The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Rose’s maid carried a gleaming silver serving tray as she stepped into the study. Atop the tray was a single martini glass, elegantly positioned in the center. The drink had been prepared with love, detail, and adeptness. The young woman moved quietly so as not to disturb her mistress. Putting the tray on the end table, the maid softly went down to her knees, carefully picked the tray up again, and wordlessly offered it her beloved Rose, who sat there and read. She took the glass after a minute.

“Thank you, Shauna,” Rose said, eyes not leaving the papers in front of her.

She sipped delicately. The vermouth was exactly the way she liked it.

“You’re welcome, Rose,” the maid said, humbly.

Fluidly, the girl returned to her feet and carried the tray to a nearby stand. Noticing a speck of dust on the heirloom, Shauna brushed at it with the edge of her skirt. It was part of her uniform, a one-piece semi-transparent garment that fit like a babydoll over her bosom and flared out high above her knees. She was bare underneath. As always in the presence of her Rose, the permanently denuded space between her legs was hot and moist. The two women were of nearly the same age and appearance.

Rose hardly noticed the servant resume her stance near the door.

The meeting this morning had gone exactly as she had expected it would. Both Gordon and the Molosians were well taken care of, and she was well on the fast track for taking over the most influential law firm in the world . And to think… technically speaking, she hadn’t even graduated high school!

She was only nineteen years old, yet she was a Partner in Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx, and soon to be a member of that Firm’s Executive Committee. She had wealth, servants, and access to technologies that would make the world’s greatest scientists drool in envy. Her medical coverage was Olympian in scale. She would never get sick or grow any older, unless she chose to for cosmetic reasons. She had never passed a bar examination anywhere, yet she possessed a more thorough knowledge of the law than most lawyers in the United States. The equivalent of three years of study, plus pre—and post-doctoral work, had been downloaded into her brain. It sat there now: hundreds of hours of information, plus extrapolations and interpretations of that information, the equivalent perhaps of ten or more years of legal practice, and not just any legal practice, but the best practice on Earth.

Such a thorough knowledge of the law was not the only wisdom she had learned at the “hands” of her Client, though. She was a very different person from the sniveling milksop she had been a year ago.

As she sat and thought, Rose’s other servant, Charlotte, quietly entered the room and took her place next to Shauna. The girls were dressed the same now. Charlotte’s usual schedule in the morning was to tidy up the large apartment while Shauna helped Rose dress and fix her makeup. Then she would change into a simple business outfit and drive their beloved Rose to work. After a few hours at the office, they would come home, and Charlotte would shed her secretarial disguise and return to normal.

She and Shauna hated to wear clothes, but as long as they were sexy clothes and made them look desirable to Rose, that was the important thing. Whatever their beloved Rose wanted, She must have!

Charlotte considered herself lucky. She got to spend the whole day with their Rose! Poor Shauna had only a few hours at the beginning and end of each day. She hardly ever left the apartment.

The telephone rang. Glancing at one another, the two maids determined in slave fashion—not quite like making a decision but close enough to suit most purposes—that Shauna should enjoy the privilege of further serving their Rose. It was, after all, only fair. The young brunette stepped over to the side table and picked up the receiver.

“Yes, may I help you, please?” she chimed in a soft voice. “Whom may I say is calling?” The slave frowned. “Yes, she’s here,” looking at Rose for approval. She brought the phone over for her Mistress, still wearing an unhappy look.

“The caller won’t give his name, Rose, but he says its very important. The caller I.D. is blocked.”

Rose lifted an eyebrow. The Firm’s equipment was light-years superior—no exaggeration—to conventional telephone technology. If this caller’s address was unavailable, it could only mean someone was using comparable equipment. “Thank you.” Rose took the phone.

“Rose?” she heard. The voice was distorted. This was another indication of a higher technology at work. The Firm’s electronics could unfilter, decode, and remodulate any signal produced on Earth.

“Yes. This is Rose.” Her hand tightened around the receiver. Now both Charlotte and Shauna were frowning.

“You are in imminent danger.” One sentence. Short. Clipped. To the point.

Click.

Rose silently replaced the receiver. Behind her, her two maids approached uncertainly, timidly. Their programming made them highly sensitive to Rose’s moods. They licked their lips now, sensing Rose’s sudden agitation.

“Is the mistress all right?” Charlotte asked, in her nervousness falling back to the third-person mode of address that was the norm for encoded slaves. “How may this Charlotte serve her mistress?”

She whimpered needfully. Beside her, Shauna began doing the same.

“Call me Rose,” Rose said quietly, absently. She looked up. “Let’s retire for the evening.”

Never had five words so immediately lifted two people’s spirits.

The firmament (“Sky,” Miyal dreamed, in dreadful Brafford-English) over the Kedia Thrall Enterprise on Molos was a much more pristine shade of cobalt (“Blue,” the voice inside her head said irritatingly, and she seethed) than the dull air over California. Everything in California, and, for that matter, everything on this dull, blasted rock the Californian nation-state perched on, came up short when compared to their vibrant, energetic Molosian equivalents. The sooner she was gone from here, the better… .

