting her?—wound down eventually, though not without forcing countless small orgasms through her slave’s body, bringing some small respite from her enhanced desires. The bath stopped abruptly, and, on their own, the hoses connected to Ilya unlocked and fell away.

The Russian slave cried out again, first in relief, then from a sickening sense of realization.

She whimpered in disbelief and growing mortification.

Released from the hoses, the emptiness in her cunt came back immediately… only now it was enhanced. The void inside her slavepussy had become worse!

It was deeper, stronger, even more howlingly intense, as if the orgasms she had so quickly and carelessly enjoyed had only whet some monstrous and perpetual hunger inside her.

No, it’s not fair, she thought. The Masters can’t do this to this slave! But they had. The treatment Ilya had received had doubled her need to be filled. The treatment had trebled it, quadrupled it… no, magnified it a hundredfold. Worse yet, Ilya now felt this hunger inside her ass too!

Ilya now felt a need to be buggered, sodomized, and used like a slaveboy, as much as she had ever needed her aching slave’s cunt to be filled before. It was as if a brand new network of nerves in her hindquarters had been awakened. Her whole body felt electrified, in fact, and hollowed out, too, as if her skin had been stretched over a vacant shell. She needed something inside her to fill that horrible emptiness. Her flesh tingled wildly, as if ants were crawling all over her, and the slave knew something had been done to her body, something as permanent as receiving a tattoo… or a brand.

The sensations were not painful, per se, but they were constant, and everywhere. Her skin had never felt so peculiarly and obscenely sensitive before. When the glass booth opened, as the guards reached in and unhooked her from the manacles, the touch of their plastic-coated fingers again brought the Russian slave to the verge of a volcanic climax.

She jumped in their arms like a small bird, her ass and cunt tingling like mad. She heard one of them yell out, “Next!”

Ilya felt helpless. All she could do was writhe helplessly.

She felt herself put on some kind of table, a flat surface that felt rubbery. It was only after she was drawn into the wall that she realized she was on an assembly-line belt. She hadn’t seen it before. Squirming madly, she rode the belt into a long, narrow corridor. She couldn’t raise her head above the level of her shoulders. It was very, very dark.

More liquid splashed against the slave’s body. The tingling in her skin increased to the point where Ilya felt she was turning into one giant goose-pimple. The fluid this time stuck to her body and formed a slick and sticky film.

The slave felt like a plastic doll.

The spraying stopped. Ilya felt her feet encounter a cold, soft surface, like a wall of gelatin. Her toes penetrated this membrane. She felt the material slip around her thighs, her cunt, her breasts, and finally her head and arms. The feeling was maddening, like passing through a layer of jelly which warmed upon contact. The membrane left another, even tighter film over Ilya’s skin. She felt like she had been coated in massage oil.

The belt brought her out into the light again. Hands rudely grabbed at her.

“On your knees, slut!” A Master’s voice!

The thrill of being ordered, of submitting joyfully to the will of another, rushed through Ilya as her eyes adjusted to the setting. The walls gleamed. Metal flashed. In front of her, row after row, the Russian girl saw columns of females slaves.

There were hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Ilya recognized only a handful from the warehouse back on Earth.

None of them had any hair!

The slaves gleamed and glistened like candied apples. Their naked flesh was oiled and looked preternaturally smooth.

Ilya stumbled to her knees, crawled, and joined the formation. From the vast white wall behind her she saw a dozen or more narrow openings. Each had its own assembly-line belt, and each as she watched was disgorging a luscious, hairless cargo. Ilya’s hands rushed rapidly over her own body, inspecting. Her fingers graced a smooth, mannequin-like head and a sleek, glistening crotch. Her yearning slavecunt lay open and exposed like a cute wet, pink mouth.

This slave is hairless, she thought, her skin slick with oil and gleaming. The Masters made this slave hairless!

She sobbed, once, and a roving guard slapped her for moving slowly. Shame passed through the slave.

She had displeased a Man. A Master!

She must never do that again!

Ilya took a position next to the same beauty she had been in line behind before. The slave’s whole body was smoothly enticing. Ilya copied her position: she spread her knees, rested her hands palm upwards on her thighs, sucked her belly in, and thrust her breasts out, the nipples perky and exposed.

She waited. Soon enough another slave took a place next to her. Ilya continued to wait.