She remembered one particularly good day, one of the last before the tenant situation got out of hand and shocktroops had to be called in. She was supposed to be at the Kedia complex early that morning, but she had decided to take her time. She wanted to savor a rare experience, the culmination of a long-standing endeavor. Thus, she and her cohort of bodyguards flew in late in the day. The ruby primary was high in the firmament by then, and the cobalt was so clear it looked painted. Miyal remembered sipping amber liqueur from a long-stemmed glass and gazing out the window of her flying craft.

Her escort captain Rix Nagh sat across from her.

“We will be progressing within moments, mistress,” he said. “You should ensure yourself.”

Miyal waved him off, still glancing out her synsteel window.

The Kedia Thrall complex was a huge thing. Every time Miyal saw it from the sky she enjoyed a mysterious thrill down her back as she noted the long lines of tenants herded in. The craft flew over the main mass of people. A handful stared up at the privileged occupants with expressions of fear or anger on their faces. The vast majority of the lower classes, though, showed only general despair, a certain foreknowledge of the fate awaiting them beyond the entrance. A uniform two-stories high, the complex was a single gray-and-white structure covering a hundred acres of loam. A single transparent synsteel dome hung over the circular center, and through it Miyal could see hordes of confiscated tenants wading through the decontamination pools, ridding themselves of the dirt and grime of their petty lives, preparing them for the transformations to come.

Those are my thralls, Miyal thought. My thralls. I am a Constituent of the Corporate.

A curling smile formed on her face. Kana Deb was a Constituent of the Corporate, too.

Miyal turned to Nagh and ordered him to refill her glass. “Have a surrey arranged for me when we progress,” she added. “I want assurances the Processor Deb beholds me nearing.”

Nagh guffawed. “I am undoubted, m’lady. All will behold your titleness in her renown.”

He reached into the small bar and opened another bottle of absonon. The rare amber liqueur shimmered like liquid silk as he poured. He paused for a moment. “Will the mistress require her escort in the structure?” he asked, a trifle hopefully, Miyal observed. Would he never learn?

Miyal sniffed and shook her head. “No,” she said coldly. “Go back to the lodgings, if you crave. Or detain. It matters little, not to me.” She saw the hurt look in Nagh’s face and was gladdened.

Nagh licked his lips. “Mistress… Miyal… you discern I cherish you acutely. Understanding: a solitary kind account.”

He looked at her, his eyes watering slightly, his hand ever so slightly shaking. The captain had asked for her commitment to him twice already. Twice she had turned him down. Miyal had no desire to end up like one of those satisfied constituent cows of the Ranks, with all the luxury in the world but no power, no ability to make things happen.

Miyal thought of Kana Deb again. No, marriage of any kind was out of the question.

“The surrey, Procurer,” she reminded her escort. “For when I near.”

The captain nodded and went up front to the communications console.

The flying craft came to a roaring hover over the complex, slowly descending into the open hangar below. Workerthralls—the most common type of thrall on Molos—swarmed around the sleek black vessel and began unhooking latches and drawing up refueling pumps. Their bright blue, purple, or stark white skins glistened sweatily beneath bioenforced musculature. Their blank, equally color-coded eyes revealed not the slightest hint of the pleasure they felt as they fulfilled their primary functions in life.

They, like all Kedian thralls, were well indoctrinated.

A green-skinned archivist-thrall was waiting for Miyal when she deplaned.

The Processor strode up to the slave, knowing it couldn’t speak until spoken to. She recognized Kana’s brand scrolled in bioluminescent markings over the creature’s naked chest. Thin and spindly, it had probably been a tenant professor or scholar before having its DNA resequenced. It was all but shaking with the urgency of its message. Miyal let it suffer a minute before giving sanction.

“Utterance.”

The thrall shuddered with the force of its orgasm, released along with its message. “Mistress, the Processor Kana Deb conveys to you her displeasure at your tardiness. The council is already in session. The matters of the Central Corporate trade alliance and reallocation of arcology collaterals are awaiting your input. This thrall apologizes abjectly for its tone and accounts.” It immediately went down to its knees, bent over low, and kissed Miyal’s slippered feet.

“Recount to Processor Deb that Processor Miyal Cate has progressed and will be joining the council as presently as it’s advantageous… to herself and not the Processor. Depart.”

The thrall nodded, recording the message in its organic storehouse. Its penis immediately became erect again, indicating its dire need for release, and it sped off quickly in search of a satisfaction that could come now only at the behest of its owner giving it permission to speak.

The hangar adjoined a balcony overlooking the decontamination pools. As her surrey was drawn up, Miyal lingered by the side and examined this quarter’s incoming stock. Hundreds of naked men, women, and children trudged hopelessly through the stinging clear fluid. On the banks to either side shocktroopers in black uniforms roamed back and forth waving controlsticks at those who hesitated too long below. Miyal saw one burly man try and grab the stick from a soldier. He missed, and the charged end of the weapon caught him in the chest. His hair—the tenant still had hair, as he hadn’t yet completely submerged—flew on end. Even from where she stood Miyal could hear the static crackle of electricity. The tenants to either side of the man also received a jolt, though to a lesser extent. The troublemaker fell over breathing heavily, and his fellows, still shuddering from shock, had to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way.

Miyal wondered what his DNA profile would best recommend for resequencing. Workerthrall? Androthrall pleasure unit? There were so many choices to pick from. A farmerthrall, perhaps?

The pools ran in evenly spaced rows across the chamber. A barrier was placed along the middle of each to prevent tenants from getting past it without completely submerging their entire bodies. Most usually already had by the time they got there, but the barrier made sure. Past it, the newly denuded and sparkling clean masses plodded up waiting steps and into lines according to their age and gender. Machinates would examine each individually later, matching their DNA profiles to those needs currently required of their Corporate. Some would be released to go back to their arcologies, if nothing presently fit them. Most, however, would end up in resequencing tubes before the end of the quarter.

Either way, their service to the state would be appreciated.

A little later Miyal’s surrey was ready, and she mounted the thralldrawn vehicle for a leisurely ride through the complex’s breeding corridors. She knew Kana and the others would be watching through video surveillance. She made sure to give them just the right look of contempt each time she passed a camera. Require her to show up early in the morning? They would learn.

The wide corridors were two-laned to allow for vehicles like the surrey. Miyal was seated comfortably in back as the two workerthralls in front pedaled, their arms and legs pumping furiously. They were both male. Their lengthy penises fit into conveniently situated holes in the front column between pedal assemblies. A pressure collar inside the stirring tubes connected to a switch in the backseat. Whenever Miyal wanted to go right, she would squeeze right, and that thrall’s organ would receive pressure. Whenever she wanted to go left, the left thrall would be fondled.

Similar directions—combinations, rapid or slow squeezings, etc.—would get them to stop, slow down, whatever. It was an impractical system of transport, true, but it definitely made a statement.

Miyal was a Constituent. She could do anything she wanted. She could have anything she wanted.

She was surprised some people couldn’t recognize that fact.

Attendants were waiting to take care of her surrey. As Miyal walked into the council chamber unannounced, her fellow members watched her with varying expressions of emotion.

“It’s durative,” Kana Deb remarked as Miyal took her seat. “Did we kindle you too untimely?”

“Understanding,” Miyal said, smiling coolly. “Rejoin to your ventures.”

Processor Deb glared at the late arrival, then pounded her gavel on the table and resumed the council’s business. Kana Deb had been a childhood friend of Miyal’s. They had grown up together in the same enclave and shared many of the same thralls and other toys. Passing into adolescence, though, the two had drifted apart. They found themselves rivals in the same activities, the same youthful contests. Their parents approved. Competition among members of the technocratic class was considered a good thing. It brought out those positive traits of greed, intelligence, and paranoia that were so crucial to a successful political career. As the cycles passed, however, more and more Miyal and Kana butted heads to an extent considered not quite so favorably. At first it was only about small things—the disposition of chemical brand-names, the subsidies of tenant gruel to underfunded arcologies—but eventually, as they both rose in power within the Eastern power structure, to far more important issues. Kana had voted against Miyal’s proposal to lend the Southern Peninsula Corporate credit on next cycle’s varush-grain yields. The Southerners had had such a bad growing season that not even the most expensive and extensive heredity tailoring of their fields had helped. They were on the brink of war with the End Island Corporates, for, in their desperation, the Southerners had had to cut back on their decades-long trade with those islands. The Islanders weren’t at all sanguine about that. Miyal’s suggestion had, she thought, been an elegant solution to the problem. Lending the Southern Peninsula credit would bolster their short-term assets while putting the foreign Corporate under their fiscal control, and it would improve relations with End Island at the same time. Miyal had lobbied for the move for weeks and put much of her own capital behind the legislation.

She made commitments to Southerners and End Islanders. She staked her reputation on the proposal, undoubted that it would pass council approval.

Kana voted against the measure. More than that, she sabotaged it. She went behind Miyal’s back to secretly meet with their fellow council members. Kana promised them her support if they voted negatively. The council ultimately decided to support an End Island run on the Southern Peninsula’s credit ventures. They seized outstanding debts. They maneuvered thrallprices and undercut Southern sales across the globe. Kana deliberately set out to ruin Miyal’s fortune and reduce her to poverty… to mere tenant status. It had been a long, slow recovery.

Miyal gazed sweetly at Processor Deb. A few weeks ago she had met the most interesting man. He had had such interesting things to say about Kana. Miyal had had to pay him hardly anything at all for his information. She had paid more, in fact, to keep what he knew a secret, until today, that was.

Miyal’s critical eye caught the glimmers in Kana’s golden blond hair. It hung down straight and long like all proper constituent women wore it. Only femthralls wore their locks in braided tails… thralltails, they were called, one to each side and one in back. Soon now, very soon.