They waited for hours. Their bodies trembled as they futilely tried to hold their positions of slave submission. Guards walked among them, punishing the sluts who did lose control. Their cries of pain provided a constant and dreadful noise in the background. Ilya maintained her position, feeling absurdly guilty for her slowness earlier. Also, naturally, she did not want to be whipped. She didn’t want to displease any of the Men—the Masters—for any reason.

While she waited, the slave from Moscow thought about her sister-slave Sandra’s rape again. Her use by a Master.

She felt so envious. She wished the Mistress had selected her to service that Supervising Master.

Ilya shook occasionally with emotion. The guards permitted this minor indulgence. All of the slaves were shaking with emotion. All of them had been rendered needy, craving sluts. All of them thought constantly about fucking and being used by Masters. They couldn’t help it. They were slaves. Their programming went deep. For many, it had been days since the second module had been lifted from their foreheads. These unfortunates were now almost insane with rabid desire, of total, yet unfulfilled slave need. On the other hand, the slaves who had but recently been encoded with slave protocols weren’t doing all so much better. There wasn’t one girl in that vast auditorium not aching to be sold.

Ilya, like a few others, noted they were sent up in lots. As one group would crawl forward, the others behind them would move up and resume their kneeling. It took a long time, though at no point did the thin layer of fluid coating their skin dry out. It left the girls feeling slick and helplessly erotic throughout the entire wait. Finally, after many hours, Ilya’s lot was called forward. She, the girls beside her, and perhaps five or six others crawled through a large square opening and onto an illuminated platform. Beyond it was a pure darkness. Instructions to them were broadcast from above.

“On your feet, slaves. Hands behind your head. Spread your legs. Thrust out your breasts!”

Ilya couldn’t see anything beyond the light, but though it was a total darkness, it was by no means a silent one. Voices cheering and booing sounded from on all sides of the girls. The voices were both male and female… and, perhaps, others as well. Ilya was sure she heard growls from the darkness. There was meeping, too, and other strange clamors.

Ilya hoped she and the others sold well and quickly. The slave felt distinctly uncomfortable being on her feet in front of so many strangers… so many obviously free people. She would have felt much more at ease on her knees.

“Lot DX379,” Ilya’s unseen auctioneer called out. “Standard two-stage programming, no chemical or genetic enhancements. Suitable for a wide range of uses and modifications. Place your bids on the pads in front of you.”

Lights flickered around the slaves on stage. Each of them was highlighted in turn.

In the darkness, the sounds of a vicious fight started and continued for a while.

When it was Ilya’s turn to be spotlighted, she unconsciously stood a little straighter, thrusting out her breasts a little more. She wanted to give a good impression. She wanted a handsome Master… though, at this point, almost any Master would have done. Her cunt throbbed madly, and she thought, This slave is being sold! This slave is on sale to the highest bidder! This slave is being sold like a slave!

She considered. This slave is a slave, she acknowledged, smiling.

The throbbing intensity of her slave’s pussy and slave’s ass increased with the admission. This slave is a slave.

“Lot DX379… for individual or group sale, depending on offer. Make your bids, Colonists.”

The lights flickered around the slaves.

“Sold!” the auctioneer announced. This slave is sold, Ilya thought.

She was no longer a person. She was an object, a toy, a pleasant diversion, no more. She smiled. She even laughed. She had no more rights than a fucktoy. No more rights than a lovedoll. She was a lovedoll now, or little better.

This slave is sold. She didn’t catch who had purchased her, or whether it was a group sale or her alone. The voice instructed them to crawl offstage together. Another lot of slaves came up behind them, fucktoys all, waiting their own turn to be sold. Ilya and her sister-slaves moved into a low-ceilinged tunnel that appeared to the left of the platform.

They crawled into utter darkness, scared and thrilled at the same time. They had been sold!

They waited to meet their true and final Masters… the Masters who actually, physically owned them!

Ilya could barely keep going for the raw power of the thought. Her slave’s cunt was juicing copiously.

They kept on crawling until another voice, a new one, told them to stop. The slaves automatically knelt again.

Two voices, Male, unseen, spoke.

“They’ll need to be conditioned.” The voice was low and squeaky. “My Client’s people have preferred tastes. They’ll need heightened flexibility, for a start. And slave ornamentation.”

“What kind of ornamentation?” This Man’s voice was higher. A buzzing noise accompanied it.