The meeting dragged on. The Corporate technocrats—Processors and Procurers, Administrators and Overseers—talked interminably about useless Eastern and Central State politics, heard bland reports of thrallprices and manufacturing concerns, discussed details of arcology reconstruction, and so on. Throughout it all Miyal sat pleasantly amused, waiting, waiting. Kana was beginning another tirade against replacing badly outdated machinate parts in Complex 14 when the doors to the council chamber burst open and a pair of black-uniformed shocktroopers stormed in.

“What is the import of this?” the council leader demanded.

The troopers marched up to the front of the table. There were looks of shock on everyone’s face, from Wahinan Met to Glimin Notthi… on everyone’s face except Miyal’s, that was. She hoped the video cameras were recording this. She would want a copy for her amusement later.

“Processor Kana Deb,” the Procurer Captain said formally. “We have a sanction for your detention on grounds of moral depravity.” He handed the uniformed blonde a synsheet, and she took it with a look of outrage. “You are indicted of performing in the character of a femthrall.”

Ah! Miyal brightened. The look of shock on her face! Magnificent!

“This… this is impossible,” Kana stuttered. “Where is your evidence? Who are my accusers?”

The captain beckoned to his subordinate and was handed a datatransfer chip. The shocktrooper put the small piece of crystal-plas in the desktop viewer. Immediately an image appeared on the main viewscreen. Everyone in the room, with the exception of the shocktroopers themselves, and, of course, Miyal, gasped. The three of them had seen it for themselves earlier, naturally.

“No… ,” Kana whispered. “No… this is… this is unrealizable.”

The image had been recorded from a hidden camera in Kana’s lodgings. The man who had come to Miyal, one of Kana’s illicit tenant lovers, had secured it at her direction. The screen showed one of their late-night sessions together.

“Ohh!” the painted figure screamed passionately, gloriously. “Ahhhh! Yes! Yes! Yes, Master! Yes!”

An ecstasy-whip came crashing down upon her naked backside. Then again. And again.

“No,” the blond Processor repeated quietly. In a sudden dash of emotion, she tried to seize the transfer chip from the machine. The junior shocktrooper grabbed her, and she began to struggle.

“No… this is unjust! You have no right to view this! This is my… my… !”

“Your depravity, Processor Deb?” the black-garbed captain asked. He shook his head. “Thralls have no rights, m’lady. You fathom that.” Kana shook and tried to free herself, uselessly.

Her image on the screen was naked, her large and trim body on open display. By itself this was not so bad, since, of course, it was, as Kana had mentioned, recorded in the privacy of her own residence. One may do as one wishes in one’s own lodgings, within those parameters set by the Corporate. What was bad was the narcotic bodypaint covering Kana from head to toe… a bodypaint tinged as purplish-cobalt as any common pleasure femthrall.

Kana screamed and moaned in artificial ecstasy, the electronic lash held by her lover sending bolts of energy directly to the pleasure center of her brain with each stroke. It was a common enough vice. Since their introduction into Corporate society over a hundred years ago, biologically resequenced pleasure thralls, many women had expressed in secret a curiosity about what their lives were like. Many had wanted to know—and feel—at least a portion of the same lust and reaction to physical pleasure. This curiosity had, in turn, led to the marketing of certain drugs designed to mimic the hormonal differences in fem—and androthralls. Under their influence, and under the influence of devices like the ecstasy whip, a user’s orgasms could be amplified tenfold, a hundredfold, as were, as a consequence, too, one’s sexual appetites. Furthermore, the more one used these devices and drugs, the better they worked. The users’ bodies became saturated with pleasure-enhancing thrallextract.

Many, if not all, of the women who experimented with either the bodypaint or the lash soon became thoroughly addicted, though this was not looked upon as a disadvantage by their manufacturers. They were, after all, intended solely for distribution to tenants, to occupy their limited and proletariat minds and prepare them for things to come.

“Harder!” the cobalt-hued Kana screamed. “Harder, Master! Harder!”

For a member of the upper classes to use them, though… .

The captain turned off the viewer. “There are other recordings. Multiple dozens of recordings.”

He straightened his uniform tunic and looked at Kana. “Processor Kana Deb, you have been indicted of performing in the character of a femthrall,” he repeated. “Overseer Balk has already observed the evidence and proclaimed it. The Corporate has tendered a finding.”

He took out a pair of stunlocks. Expertly, the Procurer slapped them around the Processor’s wrists. Immediately the fight went out of her, the electronic impulses the locks generated rendering her tranquil.

The council members began to mutter in disgust and disapproval.

Miyal had already arranged matters. She had the inside bid on any sale regarding the new thrall.

“Processor Deb,” the captain said. “If you fix upon to wear the hues of a thrall, so be it. A thrall you shall be. It is the Administrator’s resolve that you now be made a femthrall.”

“No, no,” the blond woman whispered quietly. Her whole frame shook with emotion.

They took Kana away then, and… .

A loud banging at the motel door interrupted Miyal’s pleasant recollections. She looked up in utter surprise from the Colonial image producer she had open in front of her, a surprise which, had she been able to see it, would well have mirrored that of her former friend and colleague.

Miyal heard a key turning in the lock a second later. She blanched an even deeper shade of green.

“Get into the bathroom,” she told her thralls, whispering furiously. “Hide. None of you make a sound.”

The Darren, the Max, and the Neil picked themselves up out of their thralldaze—Miyal realized coldly she had all but fallen into one herself—and she uttered a short prayer that she had managed to properly adjust the complicated mechanism before succumbing. She clicked the pieces of the flat, box-like thing shut, now full of Californian computer chips, and turned it on. Her head was still pounding wildly with Brafford-adjectives, Brafford-nouns, and Brafford-engineering.

Just in case, Miyal reached down and picked up an injector she knew was full of thrallextract.

The door opened, and a young woman in an off-pink uniform started to enter. She saw Miyal, and her eyes widened.

“Oh, pardon, senora. I thought the room was checked out.” She started to go back out again, and Miyal stood quickly. “I’ll come back later, if that’s okay.”

The thrall—she was obviously a thrall—was dragging behind her a cart full of linens. She must be the thrall who cleans the rooms here, Miyal realized. She had brown skin—what an amazing variety of natural colors there were on this planet!—and very dark hair and eyes. She was attractive.

The slit between Miyal’s legs gave pulsed excitedly. She remembered what she had had done to Kana.

“No, that is… okay,” Miyal said, both of her hands now held behind her. “You can clean up now.”

The thrall (“Maid,” the Brafford-voice inside her corrected) looked at her uncertainly, and, perhaps, with a little fear. “Please. I will sit right here. You can clean up now.”

“I’m sorry if I interrupt,” the thrall/maid said. “I saw the shades were down. I thought the room was checked out.”

She seemed to debate with herself a moment, looked outside, then came to a decision. The servant pulled her cart in and closed the door. “You know,” she said, “checkout time was at eleven.”

Miyal had no idea what she was talking about. “Checkout time was at eleven,” she repeated, then smiled. “Yes, I understand. Checkout time was at eleven.” The maid looked at her again strangely.

“You sick, senora? You don’t look so good.” She moved to open the shades.

“No,” Miyal said sharply, and the woman turned around quickly. “Please… do not open… the windows. Yes. I am sick.” She was sick, actually. Sick with excitement. The imager was working!

The thrall, no… the maid wasn’t seeing her, she was seeing the image Miyal had programmed into it!

Or maybe green women weren’t as unfamiliar as she thought on this world?

She felt a crackling of vibration next to her skin. A warmth. No, the image producer was doing its task. The maid was seeing a clothed woman in the room with her, a female of the dominant ethnic Californian-clan. Her Brafford memory had worked! She had fixed it!

“You need a doctor, lady?” the servant said, walking toward Miyal nervously. “I should call a doctor?”

The imager was Miyal’s freedom. It was a marvelous technology… not Client-built, of course, she would never have been able to get the damn thing open had it been, but certainly alien, not human, traded for some alien purpose on some Colony World or other. Who needed clothes, even syncloth, now? She had language, computer skills, and appearance now. She could blend in.

Miyal wanted to celebrate. She sat down on the unmade bed. She made a pouty expression.

“I need a doctor, yes,” Miyal said. “I am sick. I feel sick. Can you help me… please?”

Please. Another Brafford-word that meant nothing to her.

The maid stepped a little closer. She was a short girl, slender, with fine cheekbones. Her eyes were a shiny brown such as Miyal had never seen before. Her black hair was tied up in a bun. The style wasn’t thralltails, but it was exotically attractive. When the servant got within arm’s reach, Miyal whipped the hand holding the injector round and expertly got the girl in the neck.

The maid gasped and tried to scream. Miyal stood. She let go of the imager behind her, and the warm crackling vibration about her skin immediately ceased. The cleaning woman, who had just finished with the east wing’s first three rooms and had wanted to do the remaining four before going home, gave out another yelp. The bosomy white woman with the funny voice and the funny hairdo melted away in front of her. When she first came into the room, the lady had looked like one of those stupid women on the Sunday morning religious shows, the ones where the guests wore the bright polyester colors—green, this one wore, a deep, deep shade of polyester green—and beehive hairdos from the 1950s.

She was wearing way too much makeup. It looked like it had caked on and gone green.

Then, horribly, this 1950s woman turned really green, all-over green! and the short, attractive maid tried to scream a third time, only before she could a rising tide of heat swept through her, the room temperature shot up like an inferno! and suddenly the green woman was doing things to her, to her body! that the maid’s mind collapsed upon itself.

She felt her uniform torn away. She had paid for it, she was responsible for it, but suddenly she didn’t care, all she wanted was to touch, to be touched, to fuck, Oh dear Jesus! I need to fuck!