“Altered pigmentation. Stripes. Spots. Language symbols. Plus, of course, their hair will have to be regrown as soon as possible in matching colors.” Ilya stiffened as an unseen hand came down and began stroking her bald scalp.

She had been sold! She had been selected! Touched! Honored!

“These matters are easily accommodated. Your new slaves have excellent base DNA. They’ll take almost any kind of resequencing. Is there anything special you’ll be needing?”

“Let’s see.” The hand on Ilya’s scalp petted and scratched. The slave purred like a stroked kitten.

“This is a good one. Stand, slut.” Ilya stood rapidly, commanded by her Master.

She felt hands probe her breasts. She was squeezed. She moaned. Another pair of hands felt between her thighs.

“She’s wet and inviting,” one of them said. All thought fled as the once proudly defiant Russian girl was played with.

“These breasts will need to be expanded. Both sets of lips, too. Heightened sensitivity.”

Someone took this information down. The lights shifted somewhat for Ilya, possibly because she was on her feet. The Master feeling her up was a thin, pale man wearing a purple skullcap. He wore yellow plastic robes, almost like a stylized and futuristic raincoat. Another handsome Master, deliciously obese in gray and red, stood next to them.

“Celestra’s stock is improving,” Ilya’s Yellow Master said, delightfully probing her anus with his index finger.

Somewhere below her sight, she could hear her sister-slaves moaning in envy.

“It’s the Property World,” the Larger Master said. “Celestra’s promising a lot more from there soon.”

Ilya’s Owner finished examining her and pushed down on her shoulders. Immediately, the slave got down on her knees again. The tunnel went back into darkness. Ilya spread her knees wide; the action was instinctive. Slaves are open at all times for their Masters’ use, the thought went through her head, like a divine commandment. Ilya resolved to listen whenever this wise voice spoke to her again.

“If they’re all this good, she’ll make a bloody fortune.”

Abruptly, Ilya felt her head grabbed and her face turned toward a slick, plastic-coated cloth. There was a brief rustle of latex upon latex. Suddenly her Owner’s penis was in her face!

“Take it slave… show me what you have.”

She didn’t hesitate. Ilya reached up with her hands… and was abruptly slapped.

“Use your mouth, slave. Not your hands.”

Feeling stupid, Ilya nodded and whispered, “Yes, Master.” She tried again.

She leaned forward, aware of a new and strange tension in her jaws. She began to drool slightly. Ilya bent down and took her Master’s organ in her mouth. Her tongue snaked out. Her lips enveloped him. The man grabbed the back of her bald head and thrust forward, with no grace whatsoever. Ilya felt her Master’s fullness fill her all the way to the back of her throat. For a moment she thought she was going to choke and displease her Owner. Instead, though, a surge of unnatural pleasure passed through her, and her jaws seemed to loosen, allowing her better to accept his manhood completely. Her tongue slid gloriously around his organ, tasting its texture and luxuriating on its meaty flavor.

The slave could have spent hours enjoying that magnificent taste. But she had a penis in her mouth and a job to do. She must please Him! Ilya concentrated on her task.

Her tongue slid up and down her Master’s shaft. Her head bobbed back and forth, her mouth sucking up close to His body and then withdrawing slowly until her lips met His glans, whereupon, with a quick breath, she would work her way up again delightfully. The Master just held her, allowing her to do all the work. The sounds of enjoyment He made pushed Ilya to strive further, and she pulled, and she sucked, and she stroked, and her Master gasped, and, finally, she was rewarded with a veritable geyser of sperm—her Master’s Blessed Seed!—exploding inside her slavemouth.

At first there was only the thrill of accomplishment, the natural joy of a slave pleasing her Master. Then the taste of the Sperm hit her, and Ilya’s mind exploded in a senses-shattering ecstatic burst.

A titanic orgasm ripped through her slavebody. She swallowed, finding it impossible to believe how delicious it was.

She was instantly addicted. She knew she couldn’t live without His cum—any Master’s cum—in her mouth soon… or on her slavetongue. She sucked ravenously on her Master’s penis, trying to get it all.

When He was finished, Ilya lapped at Him with her mouth. Her needy feelings returned, augmented now with a brand new and magnificent oral dependency. Rather than basely succumb to her desires, though, Ilya performed her duties first, as a good little slave, and saw to her Master’s pleasure and comfort. Only when she was finished drying Him, and she had whispered, “Thank You, Master,” did she look up at Him, needfully, letting Him see she wanted—needed—more.