“Hurry up! I need it. I need it!” The maid felt her pert little breasts seized. The green woman squeezed them, pinched her nipples, and laughed, bending toward her. Lips pressed against her mouth. The woman’s tongue flew down her throat, tickling her own tongue wonderfully.

It was so good! So good! She reached down, tore, ripped her skirt open. Her panties flew.

The green woman’s fingers found the maid’s matted sex and stroked it, began pulling on her delicate hairs, twisting them, then reached in and parted the servant’s soft petals, the slave, the thrall, deeply, obscenely. “Ohh, yes, YES! Oh, Madre de Dios! YESSS!”

A green, velvet-smooth hand traveled over and then into the maid’s ass. She pressed her mouth against the strange woman’s enormous breasts. Her tongue savagely stroked the woman’s nipples. Electric sensations, unbelievable sensations, shot through her. An expert finger passed through her drenched cunt, hooked inside her, and then pulled, thrust! pulled! thrust!

Oh, she had never been touched like this before! Never, never, ever… !

The maid’s orgasm was explosive, fiery, all-consuming. It spread from her crotch outward in an ever-expanding wave of pleasure. It made her skin feel incredibly ripe, like ripe fruit, overly ripe fruit on the edge of bursting, with moisture and fluid, and she did burst! did die a little in marvelous ecstasy, moaning incoherently. “Oh, yesss,” she squealed. “Yessssss.” Everything was good.

Everything was fine.

Everything… everything… . “Ediyetr momikki,” she heard. It was all so good.

“Ediyetr… Serve me.”

Miyal took the new femthrall by the head and turned her face toward her open crotch. She guided the thrall, whispered instructions to her in a broken mix of Molosian and English, and let her find the good spots. Her hands traced Miyal’s swollen areolas. Her tongue caressed Miyal’s swollen clitoris, wagging in various directions. Her fingers found and then pushed downward into her vagina, stroking roughly the way Miyal favored thrallsex with females.

The maid’s tongue, and Miyal imagined it was Kana’s tongue playing at her, danced across her delicate, enflamed flesh. Kana had made such an excellent femthrall after resequencing. Her skin had been remade so soft—like Miyal’s own skin now—and the taste beneath her own lips… exquisite. She knew the electric thrill the girl serving her now must be having. Aside from the heightened sexual effect of thrallextract in her veins, she was fucking DNA resequenced flesh, flesh that had been redesigned expressly for the giving and taking of immense pleasure. Femthrall sweat—her sweat now—was perfume. Her skin was practically a narcotic. The firmness of her flesh in some places, its softness elsewhere, was like nothing nature could ever produce on its own. Her appetites were beyond the norm… radically beyond the norm.

Ohh, she has a wonderful bite! Imagine if she were only resequenced too!

The thought of two femthralls at play on the bed, herself and the transformed maid, invoked yet another screaming orgasm in Miyal, and she resolved to try out this experiment before having the transformation reversed in herself. She thought about ordering her androthralls in too and having them all fuck her.

She was about to give this order when the room filled with light.

It was a bright, incandescent light, with no visible source. Miyal’s eyes widened in shock and pain.

No! It’s impossible. How could they find… ? But, then again, that was what they did.

They were Procurers.

Projection effect illuminated the small motel room. Amid the loud popping noise of displaced air, five tall figures coalesced out of the brightness. Miyal knew she had no time to spare.

“Thralls! Ediyetr! Help! Save me!”

The androthralls—who had been playing with themselves and moaning and all but ready to crash through the door anyway at the sound of sexplay in the next room—flew into the room just as Procurer Rix Nagh and his retrieval squad finished materializing.

“We’re under skirmish!” the captain said, in Molosian, and fired his tranquilizer gun reflexively.

He was the only one who got off a shot.

Microscopic shards of frozen chemical anesthetic sprayed into Darren, who had been the first to burst in. The green-eyed security guard went numb instantly, but his momentum kept him going, and he hit Procurer Nagh like a football player hitting a tackling dummy. Both went down in a heap. The Neil and the Max jumped over without even stopping.

“Foul-stench!” one of the other agents said and braced for impact. His partner closed his eyes.

Miyal shoved the femthrall off of her—the maid had probed so deliciously deep she came out of Miyal’s pussy with a loud popping noise of her own—flipped her around, and kicked her in the direction of the sudden melee. Miyal saw three Procurers and two trackerthralls, specially designed slaves with enhanced olfactory and tactile senses. Their yellow-striped skin glowed fluorescently.

The Neil hit the first Procurer in the throat, then began clawing at him like a wild animal. His Green Mistress was in danger! Chemically enhanced passion burned within him. He bit and he scratched and he chewed. The Procurer, for his part, yelled out, then brought a massive fist down on top of the slave’s head. Neil heard a crunching noise inside his ears, and then he knew no more. The Procurer looked up, and at that moment the female slave pounced on him, her nails shredding his face.

“Foul-stench!” he shouted again, tripped, and fell over his captain. The femthrall fell over with him, still clawing at his face.

Miyal didn’t look back. Fighting a deep-seated biological urge to kneel down and accept her rightful punishment, she jumped over the bed and toward her survival kit. She specifically made sure to grab the image producer on her way. The trackerthralls, both of whom had been attuned to Miyal’s scent, leapt after her. Their reflexes and speed were enhanced, but so too, in a way, were Miyal’s. She grabbed her own Client-built projector just as they grabbed her.

Twin bolts of passion passed through her femthrall flesh.

The touch of forceful males on her helpless body! How incredibly delicious!

It felt so much better than casually using androthralls to satisfy her lust. She was being put in her rightful place!

“Nooo!” Miyal screamed and swung the silvery-plastic device around like a mace. It crashed against the skull of one of the trackerthralls, but all the blow did was make him angry. The skirmish slave delivered a roundhouse slap to the green woman across her breasts. It was exquisitely painful, yet, like them grabbing her, felt incredibly good too!

Miyal moaned and fought, absolutely refusing to let go of either the projector or her imager. The trackerthralls jumped on top of her, and the three of them together fell off the bed and onto the survival kit lying next to it. She screamed again, though whether in passion, fear, or anger she couldn’t tell.

Across the room, the third Procurer and Max fought viciously. Nagh tried to get up, but he was pinned down by the combined weight of Darren, his lieutenant, and the fighting maid.

“Get sheer of me, you imbeciles! The thrall’s getting beyond!”

“Grecia, are you all right in there?” someone called from outside the room. The front door opened, and the second maid standing there let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Murder! Murder!”

The third Procurer finally managed to shove the Max off him and grab his gun. Snarling, the seven-foot, mustached figure first fired a stream of anesthetics point-blank into his attacker, then swung toward the open door. Another cloud of invisible darts flew. The maid outside fell back into the courtyard as if tasered. The Molosian turned around trying to gauge the distance across the room—find his real target—and so missed the bystanders outside alerted by the screams and the noise.

Barely thirty seconds had passed since they first materialized.

“Help me!” Miyal screamed, in English. She had seen the bystanders.

“Get sheer of me!” Nagh yelled again. Straining, he pushed the unconscious Darren off and tossed him to the side. His lieutenant, still all but leaning on top of him, gave his attacking maid a strong slap. She too suddenly stopped fighting.

“My pardons, Procurer,” the subordinate said.

“Never reason! Secure the thrall!”

A tourist with a camera around his neck poked his head around the open doorway. He goggled at the sight displayed before him and let out his own yell. Nagh and his subordinates spun in his direction, their combat instincts taking over. They fired simultaneously with their tranquilizers. Another body slumped to the ground.

Miyal’s hand squeezed the image producer. Beneath the trackerthralls, the green woman they were manhandling blurred and distorted like a desert mirage. Had they but known it, the beautiful, exquisitely desirable thrallflesh they were pinning down transformed into a picture resembling not a little the likeness of Tammy Faye Baker.

Naturally, the thralls jumped off of Miyal as if they had poked their feet into boiling water.

Miyal lifted her projector and fired.

The trackerthralls were wrapped in tachyon-accelerated photons and vanished.

“Secure the thrall!” Nagh cried and leapt in Miyal’s direction. He fired his tranquilizer gun in a steady stream. The microscopic bullets sailed over the bed and into the far wall, though, completely missing Miyal below.

Miyal dropped the imager onto her kit, of which she herself was on top. She reached up and pressed another touch sensitive control on the projector, then aimed and fired the device at herself. The room exploded into light. Nagh leapt over the bed, fell face forward on top of it, and fired his gun over the side directly into the rising field of color. His eyes burned with the rising projector effect, as if he were staring into a lit magnesium flare.

There was a loud popping noise. Air displaced, then fell back into a sudden vacuum.

“Fornication!” Nagh cried, his teeth grinding, hand gripping his weapon hard enough to crack it.

All he could see were red spots. “Trace her!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Gain the scanner! Trace her projection!”

He pressed his fists against his eyesockets. His eyes felt as if they had been gouged out. He would be skinned alive if he lost her again. “Confirmation? Account!”

“The constituency gathers, Procurer,” his lieutenant said, wiping blood from his face. He pointed toward the open door. People were running around, many pointing in their direction.

“Dual projection effects, Procurer,” the other said close after. He held up a Client scanning device. Nagh could barely see it through his tear-soaked vision. “The chronal coordinates are disordered, determinedly. Two open frequencies were laid bare.” He shrugged helplessly.

They had a choice. One set of coordinates would lead to the thrall, the other to their own trackers.

“Fornication!” Nagh rose to his full seven-and-a-foot height. “Determine one! Project us!”

“At once.” The subordinate quickly compared the results from his scanner with the readout on his projector. “Set, Procurer.” Seeing the expression on his superior’s face, the subordinate didn’t waste any more time. He adjusted the focus to include just the three of them and fired. Again, the motel room exploded into light and popping sounds.