He ignored her. “She’s not bad,” he said to his companion. “Inexperienced, though.”

“She’ll get better, with training… or further encoding,” the other responded. “It’s clear, however, she’s a natural cocksucker.” He laughed. “Celestra will make a fortune.”

“Hmmm,” said Ilya’s Master. The other asked him, “Are you satisfied with your purchases?”

He said yes. Ilya certainly hoped He was satisfied.

“I think we should have their jaws modified, too, now,” he said. “Loosen their tongues. Lengthen them. Then they’ll make acceptable pleasure slaves.” Ilya beamed, utterly happy. She had been found worthy.

She was going to be a pleasure slave! She was going to get to suck cock!

The salesperson gave orders, and Ilya got back into line with her fellow pieces of property. They were march crawled forward again, into darkness. The Russian slut shivered, though no longer in fear, or as much fear, anyway. She shivered rather in delight, in pleasure, and in the satisfaction of having been found pleasurable by a superior, a Master.

She crawled off, to be modified, looking forward to her new life of blissful service.

* * *

The crystal sphere could not be identified.

None of this world’s Agents had ever seen anything like it before. The Colonist did not mind, though. Soon enough, he would be able to ask the female who had planted it in the first place… after he was finished with her, that was.

The Colonist and his men hid in a room adjoining the bitch’s makeshift slave-pen, and he was looking forward to meeting her. The accursed female who had enslaved his two Brothers!

His fingers clenched. Yes, he was looking forward to meeting this poacher, this infamous Celestra, this… this female!

The building they were in had been an organic-foodstuffs processing facility … a “meat-packing plant,” the Agent sitting next to him called it—but it had long since been abandoned. There were no lights, the walls were pockmarked and broken, and a mammalian scavenger species called “rats” infested the place. Clearly, no one but the female Celestra, her subordinate females, and the slaves they had poached had been there in years.

Did your people become herbivorous recently? the Colonist had asked the Agent, and the man laughed at him. The Colonist did not see what was so funny. Nothing about this situation was funny.

His Brothers were slaves now! His Brothers, born of the same Parent Unit… slaves!

He had returned to the warehouse first to confirm Supervisor Bors’ story. It was true—the slaves were gone, his Brothers were gone, and the place had been utterly deserted. All their work, all the captures they had made, stolen.

Worse, they had been stolen by a female! A female!

The Colonist Agent could hardly believe it. He had next gone back to the offices of the local Agency placed in trust of this accursed Property World. He told them his story. Bors had been present there too; the Processor told them about his meeting with the Celestra-female and how she had bragged about her captures. He was a friend of the Parent Unit. He could not do anything about the Colonist’s Brothers, but at least he had backtracked the bitch’s chronal frequencies and got a fix on her location.

That was what had led them to the “meat plant.”

He frowned thoughtfully. They grew meat from plants on this Property World? How primitive.

The Colonist stretched slightly. His hand clenched over a rotten piece of plaster and ground it slowly to dust.

The devices the Celestra-female had planted in this city’s radiation emitters—all crystal spheres, presumably, like the one he had pulled out of the “hospital”—were of unknown origin, but clearly they were sending out a signal that blocked all but the one projector frequency, the one leading to Bors’ Base. Clearly, too, this was intentional.

The Celestra-female wanted to block all transports from this world save her own.

She wanted to steal their rightfully acquired property. But she was going to pay!

A “rat” crawled across the floor in front of the large metal door set in the next room. The Colonist watched through a hole in the wall. It was an ugly creature, he considered, though no more unattractive than the scavengers of his Colony World. He guessed such things were pretty much the same everywhere. One of the Agent’s security guards behind him sneezed, and the Colonist winced. He did not want there to be the least problem with this capture. Bors had said the female would return soon, and this deserted building had been the focus point of many tachyon disturbances. She had the only projectors in the city that worked. This had to be the place.

The metal door reminded the Colonist of the one back at the warehouse. A “freezer,” this one was called, though it apparently no longer froze. He guessed the former owners had used it to store protein-based products. He grimaced, this time in disgust. He hated this world. They grew meat here, and they allowed their females far too much freedom.

The small scavenger stopped in the middle of the floor, as if sensing something.

The Colonist tensed and made a motion with his hand. The security guards raised their weapons. The Property World Agent—they called them Partners here—backed up. He looked absurdly prim and proper in his business suit amid all this squalor.