Nothing moved for quite a bit after that.

After fifteen minutes, the motel super very carefully stuck his head in. Eventually, the police were called.

The apartment sat dark and still. Expensive antiques were shadows in the corners. Rare paintings hung above legal tomes that had never been cracked open. All were rendered indistinct blobs in the gloom.

The two figures stalking the halls wouldn’t have cared for these things even if they could clearly have seen them. They pursued quite another type of treasure.

They had set to memory the layout of the place. They were experts in their craft. Bypassing the numerous security devices had been child’s play. They moved quickly and quietly toward their target, pausing only briefly at the closed door to their target’s bedroom. One of them raised his tranquilizer gun. The other carefully examined the door, put his ear to it, and listened. He made a gesture to his partner, perceptible even in the half-light.

Three subjects were inside the room, all asleep. He could hear their breathing. The other nodded. This fit the information their contact had provided them. There was the target cow in charge, then her two femthralls. All three were quite harmless. They were, after all, only females.

From a pocket on his syncloth darksuit, the first Procurer took out an analyzer. It was already set for silent mode. He scanned the room opposite, just to make sure. His partner took no offense to any implied insult to his trained senses. He would have done the same thing. There was always the possibility of hidden security measures. Even an Earthborn tenant cow like this one might have a surprise waiting an intruder. But the scan detected nothing to impede their entry.

The door wasn’t even locked. Carefully, slowly, they opened the portal and peered inside.

One female was in the bed. Her arm lay carelessly over the outside covers. Even with the limited light available, the Procurers could see she was beautiful. Her lips formed a small, cute pout that each thought would look well wrapped around their shafts. The other females lay sleeping on the floor next to the bed. Each wore a nearly transparent silk-slave garment. The hunters walked over to the bed, no longer making so much of an effort to remain silent.

The lead man raised his arm and fired a short burst into the woman beneath the covers. Her eyes opened in a sudden start, and she raised her head. “Ohh!” she gasped, a light breathy cry.

She then fell back again, stunned. The two femthralls at the foot of the bed woke and tried to sit up, but the other man stood between them and grabbed them, effortlessly holding them down.

“Quar grepate!” he screamed at them, then smiled at his partner. “Slen cus! Pal! Ediyetr!”

He laughed. He didn’t notice the dark-haired slave beneath him snake her hands from underneath her.

“Jart defik, slen. Mot ad, eh…” The man stopped abruptly, then fell over bonelessly, eliciting a loud shriek from the other girl at his feet. He fell on top of her.

The intruder with his gun out turned, saw one of the slaves reaching toward him, and reflexively fired at her. At the same instant she made contact… and without warning an incredibly wonderful feeling came over him. A bolt of pure, undiluted, pristine sensation—happiness, warmth, pleasure, everything!—rocked through his body.

The intruder ejaculated uncontrollably, once, twice, three times, over and over again, without stop.

His eyes widened in shock and amazement. His world filled with bright colors.

“Mamdic,” he said calmly, then collapsed.

He fell on top of the bed and began to twitch mildly.

With no one left to hold her, Rose stood up.

She cursed silently, wincing at the unexpected pain in her face, upper arm, and shoulder. Those pellets hurt! The spectrum antidote she had taken as a precaution only prevented extraneous chemicals from interacting with her system. It did nothing for the pain of them going in. Shauna was still shrieking.

“Quiet, please,” Rose told the slave. “Get up from underneath there and help me.”

“Yes, mis… yes, Rose,” Shauna said, sniffed at her tears, and with Rose’s help began squeezing out from underneath the large, black-garbed intruder. Rose had only to take one look at him to be certain he was a Molosian.

She put the two Client devices she had held hidden in her hands on the bedside table. The first was an immobilizer, a standard tool of the Firm, capable of restricting all voluntary movement in those it was employed against. The other was something Rose had never used before. The Firm’s technicians called it a stimulator. It sent impulses through a subject’s nervous system that approximated either pain or pleasure, depending on the setting. It was a typical Client non-weapon. It was handheld, worked solely through contact, and left no lasting damage. Except addiction possibly, but no Client would ever be concerned with that. Rose checked the eyes of the man she had left convulsing on her bed.

Strictly speaking, he wasn’t paralyzed, like his partner was, but he wasn’t going anywhere, either, at least not for several hours. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, lost in a private world of utter bliss.

She checked Charlotte out next. Her slave had received a heavy dose of tranquilizers. She wouldn’t be making any trips in the near future either. Rose straightened, then shrugged out of the brief maid’s costume she was wearing. Her choice of sleeping arrangements had been prudent, it turned out.

“Get me something simple from the closet,” she told Shauna, wincing again, partially from the darts, partially from having to lie on the floor for so long. “I’m going back to the office.”

“Yes, Rose. At once, Rose.” The young slave, still wearing her diaphanous uniform, hurried off.

She didn’t know what was going on, but someone had made their move.

Now it was her turn.