A faint radiance built in the air above the animal. The rat scurried back into the darkness.

The air glowed and grew brighter. The Colonist smiled grimly.

The air popped! as it was displaced, there was a flash! of bright light, and a scant moment later two females dressed in military rubber and leather suddenly appeared.

The taller was a blonde with her golden hair locked into a long and intricate braid across one shoulder. The Colonist recognized her as the rogue slaver Celestra

“Now!” he shouted, before the females could recover from projector shock.

The security guard next to the Colonist stood up, leaned around the corner, and threw a stun grenade into the freezer room. The Colonist and his colleagues wore earplugs; they knew to shield their eyes. The females did not. They were caught totally unaware. The grenade burst with a flash of bright light and explosive noise. Both went down in a cry of pain and surprise. The Colonist and the guards were then upon them. The Partner stood behind and watched.

“Grab her! Hold them down!” Two security guards took each female.

The blonde—the Celestra—cursed and tried to grab her whip, to no avail. The other female, shorter and with darker hair, reached for an immobilizer. Her strength, however, was no match for two men. She was brought down too. Both were pinned with their arms behind them and forced to kneel.

The Colonist stepped over to them, pulling a slaving module out his pocket. It hummed.

The shorter female saw what he had and screamed in panic and fury. The blonde simply gritted her teeth.

“Your Brothers knew how to lick my boots before they were programmed,” she said.

“Slut,” the Colonist whispered. “You will know all about licking soon enough.”

He adjusted the module. The Earth Partner, who had come forward to look over his shoulder, took alarm. “You’ve got that set for a second-stage encoding. They haven’t received a first-stage yet! You’ll fry their brains!”

The Colonist shrugged. He had a security guard lift the Celestra-female’s face and planted the module to her forehead. The device hummed. A rim of light formed a ring around the module’s shaft. The blond giant shook. Her eyes widened in shock, and a small, plaintive cry emerged from her mouth. Then she was done, and the security guard holding her used an immobilizer on her body. The Colonist would let her simmer in her encoded slavery until they were ready to question her… assuming the second-stage deep-coring did not burn her out, as the Partner said it might.

He did not care one way or the other. He moved to the other female.

“No! No!” she screamed and tried to break free. “I’m not a slave! No! You can’t!”

She became a slave, though, a moment later, once encoded and immobilized.

The Agent turned to the Property World Partner.

“If you want, we can question them in a few hours. They will be very eager to talk, I think.”

And he laughed. Revenge was sweet.

* * *

Rosalie parked her Bug outside the warehouse door and got out. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was supposed to go. This was the correct address, but the place looked deserted. All the windows were dark.

A confused expression crossed her pretty face.

Mom’s here, she thought. This is where they have her!

She blinked. Huh? Where had that thought come from? Everything was perfectly cool with Mom… wasn’t it?

She had called all their friends saying so, anyway. She shook her head. It was like she’d been walking in a fog all day. Even the simplest things were so confusing, like packing her and her mom’s things that afternoon, and calling the school, and… and… well, everything she had done. Rosalie blinked again and laid a hand on her car to steady herself. She was having all sorts of strange thoughts tonight.

Regaining her balance, Rosalie walked over to the warehouse’s front. She glanced momentarily at the inside of her car. A suitcase sat in the passenger seat, and she knew others were stuffed inside the Bug’s small trunk, as much as could be comfortably fit. She blinked yet again. Turning around, she looked up at the big garage door. She tried it, but it was locked. She knocked, waited a moment or two, then knocked again. No answer.

Rosalie walked down the street a little ways and saw another entrance, this one apparently to the warehouse’s office. The glazed, nearly opaque window set above the door was dark. She knocked, but again there was no answer. She tried the doorknob, though, and it turned freely. The place wasn’t locked up, so it must be all right for her to go right in.

Rosalie went inside. “Hello? Is anybody home?”

No answer. She closed the door behind her and went down a short hallway. The door at the end led to a large office area filled with—and here was a really strange thing—hospital beds. A faint feeling of alarm went through Rosalie, but she ignored it. She had an appointment here. She had to meet someone.

She paused. Who? she questioned herself. She couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter, though. Feeling good that she had arrived, Rosalie settled into one of the room’s chairs and began waiting. She found herself strangely excited. Something wonderful was going to happen to her.

She was going to be taken care of. She was sure of it.